What your choice of visitation biscuit says about you
Party Rings are a jester's biscuit
Allow me to set the scene: You're calling over to a friend's house. It's not your best friend, it's not your worst friend, it's just a good friend. You haven't seen them in a while and you're looking forward to a long overdue catchup.
You're comfortable enough in each others' company to not have to rely on alcohol to act as a social lubricant. The conversation will flow, a pot of tea will be made and some biscuits will be consumed.
Obviously you're not an animal, therefore arriving empty-handed isn't an option. You'll stop in the corner shop near their house and purchase a packet of biscuits, possibly two if you're a millionaire.
But what packet of biscuits do you buy? More importantly, what is your friend going to think of you as a result? Turbo importantly, how many years in purgatory is this decision going to land you with?
Thankfully, the answers lie ahead.
You're a thoughtful friend. You've gone for quantity over quality here, which means you're happy to stay and chat with your pal until late into the evening. Perhaps you're going to burden them with a problem or two, detailing how your ingrown toenail keeps returning despite your best efforts to adhere to the chiropodist's advice, or the growing feeling of uncertainty regarding the alleged protein properties of chocolate milk. Either way, you've picked a solid biscuit and you're a combination of a good listener and gigantic moan. They'll send you home with a very subtle 'Sorry, I'm exhausted all of a sudden' and you'll take the blatant hint and be on your way.
You absolute sneak, you're trying to convince your mate to head out tonight and the not-so-subtle hints might actually work. You hovered around the alcohol section for quite a while in the shop, but settled on a more subliminal tactic. Party Rings are a jester's biscuit. Their chemical reaction upon being dunked in tea is chaotic, softening the biscuit part but disintegrating the icing. The sugar quantity is staggering. You're not a good friend, you just want to go out for the night and ruin your life with someone by your side to witness the onslaught. You've got work in the morning. This is a dangerous game. You need to chill.
You're willing to part ways with the minimal amount of money to obtain a premium biscuit and that's admirable. Peoples' perceptions of you matters. It's simply not in your nature to arrive with a £1 packet of bickies for fear of your friend being appalled by the value you've put upon their friendship. You'd buy gold-dusted elitist biscuits if it meant you'd be regarded as generous. The concept of an anonymous charity donation baffles you. You'll leave the remainder of the uneaten biscuits at your friend's house when you're leaving, but it'll kill you inside and you'll think about it all the way home. You voted to leave the EU.
Well, you're the worst person alive, aren't you? Unless the friend you're visiting is your elderly grandmother who is a bigot, this is simply an unforgivable choice. Nobody gets excited by Digestives. They're fine, but you can't carry a conversation with them, never mind get a satisfactory dunk. You're health-conscious, but in an annoying way. As your friend is sadly tucking into their second Digestive biscuit, you'll remark '71 calories each, not bad, but 10g of carbohydrate, hardly worth it'. Just go home and eat your sad biscuits alone, then hoover up the crumbs and go to bed with a nightlight you absolute melt.
You're calling over to your friend's house to confess to murdering your husband. He was a good man, but you married him for money. You staged a break-in and planted the DNA of your husband's enemy - an evil man from his rival marine biology company. You're confiding in this person because you believe that they can give you a place to lay low for a while. On your way over, you weren't thinking straight, still giddy from seeing your husband's lifeless eyes close for the final time, so you bought these bizarre biscuits amid the confusion. Your friend is calling the police the second you remove the foil wrapper.
You hate the person you're visiting, don't you? You really just want to watch their sad little world burn while you stand idly by, holding a fire extinguisher, refusing to help. A Ginger Nut is the Jonas Brother nobody knows about, nor do they care. He will probably never amount to much, never marrying a Game of Thrones cast member or a Bollywood actress, never hosting SNL, just exist in a small and unfulfilling world watching everyone around him prosper while he stays behind. You need to cut ties with this friend, you don't care about them. You'll swerve their funeral but still take a day off work and just spend it in bed. Ur scum.
A rogue choice, which leads me to believe that you've had to raid the leftover Christmas stash of biscuits rather than dipping into your pocket to purchase a fresh packet for your beloved friend. You produced the bickies as you're greeted at the door, praying your friend doesn't examine the best before date. It'll be a good catchup requiring multiple top-ups to your cup of tea because the ensuing thirst after consuming shortbread is like none other. You've got a thirst for metaphorical tea as well, blatantly calling round to hear the latest gossip about your friend's ex who ran off with a student teacher who used to be on TOWIE.
Cancel your plans because the Archbishop of Banterbury has arrived and demands the utmost attention from everyone involved. You're going to rummage your way through your friend's house in search of incriminating items (basically anything slightly posh) that you can expose on social media and thereby destroy their reputation. You're an extreme extrovert and feel most at ease when you're bodying your nearest and dearest, who for some reason continue to hang out with you for sport. It's a vibrant biscuit for a vibrant soul. You're technically very sad inside, but that's a problem to explore another day :)
We get it, you're loaded. You pull up in your sports car and instantly make your friend feel embarrassed about their nicely-decorated bedsit that's no larger than three portaloos shoved together. You subtly inspect the delph you're given as you twist your gold-plated pinky ring to comfort yourself in such slum-like conditions. You're a lapsed friend, making little effort to stay in touch with former Uni classmates. Still, when you get together it provides a perfect opportunity for you to brag about the success of your latest online startup idea and that one time you got a retweet off Laurence Lewellyn-Bowen's assistant.
You're a simple soul, and quite a boring one at that. You can force yourself to have a smidge of fun once or twice a year, but that is the absolute maximum of your quota. You'll only eat two Custard Creams because you don't want to be seen to make a pig of yourself, not while intensely discussing the benefits of a plant-based diet to your disinterested friend. Thirty minutes into the catchup, he/she will fake an emergency phone call and you'll be sent packing. Maybe use the journey home to rethink your decision to be a boring and lifeless house guest? Perhaps browse Amazon and purchase a monocle to distract from your lack of a personality?
Fond of mischief, you've brought these biscuits as a conversation piece as well as a delicious although un-dunkable treat. One of the most exhaustive arguments in circulation today is the debate regarding whether Jaffa Cakes are biscuits or not. Obviously, they are biscuits since that is the particular section in the supermarket where you find them, but not everyone shares such flawless logic. You struggle to connect with your friends on a meaningful level, so bringing subtle props wil save you both from the deafening sound of biscuit-crunch-less silence should there be a lull in conversation. It's a savvy move, but kind of a sad one.
Nice try, you don't have any friends to visit.