Leo Online

My name — as I’ve declared many times to the pigeons, the Mersey, and the confused tourists outside Lime Street Station — is Leo Henshaw, proud Scouser, sworn enemy of wools, and part‑time philosopher of the biscuit aisle. Some people collect stamps, others collect regrets; I collect Oreos, custard creams, and the occasional existential crisis that hits when you realise you’ve eaten an entire packet before 10am.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. This story begins on a Tuesday morning, the kind of morning where the sky looks like it’s been painted by a toddler with only one grey crayon. I was on my way to work, thinking about my crush — the lad who sometimes looks at me like I’m a ghost haunting the office printer. You know the type: hair like a shampoo advert, smile like he’s never known the pain of dropping a chip in the Mersey. I swear sometimes he looks straight past me, like I’m a sentient coat rack or a mildly interesting shadow.

Anyway, I’m walking, minding my own business, when suddenly a seagull swoops down and steals the Oreo I was about to eat. I shout, “LAD, THAT WAS MINE,” and the seagull — I kid you not — turns around mid‑air and gives me a look like I was the one being unreasonable. That’s Liverpool wildlife for you. They’ve got attitude. They’ve got opinions. They’ve probably got a union.

I continue on, Oreo‑less and emotionally wounded, thinking about my future career as a professional boob inspector — a noble trade, passed down through absolutely no generations because it doesn’t exist, but still, a man can dream. Or joke. Or dream about joking. Or joke about dreaming. It’s all very layered.

As I walk, I put on my headphones and blast my favourite artists: 50 Cent, Ke$ha, and the intro song from Spider‑Man: Homecoming. Not the whole soundtrack. Not the theme. Just the intro song. On loop. For hours. It does something to the brain. Something irreversible.

🌀 THE DAY THE BISCUITS SPOKE BACK

I get to work, sit at my desk, open a packet of custard creams for emotional support, and suddenly — and I swear this happened — one of the biscuits whispers:

“Leo lad… he fancies you back.”

I blink. I look around. No one else reacts. The biscuit continues:

“He’s just shy, y’know. Or blind. Or both.”

I eat the biscuit out of fear.

But the message lingers.

I glance over at my crush. He’s typing, looking all majestic and oblivious. I consider walking over and saying something suave like:

“Alright lad, do you like Oreos?”

But instead I just stare at him like a Victorian orphan looking through a bakery window.

🧚 ENTER: THE WOOL KING

Suddenly the office door bursts open and in walks the Wool King, ruler of all wools, wearing a North Face jacket from 2012 and a haircut that screams “I go to Manchester once and think I’m cultured.” He points at me and shouts:

“LEO HENSHAW, YOU HAVE BEEN SUMMONED.”

I say, “Lad, I’m on my break.”

He says, “THIS IS ABOUT THE BISCUITS.”

I follow him out of sheer curiosity and also because I’ve always wondered what the Wool Kingdom looks like. Turns out it’s just a Tesco Extra in Birkenhead with slightly worse lighting.

Inside, the Wool King explains that the biscuits have chosen me as their prophet. I ask what that means. He says:

“You must unite the Oreos and the custard creams. They’ve been at war for centuries.”

I say, “Lad, they’re biscuits.”

He says, “AND YOU’RE A SCOUSER BUT HERE WE ARE.”

Fair point.

🎤 THE MUSICAL NUMBER

Suddenly, the lights dim. A spotlight hits me. The Oreos and custard creams appear in tiny tap shoes. A full orchestra emerges from behind the frozen pizza section. And then — in a moment that defies logic, physics, and copyright law — the biscuits begin singing a mashup of 50 Cent, Ke$ha, and the Spider‑Man: Homecoming intro.

It sounds like chaos. It sounds like beauty. It sounds like someone dropped a karaoke machine down a flight of stairs.

I join in, obviously. I’m not a monster.

🥀 THE SABRINA CARPENTER INCIDENT

Just when the musical number reaches its emotional peak, the Wool King gasps.

Standing at the end of the aisle is Sabrina Carpenter.

I freeze. The biscuits freeze. The Wool King drops his crown (which is just a KFC bucket painted gold).

Sabrina Carpenter says, “Why do you hate me, Leo?”

I say, “I don’t hate you personally, I just hate your vibe.”

She says, “Fair.”

Then she steals a custard cream and vanishes into thin air like a chaotic neutral fairy.

🧱 THE GREAT BISCUIT WAR

The Oreos and custard creams begin arguing. The Wool King tries to mediate but he’s too busy taking selfies. I realise the only way to stop the war is to give a speech so powerful it transcends biscuit politics.

I stand on a crate of reduced bananas and declare:

“LADS. WE ARE ALL SWEETS IN THE SAME TIN.”

Silence.

Then applause.

Then a custard cream faints.

Peace is restored.

💘 THE CRUSH RETURNS

I return to work, emotionally drained, spiritually awakened, and slightly sticky from biscuit crumbs. My crush walks over and says:

“Hey Leo, you okay? You were gone for like three hours.”

I look at him. He looks at me. The moment feels cinematic.

I say, “Do you like biscuits?”

He says, “Not really.”

I die inside.

But then he adds:

“I prefer cake.”

And suddenly the world feels full of possibility again.

🧁 THE FINAL TWIST

As I walk home, thinking about cake and destiny and whether Sabrina Carpenter is still lurking in the shadows, I hear a familiar voice.

It’s the seagull.

He drops the stolen Oreo at my feet and says:

“Sorry lad. Rough day.”

I forgive him.