A terrible thing is befalling this nation, and it’s not the constants that are NHS waiting lists, or the failure of our (male) sporting teams. Reader, I give you the decline of the Great British iced bun.
Nicknames for this phenomenon abound, be it the London, candlegrease, Swiss bun, or even, Lord help us, the “sticky willy” (Let us not dwell). Yet, the constants remain: a (chubby) finger-shaped concoction of a plush yeast dough and a snowy sugar-jolt of a topping.
These rite-of-passage delights for the 30-pluses are, according to some bakeries, being usurped by a mass of American imports, not least the cronut – a cross between a croissant and doughnut. This travesty provides a coronary on a plate even before you’ve clocked the price, while six finger buns can be had for less than 30p a pop.
What is this betrayal of Britishness? Every other nation on the planet takes pride in its sweet treats. The Spanish cherish churros, the Portuguese pastéis de nata, the Turks honey and nut baklavas. We are asked to respect the Japanese mochi and the French bloody everything, from croissants via macarons to the Paris-Brest.
Meanwhile, we Brits are in danger of allowing our national pick-me-up to become extinct; off-menu in bakeries, or plastered pink to make it more Instagram-friendly among those clinging on.
Fellow country persons, we must have pride! Humble does not mean hackneyed, familiar need not spell flaccid.
When Paul Hollywood presented contestants with the ultimate challenge in the Great British Bake Off final of 2015, he demanded they create the consummate London bun. Quote the oracle: “An iced bun is a thing of beauty. There’s nowhere to hide, from the icing to the bun to the filling.” His rallying cry: “Produce perfection!”
Forget Marcel Proust’s madeleines dipped in lime-blossom tea, we Brits boasted sticky willies dunked into builder’s brew. Behold, the aroma of vanilla, fondant, butter-rich bread, with winning undertones of Play-Doh. Boarding-school boys licked off the icing first.
In Ulster, they had to be split, with copious butter added. Then, there was the matter of how many bites per bun: three, a decorous four? Or stuffed in whole for the great childish triumph of it. Either way, fingers were rendered syrupy, lips a wasp-trap and noses icing-tipped.
If this reads like the 1930s – all Famous Five and lashings of ginger beer – the supremacy of the iced bun as tea break and post-school fodder extended well into the 21st century. If workers weren’t soaking up a hangover with a bacon sandwich, rest assured they’d be Bunterishly bun-scoffing.
Not wanting to come over all “it was all we had”, but back in my youth it was indeed all we had. The “exotic” Black Forest gateau and “sophisticated” Vienetta were reserved for dinner parties.
As with so many old-school habits, it served us better. A supermarket iced bun contains 125-140 calories. A cronut has about 400-600 calories and counting, confected as they are from viennoiserie dough, filled with cream, deep-fried, then densely glazed.
I witnessed their effects a couple of weeks ago, while cycling Derbyshire’s Monsal Trail with my infant niece and nephew. The café that served us offered no ordinary bun, but instead vast mounds of cronuttery. The nutterish clue is in the name.
The young Betts tribe fell upon these like crack-style sugar addicts: before battering, first each other, then their elders, screaming, then falling asleep. This is not the fuel that won Blighty two world wars and one World Cup – no doo-dah about it. A bun will always be better.