Newkie Brown ice cream is just the tip of the wild and weird flavour iceberg

There are, dear reader, very few foodstuffs which I will not contemplate eating. And let’s face it, if the food shortages – of which we are hearing more and more about less and less – do occur, then it may well behove us all to start looking at comestibles we have never before considered.

I was interested, therefore, to be reminded of Newcastle Brown ice cream, not least because one of my childhood nicknames was “Newkie” Broon. Not Nookie. I wasn’t that kind of girl.

This is quite a veteran flavour, being about 20 years old, but is as nothing in the great tastebud adventure of life in comparison with (as Bing Crosby once memorably described Frank Sinatra) some of those newer fellas.

Garlic/jalapeno/horseradish ice creams are, of course, positively old hat. But corn-on-the-cob? Foie gras? Bourbon and cornflake? Wasabi? Or Eskimo (their name for it, not mine), which includes berries and a basis of animal fat or maybe ground fish. I may just have met my culinary match there…

But Japan beats the lot for oddity with a menu including horse flesh, cow tongue, octopus and squid, which sounds as if it ought to be sung to the tune of ‘This Old Man’ – the part just before the final line “This old man came rolling home”, apt in my case in more ways than you might care to contemplate. But then, following the neural pathways of my twisted thought processes is always going to take you down some strange, not to say downright weird, roads.

Speaking of which, well, you just wouldn’t believe the number of people who have been in touch – and even stopped me in the street, forsooth. Apart from anything else, it’s amazing anyone can still recognise me from the picture adorning this column, though increasing age hasn’t actually changed me that much, I’ve just got more so, if you know what I mean.

Any road up, all this unforeseen recognition has happened in the aftermath of my piece last week on cycling or lack of ability to do same. There are many of us out there, it would appear, either unwilling or unable to take to two wheels, even in support of the environment and the planet. And – hold the front page – there is wheen of fowk who have also taken a real scunner at those who do. Cycle, I mean.

Not all, of course. Just those who appear to be the two-wheeled version of the betterknown four-wheeled road hog and who think they own the road, not just the cycle paths. Personally, I have nothing against

We all need someone to beef about other than politicians

cyclists – those I know tend to be charming people. But as a breed, they didn’t half take some stick from those responding to my re-cycled/up-cycled/down-cycled words.

Perhaps, in these days of difficulty and short fuses, we all just need someone to beef about other than politicians and undeserving billionaires.

Maybe the increasing visibility of cyclists on our roads has put them firmly in the undipped headlight of contemporary cantankerousness from those who have taken exception to some of the new, rather fantoosh but (when I’ve been, ironically, driving past them) often empty cycle lanes.

But, two-wheeled citizens, you are not alone in attracting often undeserved ire. Having recently become a regular dog walker, I am very aware that many of this social sub-group also leave a lot to be desired on the consideration for others front.

So, being someone who beefs regularly about the awful British tendency to litter, I

find myself meticulously cleaning up after my dog.

This is not always easy as he is a big beggar and tends to go in for mass production. You know you have become slave to a dog when every garment you own has pockets stuffed to overflowing with poo bags of varying strengths (and scents – who knew?) and a range of treats in case the fussy recipient decides he cannot thole biscuits and will only accept ersatz sausage.

You also have a special, heavily compartmentalised shoulder bag in which to carry all the practical necessities you never before knew you had to access at short notice.

I also carry wipes (those lamp-posts won’t clean themselves, you know), which is why I was somewhat brassed off to be hailed by an irate gentleman last week who bawled me out for letting my dog piddle on the front wheel of his car. I hadn’t actually done so (and neither, happily, had the dog) because I stopped

him, as I always do, before the cocked leg led to greater output.

In spite of the fact that my home life reveals me to be the very antithesis of domestic goddessery, I tend (unlike the dog) to be a bit anally retentive when I’m escorting him round the policies.

Now, I can see this gent’s point. I hate it when I come across the leavings of other dog-walkers. But I also thoroughly dislike being picked up before I fall. Which, come to think of it, is probably the closest I will ever get to being a cyclist…

NEWKIER OPTION: If you don’t fancy Newcastle Brown flavoured ice cream, how about cornflake, corn-on-the-cob or even garlic?