I Can't Believe I Can't Believe It's Not Butter.

During an edition of ‘Would You Credit It?’ a daytime TV program that looks at new products by inviting spent celebrities to test their mettle, Sheryl watched with excitement.
‘I can’t believe it’s not butter’ had changed its name to ‘I can’t believe I can’t believe it’s not butter’.
But that wasn’t all.
According to WYCI’s presenter, Megan Price-Crunch, the makers had cleverly devised a program of enhancement to its flavour and texture, offering a completely new faux-dairy experience.
Although Sheryl hadn’t heard of him, the Duke of Crudslop’s endorsement of the new product met with her immediate approval.
Being a shrewd stickler for qualitative innovation, Sheryl found that technological advancements in the consumer market aided her emotional well-being far more than the hairdressers and nail-bars she frequented twice weekly, so she was very keen to find out for herself whether there really was such a big difference between the household name and its flavoursome pretender.
As a long-term spreader of ‘I can’t believe it’s not butter’, Sheryl started to feel an undeniable urge to go out and confirm the findings of Giorgio Toofawan and Hazel Toldyaso, two of her more reliable celebrities, so off she went.
The supermarket was heaving with the usual lunchtime smattering of worked-to-the-bone housewives and office workers. A fair few pensioners wobbled about, straining and cranking and swivelling their heads.
Having come in for the sole purpose of purchasing only one item, Sheryl dodged the flagging and flabby with aplomb, darting effortlessly without trolley or basket, heading straight to the dairy aisle with her tongue between her teeth.
When she got there, ‘I can’t believe it’s not butter’ was there in mounds but ‘I can’t believe I can’t believe it’s not butter’ was nowhere to be seen.
Noticing a shelf-stacker up by eggs/sugar, she bowled over to her, breathing in deeply to issue her demands.
‘I was looking for I can’t believe I can’t believe it’s not butter but there’s only I can’t believe it’s not butter. Do you know if you have any I can’t believe I can’t believe it’s not butter in stock?’
The stacker wasn’t long in the tooth and seemed to find Sheryl’s request amusing.
‘I’ve never heard of I can’t believe I can’t believe it’s not butter,’ she replied, ‘but I’ll check to see if there’s any in stock for you if you like. Won’t be a minute.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sheryl.
The young stacker strolled off, which gave Sheryl time to sniff around the cheeses with her hands wrapped around her back in the manner of an SS commandant awaiting details of a massacre, scanning offers by panoramically checking for red labels with Terminator eyes.
A few minutes passed, and then the stacker returned.
‘The manager says he’s never heard of I can’t believe I can’t believe it’s not butter, and asked me to ask you if you were sure you hadn’t read it twice by mistake. You know, the I can’t believe bit,’ she said.
Shock horror came over Sheryl’s face, as if she’d just witnessed a fatal car crash.
‘Of course I didn’t hear it twice. Haven’t you seen the adverts?’ she asked, as if they signified the second coming. ‘They’ve been on the whole week,’ she lied, ‘and you’re telling me you don’t know anything about it? I can’t believe you haven’t heard of I can’t believe I can’t believe it’s not... Oh, sod it! Would you please ask the manager when he expects some in?’
The young stacker turned on her heel as quickly as she could to hide her smaning and scurried off to see the manager again.
Sheryl stood her ground at ready-mades, taking a wily peek at some interesting end-of-aisle deals on mouthwash and digestives.
‘The manager said he’s waiting on I can’t believe I can’t believe it’s not butter and that it should be here in the next few days,’ said the stacker, pretending to be out of breath to keep a straight face.
‘So after all that, he did know about I can’t believe I can’t believe it’s not butter,’ said Sheryl, clearly wounded by the manager’s audacity.
‘Yes, sorry madam, he did know,’ she said with an apologetic grimace, ‘but I think he must have overlooked it. Either that or he thought it was a misprint- you know, the I can’t believe I can’t believe bit.’ (Sheryl huffed, crossed her arms and shook her head). ‘He asked me to ask you to accept his apologies for coming too early.’
‘Coming too early?’ quipped Sheryl, vomiting the words back at her. ‘It’s been on the box for a week now and it’s still not on the shelves? What sort of supermarket is this?’
‘Sorry, madam,’ she said, waddling off to eggs/sugar with tight shoulders to stem her merriment.
Not one to dawdle, Sheryl stormed out and stomped off to a rival supermarket a few yards away, where she found what she believed to be ‘I can’t believe I can’t believe it’s not butter’, slap-bang in the middle of margarines/butters. It was even on offer.
Swiping at one, she paid for it and left with her head in the air.
As soon as Sheryl got home, she lunged for the toaster to put two pieces of her favourite linseed and soya Burgen in and carefully lined up the old tub of ‘I can’t believe it’s not butter’ next to the new one.
She waited, knife in hand with beads of perspiration glistening in the light on her forehead, glazed-over eyes surveying the noisy second hand of the Poundland clock.
When the toaster popped up, Sheryl struggled to wait the crucial fifteen seconds for the toast to cool down sufficiently for spreading, and then proceeded by calmly lacing one piece with ‘I can’t believe it’s not butter’ and the other with ‘I can’t believe I can’t believe it’s not butter’.
Taking the plate, Sheryl went to sit down in the living-room.
After trying both, these were her findings:
Firstly, she could verify without reservation that there was a huge difference between the two products, and that ‘I can’t believe I can’t believe it’s not butter’ won hands down in every department.
Not only was it noticeably more buttery than ‘I can’t believe it’s not butter’, it also spread far more easily than its predecessor.
In terms of smell, ‘I can’t believe I can’t believe it’s not butter’ had a more authentically buttery aroma compared to ‘I can’t believe it’s not butter’.
But what Sheryl found particularly likeable about ‘I can’t believe I can’t believe it’s not butter’ was the way it stood up to the toast.
Where ‘I can’t believe it’s not butter’ sometimes sagged and sweated the surface when spread, she found that ‘I can’t believe I can’t believe it’s not butter’ stood proud and firm without smothering the toast in any way. There was so little sweating that she was literally flabbergasted by the result.
‘I would thoroughly recommend any avid I can’t believe it’s not butter fan to embrace I can’t believe I can’t believe it’s not butter with open arms. I recommend it wholeheartedly. To believe in better butter, even when it’s proven not to be butter, is a real option with I can’t believe I can’t believe it’s not butter and I would therefore strongly urge anyone to try it. To believe in I can’t believe I can’t believe it’s not butter is to believe the unbelievable. I’m thrilled!’ she wrote.
Sheryl always wrote a letter to the makers of new products that she found to be excellent, secretly hoping that they might reward her for her trouble in some way. They’d be sure to write back, and some had been known to insert vouchers for her kindness.
By the time she’d finished her analysis, she was worn out and it had just gone three o’clock.
‘Shit,’ she said to herself, remembering that her two-year old child needed picking up from the all-day nursery. ‘That grimy little mite takes all my bloody time up.’
It wasn’t until a few days later that Sheryl noticed that she’d mistakenly bought ‘I can’t believe it’s not butter’ in haste, which put a serious question-mark over her findings.
Refusing to take responsibility for her blindingly obvious mistake, she drew a certain amount of comfort by placing the blame upon the supermarket, imagining that they had somehow tricked her into purchasing a product that she hadn’t wanted.
Her resentment hardened with a strong bond of denial, and Sheryl could resist no longer.
Wrestling herself into a raincoat to take the tub back in the hope of swapping it for ‘I can’t believe I can’t believe it’s not butter’, she made her way back to the supermarket.
At the information desk, she finally met her match.
The assistant manager had heard it all before from Sheryl and decided that today would be the day that she would make a stand.
‘I bought this tub of I can’t believe it’s not butter thinking it was I can’t believe I can’t believe it’s not butter and it was only when I got home that I found out it was I can’t believe it’s not butter,’ she said. ‘Do you think I could swap it for I can’t believe I can’t believe it’s not butter?’
The assistant manager looked at Sheryl, unfazed. ‘You do do this a lot, madam, and I have to say that enough’s enough,’ she said sternly.
‘I do do what a lot?’ baulked Sheryl. ‘Are you accusing me of lying? I admit I made a mistake by buying I can’t believe it’s not butter believing it to be I can’t believe I can’t believe it’s not butter, but we all make mistakes, don’t we?’
‘The thing is, madam, we’re still waiting on I can’t believe I can’t believe it’s not butter, so we can’t very well offer it to you in exchange for the I can’t believe it’s not butter that you bought.’
‘Well, can’t you just give me credit for when it comes in?’ asked Sheryl, holding out her receipt and cranking her neck back.
The assistant manager took the receipt, which showed that the tub of ‘I can’t believe it’s not butter’ had been sold at half-price. ‘This tub of I can’t believe it’s not butter was discounted, madam, and I can’t believe I can’t believe it’s not butter isn’t due on offer for at least six months.’
Sheryl’s lips tightened.
Seeing that her face had turned a nasty shade of red, the assistant manager tried to calm her down. ‘Surely there can’t be such a big difference between I can’t believe it’s not butter and I can’t believe I can’t believe it’s not butter,’ she said with a sympathetic smile. ‘They’re made by the same people, you know.’
‘I know they’re made by the same bloody people,’ she barked back.
After smacking the tub down on to the surface between them, Sheryl gave up. ‘You can stick your bloody butter. It’s crap anyway.’