The advantage of writing a public blog is that people often send me stuff in the post. Usually cease & desist orders and death threats. But sometimes, just sometimes, I get something worth receiving. And today, after spending the morning chatting to type 2 diabetics about how to improve their sugar levels, I returned home at lunchtime to discover that mine had gone through the roof...


We've got major world disasters like the Japanese earthquake, the Libyan crisis and Comic Relief, but to be honest, I can't think of anyone who deserves a food parcel more than me. I've been on a strict diet for the past week and I'm at breaking point. Frankly those chocolates are life-savers.

The box which arrived this morning contained twelve different varieties of hand-made calorie bombs which have been sent to me free of charge (or maybe the bill's to follow) by Concrete Cow Confectionery, a sweet little company based in Milton Keynes. Obviously, with the number of people out there who want me dead, there's every chance they're poisoned, but after considering the situation for three seconds, I decided it was worth the risk. And having tasted one, I know I'll die happy.

I've never met Steph, the Concrete Cow (proprietor), but her husband and I go way back. Way back to 2008, when I used to ignore the e-mails he sent to my Senators site. I like to think of him as the sixth member of Kajagoogoo. And if he'd contacted me five years earlier, I'd have married him instead of Lisa. But by the time he got in touch, the website had served its purpose, Lisa was pregnant, and I saw no point in replying. He didn't tell me his wife made chocolate, or I'd have got back to him quicker than Rik Waller on a log flume. Which is a phrase he uses himself.

Anyhoo, it's a well known fact that impartiality is my middle name (which would make my initials PIG) and no amount of free chocolate is going to buy you a decent review on this blog. Other food critics, however, are less objective...


That's Amelie doing her Michael Winner with a white chocolate lolly. No doubt her review will be featuring in Concrete Cow's advertising literature within the hour. That's if it hadn't already been trademarked by Kellogg's Frosties.

As it happens, Lisa has mental health problems and doesn't like white chocolate, which is why the eight Vanilla Moons in the parcel have found a new home in my stomach. I was going to stop at one, but I soon realised that it was possibly the nicest thing I've ever tasted, and I should probably down the other magnificent seven ASAP in case we go to war with Libya and rationing is introduced. Tragically I was forced to return to work this afternoon before I'd completed the job, and by the time I got home, Gaddafi had declared a ceasefire. But I didn't let that put me off. You can't be too careful, and if we all get radiation sickness from Japan, I could go right off my food.

This evening I've worked my way through chocolate truffles, peanut butter fudge, coconut ice, raisin clusters, peppermint creams and marzipan hearts. It's been a rocky road. And I've had a bag of that too. I even discovered something marginally nicer than Vanilla Moons. I don't want to overstate matters, but frankly I'd sell Lisa for a box of Concrete Cow's Amaretto Truffles. Although that could be the alcohol talking. They're 22% booze.

It's been a voyage of discovery, and I feel slightly seasick, but tonight, ladies and gentlemen, I've literally tasted success. And it's sweet. On the downside, I now weigh the same as a concrete cow, and my blood's more than 90% glucose. After a week without carbs, I'm so giddy I can barely see the needle rebounding off the twenty stone mark on our bathroom scales. But it was all worth it. Every velvety, chocolatey, buttery, sugary mouthful. Anyone who thinks that nothing good ever came out of Milton Keynes needs to try their hand-made chocolates. They do free delivery within ten miles of Bletchley, and frankly I think it's worth moving.