Pies are brilliant. They’re up there with burgers, Chinese takeaways and threesomes. Pies are God’s stool samples. They’re so amazing that they are worshipped in parts of Scunthorpe as demi-Gods, and where is law to shag a pie every night. But where should we go for a good value, wonderfully crafted, mouth-watering and pant-moistening pie? Well, before I saw this, I would have said Greggs:

Why do they feel the need to say ‘home of fresh baking’? Surely the fact that when you go in a Greggs you can SEE the ovens behind the counter? That is, if you can see past the massive blob of flesh masquerading as a human being in front of you. Surely the smell of FRESHLY BAKED bread and pies as you walk in the shop should be some sort of indication that they bake them on site? I mean it can’t be that the filthy pedo with stained jogging bottoms, a raincoat, missing teeth and a combover paying for his sausage roll in coppers that is giving off that aroma can it?

But maybe I’m being too harsh, I mean, they are trying to make their way in a crowded market place and they are emphasising  their quality as well as their good value. Fair enough. But then why oh why oh why oh why oh why do they feel the need to promote it with this sugar-coated, diabetes-inducing, stomach-churning, teeth-rotting advert from the sixth circle of hell? Pricks dancing around a bakery with grins so wide that even Jordan’s twat would have trouble competing in a wide-off contest is not my idea of sound advertising. And don’t even get me started on the song – it’s so sacchariferous, I’m pretty sure that serial killers chop up their victims to music like this. It seems like they are trying to say that the people in Greggs bakeries are full of the joys of life, and every bit of their working day is filled with sunshine, bunnies, fields of daffodils and tulips and everyone is soooooo happy to work for Greggs. Jog on. Getting up at 4.30am in the pissing rain, cycling to a bakery through London traffic and nearly becoming the latest RTA victim to be carried away in a bin bag en route, spending all morning in a room hotter than the surface of the fucking sun and more greasy than a horny teenagers crotch, then having to serve the dregs (or should that be Greggs?) of society with a smile when all you really want to do is rip their shin bones out and stab them through the genitals so they can’t procreate, does not sound like the kind of job that would make me want to pirouette around a fucking cake trolley.

If you want to change your image Greggs, don’t listen to the ad agency that clearly employed a West End wannabe director to make some sort of jumped up musical number, that belongs on Saturday night on ITV with fucking incorrigible cunts clapping away like demented spastics watching a Tom and Jerry cartoon. Please.