LUV & HAT

LUV - (To the tune of “Here We Go”)

Ha-ri-bo
Ha-ri-bo
Ha-ri-bo,
Ha-ri-bo
Ha-ri-bo
Ha-ri-BO-OH,
Ha-ri-bo
Ha-ri-bo
Ha-ri-bo,
Ha-ri-BO-OH,
HA-RI-BO*.

I love Haribo, in all its sugary, gnashy-toothed, cloying mainland European glory. Yes, I know that it’s made of the hooves and anal glands of pigs and cows, and I’m all right with that. That’s part of the fun, surely? I like the fact that we’re using up all of an animal, and not only serving up the best bits as gourmet burgers while shovelling the offcuts into Scotch eggs and landfill. 

Plus it sort of harkens back to olden times, when tribespeople would roast a triceratops but throw the spiky bits into the tar pit for the kids to play with, and fashion the ribcage into some sort of primitive lute. Triceratops had ribcages, right? Only I want to be as historically accurate as possible here.

And why are people so down on E numbers? Who have E numbers ever hurt? Apart from that kid who turned orange from too much Sunny Delight, of course, and all those children with ADD, and me, whose throat swells up if I eat anything with E110 in it which is - by the way - fucking everything.

But not Haribo. 

Like Franz Ferdinand, I like the dark of the matinee. Because it means I can reach into my personal ideal-for-sharing bag of jellies knowing that the very worst that can happen is that I get one of those fried eggs and it yanks out one of my fillings. But what I’m hoping for is a fizzy cherry. 

Oh, the fizzy cherry. That initial sparkle on the tongue, then the purply thrill of the cherry syrup, and finally the two broiling together in a glorious gummy implosion like a neutron star collapsing in on itself. A neutron star made of cows’ bumholes and E numbers. Oh my days, I could live on Haribo fizzy cherries. And do.

Things I don’t love about Haribo: 

1. The adverts. Firstly, that cartoon baby with the pudding bowl haircut and dungarees has a touch of the Joseph Fritzl basement dungeon about him, and any kid with a spiky haircut that hands out Tangfastics during any wedding photographs I’m in is going to get a smack. And no Tangastics.

2. Actually, any Haribos that aren’t Tangfastics. Really, Haribo, WATDAPOINT? They’re a bit sweet, and then they’re glue, and then they’re gone. That’s almost not even worth developing type 2 diabetes for. Almost.

But, you know. If you’re offering…

*You must forgive this self-indulgence. You see, I have just had some Haribo.
- Robyn Wilder

HAT - I’m not going to say there isn’t a place in the world for Haribo, but I am going to say that that place is near a school sandpit, or within close proximity to some sticklebricks, or at a child’s birthday party. The place for Haribo is not a space populated by actual grown-ups, such as an office.

There’s a reason this stuff is marketed at kids, you know. And that reason is that you can’t handle the Haribo.

You think you can. You think that since you became too old to go clubbing, naughty additive-packed confectionery is a cheap way of picking yourself up after a soul-destroying evaluation by your pit-stained line manager. So you buy a packet of Haribo Jupiter Fruit Wangfasms, or Haribo Jumping Jelly Snakes, or Haribo Fizzing Zombie Anuses, and start stuffing them into your mouth, eagerly awaiting the glutinous rush.

And sure, for 15 minutes there ain’t nobody on the second floor who’s going to photocopy invoices more quickly than you. Your mind fairly effervesces away as the syrupy residue in your gob sinks into your gums and turns your arteries into pulsating conga lines of giggling blood cells. For a quarter of an hour you’re only able to communicate via the “NNGANNG NNGANNG” noises your mouth emits as your jaw convulses in dextrose-induced ecstasy, and in your fever you think they’re the most rewarding conversations you’ve had all week.

But wait. While scoffing the luminous blighters could get you through an afternoon of potato-printing when you were six, now your ageing system requires more to sustain it. And since the only other things you consumed today were three frothy, bloat-provoking lattes and a pot of vinegary leaves, your adult body soon objects.

Suddenly you’re leaning against the photocopier for support. Your head droops, and droops, and droops, until it’s resting on the lovely cool glass of the photocopier itself, and you’re printing out pictures of your own face as it erupts in angry, adolescent-level pustules.

You stagger to your desk, your blue tongue flicking urgently across the film that cakes your teeth; you can virtually feel the bacteria having an orgy on your molars, and the next person you speak to recoils from the stenchy blast of putrid rotting sugar that leaps from your maw. You can barely focus on your monitor because your eyes have gone a bit Kaa, so you figure you’ll just rest here a while, spacing out on a brutal Jupiter Fruit Wangfasm comedown.

But hold up. You can’t rest, because now the devastating starch, citric acid and glazing agent melange has started to batter your weather-beaten bowels. Wuh-woh. You crawl to the cubicle just in time to expel a boom of angry gelatinous bilge from your rear tube, barely-digested smiling Wangfasms staring eerily up at your shocked aperture, and the effort it takes for you not to weep eats through what remains of your body’s energy reserves. “That’s taught me,” you’re just about able to think. “Never again shall I fetishise toddlers’ treats so, for my grown-up, bill-paying, dry cleaner-frequenting body just can’t handle them.”

And you stay true to your word, until Angela uses your mug - and you’ve told her countless times it’s your mug - and forgets to give it back.
- Stuart Waterman