Whimsical tales of antioxidant bullshit and covering your van in grass doesn't hide the fact you're a multi-millionaire. Stop pretending you're my friend and admit you're just after my money.
There are two kinds of companies in this world. Heartless multinationals who leave you on hold in India for 5 hours and fleece you with hidden charges, and hippy capitalists who make smoothies that say things like: ‘Hi, I’m made of goji berries and pinecones, please hug me.’
Well, I know which I hate more. I would rather be murdered by a disgruntled Virgin Media broadband technician than have to suffer the faux homespun pish of those little friendly companies that are actually huge. Well I’ve got news for you, you granola-breathed bastards, YOU ARE NOT MY FRIEND. You are the MAN. Here are the worst culprits…
It was Innocent who started all this cutesy ‘product as sentient being’ crap. Innocent are like a needy, fruit-obsessed ex that won’t leave you alone. They just want to talk about antioxidants all day, and how good they are for you, and how much fun would it be if we all wore little woolly hats? Why don’t we go camping this weekend? Why won’t you return my calls? I’m made of fruit! Hello? Hello? If you have a complaint, you are directed to Fruit Towers, an HQ we are encouraged to imagine is made of fucking raspberries or something, full of people who just want to make our tummies full of nice tasty things. Deep down though, you just know it’s a dreary office like any other, populated by ambitious marketing people called Jocasta who wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.
He’s off buying himself a diamond house, while you go to the church hall playgroup looking like a middle-aged frump.
Rich drunk housewives everywhere love a bit of Boden, and to encourage them to wrap their matronly jugs in loud polka dots and overpriced cashmere cardigans, founder Johnnie Boden has a ‘strategy’. He sends them self-deprecating personalised emails pretending he’s just an ordinary guy and not the millionaire best friend of David Cameron with a huge clothing empire and warehouses full of Breton tops in plastic wrappers. An email from Johnnie usually goes something like this. ‘Hello Mrs Boggins, I know I’m a bit annoying, but you’re so lovely I want to give you £10 off. It might not make much of a difference as all my clothes cost £189, but we all really think you’re special.’ By the end of it, you’re pals. You expect he’s waiting outside in his vintage jalopy, ready to take you to Whitstable. Is he fuck. He’s off buying himself a diamond house, while you go to the church hall playgroup looking like a middle-aged frump.
Nobody likes muesli, especially not smug middle-class muesli. Of course, Dorset Cereals aren’t just muesli, they’re a lifestyle – a lifestyle that’s hard on the bowels. To distract you from the fact that you’re eating grit with a few hazelnuts in it, Dorset Cereals feign cosy friendliness and honesty, promising you lovely things and prize draws to win a reconditioned camper van, so you can tour slowly around the country being a dick. Their current competition is right on the money for any pretentious aspiring Mumford with a crap bowler hat and a trust fund. You can win a Gypsy caravan so you can do your big muesli shites in the great outdoors and then get moved on by the police for being the useless fake hippy that you are. Just eat some corn flakes and get a job, you twats.
Pret A Manger
Pret A Manger has an annual turnover of 380 million pounds a year and 265 branches worldwide, but that doesn’t stop them from pretending they’re still a little North London sandwich shop. And look, here are some pictures of knitted spaghetti and a cucumber with a face! And the napkins talk to you! And they’ve got bottles of juice that are called things like Yoga Bunny Detox and Vitamin Volcano – cool, eh? Just don’t mention the fact that they’re owned by McDonalds. Also, don’t get a filter coffee from there, unless you want to pretend you’re sucking the bitter insole of a Columbian navvy.
Still, maybe one day, we’ll live in a better, more well-adjusted world. A world where bottles of juice will tell us to fuck off, and breakfast cereal boxes will detail all our shortcomings in a quirky font. Until that day, here’s a word of advice. Next time your smoothie asks you to recycle it, tell it it’s a wanker. Then drink some Fanta and throw the bottle into the road. That’ll learn ‘em.
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