Yoghurt has long been considered a solid, often fruity, average. Not as good as a mousse or a budget crème caramel, sure, but very acceptable.
The truth, which we’ve all been hiding from ourselves, is that it is more or less crap. Even the highest-end yoghurt will ultimately prove disappointing after a moderate number of mouthfuls.
The reason for this is twofold: firstly, you’re eating gone-off milk. Yes, bacterial fermentation is a well established process to put its products in higher echelons than gone-off sweetcorn, but in yoghurt’s case, the process seems half-arsed; a milk too big for its boots or a slacker cheese is what you’ve got on your hands, even if you don’t eat yoghurt with your hands.
Oh, you want to argue yoghurt’s case do you? Yeah? Alright then, what’s in your arsenal?
Fruit Corners? A sucrose oil-slick on a bleak polar landscape. Crunch Corners? The detritus of an Asian tsunami lugging itself across a dull vanilla sea. That Rachel’s Organic stuff? Stop trying to fill the black hole of your life with a creamy hole that will only remind you of the hole you’re escaping! Reach for an Almond Magnum, some fucking sorbet, anything!
I’d go as far to say the global clout of a nation is inversely proportional to the range of yoghurts available. Remember those Rule Britannia days, when only Ski, Shape and Munch Bunch were available in the UK’s supermarket refrigerators? Well then – point made.
Taking it from macro to micro analysis, I’ve come to a point in my life where I’m trying to reassess just how much of a negative impact yoghurt-eating has had on my personal existence.
Without any mathematical calculation, I fear it may be a heavy, heavy toll. Without these lactose laggards reminding me of the futility of hope I could be a senior manager in a minor trade association by now. You win, Danone, Muller et al: I have given up dreaming.
Secondly, yoghurt is a rubbish word.
ALL YOGHURT: 3/10