To whom it may concern, I am launching a crusade into the heart of Peru. 

If you recall the 11th century, the term ‘crusade’ is synonymous with a series of religious wars designed to recover areas deemed the Holy Land from Islamic rule. It’s a conflict often used quite rightly as an example of everything wrong about religion; justifying the massacre of thousands through flimsy entitlement jotted down in magical, mystery books.

I’m not saying I now understand their motivations for launching these wars. I’m saying I can go one better. I have tangible evidence to suggest UK confectionery is a tasteless lie we’ve been subjected to for far too long. The crusades were wars based on fabricated entitlement, my crusade is based on the very real foundation of superior Peruvian biscuits.

Please allow me to explain. I have become exceedingly close with a Peruvian man during my London residency. The kind of person who unexpectedly collides with your outlook and spins it into free fall, leaving you questioning whether external forces are pushing kindred spirits together in a world of 7.8 billion people. 

Truth be told, there’s more to this story. A part I’m not quite comfortable writing about just yet. Rest assured though gossip hound, the day will come when I’m willing to go beyond this man’s biscuits. 

After he returned from a trip to his motherland, I was gifted a traditional Peruvian bag stocked with native sweet treats. There’s a bizarre thrill to seeing cornershop delights pulled from an entirely different culture, with the garish packaging and unfamiliar branding making it feel like you’ve uncovered artefacts from a parallel dimension. 

Over the course of the next week, I tried each artefact and relayed back my rating for each. He didn’t ask for this. Frankly, no one does. After years of expressing my views, it’s a reflex I refuse to tame. So I throw around my opinions to whoever will receive them, like flirty twats who wedge fingers in mouths mid-yawn. 

I can see wandering reader, you’re also an open goal. While I won’t compile every biscuit in my sessions, these are the crusade targets from my taste awakening. The central crux of my missionary gallivant to Peru’s core.

While I could describe in orgasmic, word-wanking detail the sensations these biscuits bestowed my buds, this would be a cruel exercise. Instead, I simply want to highlight them, make them exist in your universe, so any passing sighting of these brands will trigger intrigue in your memory senses. 

Alternatively, this is indoctrination via visual propaganda to my cause. You want me to describe how it tastes. You want comparisons to Oreos or the soft satisfaction of licking chocolate from a digestive. Everybody’s a slut for an adjective and I won’t buckle to it. The instant gratification age is rotting the cocktease. You must discover this joy for yourself.

The only way you’ll find these delights is if you have faith. Not the fanatical faith to spur terrorism, the broad-minded belief we have been underserved by the UK’s confectionary range our entire lives. It’s time we let the foundations shake, spit in the eyes of patriotism, and fly back with Paddington to the promised land of Peru.