I was watching some of BBC’s in-depth news coverage of the Conservative party leadership the other night and couldn’t help but burst out laughing. It’s BBC Newsnight at its best impartial tongue-in-cheek self.
For context:
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2026 update: See also Jus-Rol will not get the hint on their cinnamon swirls / rolls
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After battling a mouthful of disappointment, I just wanted to highlight how much of a travesty Jus-Rol‘s cinnamon swirls rebrand is.
In the simplest of terms, it’s awful.
For those less aware of its previous incarnations, Jus-Rol’s cinnamon swirls is a ready-to-bake product. What it offers to the market is something straightforward and quick, providing the same results of freshy made pastry, without the time and stress needed to make a batch from scratch.
To quote Jus-Rol’s website:
“Jus-Rol’s ready to bake Cinnamon Swirls are a perfectly easy way to bake your family a tasty morning treat at home. Just shape, bake and enjoy warm from the oven. The aroma will fill your kitchen with joy as they bake up.”
https://www.jusrol.co.uk/products/cinnamon-swirls
Making Jus-Rol cinnamon swirls was easy. You took it out of the tube, split the cylinder of pre-filled pastry into six and then whacked it into the oven, cooking for a defined period of time and icing once cooled.
Now the process is several steps longer and ten times worse. Instead of one pot for icing sugar, now you get two, one for the icing sugar and one for the “cinnamon filling” which looks more like chocolate spread and smells of nothing.
Even if we park the creation of needless plastic packaging, it is hard to overlook the messy complexity created by the introduction this modest little pot. Once the filling is smeared across a flat rectangle of raw pastry, the consumer then has to roll the pastry and only then cutting it into six.
Thanks to this step, the cinnamon goes absolutely everywhere. Some pieces were left drowning in brown paste, others with barely a scrap inside. Some swirls were trying to uncurl and others kept oozing.
Turns out whacking them into the oven doesn’t help much either. Cast your mind back to the picture on the Jus-Rol box and compare it to what we got.
While we can all laugh at mis-shaped pastries, it doesn’t compare to how they used to look with the old recipe.
Turns out I’m not the only one disappointed by Jus-Rol’s change in manufacturing. With an average rating of 1.1 at the time of writing, Tesco’s customers are less than impressed.
And the feedback on Jul-Rol’s Facebook page is comical.
Here’s hoping Jus-Rol listen to this feedback on and tossing aside whichever team of dingbats thought it was a good idea to implement cost-cutting, planet harming, changes to a classic.
Have you also experienced this frustration? Drop a comment below and/or contact Jus-Rol’s customer service team via their website, Jus-Rol (jusrol.co.uk)
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Something I came across on the internet that makes absolutely no sense other than afterwards finding out it’s a thing and the cat is apparently called Maxwell.
And, in fairness, it is the most truest of reflections when it comes to what is usually floating around in my head.
Oh, God, what have I gotten myself into? Make it stop!!
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This is a smidge of a belated one, given boyfriend Ben and I were holidaying in the last week of August. What can I say? I’ve been rather busy since getting back, and by busy, I mean swamped in work emails.
Back in South Devon, we had a rather splendid time in and around the English Riviera (even if Ben’s reaction to that description was laughter, followed by “no, really? The English Riviera?“)
We did wine tasting, we did a cider tour, we visited National Trust properties, I even did a walk along the River Dart in hopelessly inadequate footwear. We did all the classy things. We had a simply wonderful time thanks to all the wonderful human beings that made it so.
Oh, and Ben’s car almost got flooded, due to the super blue Moon (he’ll insist it looked worse than it was, but he was the one moaning about his wet socks for the rest of the night!)
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Attractions visited (in no particular order):
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Following the post I published towards the end of 2022 about a mother opening an Amazon parcel containing boxes of cereal, I have two thing to report.
As spotted on a social media platform (for the sake of argument, let’s call said social media platform “Gacebook”):
Another instance of someone trying to buy an Apple product, only this time they got duped with surface wipes.
I don’t know why I should be surprised and really it is a terrible thing that people are being unfairly mugged off in such a way, but it still amazed me when I saw it appear on my social media feed.
That, or it could be a sign that I need to get a life.
As a thirty year old, eating blueberry yoghurt from the tub and watching reruns of The Hills I’m going to decline the opportunity to comment. I’d only dig myself into a bigger yoghurt-based hole.
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To say Ben is into planes is more than a little modest, it is the understatement of the century. We both also happen to live close to Fairford, the Wiltshire RAF base which once a year becomes home to the Royal International Air Tattoo (RIAT).
Two slight issues with my initial plan of a date-day visit:
The solution? Volunteering!
Ben and I put enlisted as event volunteers, selling programmes to raise money for the RAF Charitable Trust. Two highlights were Ben saying “I didn’t think you were actually going to dance with a stack of programmes” and a police officer who tapped me on the shoulder and said, in an incredibly stern tone, “excuse me, madam, but do you work in a boxing ring?” (I was waving a programme high above my head at the time). After realising I wasn’t getting a telling me off, I laughed and waved it even higher.
I know it wasn’t meant to be a contest but Ben and I sold a lot of programmes from our combined efforts, a lot.
By noon we were released from volunteering duties and allowed to enjoy RIAT for the rest of the day, free of charge. We enjoyed both the static and air displays with plenty of sugary snacks and then, when the British weather turned we darted into Ben’s car and continued watching the displays, warm and dry and accompanied by RIAT’s FM radio commentary (another perk of volunteering, prime car parking).
Not even strong winds and rain could stop us laughing during our day at RIAT. I learnt a lot about planes (although I don’t see me becoming RAF recruitment material anytime soon) but I also got to learn more about the great work of the RAF Charitable Trust. All whilst having a cheap date day out with Ben. We came away with Ben’s vocal cords ripped to shreds and my arms and feet feeling the burn from all the dancing. But you know what? It was totally worth it.
You can find out more about volunteering opportunities at RIAT through their official website
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Nothing sums up my experiences growing up than the hype surrounding the “Cotswold Olimpick Games”, an annual summer event that takes place on Dover’s Hill, Gloucestershire.
You, however, might be more familiar with one of the key events that take place during the games, skin-kicking.
Not heard of shin-kicking before? Well have no fear, for this news clip from BBC Points West will explain all in glorious local news fashion.
(Even I was left thinking “what did I just watch?”)
There’s a lot to unpack here in what is almost a 4 minute long video, so let me hit you with what’s going on (my personal highlights are in bold):
And don’t you worry, as always you’re very much welcome.
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The evening before seeing historian and author Anna Beer I’m sat at home, drafting a book review. Most of my reviews are for self-published titles, books where authors need the extra push to help them up the rankings. This particular book is a self-help guide for women navigating the menopause. It’s really good, certainly one of the more informed guides I’ve read in recent months. I finish typing my conclusion, knowing I’ll return to this review at least twice more to make edits before uploading it onto Reedsy. In that moment life feels good.
Barely 24 hours later…
“If I have to read another book on the menopause I’ll throw it across the room!”
It’s a statement that says a lot about the personality of this speaker, a strange mix of fire and frustration blended with ease and informality. Anna Beer has made her entrance.
Beer’s newest publication, Eve Bites Back, puts forgotten female authors front and centre of her historical research. Women like Mary Elizabeth Bradon, who wrote Lady Audley’s Secret in 1861-2 as a serialised publication for sixpenny magazines. She wrote the first instalment in just one evening. Such as the power of her words, when her original publisher ceased trading, another stepped in to print the remainder of the book. Bradon was a household name of her time, a literary celebrity, yet for every hundred mentions of her contemporary Charles Dickens, nowadays you will struggle to find one of Bradon.
Beer pauses for breath, taking only the slightest sip of tap water from her glass. The plight of Bradon isn’t the body of Beer’s argument, quite the reverse, the historian is only just warming up.
Bradon’s fate is not only applicable to the female authors of books, Beer argues. Another example, the poet Emilia Lanier (née Aemilia Bassano) also spent a good portion of her life swimming in the same pool as other masterful contemporaries. A 16th Century creative living in London, Lanier would have known fully of the playwright William Shakespeare, it is believed she was even mixing in the same aristocratic circles as him (although less known about whether the pair ever met).
Lanier was 42 years old when she published Salve Deus Rex Judaeorum, a poetry collection highly praised by all genders, even with its undertones many would now regard as feminist leaning. And yet, once again, in the 21st Century relatively little is known of Lanier. Why? Because, Beer argues, Lanier simply didn’t have the same number of influential promoters as Shakespeare.
Beer smiles, one hand gripping the podium, the other pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. She’s hit her stride, that juicy zone when academics become unstoppable, overwhelming charisma tinged by a slight arrogance. They know they’re right and you can’t help but nod along. Beer rattles through woman after woman, their names piling up like endless bodies cast below the stage we sit before. If she carries on at this rate the whole auditorium will be drowned before the hour is finished.
“I must mention Lady Mary Montague,” she adds between breaths, “oh, and someone ask me about Anna Wickham if there’s time!”
Watching her recount all these unknown literary greats, it makes me both proud and embarrassed to be a woman. Society imprinted on me many of Britain’s literary greats, only now am I realising that all of them just so happened to be white men. If anything Beer’s work proves that there were more female authors out there than can be feasibly brushed under the carpet.
The evening draws to a close and with the round of applause comes a sudden longing for a fresh air. The auditorium at the Swindon Arts Centre empties and, not realising quite how hot I’d become inside, I’m relieved to be sucking in a large mouthful of cool spring air.
Within minutes of getting home my laptop is thrown open and a multitude of female names punched into my search engine. The internet crashes momentarily, I hit refresh multiple times, forcing it on until the algorithm finally caves in to my demands. The more I search the more I’m left wanting and by the end of the night I have an Amazon basket filled with books, not one of which written by a man.
To hear Beer talk so energetically on her book Eve Bites Back and wider literary feminism fills me with optimism for what this field of study can offer us all. Knowing that it took Jane Austen twenty years to convert her thoughts into a recognised publication is also enough to keep my own creative aspirations alive. (Although for what it’s worth, I won’t be forwarding Anna Beer a copy of my menopause book review anytime soon.)
Previous Swindon Literary Event write ups from AEB:
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This is what it feels like forcing myself to write words on a blank page. It feels like this property advertisement.
And I’m not talking about the never ending bit. The production value, the forced lyrics, the “what have I just seen?” feeling, quite literally everything about this video can be translated into what writing a draft zero feels like for me.
Oh, and if you are interested in learning more about this house may I direct you to its page on Rightmove (still on the market at the time of writing).
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Rating: 1 star
Headline: Regardless of which faith you preach, this book is downright nonsensical
Review:
The Most Reverend by JJ Young is a comedy-satire of a Christian denomination and its plight to establish itself in Britain. Pastor Delilah Wigglesworth, founder of the “PRAISE!” movement adopts a highly informal approach to communicating biblical messages through the use of concert-type congregations, social media and its flagship confessional app. Shortly after arriving in the UK, Delilah, husband Jude and their two children become acquainted with Mary, a small parish vicar who has become fatigued with the Church of England and the Archbishop’s unwillingness to fund the repair costs to her church. In awe of Delilah and Jude, Mary leaves her parish to become the UK’s first pastor for “PRAISE!”
Within this plot summary there is ample opportunity for well-executed comedy and clever satire. Instead, what the reader sadly gets is poorly written dialogue and all too frequent location changes. Surrey, London, Delilah’s seemingly random decision to travel to North Wales to film promotional footage; the scene-setting in this book leaves even the most sturdiest of readers with whiplash.
Alongside Delilah’s global aspirations, there is also a side-plot involving “PRAISE!” being ransomed for millions of dollars after a data hack on its confessional app. Despite this disturbing development, none of the characters react with any sense of concern or urgency. Character traits are also unbelievable, particularly the Archbishop who immediately takes a strong dislike of “PRAISE!” because of the serious threat it poses to the Church of England. And yet, the whole book is leading up to Mary becoming the UK’s first pastor of a morally-questionable denomination run by two people, Delilah and Jude. The Archbishop’s fears just do not seem to add up.
As far as comedy goes, this book is simply not funny. A lot of the jokes are cheap biblical puns, innuendo, or a combination of the two, used at random like a Carry-On film. Humour that strikes of one-liners that popped into the author’s head as they were writing. And while I understand pastor Jude’s character is meant to be extreme right-wing, unfaithful and generally useless, the humour he exerts is at best excruciatingly awkward and at worst, down right discriminatory towards other faiths and cultures.
If not for the rushed pace, then for the tone of voice, The Most Reverend is punctured with so many plot holes and faults that it would take more than Noah’s Ark going viral to ride out this storm.
AEB Reviews
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My Housemate's a Mermaid 