y’k vagonu tekerlek
The above phrase is a (probably syntactically inaccurate) translation 
of ‘WagonWheel’ into Turkish. Which is what the Halley Pasta is, pretty much. Produced by snack manufacturing giants ‘lker, it’s a round marshmallow biscuit sandwich of approx. 8 cm. diameter, covered with vaguely waxy chocolate-flavoured stuff, and I was unreasonably excited to snap up a 5-pack (exotically stuck together along one side with the nutritional information label) from my local shop for local people at Archway the other week.
With great trepidation I opened the packet to find something that indeed, as the external picture had led me to believe, looked just like the Wagon Wheels I knew and loved in times passed into legend. When chomped into, however, a different story was told: the biscuit itself was disconcertingly crumbly, with a spicy hint of coconut, and the marshmallow filling was so overwhelmed by the strong personality of its surroundings that I barely noticed it. A strange sense of otherness swept over me, like being on holiday and eating a custard cream, only different and foreign. And as a novelty junkie, that’s the kind of sensation I live for, man.
Robster, who was my companion on this taste odyssey, says:
“I don’t remember much from my consumption of the Ulker biccie – other than that the filling didn’t have the chewy mallowyness that makes official Wagon Wheels so satisfying. But then it’s been ages since I had a proper Wagon Wheel.”
It’s all too true. Gone are the days when one could irresponsibly tuck into confectionery (bought with the last of the weekly pocket money) from an eye-wateringly bright wrapper; I could of course pop into the supermarket right now and buy (and indeed scoff) a packet of Wagon Wheels, but I’d feel excruciatingly infantile and would end up a bit sticky about the chops. As the actress said to the bishop.