Ah, frozen yoghurt shops. They’re springing up like mushrooms in London these days, catering to shitheads. They all have hilarious gently punning names like Frog or Snog or Doghurt or Freezian Cow or Yoghi Bear or some nonsense. They also seem to have collectively settled on the kind of mildly retarded, primary-coloured cartoon styling last seen in 1980s children’s TV programming starring Rod, Jane and Freddy. The idea is that you go inside and pay for something like ice cream, but not as nice. This fools the aforementioned shitheads into thinking that just because their big pile of cold milky sugar is served without fat, it’s somehow a healthy snack. It isn’t. Frozen Yoghurt? Shithead Surprise, I calls it.
This bile is currently directed at the lovely and inoffensive Yogland, which lives on Queensway and gives you a choice of six rotating flavours. When we went, it was serving up flavours including green tea, peanut butter and cheesecake. Or rather it wasn’t, as you have to serve yourself – they run through the process with you, if you’re a first-timer. It all tasted of frozen yoghurt, though. Frozen yoghurt is to ice cream what an uncoloured paint-by-numbers pic of the Eiffel Tower is to a dirty weekend in Paris.
Mrs Brown rather liked it, I should add. She says it’s because she didn’t fill her pot to the brim, cover it in Oreo pieces, then wolf it down fast enough to get a simultaneous frostburnt mouth, ice cream headache and indigestion. Gah.