The terrifyingly underrated existence of the blessed Moro popped into my brain as I was clearing the table on Christmas Day. In a boozy haze – I’d valiantly drunken many an Aperol Spritz by this point – I looked down at the table and saw, in between two empty plates, a Moro wrapper.

For a second, I was shocked. I was then shocked at my shocked visceral reaction to said Moro wrapper. After a moment of drunk introspective reflection, I realised that I’d been so shocked because I hadn’t eaten that Moro. I then realised that I wasn’t used to anyone apart from myself eating the Moros from the Favourites box. I ultimately came to realise that no one chooses them, ever

I evidently realised a lot of things in this drunken 2 minutes of thought, didn’t I?

As I took a sip from my 5th overflowing glass of Aperol, I let this epiphany ruminate. Moro’s lack of appreciation saddened me. I needed to do something about it. But first, I needed to do more research.

Cut to Boxing Day, in another boozy haze, when I was sitting with my cousins by the pool. I asked them what they thought of the Moro, and everyone unanimously agreed that the Moro was one of the least sought-after chocolates out of the assorted bunch. My brother even mentioned that he’d gone to a boozy function thing the week prior and, when he went to the Favourites box, found that Moros were the only ones left. 

I gasped, before metaphorically throwing up yesterday’s Aperol and cursing the powers that be for supplying the majority of humans with unappreciative taste buds.

Moros are so damn good, and I’ve now decided that all 60g of its caramel, nougat and Cadbury milk chocolate is not properly appreciated by the human race. Unlike the other obnoxious flavours in the Favourites box, it doesn’t impose intrusive flavours onto the palette, like cherry or peanut – the beauty of the Moro lies in its simplicity. A timeless confectionary if you will.

Yes, its reputation as a bootleg Mars Bar precedes it – as it is absolutely a bootleg Mars Bar – but the Moro deserves recognition in its own damn right. You wouldn’t rob Michelle and Kelly from their much-deserved moment in the spotlight away from Beyoncé, would you?

I must finish this declaration of love by disclosing that I’m coeliac – and this anti-gluten autoimmune disease disease forbids me from having most chocolates, including the Moro – yet, in spite of this, I’m willing to consume the Moro’s wheat glucose syrup, making my small intestines and bowels scream in the process, because that short moment of Moro-ingestion is worth it. 

It’s that good.