Rumness in short supply

Writing the other day about such culinary delights as the Seventies cinema hot dog (that dank, damp bun stuffed with a pink tube of mechanically recovered meat and gristle, and coated with the great taste of yellow) has stirred up memories of long-forgotten ads for other inedible edibles.

Like Proust with his madeleines, I've been recalling the Zoom ice lolly, which came in three flavours: red flavour, blue flavour, and yellow flavour (unless you were colourblind, in which case there was only one flavour).

I've also been remembering strange alcoholic beverages like Zamoyski vodka, which was depicted as a thoroughly romantic drink, although in reality you could always spot a Zamoyski drinker because he was the one shouting to himself on a disused bomb site, while poor children threw bricks at his caravan.

And who can forget Misty? I wish I could, because it was a vile, cloying and viscous tipple, apparently distilled from salad cream and snot. Better out than in.

I've no time for Bacardi either, which might seem a bit rich when you consider that I once voiced a radio advertising campaign for the stuff. Well, I'd do a voice-over for napalm if the money is good, but it's not just the beverage that leaves a funny taste in many people's mouths, it's the activities of the Bacardi family, too.

Two years ago, a book entitled Bacardi, The Hidden War, by the Colombian journalist Hernando Calvo Ospina, alleged that members of this Miami-based billionaire dynasty (who fled Cuba after the revolution) have spent 40 years trying to overthrow Castro's regime by bankrolling assassins and terrorists, and last night's Outrageous Fortunes (BBC3) promised it would "get close to them and their shady past".

But an hour later, absolutely nothing new had been unearthed, and I concluded that while Bacardi might be a rum business, this documentary was even rummer. From the Kennedys to the Grimaldis, the media has long decreed that all extremely wealthy families must be deeply flawed, and Florida-bound presenter Simon Reeve was determined to expose the faults of the Bacardis, too.

Unfortunately for him, the 400-strong family long ago adopted the cunning plan of refusing ever to talk about themselves to journalists, so he was reduced to repeating extracts from Ospina's book (mostly about Pepin Bosch Bacardi's desire to remove Castro from office), before disingenuously telling us that "uncovering the political side to the Bacardi story had been easier than I thought".

The only Bacardis who would speak to him were the ones who had been uncompromisingly excluded from the power and the wealth (a bitter ex-wife and shunned daughter in Miami, and some third-generation born-out-of-wedlock Cubans), but they had no knowledge of how the family operated, and simply wanted to parade their envy and their grievances on camera.

Even so, what was the worst criticism that any of them could make of the Bacardis? That "when it comes down to it, they all stick together like a family," which sounded more like a tribute than a condemnation.