The very deep discussions of a Friday night service

I'm going to stick to Anglais from now on, as not only is it the lingua franca of both my workplaces, it's also my mother tongue (as you might have guessed from 1) my very Joanna Lumley-accent and 2) my surname). Anyhow, one of the benefits of growing up in a practically British household in Sweden is that I'm familiar with all sorts of weird and wonderful treats. The one I'm going to tell you about today is surely wonderful for about five seconds (the first bite) and then it somehow loses its appetizing glow, probably in proportion to blood sugar levels rocketing through the roof and fat forming plaques in crucial arteries. I am speaking, of course, of the proverbial deep-fried Bounty.
Now Igi insists there's no such thing and that I've never had a Bounty in my life (which I have) and that I'm in fact referring to a deep-fried Mars bar. I'll admit that after consuming one or more of these diabetes-incurring horrors one might just have had enough sugar and other flavour-enhancing chemicals to induce some type of candy-related hallucination, but I'm quite sure that the stray wrappers left for next morning are a bit of a tell-tale. After all, Mars bars have no coconuts on or in them, as far as I know.
So we spent most of last night drawing fanciful ovoid shapes and debating whether or not the chocolate ripples on Bounty bars have a nib-shape or not. I'm sure at least one member of staff will have bought one or more for tonight so we can move on to more pressing subjects, such as the species relation between elephants and elephantfish.
Anyway, I was sure I'd seen a recipe somewhere. So when I wake up this morning I turn to my favorite site in the world (the one with almost all the answers) and lo and behold, the Queen of Deep-Fried Treats (Nigella) has one. "Deep Fried Bounty with Pinepple. It's even been translated into Swedish. So there we go. I encourage you to try it out. However, I would recommend you make them bite-size. And you should probably consult with your doctor before you eat one. As for the deep-fried Mars bar, I agree with Igi. It's of the devil. Only the Scots ("sweaty socks", as Igi likes to call them) eat that kind of crap.