It’s about trust, I think. When you strip away the artifice of marketing and the mercurial nature of personal preference, all that’s left is the sacred bond between man and biscuit. But it’s a fragile thing; capable of being spooked and irretrievably harmed at any point. Trust is a nerve ending, a phantom limb. It should never, under any circumstances, be taken for granted. Lo betide those who treat it with disrespect or malice. For whilst you can do almost anything in this big old world, what you cannot do (under any circumstance) is ruin one of this country’s most beloved biscuits. I speak, of course, of Arnott’s Barbecue Shapes.
It’s about trust, I think. When you strip away the artifice of marketing and the mercurial nature of personal preference, all that’s left is the sacred bond between man and biscuit. But it’s a fragile thing; capable of being spooked and irretrievably harmed at any point. Trust is a nerve ending, a phantom limb. It should never, under any circumstances, be taken for granted. Lo betide those who treat it with disrespect or malice. For whilst you can do almost anything in this big old world, what you cannot do (under any circumstance) is ruin one of this country’s most beloved biscuits. I speak, of course, of Arnott’s Barbecue Shapes.
It takes a certain amount of chutzpah to dare disturb perfection. For as long as I can recall, Arnott’s Barbecue Shapes have been part of my life. My father would arrive home from work and prepare a plate consisting of Shapes, cheese and slices of kabana. In a better world, Masterchef would devote a week to this dish. During my student years, Barbecue Shapes were my go-to snack of choice. Later, it was not uncommon for me to consume a box of these red-speckled miracles on a Friday night and consider it dinner. Thick or thin, for better for worse, in sickness and in health: Arnott’s Barbecue Shapes have been a constant. If not by my side, then at least somewhere up the back of the pantry.
All that is over now. Without so much as a whiff of consultation, they have changed the recipe. And by ‘changed’ I mean ‘completely and utterly ruined’. What possessed them? Logic tells me that, if not Satan, then certainly one of his scaly-skinned, cloven-footed harbingers of evil. Or someone in marketing. Either way, it’s terrifying. We cannot stand idly by whilst either the dark overlord perched atop his skull throne or, alternatively, a campaign manager named ‘Tarquin’ wantonly alters biscuit recipes as part of a scheme to unpick the stitches of goodwill that otherwise hold all of humanity together. We must rise up and overthrow the tyranny of substandard snack foods.
I had no warning that so seismic a shift was in the offing. As a result, I was denied the opportunity to stockpile supplies to see out the current drift towards insanity. Worse still is the fact that I’d only just finished the last of the Barbecue Shapes I’d hoarded before New Year’s Day, 2000, in the off chance that civilization as we knew it might come to an end. (Incidentally, people mocked me for thinking the world was on the verge of collapsing, but that was in the pre-Kardashian era. History, I think, was vindicated me somewhat.) As a result, I have nothing except my memories of a biscuit so great, mysterious and wonderful that I genuinely fear that we will never see its like again.
When I entered the supermarket, I had no inkling of the horror that was to come. Strolling down the coffee / tea / biscuit aisle with my basket, I spied a large display of Barbecue Shapes at a heavily discounted price. At that moment I thought that, if not all my Christmases, then the one in 1986 when my parents gave me a ghetto blaster, had come at once. In a state of blissful ignorance I loaded up the basket firmly believing that I would be dining out on nothing but Barbecue Shapes for the foreseeable future. Little did I know.
The packet promised a ‘bigger’ flavour. They succeeded. But it’s hard to think of so stark an example where bigger is absolutely not better. From the moment the first one catapulted my lips to land on my tongue, it unleashed an assault on the senses. And by ‘assault’ I mean rusty lead pipes and bicycle chains in a soiled alleyway rather than, say, unicorns and fireworks. These were not flavours so much as a form of chemical warfare. It was as if someone had decided to make Barbecue Shapes taste more like an actual Barbecue. Probably the one at your local park that some inconsiderate sod used three weeks ago and left without giving the hotplate a clean. Why Arnotts? Why?
It makes sense to me now. This is not a bolt from the blue. It is, instead, the fulfillment of a prophecy. I speak, of course, of Craig David. An English R and B singer with overly precise facial hair and a passion for pristine sneakers, his 2002 single ‘What’s Your Flava?’ seemed little more than a mediocre pop confection that tried too hard to be funky, succeeding instead in having all the groove of a box of spanners. But now I realize he was trying to tell me something. In posing the question, ‘What’s Your Flava?’, Craig David prophesized the Great Barbecue Shape Shemozzle of 2016. Why didn’t I listen?
Apparently, having been bombarded by angry customers, many of whose taste buds will never be the same again, the company has returned the ‘original’ flavour to stores. This is so much more that a corporate error of judgment. It’s the kind of event that should see a welfare agency swoop in and confiscate the recipe, lest it should come to any further harm. I suppose I’ll get over it. In the end, I may be furious at Arnotts, but I can’t stay angry with Barbecue Shapes.