You’ve heard of a “catfish”—a fake online identity adopted by someone who wants to trick or scam other people. Transparent ketchup was a “snackfish,” and Benji is the UK’s number one snackfisher. Benji’s Instagram account—UK Snack Attack—is home to pistachio-flavored Coco Pops, pickle-shaped Haribo, mint Coca-Cola, ice-cream Pringles, and butter Oreos.
It all started with rare Fantas. In 2019, Benji and his university housemates enjoyed hunting around for imported Fanta flavors and “making a little ceremony” out of tasting them. From there, the computing student became obsessed with seeking out “weird” snacks, which he posted on his personal Instagram page. “I realized I should probably stop harassing my friends by posting snacks, so I shifted it to its own account,” says Benji, who asked WIRED not to disclose his surname for privacy reasons.
Benji’s account was aggressively straightforward—he’d go to the shops and take photos of new foods. “But then lockdown happened, and going to the supermarket and handling food was not a great look,” he says. So instead of fondling food, he started making it. After following an online recipe for white chocolate Nutella, Benji started concocting different chocolate spreads every weekend—online, he called it Spread Saturday. A self-taught photoshopper, Benji also made fake labels for his creations. But then one day a company he was imitating sent him a message essentially saying: “Hey, can you say it’s not real please? We’re getting a lot of messages asking to buy this!”
And so snackfishing was born. “In some ways, I wanted to trick people online,” Benji admits. “I’m not going to pretend it wasn’t that.” But over Zoom, Benji isn’t remotely trollish; he has a gentle-speaking manner, wire-framed glasses, and what looks like a cozy fleece. When the world emerged from lockdown, Benji started staging his snackfishes in shops, filming himself pulling them off the shelves. At first, Benji’s friends and family were perplexed. “Are you OK? Is this a normal thing to do?” But they were soon onboard, and his mum and grandma took him out for afternoon tea when he hit 200,000 followers.
Today, Benji adds disclosures to every post (“THESE DO NOT EXIST!”) to avoid frustrating people and to stay on the right side of multinational conglomerates. He also posts “snacksclusive” news about real upcoming snacks that have been leaked elsewhere online, which brands are less happy about—some have sent him cease-and-desist notices.
When Benji comes up with an idea for a new snack, sometimes he’ll photoshop it entirely, but if he thinks it’s possible he’ll sit down and make it for real. He has munched on Milkybar-dipped Pringles (“what shop r they in” demanded one commenter) and chomped a Werther’s Original chocolate bar. He dreams of one day making his own snackfish recipe book, but the “real dream” would be to have a snackfish brought to life by a company. “That would be so cool—some dumb flavor that I’ve thought of, and then suddenly everyone gets to try it.”
Ultimately, clear ketchup and lemon Nutella might never exist, and snackfishing probably won’t make Benji rich or famous—he hasn’t really made any money from his account. Still, he doesn’t really mind. “I don’t want it to feel like a job; I love doing it,” he says, noting that his “day is numbers,” so creating fake foods offers a creative outlet. “For me it’s just a little hobby. As long as I have fun making it, I’m happy.”
This article first appeared in the January/February 2025 edition of WIRED UK magazine.
