The last time SCENIC WRITER’S SHACK broke a story about funny business in the food business was back in 2018.

On that occasion, SWS single-handedly exposed the hushed-up removal/abolition/extinction/call-it-what-you-will-but-it’s-no-longer-there deletion of the humble vanilla’s slice’s internal pastry layer.

What the disappearance of Amelia Earhart once was to the aviation industry so too THE GREAT VANILLA SLICE RIP-OFF sent shockwaves (gentle as they were) around the internet seven years ago. And SWS was there first. Naturally.

And now SCENIC WRITER’S SHACK has uncovered another foodie mystery glazed with intrigue and the freshly-baked scent of cover-up; an unacknowledged secret cleverly concealed from the general public. Unacknowledged and concealed… until now.

After more than two years of undercover investigation by SWS, it can now be revealed for the first time that, despite persistent denials to the contrary, McDonalds, for reasons known only to itself, openly includes and continues to advertise an item on its menu that in reality they no longer serve and therefore for them, may as well no longer exist.

And that, dear reader, is what’s known as a phantom menu item.

We speak of course of none other than the elusive, evasive, and now entirely mythical not to mention imaginary McDonalds coffee frappe

McDonald’s introduced the coffee frappe – topped with whipped cream and a drizzle of caramel sauce – onto the Australian market in the early 2010’s. It was the new-generation ‘marquee’ refreshment that upped their previous iconic humble thick shake.

In the last two-three years however, McDonalds has pinned it’s hopes on another big-name headline taste introduced into it’s substantive drinks menu, the stood-the-test-of-time, unassuming iced coffee.

Pure and simple, it’s a far easier process to make an iced coffee drink than it is a frappe. It follows then that the decision to discreetly phase-out their frappe range is a profit-driven one. No prizes for guessing that.

Historically, for literally hundreds of thousands of male teenagers and young men in their twenties, iced coffee has for a while – meaning several generations – been considered an imbibing substance as instinctive and necessary as beer was for the baby boomers. From a business point of view it makes perfect sense to ditch the frappe and re-invigorate an old chestnut, the iced coffee.

And besides, McDonalds most likely figures the likes of ZARRAFAS, GLORIA JEANS, THE COFFEE CLUB, MUFFIN BREAK and half a dozen other ‘brunch’ chains that all offer expansive ‘chiller’ menus do the frappe thing so much more gulp-worthily than they do, why not just leave them to it.

So McDonalds decides to grandfather one of their menu items. Where’s the great mystery, you ask. Glad, so glad, you asked.

When a person travels to four different McDonalds locations in the one afternoon – in the name of ‘good taste’ investigative journalism – in search of an elusive coffee frappe – only to be served the identical line from all four drive-thrus – “Sorry but our machine is broken”, the average person’s ‘something’s up’ radar will likely ping.

Mine went into fully blown car alarm mode. Why? Because I’ve been following the biscoff breadcrumb trail of this whimsical cover-up for quite some time and been ‘fed’ this same phony line from literally dozens upon dozens of Maccas outlets over the last few years.

And when a publication with the intellectual heft and standing of no less than TIME MAGAZINE starts to weigh in with its own questions, what more confirmation do you need that the whipped cream-topped truth is being kept from us all.

SWS first broke this story four years ago. HERE Back then it was mere coffee-scented rumor. Now it’s truth. Now it’s real. Now, sadly, it’s confirmed. The once-loved – especially by me (if you couldn’t tell!) – McDonald’s coffee frappe is now officially…

Anyone with personal experience of this conspiracy, cover-up, phenomena, er…, ok, let’s call it ‘issue’, feel free to pour forth, so to speak, in the comments section below.

A week holidaying recently in New Zealand felt like seven madly postcard-perfect and entirely binge-worthy days spent, not just in another country, but on a wholly different planet. Here’s the highlights –

Looking like a cross between a stealth spy plane and a super-stylish magpie (bird), nothing comes close in the aviation world to the distinctive ‘black-ops’ look of the country’s national airline. Sexy and secret-agentish, carry-on luggage, for those who really want to complete the look, can include an attach-case handcuffed to the wrist.

In the ‘first impressions’ department, Christchurch Airport gets the job done in Garden-of-Eden abloom. On the return journey I picked up a couple of good reads from the bookshop too!

See the lady above? That’s Jacinda Adern, my favorite ever New Zealand Prime Minister. (Yep, I got a list. For Aussie PM’s, they include Paul Keating, Bob Hawke and Scott Morrison and U.S-wise we’re talking Jimmy Carter and George W. Bush). She was in office for six years up until 2023.

So there we were in a quaint little downtown coffee shop in Christchurch with the girl behind the counter looking for all the world like Jacinda Adern‘s twin sister… er, clone.

Doing my very best Captain Obvious impersonation and believing with every fibre of my being I had stumbled upon a discovery as unique and momentous as unearthing a brand-new element on the Periodic Table (something no one has done for going on ten years now, btw!), I confidently approached the counter and enquired if anyone had ever remarked upon the resemblance.

“Do you know how many times I’ve been asked that?” was her composed and no-doubt long-suffering reply.

I’ve been to eight different countries (lived in three) + five different states of Australia. Nothing comes remotely (pun intended) close to the smorgasbord of sheer poetry-in-motion scenery on offer in the ‘land of the long white cloud’.

”Middle Earth-ian’ – ‘Jaw-droppingly surreal’ and ‘Positively Prehistoric’ are the best descriptions I can come up with. And they’re all understating it, at best.

And because I know there’s very few things in this world more yawn-inducing than looking at another person’s holiday snaps, I’m gonna thankyou ahead of time for staying the ‘journey’ and checking them out.

But first, a couple of sub-five second videos – the first one taken from our hire car, the second from a bumpity-bump-bump ocean ferry ride. Ready?

This country’s natural wonders are so gold standard it’s no wonder so many movie directors, particularly those of the fantasy/epic/adventure genre variety, have chosen N.Z. for their principal location shooting.

Icecream is a thing I take seriously. So seriously in fact, I’ve been known to judge a country purely by the quality of its sweet dairy. In that department, I’m so pleased to announce, New Zealand comes out plumb top of the class.

If there’s a better strawberry ice-cream (jam-packed with real whole strawberries, I am obliged to mention) out there than the one I tried in Queenstown, then truthfully I am yet to taste it.

They’re called ELECTRONIC SHELF LABELS and New Zealand’s got ’em. And Australia doesn’t! Digital price tags are cool, I reckon. Another reason to move to N.Z.

Traipsing through the polished marble foyer of one of the many hotels we luxuriated in during our NZ adventure, (laying it on a bit thick there, I know) I -and nobody else in my ‘party’ – was stopped in my tracks one morning when I happened upon a merry guest staging her own one-woman knitting party, while kicking back in the requisite plush leather lounge chair.

My first thought, and always (delusionally!) considering myself the joker, was “Good God… has it come to this?” Tee hee!

Some moments later, thankfully, more grown-up cognitions entered my brain, along the lines of (1) Shut up Glen. Just would you please shut the frig up! She’s doing what makes her happy and that should make everyone, including the cynical likes of you, happy (2) in another 10 years’ time MATE you’ll be doing the bloody same thing…or at least the male equivalent (painting miniature toy soldiers) and (3) Er, hello? This IS goddam New Zealand bro – the country with the highest sheep to people ratio in the world. If there was ever a place to whack out the knitting needles in your holiday down time this, for blueberry pie’s sake, is it!

That headline may be a little misleading. But only if you know the difference between a glacier and an iceberg, which, even after researching it, I still don’t.

What I can be sure of is that the ‘ice sculptures’ pictured below were, in real life, about 200 times larger than they appear in these photos. We were told that 90% of their bulk was under the surface, submerged down in the 300-meter-deep lake. Iceberg, right?

Hadn’t seen this before. A dog (name: ‘Happy’) performing harmonies on it’s master’s rendition of Roy Orbison’s YOU GOT IT.

To get the general gist of this just skip to the final 15 seconds of the video. That’s the song’s finale with fully voiced doggie crooning. After three days in Queenstown, I left torn between believing I had been uniquely entertained and thinking the whole act to be mildly exploitive. In the end I went with the ‘entertaining’ idea.

Yep, that’s me. THE COLLECTOR. This New Zealand trip added big time to my personal badge collection, my t-shirt collection and most definitely my old school heap of postcards. Check out this beaming mass, arranged on the tiles of our kitchen floor…

What’s movie icon Humphrey Bogart got to do with New Zealand? Not a lot, from what I can tell. It was however the 2024 documentary I watched on our return flight home, so in my mind, yeah, there’s now a connection.

‘Play it again Sam?’ New Zealand, if you’re listening… I would ABSOLUTELY love to.

While in New Zealand I noticed something unique about their web addresses.

At first, I thought I was imagining things. But no, it’s real. As real as the Kiwi bird not being able to fly. Poor thing.

Time again to prize open the fridge door and see what’s inside! This week, infatuation goes next level in Gael Franklin’s swank and teasing tale –

He wandered, looking at the other models who were standing around facing him.

He was gorgeous, big and tanned, with a luxuriant beard. Looking at him made me feel warm inside.

He had on a smart uniform, consisting of shorts showing off his lovely legs, bristling with manliness; and a polo shirt, the embroidered symbol upon which surely indicating that he was highly-regarded.

He continued surveying the crowd, yo-yoing between one and the next, and then to my surprise, he walked directly towards me. His deep brown eyes took in my every curve. He looked me up and down and smiled broadly.

“Yep, that’s my girl!” he whispered, seemingly wanting this intimate murmur to be shared by only the two of us. I could never have predicted the next enchanting moment. He extended his long muscular arms around me and effortlessly hoisted me aloft.

I had heard that men prefer slim models, and I was heavy-set to say the least, so I didn’t imagine that someone epitomising masculinity like he did would give me a second glance. His muscly arms held me so tight, I felt protected and safe in his embrace. He made me feel dainty and delicate. He made me feel every glorious sensation I had ever fantasised about.

I savoured every moment we had together as he carried me out to his lovely modern vehicle. I had not seen one as roomy as his before. With great care, he gently settled me into my position and ensured that I was buckled in safely before he began to drive.

I was giddy as he sang to me throughout the journey. He knew all the most romantic songs, and the acoustics of the vehicle suited his well-developed baritone. “Ohhhhh my love, my darling, I’ve hungered for your touch…” he sang along with the Righteous Brothers, though my man was considerably more expressive in his rendition to me.

We soon arrived at a luxurious-looking estate, with a tree-lined turning circle that he masterfully negotiated. “Here we are my dear!” he chirped lovingly as he untethered my safety belt.

Again I was cradled in his arms as he marched through the opening front door. He walked assertively along the generous hallway, into a large open-plan kitchen with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a courtyard with a babbling fountain.

Just as I was absorbing the spellbinding romance of this destination we would share, I could feel him unfurling my power cord. I was totally flummoxed! He then slid me backwards into a tight cavity against the wall, surrounded by cupboards.

He threw open my door, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. My lights were aflicker under his strong fingertips. Detached, he swung my door closed, and placed a firm hand on top of me saying to the man who had appeared: “Yep, all done, she’s a great model.”

He shook hands with the man and left, looking back only to collect a page which the other chap had signed. I felt cold inside… and empty.

Time again to bring the sparkle. This week we are (refrigerator) gassed to present equal third place getter Ann Walter’s winning short story –

To say I was flummoxed was an understatement!

One minute I am living my best life, gorgeous view of the harbor, marble floors under my feet, getting a daily wipeout and sanitize and I’m happy as a litigation lawyer.

Suppose I should have noticed when the lobster tails and Moet Chandon disappeared and got replaced with frozen dinners and domestic wine.  Come to think of it, things were getting a bit quiet around me as well. Conversations became muted whisperings behind doors, kids only opened me once a fortnight but hey, bonus, stinky dog food gone forever.

Despite these changes, I kept doing my thing, compressors whirring, temperature even, welcoming light and calm dependability. I am after all a very important fixture, except that I’m not fixed to anything. As I found out when somebody rudely ripped out my racks, emptied my ice trays and tickled my insides with a dishwashing brush.

I was used to a gentle sanitize but this was a much rougher state of affairs. Like comparing a relaxation massage to a remedial one and we all know which one we prefer.

Next thing I’m loaded onto the back of a battered Toyota hi Lux, inhaling diesel fumes and held tight by nylon rope and snatch straps. There’s some sort of mongrel hybrid hound chained up with me who has decided to mark me as his territory and I’m not happy about that.

Smooth bitumen and blue seas give way to corrugated gravel roads and soon me and the dog are bouncing up and down like yo yos inhaling diesel and dust and it’s not a good combination. Goodbye harbour views.

Hello… canefields? What sort of a comedown is this? Two burly blokes from the bush untie us and I’m surprised at how gently they lift me out and place me onto a trolley. Even the dog gets a pat on the head and a compliment.

Maybe this new home won’t be so bad after all I’m thinking as I’m rattling down the gravel path towards an old shed. As long as I’m useful, after all that’s what we appliances are made for. A bit of tinkering, some levelling of the broken boards in the shack with an old car jack and I’m plugged in and ready to serve my new owners.

Did I mention I am half freezer and half fridge? And no, I am not a snob despite being previously filled with luxury goods so I welcomed the slabs of XXXX beer, savaloys, lamb chops and hamburgers. After all it’s my job to keep these things cold but I had trouble embracing the rolls of dog food again.

I guess I am now living my second-best life but what about my large freezer? Can you guess what it’s used for?

That’s right…euthanizing cane toads!

Next week, get ready to go a refrigerated version of all-weak-at-the-knees when we unveil equal third place getter Gael Franklin’s deliciously swoon-worthy epic tale –

Pro U.S golfer Walter Hagen (1892 – 1969) – behind only Tiger Woods and Jack Nicklaus in the number of golf majors he won – was the person who first coined the expression ‘No one ever remembers who came second.’

SCENIC WRITER’S SHACK DOES remember who came second and today we celebrate our short story competition runner-up Anne Wilkin’s clever and brassy fridge tale –

Antarctica 5000 arrives at my front door on a hot summer’s day. 

My door scanner detects its presence and announces its arrival ceremoniously: “Angela, your new fridge has arrived.” I open my door, and there it is. The latest, the snazziest, the most intelligent fridge on the market. It comes with all the bells and whistles and then some. I’m already star struck. 

“Kan I come in?” it asks, with a slight German accent. 

“Of course.” 

Mechanical arms and feet burst through the packaging and it simply walks in by itself and finds my kitchen. It peels off its own packaging, making sure to recycle all the paper and cardboard into the correct kitchen bin.

“Zat is vhere you vant me? Yes?” it says, pointing to the sad empty space where my old fridge, Gary 100, used to live.  I eagerly nod, and Antarctica 5000 moves into place, plugging itself in, making itself at home.

 It’s just like what the adverts say.   

“Yes please.” 

Over the space of an hour my fridge tells me it will order groceries for me as needed, automatically assess the quality, nutritional value and calories of each item, and create meal plans. It will remove expired food, cook meals, and liaise with the dishwasher, and robo-vac to ensure the kitchen is kept spotless.

On my birthday it will prepare a cake for me with candles and play ‘Happy Birthday’ to the tune of German accordion music, and on Valentine’s Day it will order flowers and prepare my favorite meal. 

“Is there anything you can’t do?” I ask, slightly breathless. 

“No. I was just joking.”

 

“Something funny. Ha ha. Hee hee?”

The fridge seems flummoxed. Humor obviously isn’t its thing. Shame, Old Gary had been pretty good at that. 

My door scanner buzzes.

“Huh? What food?” 

It leaves to answer the door and unpacks the items into itself. “But…how did you know what I wanted?”

“My pantry… talked to you?”

I looked at KAREN-10 with new eyes. Had it been judging me all along? Bitch.

The next day Gary 100 was back in his spot. 

“Yeah. ‘Fraid to say I think you might be irreplaceable.”

“Always.”

KAREN-10 glared disapprovingly from her corner.

Next week, prepared to be moved by our equal 3rd place-getter Ann Walter‘s big ticket, spellful tale –

Like sky diving, judging a short story contest can be IS a real rush.

79 fridge-cool entries ended up being delivered to SWS‘s icebox, a chilled-out haul considerably up from last year’s debut comp. SCENIC WRITER’S SHACK is well-pleased to announce this year’s winners.

Cue the honor roll Jeeves, if you please…

When Jonathan told me to expect the fridge delivery at 11, I thought I’d still be able to duck out to our girl’s meet-up at noon at the wine-sauce pizza restaurant.

At eleven, I heard faint noises on the front porch. Sounded like pebbles kerplinking on the concrete, so I went to check. I found a perfectly miniature man mid-jump. “Trying to reach your doorbell!” He had a tinny, tiny voice.

My FLUMMOXED mind froze as if in protective mode, while behind the internal ice block it was trying to figure out what was going on. What I’m saying is that I probably didn’t even look shocked. Not even by his five comrades. They were larger than the Borrowers, but not two feet tall. “May I help you?”

“Here to deliver your new Whirlpool side-by-side refrigerator, ma’am.” He smiled with a great deal of charm.

“Um…” I didn’t know what else to say. Wouldn’t it be rude to tell him it wasn’t possible for them to carry a 300-pound carton? I did not want to insult him.

The man yelled out (if you can imagine a faint tinkly yelp) to his coworkers to haul in the fridge. That’s when I saw farther down the front path the box on its side, hooked up to ropes and harnesses, each small person finding their place around it. I couldn’t help but think of Gulliver trussed by the Lilliputians. Luckily, it was the appliance and not me in there.

This is the moment I should have produced an excuse, but my mind was still blanking.

The tinies started heaving, pulling, and puffing. I’ll be damned if they didn’t start singing “Heigh-ho, it’s off to work we go!” I felt as if my body pushed along with them. They didn’t move much faster than I did although I was standing still.

By eleven thirty, they were even with the tulip patch. At noon they first touched the door mat with the toes of their itsy-bitsy boots. By then I was texting like mad with Kim and Deb. I managed to surreptitiously snap and send a couple of shots of the team. My mind was clearing, and I half-realized the ridiculousness of the situation.

Trying to get that carton through the doorway was a trick. They YO-YOED back and forth as they tried to maneuver just the right angle. Then the fridge gave way and sailed into the front hallway.

I was standing there, repeatedly pushing the white dot on my cell camera. Unfortunately, I must have been knocked backwards by the impact. As I came to, I tried to feel my aching forehead but couldn’t get my arm to move.

Looking down, I saw that the ropes and harnesses had been transferred to me, tying me up securely. The tiny ones were nowhere to be seen. I lay on the floor waiting for Jonathan to come home, while searching my mind for a lesson in the whole fiddle-faddle of this experience.

Be sure to click back in NEXT WEEK when we showcase 2nd place winner Anne Wikins’ super sassy fridge tale –

MARCH 10 is the final day entrants have to submit their fridge-themed masterpieces to the SCENIC WRITER’S SHACK Short Story Competition. Click HERE for full details.

The guy in the footy video below scores four tries – in the same match. The crowd goes wild. The commentator too. Now picture the writer version of this. You crossing the finishing line – fist-pumping the air with a win in this match contest. Can happen.

For details go HERE

And before you go, a word about fridges…

This is a story from my recent sojourn to Bali.

It comes with diagrams. Believe me, they’re gonna come in handy.

Let’s start with a basic fact: a Boeing 737 can carry 180 passengers.

The seats are arranged three abreast. There’s an aisle and then another three seats abreast on the other side of that aisle.

It goes back 30 rows and looks something like this –

The blue shaded boxes are where we were seated for the six-hour Brisbane to Bali direct flight.

Here’s where the story begins to take off, literally. Cue diagram number two –

That’s right. Diagram 2 has one key difference to diagram 1 – the location of the two on-board toilets. And here’s where the real comedy begins.

The front and rear toilets might look the same according to my diagram, but that would be misleading. There was infact one royal-sized difference between those two toilets, which I will now illustrate via a third diagram. Told you this was a comedy.

Ready?

See those green shaded seats? They’re the first four rows and they were the only 24 passengers onboard the plane permitted to use the front-end toilet. Why? Because they’d paid for 1st class business class tickets.

That’s completely right and normal. You pay a higher price you get privileges and ‘perks’ – if we want to call use of a toilet a ‘perk’. So what’s the hooha?

The hooha – or ‘twist’ if we want to use storyteller’s speak – is there was no curtain separating these front four rows from the rest of the plane. And for clarity, I’m gonna repeat that – THERE WAS NO CURTAIN separating the front four rows from the seats behind.

To remind ourselves of what ‘normal’ looks like in the curtain partitions department, superfluously, examples can be viewed below –

But on this comedic flight, between those front four rows and the seats behind – NO CURTAIN.

Allow me to point out too for the sake of the full mental picture, the seats in these prestige rows were also physically identical to those in the other 26 rows. Identical spacing, identical configuration and identical ‘lack of legroom’. Identical. Identical. Identical.

The passengers were identical too. And by that I mean there wasn’t a pinstripe suit, tie or briefcase to be seen. Just ordinary Aussies dressed in super caszh gear heading off like the rest of the plane on their Bali holiday. As far as I could make out the only difference was they were offered a slightly ‘enhanced’ meal menu.

But back to the toilets. And time to crunch the numbers. What we have is the front 24 passengers using the front toilet, leaving the remaining 156 passengers forced to que for the remaining sole rear-positioned toilet. And keep in mind it’s a full six hour flight.

Are you starting to feel the comedy potential? Not to mention the complaints potential? And maybe, with a few gin and tonics thrown in, the breakout of some old-fashioned, on-board fisticuffs potential?

Thankfully there was no fisticuffs. But comedy? There was more of that than you’d expect at a Three Stooges Film Marathon. Speaking of which…

See, because there was no curtain or sign indicating that that front toilet was reserved exclusively for passengers in those first four rows, punters too many to number seated in the front half of the plane would wander innocently up the aisle to try to use that front toilet, only to be turned away by the uncannily vigilant hostie.

Having to act as a bathroom bouncer for six hours is no easy thing. But that hostie somehow pulled it off, while juggling a horde of other duties, principally the serving of food and drink to the front half of the plane.

The five-star comedy moments took over when the stewardess (bet you haven’t heard that word in a while!), would be distracted by the food and drink duties, while someone made a fast approach up the aisle to the bathroom ‘forbidden zone’.

Typically, they’d get within spitting distance only to be turned away at the last moment by the fleet-footed hostie who’d have to scamper up in pursuit to deliver the toe-curling bad news about it being a NO-GO ZONE. Again, with no sign or curtain to indicate that toilet was for the use of just the first four rows, better make that – PERFECTLY DISGUISED NO-GO ZONE.

I watched in amusement as this pantomime, which included a growing que for the ‘commoners’ rear toilet – reaching at one point 11 people – played out on repeat for the first couple of hours. After that time, economy passengers in the front half of the plane cottoned on to what was happening and gave up trying to enter the forbidden zone.

But not before a golden couple of hours of unintended A-grade entertainment that upped any in-flight movie played out before our eyes.

A TALE OF TWO CITIES? Well, no. Not as classy, but this was most assuredly A TALE OF TWO TOILETS.

Could it have gotten any more slapstick? Well yes, it could have…