Advertising, the persuasive lure to get idiots to buy products, the unattainable dream of beauty in little pots of what is essentially salad cream purporting to reverse the act of aging with ridiculous secret ingredients like Spinus-bifidus and something called Q10 and pro-rectinal etc.
The smug perfect ness of couples in the DFS ads, seeing them sprawled out perfectly, gently throwing cushions at each other to pop music while the narrator tells you that this dream can be had for only five nine nine, buy now pay thousands of years after you die etc. What they should show you is the reality of a predominately loveless couple flopping down after a mostly ineffective but busy day at work on separate laptops skimming over pathetic updates on social networking sites, barely looking at each other, just there for each other to split bills in half and then the awkwardness of semi forced drunken Saturday night sex and the attempts at cleaning the spunk and shit stains off the cushions.
Then Christmas brings us repugnant falseness of the perfume/aftershave adverts; perfectly formed females slinking around like panthers on football pitch sized crushed velvet sheets in houses made completely of marble and Narwhal horn, awaiting a chiselled hunk to come back and slowly make love to her, bringing her to a dew beady sweaty 8th orgasm, relaxing back to watch the sun rise over a sandy palm tree adorned beach, and all available to you at the squirt of a crystal effect bottle of Qunt, by Chanel. Or the aftershave adverts where the guy is perfectly erect from the moment he wakes up, his day a perpetual greasy fuck fest, his every movement spearing the perfect vaginas of angelic virginal models like a genital Dalek.
No, the reality is, the “slag” that you have pulled that night has probably no more smelt your ridiculously named scent than she has the 40 Marlboro fags and several packets of cheese “n” onion crisps, bundling her back into your studio flat before an awkward attempt at drunken sex, a farty 69 and waking up flaccid with a condom still hanging onto your penis looking like a legless jellyfish with terminal cancer.
The dreams lure the suckers in, I am one of them, JML, as far as I am concerned they are miracle workers, they could probably invent a device to cure cancer that could be brought for £9.99 which just involves sticking a plastic attachment into your rectum, the reason they haven’t is because nobody has asked them. Informercials, shouty steroid riddled Americans telling you that they went from a 30 stone boulder of lard and impacted faeces into a sculpted huge deltoid muscle by using a device called 30 second abs, before a rival company bringsout 20 second abs, right down to one where in the time it takes for a humming bird to beat its wings, you could have an 8 pack that you could grate cheese on. These are not as patronising as the frosty lens picture perfect lie fest of the beauty product adverts but are in fact high drama and entertainment, drawing in sleepless desperate fatties, probably just channel surfing for something to crack one out over.
There is something far worse than either of these though, much worse, annoying adverts, or Arrrghhhhhvertising as I call it, adverts that put you in a mini rage. I believe that these adverts were responsible for both Iraq conflicts, 9/11, aids and the Ethiopian famine. I don’t need to explain but the high emperor at the top of this shoddy tree of woe is the Go Compare man, if you have recently lost a friend or relative to death, you should probably overlook what the death certificate says, it wasn’t a heart attack, cancer or hanging in that wardrobe having a strangle wank, it was the Go Compare adverts, the very sound of them driving them to an early screaming death.
I’ve sat and pulled an evil smile while I think of ways to kill the go compare man, ok, I’m sure without that stupid moustache he is probably an ok guy (if he hasn’t killed himself in shame, which he probably should have) but I like to sit and let my imagination run wild, I wont detail what I would like to do but it would involve vocal chord removal, 8 bulbs of jif lemon, an empty champagne bottle covered in sandpaper, a hippo and a broadsword. Then, the confused.com ad, over produced, desperate and pathetic, then the fucking meerkats, a bad joke that has gone beyond ripping the arsehole out.
Just when you think things couldn’t have got any worse, Haribo produce an advert so annoying, so blood curdling that it tops the rest by a mile, a European family singing karaoke style out of tune about sweets, I genuinely wanted them to get in the car and wrap themselves round a tree, a 2 minute close up of burning corpses followed by the Haribo bear moving in to chew the burnt meat of the corpses pulling the tangtastic face before furiously masturbating liquid milk bottles into the embers that was once a family (an annoying family though).
I wont use a Halifax cash machine, even if I’m desperate for money, I will not sully my card by sticking it into one of their machines, partly for the Howard ads, the mistimed Bollywood advert, but most of all, the Isa Isa baby one, the woman in that, her head moving side to side, forced my blood pressure up, ill timed, socially out of touch, desperate, horrible adverts, nobody is enjoying them. She is probably somewhere now, so ashamed that her cervix has prolapsed.
But there are some good adverts, I hear you bleat, no there isn’t. End of that argument.
I have my own take on what sells a product, picture this if you will, an old lady clumping along a hall way on her zimmer frame, slowly, making her way to a chair lift, her turns the seat, moves to board the chair lift, slips, falls, tumbles down the stairs, you can hear every crack of bone before she slaps into the marble effect hallway, her last breath wheezing out of her body. The camera slowly moves away from her body and pans across until it fixes on a Haze plug in air freshener. The advert ends. If you saw this you would have the product burnt into you mind forever.
Or an advert for famine that as it sucks you in with desperate scenes of suffering, you suddenly get the McDonalds whistle and the logo appears. They should be forced to make this advert for crimes against the waist line the world over.
Rant over.
