Remember that band Toploader? They were crap weren’t they? Nobody ever remembers any song of theirs apart from that number ‘Dancing In The Moonlight’, which was a monumental pile of foetid arsewipe. And the singer had a well dodgy haircut. And the bassist or someone once had some kind of thing with Gail Porter, who used to be a bit of alright, didn’t she? LAGER LAGER LAGER!
Having, I hope, kindled the kind of healthy appetite for nostalgia that will serve us well throughout this essay, let us reflect on that band Toploader (not too hard, don’t worry, but probably harder than anyone has for a good few years, if ever). The genesis of their name lies in stoner slang. Not that I would know anything about this myself, officer, but I was once informed by an, ahem, acquaintance of mine that a ‘toploader’ is one who would roll a marijuana cigarette such that the best of the grass lies at the ‘top’. Upon lighting said marijuana cigarette and ‘toking’ thereupon it, said rollmeister then passes the marijuana cigarette around for his fellow drug users, who are left with an inferior amount of grass and a surfeit of tobacco. Suffice to say that a toploader is not a nice person. Why the hell would anyone name a band after one? You may as well name your band ‘total prick’. Which, in fairness, someone probably has. In Denmark or something. Tøtaal Prïck – the heaviest death metal band this side or Aarhus.
So we have gone from foetid arsewipes to marijuana to hypothetic death metal. “Get to the lollies! FOR GOD SAKE GET TO THE LOLLIES!!” I hear our one (or maybe two, three at best) readers clamouring. And get to the lollies I shall.
Now Fabs are the lolly of nostalgia. Richard Purnell, our guest blogger who yesterday opined about Feasts, may disagree. He is going to grab a Feast, I am going to grab a Fab, and we are going to have a jolly great lolly-off. There are probably people out there who would pay good money for that sort of thing. In Denmark or something. Anyway, my childhood consisted of dancing in the moonlight and Gail Porter giving me a funny feeling in my special area, all to a backdrop of red, white, and hundreds of thousands. Fab lollies provided the culinary mood-music for my formative years; they are a crucial link in the aetiological chain of the man I ultimately became.
But my purpose in mentioning Toploader was not simply as an occasion to nostalge (‘to nostalge’ – the verb form of ‘nostalgia’. You heard it here first.*) For Fab lollies are the child’s version of a toploaded joint: all the goodness is packed at the top, in the chocolatey hundreds-and-thousandsy bit. The first couple of bites into a Fab promises a cheque that the rest of the lolly can’t cash. In some ways it is the opposite of the aforementioned Feast: with a Feast you get a nice chocolatey surprise in the middle; with a Fab you are led to expect a degree of chocolate that is not forthcoming.
None of this is to say that Fabs are bad. They are a perfectly acceptable lolly. They look way funkier than a Feast, which looks like a dwarf Magnum with neurofibromatosis, and they taste nice enough. Just don’t expect White Widow when you’re passed the Golden Virginia. If you know what I mean.
*and probably last.