THING: Alpenfest Punch Fancies
Picture if you will, Mr Kipling’s European nemesis. Let’s call him Herr Schlimmtorte (Mr Terriblecake). Herr Schlimmtorte is an artisan baker, who in 1942 set up his own Konditorei in the small Bavarian village of Alpen (where they make the no added sugar muesli).
As we know, Alpen Fest is celebrated every year at Lidl, with a parade of obscure schnitzels, spätzles and strudels which almost, but not quite, make Brexit seem like a sensible idea. Usually, Alpen Fest cakes have a wonky picture of Mozart on them and are made of marzipan - nothing to trouble the Kipling empire there. But this year, they’re moving into his territory.
I mean, imagine the horror on his face when he sees these:
In the UK, Mr Kipling’s French Fancies are famous (despite the fact that they’re about as French as an England flag wrapped around a sewage pipe). That guy has the fancy game locked down, and his sugar-packed, fondant cakes sell by the truckload. However, Herr Schlimmtorte has taken the concept to the next level with a jazzy extra ingredient that makes Kipling look like an unsophisticated, wooden spoon wielding puritan: BOOZE.
What could be in this punch, that is renowned across the fictional Lidl alps? Perhaps a bottle of rum, some brandy, a dash of cough syrup, peach schnapps, pipe tobacco and a tube of toothpaste? Whatever it is, it’s potentially a game changer.
So, who will win the battle of the fancies? Well, punch fancies have strangely robust structural integrity, like eating a pink matchbox filled with rum-soaked sofa foam. The cake is kind of chewy and almost fibrous. And I would hazard a guess that the taste is not authentic German punch at all, and more likely to be E734023 (CAUSES HYPERACTIVITY IN MICE).
In fact, Herr Schlimmtorte makes Mr Kipling look like a pastry chef at the Georges Cinq, rather than an eponymous chancer who makes supermarket cakes out of plastic. Cancel Alpen Fest and call for medical assistance! I feel like I’ve literally had a punch in the guts.
VERDICT: Paging Doctor Oetker
THING: PLOPP
Have you had a Plopp today? Haha, you thought I was talking about the other kind, didn’t you? But get your scatological mind out of the gutter because Plopp is a kind of Swedish chocolate that’s brown and runny and looks like a… oh.
Plopp is made by a company called Cloetta which also sounds a bit like cloaca, and I have to say the whole thing feels a bit too unpleasantly orifice-adjacent to be appetising. But Swedish people LOVE Plopps, and Swedish people are fun, sexy and understand the importance of good design, so I thought I’d throw caution to the wind and try one.
These are snack-sized Plopps, which are probably about a Number 1 on the Bristol Stool Scale. I thought they were going to be chewy, like Chomps, but the caramel is the kind that cascades down your chin if you’re not careful. The good thing is that the caramel is quite nice. The bad thing is that the chocolate tastes…beefy. And I don’t care how Swedish you are - chocolate should not taste like Bisto.
However, they are well designed. Even though they’re small, you can split them into two distinct parts, so you can just skip your digestive system and put the other bit straight down the toilet.
VERDICT: Stopp it
THING: Trinny London BFF Cream
I finally have the thing all middle-aged ladies crave. No, it’s not six months in a darkened room - it’s TRINNY BFF CREAM!
If you’re over 40, your phone is just a rectangle with Trinny in it, slathering stuff on her face ad infinitum. Trinny is posher than breakfast at Claridges with a corgi, but you can’t hate her because you can tell she used to be an absolute demon and can probably roll a joint while shinnying up a drainpipe. I’m not sure anyone could have predicted her rise from crap makeover show host to beauty mogul, but now she is the Mr Kipling of skincare - and BFF cream is her French Fancy.
Having been groomed on Instagram for several years, when I got this as a gift, I felt like God had anointed me. BFF cream is basically a very lightly tinted SPF moisturiser that you can barely see at first, then it goes a bit glowy and healthy looking, as if you’ve been riding a horse in Gloucestershire. It’s probably imperceptible, and not worth the ridiculous £40 she charges for it, but for some reason if I don’t have it on I don’t feel right - it’s become part of my very soul.
The thing is, Trinny understands two very important things about my generation: we are SHIT at putting make up on and we’re BUSY. We don’t want hours of hypnotic heavy petting with a foundation brush that looks like Ken Dodd’s tickling stick. All we want is easy, five-minute slap that stops us from looking like we’re auditioning for a fucking ghost train. And she’s nailed it. Trinny, you’re my BFF. Call Binky Felstead and the Earl of Devonshire and let’s go to Annabel’s!
VERDICT: Fancy
Lurved this: ‘Mrs Kipling! Fetch my shotgun!’ And giggled out loud at this: "But get your scatological mind out of the gutter because Plopp is a kind of Swedish chocolate that’s brown and runny and looks like a… oh." Those spongy things look horrific. I'm always astounded at the shit your post. MAO.
Oh Luce, are you REALLY a telling me I have to invest in Trinny’s BFF stuff? Is it as good as we thought Touché Eclat was back in the day?? 💜 I’ll do it if you tell me so!