Nescafe Noir
So the other day I committed perhaps the ultimate sin in the modern world: to take note of advertising.
Nescafe released this new label of coffee called “Noir”. I assume the use of the French-sounding term is an attempt to give their product an air of class. At the risk of revealing the gist of this review too soon, they perhaps should have gone with something a little closer to reality and called it “Ground up Flakes of Pig Shit”.
So I’d seen the commercial, and perhaps that—along with the Noir being the only coffee with a discounted price—led me to buy it.
Buying Noir was the biggest mistake of my life and I’m comparing “biggest” with contracting HIV and castrating myself through a nasty fishing hook accident.
So I took my elegant and fairly gay-sounding Noir to work.
After the first cup I decided to give it the benefit of the doubt. Maybe I’d simply left some rotting shellfish and a batch of cockroach sputum in my coffee cup, and that’s why it tasted so bad. But no, after a thorough washing the peculiar assaulting taste of Noir remained for subsequent cups.
I asked a coffee-loving colleague if he’d heard of Nescafe Noir, and he spontaneously and simultaneously vomited and puddled diarrhoea around his ankles.
The final test came when I, unable to find any pleasure in the “sheep’s dag surprise” flavour of Noir, took it home. I live in a share house with three females who will, quite literally, eat or drink anything left lying around the house.
Even they refused to touch the Noir, so I put it in the bin, only to find that the rubbish truck guy won’t take it either, since it’s in the same category as car batteries and nuclear waste.
The story doesn’t end badly though. I mixed up a big batch of Noir and sprayed the footings of my house, which is an incomparable termite treatment. An open jar of Noir will also attack and kill swarms of plague locusts from up to ten metres away and prevent dogs from pissing on your lawn.
Don’t let this review stop you from going out and trying Nescafe Noir for yourself. Coffee, like clothing, cars and anal sex, is a very personal choice. One man’s poo chute is another man’s liquorice trough.