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Tuesday, September 09, 2003

Food Processors are great!

I know I've been getting tardy, but I'm sure you'll forgive me when you know that you're about to read a rant. I've witnessed many people reading BDM's blog quivering from behind their US Goverment-supplied security blankets, and my last proper rant (about some snobby Summer sport-cum-'social' event in a Surrey suburb) was a success, so here goes.

Some adverts merely delay you from watching your chosen programme (be it Corrie or Whelks For The Memories with Bruno Brookes), some adverts are two minute masterpieces bursting with ideas, stye and ambition. Some however are an absolute hemorrhage of talent. Devoid of any redeeming qualities, these are the class of advert that are on the increase. Let us dissect some of the worst in (cue cheesy Casiotone chord sequence...)

Stav's 10 Adverts from Hell

At number ten we have...Chrysler. Now this is a chart of adverts rather than products, but if it were of the latter this would still be in the top ten, as cars go this looks like a tatty old fridge on wheels. I have a dream, when Celine Dion hits the chorus of her frankly piss-weak semi-trance version of 'I Drove All Night', she drives straight into a tree. I mean God, why Marc Bolan? Watching a day's play in the Fourth Test a couple of weeks ago, some Johnny No-Stars decided that poor innocent cricket fans would like to witness this attrocious piece of TV twatiness every two-overs. All day. Were they that bitter that Richard & Judy wasn't on?

Number nine looks, sounds and smells half-baked. It is of course Nissan Micra. Car adverts are sometimes the sleekest, most expensive and impressive commercials on TV, often showing up the programmes they sandwich (and not just Shortland Street). But some, no doubt expensively educated goon came up with the idea of creating a language to describe a car that will never be more than a housewife's little run-around. Well, I call it shollocks, and I'd like to kill the funts responsible.

The music's stopped, its time for number eight, and stay standing Nike. Companies as big as them usually throw so much money at adverts because style is everything in their business (what do you mean "isn't it simply about how their trainers look?", have you learnt nothing?). Unfortunately being an American company, they know as much about decent sports as they do about how to choose their country's leader. So it's down to lanky men's netball and musical chairs. Rather cleverly this advert beautifully illustrates the intellectual ability of your average American, while also showing how ball-achingly boring their sports must be if they have to use children's party games to spice them up. People of Iraq, you are welcome to them.

Isn't it past your bedtime number seven? It's Orange and their pint-sized trainer. Mobile phone ads are much the same, they all follow the same rules, and as such can be spotted a mile off. They must try to persuede the unwitting viewer into thinking that mobile phone's are the most important thing in the world... ever. Next they should try to induce the 'greed' factor, ie your friend has a better phone than you so buy this one and you will be more popular, possibly resulting in more sex with strangers with the same phone. Finally they should not try and show their product's new gimmicks as, well, gimmicky. And said gimmicks are definitely not an act of desperation to shift units in a heavily saturated market, definitely not. Nope, not us. Even so, that does not excuse being patronised by a partially trained pre-pubescent actor in a suit and trainers. Let us hope the inevitable nits in his hair eats his eyes out or something.

Here comes number six with cap in hand begging for loose change, it can only be Heinz. Is it a bold new-generation advertising statement, is it embracing the interactive world we live in. No, it's a scam. Also its a scam by an ad exec who probably can't make decisions himself. How does he know which tie to put on in a morning. Or am I being naive. "Let's get an advert where the people decide what our slogan is going to be," sniffs the PC friendly suit, before sinisterly turning to the shadows and snarling "and they will pay for the whole campaign. Muhahaha!". Why on earth would anyone want to send them a text message. Furthermore for the 25p it would cost you could actually buy four tins of beans down the local Netto's. Never has the world of advertising seen such a blatantly insincere attempt to democratise their own branding. I've farted better.

Here's number five and he's squinting. It is an image of domestic bliss painted for you by those people at Specsavers. You know it, it's the one where the father empties the bin on the kitchen floor while scrambling for his varifocals. If he were my father and he did that, I'd kick him in the swingers
and then boot his pony-tailed, slack-jawed body through the doors of my local my paternity testing clinic, should there be such a thing.

Well-groomed and thick as shit, that's number four alright. It is a combined rant against Laboratoire Garnier and L'Oreal. Cosmetic adverts as a genre are phenomenally woeful, to the point where it seems as if that is what they trying to achieve. Fair play to these dandruff-free gems, because they get it off to a tee. Fistly Laboratoire Garnier, with their incredible weekly breakthrough in ways to coat your hair in plastic... why aren't these genius scientists working on a cure for cancer, for fuck's sake? Secondly, Ben Affleck. Shampoo. "Here comes the science bit." In terms of smug, overpaid, 'celebrity' goonmonkey, it really can't be bettered.

Here comes number three, all cryptic and oh-so-clever. It's Barclays and it's Samuel L. Jackson. Who's to blame here? If I was Barclays, and I'd paid Samuel L. Jackson top whack to promote my product, I'd insist on his usual tough-guy blaspheming and bible-based bile. Under no circumstances would I settle for him talking absolute bollocks dressed as Frank Spencer.

CRASH! It's OK, it's number two and it's only a commercial. Get out of the car esure. For sheer cringe-worthiness, you have to doff your cap to Michael Winner. "Calm down dear". Two points here, the annoying old trout from the other car waves to her mother, "I'm on TV" she gurgles before being mown down by Celine Dion on her way to that tree (wishful thinking). Surely the old dear's mother would be about 150 years old, and therefore probably just a little bit dead. Secondly, how about a bit of honesty in ads, hey? Wouldn't you rather insure yourself with esure if Winner said: "I'm not really a bad driver! I'm just a self-obsessed, stuck-up fuck who swans round in his Roller drinking cognac, while some working-class nobody drives for me! Ha ha!". I know I would.

And at number one, I'm afraid it is not actually an advert, merely a trailer. Nevertheless here's the Paul Daniels of our generation, get out of that box Mr DAVID BLAINE. Magic is not cool, never has been, never will be. Standing on a pole like a latter-day Nelson, while the world watches, hoping he falls to his bloody death and laughing as his broken podgy body on the deck. "Not so clever know are you?", they would have said through broad smiles. Sadly it did not happen, and the self-publicising shit still lives. Lives to fight another day, lives to live in a box. Here he comes now all mystical and self-important, "Can a man survive 44 days without food?". YES! Thousands of people have, although that's been due to famine, war, imprisonment, or being on hunger strike for world peace - not twatting around on some huge ego trip. If he is the new Harry Houdini, let's hope someone soon punches him in the stomach... hard.

Bad luck to Halifax and their brummy plasticine kareoke, and to Richard 'Quote me happy' Blackwood, to Baines & Ernst and their consolidated convenient monthly payments, to the slackly pronounced rabbitt from HSA, to Elton John and his syruppy choreographed ode to Sky Sports, and of course to Pele and his not-so sharp shooter. Maybe next year.

Stav.