Just spoke to my Grandma on the phone. This is the welsh grandmother, with legs like a welsh dresser, and skin like old daffs, the one who’s built like a harrier jump jet, all immensely strong bones, at the centre of an aging frame. Her senses are all failing her, all at once, but her mind’s still trapped behind them, sharp as broken slate. The horror comes that with my mumbling tones, and her deafness, the conversation is no conversation at all. Not that we’ve anything to say; I can’t relate my sucesses to her (because I don’t work for sucess, I work for the happy life), and she doesn’t know what to ask me, and knows she’ll never understand my responses. Ritual sacrifice of time, for social obligation on both parts, very sad.

Bull efforts at writing stuff to different styles, for a training day. Why lose it?

The Economist

Ice cream used to be simple. The kid got cream, Ma froze it, then Pa hawked it around the streets. When he ran out, it all started again. But it’s numbers that sell the ice-cream now; ice cream’s lost that homely warmth. And Dean Freeze is one of the generation of chilly entrepreneurs making an ice-cool fortune from that familial failure.

Bath Chronicle

“What do you think about Ovaltine?” asks Local hero Dean Freeze. He’s making it big in Ice Cream. Bristol boy Dean is Managing Director of Luxury ice cream, a five-year old firm based here in Bath, employing 200 people.

Socialist Worker

Dean Freeze is a big shmuck. With his cheesy blondness and slick mcchick hair, I really hate him. He doesn’t know this. He wouldn’t understand if he did. His mouth’s moving as I write this, and words are coming out, but who cares? It’s just a string of platitudes.

Did my buddies die in Angola for this? So I could hear blondie here warble his merry way about frozen milk. I mean frickin Ice-Cream, who gives a toss to be honest. There are people starving in Namibia, and this hefty piece of polished shit, this burnished turd, is mouthing off about how he’s moving into the super-market.

“Nobody wants Maraschino Cherry Surprise” he poots. Damn straight. “We’ll keep coming up with new flavours. What do you think about Ovaltine?” I think it’s a great drink, I think it’s healthy, and so on, but I really can’t see what that’s got to do with a big tub of lard. I’m talking Mr Freeze now, not the ice-cream.

Three colours brown

‘Ow.’ There’s a dull crack as you bite into the chunky Kit-Kat. It leaves you exploring your mouth, hoping it was the bar that broke. As your tongue moves about, you can feel that the texture’s clammy, the smell’s greasy, and the flavour’s rough. It’s not quality chocolate by any means. You try the white chunky Kit-Kat next; it’s got that Gold Bar lard-leavened-with-sugar flavour, somewhat like uncooked cake mix. On the basis of the Chunkies, you decide to skip the normal Kit-Kat.

It’s not that there isn’t a lot of chocolate there, but the chunky design is just a Yorkie for the modern age. The advantage of the Kit-Kat was always the Tunnocks-type crispy wafer at the centre, which encouraged liberalism in the eating experience; you could lick it, chew it, or simply chomp it. Drowning it in cheap choc is singularly cynical.

First of all, the coating tastes too fatty; it’s that traditional British chocolate left over from colonial days that the EU tried to ban. They said it wasn’t chocolatey enough. I have to admit I’m on their side. On the back of the packet it doesn’t even say what proportion of vegetable to cocoa fats there are. Good chocolate is 70% cocoa or more – we dread to think what’s in here. It’s undoubtedly not organic. There’s even an ethical question over the prices that Nestlé pays developing-world suppliers for its cocoa.

If you’re paying 45p for a snack, you can’t expect much. However, when you remember that you can get two pieces of organic fruit for the same price and they’d leave the palette cleansed, the eater improved, and some money in the producer’s pocket, even 45p is a high price to pay. If you want chocolate go expensive, go organic, or go traditional; avoid the chunky.