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I’ve just written the opening essay for the latest issue of It’s Nice That magazine. It isn’t online and I wrote it for fun, so I’ll publish it here instead. It’s about Nice biscuits, which are obviously a big pile of bollocks:

According to Kevin Spacey in The Usual Suspects, the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist. Kevin Spacey was talking out of his arse. Deep down, everybody knows that the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was stamping the word ‘Nice’ on those biscuits.

Now that I’m a wildly successful media tycoon, the only biscuits I eat are triple-chocolate Taste The Difference cookies from Sainsbury’s. You know the ones. They’re the size of a dinner plate. They’re baked fresh each day. They cost £2.50 for four. You eat them wearing a top hat and a monocle, gazing down disdainfully at the scummy proletariat who joylessly scurry around several hundred feet below the window of your aspirational lifestyle magazine penthouse apartment, miserably pushing Hob Nobs and Jammy Dodgers into their rotten mouths with their gnarled, shit-covered fingers. You know the ones.

Those biscuits are delicious. If any biscuits deserved to have the word ‘Nice’ stamped on them, it should be those. But no. Oh no. They can’t have the word ‘Nice’ stamped on them because Nice biscuits got there first.

If you ever wanted proof that the world is a cold and unjust place, just take a look at a Nice biscuit. It’s a drab, flat, beige, atom-thick rectangle of weaponised disappointment made from nothing but tear-stained sawdust and hopelessness. It looks like the sort of thing that bad parents used to make their children eat with a knife and fork in the 1950s. It is the recipient of exactly zero pleasant thoughts from anyone ever.

And it’s got the word ‘Nice’ written on it.

‘Nice’. ‘Nice’. It’s an act of sarcasm so brazen that it genuinely takes your breath away. Nothing about a Nice biscuit is nice. Nobody has ever had fun eating a Nice biscuit. There’s a good chance that nobody has ever eaten one willingly. They exist just for the sake of existing, to permanently linger on the edge of your periphery and remind you that you’re ultimately alone in this universe.

Did anyone actually taste one of these things before they settled on ‘Nice’? I doubt it, or else they’d be called Glum biscuits or Sigh biscuits or, if they were feeling especially cocksure about themselves, Perfunctory biscuits. But Nice? No. Nope. No. That’s simply a step too far. You’re reading a magazine with the word ‘Nice’ in the title. The biscuit’s willful misuse of the word should make you want to rise up. Heads should roll for this! Blood should spill! Or, more realistically, polite letters should be written and then never sent.

And yet the Nice biscuit continues undeterred. “But look how decadent we are!” it cries. “We’ve got scalloped edges! We’re like something from Caligula or 1920s Berlin!” Too little too late, biscuit. You lost us at the word ‘Nice’. Burn in hell, you biscuity cocksucker.

Unless, you know, it’s meant to be pronounced ‘niece’. In which case, disregard everything I just said.

"I was 22; a year out of university, with my first serious relationship in a terminal death spiral and a go-nowhere job. My colleague was a born-again creationist who drew me diagrams explaining why evolution was a myth. I didn’t know what I wanted from life, but it certainly wasn’t this."
My attempt to get a photo of my little brother into every single thing I write continues with a piece I wrote about 2003, for The Guardian

"I was 22; a year out of university, with my first serious relationship in a terminal death spiral and a go-nowhere job. My colleague was a born-again creationist who drew me diagrams explaining why evolution was a myth. I didn’t know what I wanted from life, but it certainly wasn’t this."

My attempt to get a photo of my little brother into every single thing I write continues with a piece I wrote about 2003, for The Guardian

2
It’s hard to overstate how much Pete enjoys exercise, too. Approximately a third of his kitchen space is taken up with colossal tubs of intimidating muscle supplements called things like Donkeykick and Thunderpunch. His favourite story is the one where he went to a meeting and his bicep accidentally ripped through his shirt in front of his boss. He’s one of my favourite people in the entire world, but he does have the teensiest air of steroid-inflicted murder-suicide about him.
I stood in for Charlie Brooker’s column this week, so I decided to introduce the world to my terrifying little brother. (From The Guardian)
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To misquote Elton John, our candle had burned out long before literally anyone important in my life gave a billionth of a shit about it.
I bought a fake girlfriend on Facebook. And then cheated on her with another fake girlfriend on Facebook. And then dumped them. A biggish piece I wrote for The Guardian