Artisan. I’d like not to have any more artisan coffee, artisan bread, artisan kitchens or bars, artisan beers or artisan chocolate. I’d just like nice stuff. Good stuff. Well made stuff. And just FYI, your stuff isn’t artisan. I’ve actually found it to be a little inconsistent and quite disappointing for what I paid (mind you, I might have paid that much because you said it was artisan so I’m looking like an idiot as well). And don’t think about using craft either.
Pulled (pork). From now on, I want my pork intact and well-cooked, not a mush of meat fibres in a pretentious sludge.
Believe. We want you to believe that we believe all the stuff we say in this advert, and that we’re not a profit-hungry multinational.
Social. I don’t even know what this means any more.
Urban. Urban Fruit, Urban Picnic, Urban Diner, Urban Outfitters. Urban affectation. The word has now been overused. Just because you sell overpriced salad boxes in the guts of Clapham Junction station, calling them Urban Picnic doesn’t make them any more appealing. And Urban Fruit, are you insane? A huge bag containing a few pieces of dried fruit, as if you can’t actually buy fresh fruit within the M25 or everyone is far too busy and important to sit and eat an apple.
Suggested. Facebook, that’s an advert, isn’t it.
*Sigh*. The written form of the weary sigh, given by someone dreadfully clever who’s disappointed that they have to lower themselves to commenting on something so far beneath them. And yet they just can’t help themselves.