December 21, 2007
December 20, 2007
December 19, 2007
From today's Metro: A pikey waster chav scumbag you don't know is hauled before the court and is sentenced to a curfew. He chooses your home address as his bail address. The court makes him move in to your home. There's fuck all you can do about it.
You'd really, really need a heart of stone not to laugh.
Icing on the cake? The tag line on the ad immediately below.
Which gives me an opportunity to recycle my favourite chav joke:
Q: What does a chav and a Slinky have in common?
A: It's always fun watching them both fall down the stairs.
December 18, 2007
Thanks to AME Marketing and Stan at Brand DNA for highlighting the widget I've now added to the right hand side of the screen. Mind you, you could interpret the genius rating as "you'd need to be a genius to understand this shit". In fact, I am worried that this is exactly was this is: some kind of subversive reverse-rating.
Genius? I almost got fired at an agency quiz night when the question was "Name the book where the characters escape through a wardrobe", and your chimpmeister shouted out "Anne Frank".
December 17, 2007
December 14, 2007
I was going to rant about this, but the more I watch it, the more I realise it's just totally superb. I may have to create a new label to cover it. This masterpiece is built around a random, pointlessly inappropriate impersonation that has zero relevance to the brand.
See also: England have nowt to shout about
December 13, 2007
Wars, murder and dead princesses can't keep the British media away from what they see as the biggest story of the week, even though false modesty prevents them from spelling it out plainly: are those really David Beckham's bollocks?
(I can only add one tiny insight into this intriguing tale: a witness - whom I cannot identify, because the wife will kill me - testifies that they really are that big.)
The hoohaa does confirm that sticking Becks in an ad still causes a buzz, although I am disappointed that he chose Armani. I believe David Beckham would be put to better use advertising Ferrero Rocher, because they come in a posh box.
When cool just don't cut it;
Buying into the Beckham illusion;
Put your tongue in, Becks
I just don't get Sarah Jessica Parker. Last time I criticised her on the company intranet I had poo flung at me by hordes of angry women of a certain age, who regard her as something of a symbol of feminine empowerment.
She was the worst thing about Sex & The City and now I have to endure her bloody awful fragrance ad in the pre-Xmas run up.
b3ta regular weebl has taken on this post-feminist icon. He's a brave boy.
December 09, 2007
"Hngggggggggk..." jerk... crack!
That's me dozing off on the train, having one of those short but deep, dream-filled commuter naps. I've almost slumped to one side, a tiny dribble worming its way down my chin when I'm certain, for a split second, that I'm about to fall off my rock.
My head jerks upright, I awake, and of the half-dozen passengers around me, I suspect only one has noticed my Fat Old Git Dozing Off On The Train act, and she has the good manners to hide behind her Evening Standard. The pages are trembling slightly. She's bloody laughing, I know it.
I'd been flicking through GQ when sleep crept up on me. The dream was of faceless, naked women chasing me over the landscape from the opening scenes of 2001, their toilet bits replaced by gaping Scream-like mouths. Death was going to be a leathery, but well-polished affair, and I had to escape.
Who said advertising doesn't work?
December 05, 2007
OK, OK, I know the existence of the demon barber is disputed, but the London Dungeon said he fell off his perch at the beginning of the 19th century, and that source is good enough for me.
What next? Nazi code machines captured by US sailors? God forbid.
Sweeney story spotted in one of the daily papers, but I forget which one. Come on, I've got more important things to do, you know.
December 04, 2007
December 03, 2007
"The hedgehog relies for defence on its protective spines, rolling itself into a ball in a similar fashion to a pangolin or armadillo when threatened. This tactic, while effective against many predators, is of little use against motor vehicles."
More wisdom in Fuckwitapedia.
FACT! Religious War!
FACT! Chuck Norris!
FACT! The 19th Century!
November 30, 2007
At last, a decent beer ad. It's reminiscent of the only decent part of any Star Trek film - the one where Kirk asks God why the hell he needs a space ship.
I thought beer ads were starting to disappear up their own arse what with that obtuse Stella monster boring the pants off everyone (although it does have a monkey in it, which is good), and Guinness jumping on the Cog bandwagon. That's society biting you on the bum, saying you can't make booze drinking look cool or youthful or trendy etc.
I guess the old wisdom about creativity finding new ways to express itself when its options are restricted have paid off for Carling. You see, it's not about the beer, but about standing by your mates. Alcopop brand WKD tried something similar but failed miserably because they were all about taking the piss out of your friends rather than supporting them.
And there's the rub: a funny, blokey ad that's really quite grown-up.
See also: Bounced out; International relations all ale and hearty - part 3
November 29, 2007
I know this makes me sound like a sad old git but I do still like to flick through the men's glossies. Funny that women's glossies are bought by females of all ages but there's something dubious about anyone over 40 reading the male equivalent. Anyway, I digress.
There are still some ads that leap out at me. Here's one, a relatively low-key effort nestling amongst the tissue fodder.
I'm an occasional online poker player - I'll have an occasional splurge, get bored, and then leave it for several months.
Whoever wrote the limited copy here must be a player. It's giving me itchy fingers.
The problem is, there's nothing here to make me defect from my usual online poker site.
November 28, 2007
The UK's two national grey-top tabloids have some long-standing obsessions. The first of these, the Daily Express, is primarily interested in a missing child and a dead princess (front pages will always be about MADELEINE or DIANA).
Its main rival, the Daily Mail, with a surprisingly high female readership, prefers scare stories that seek to terrify us. Modern Britain is dying because of predatory hoodies, bloody immigrants, nazi parking attendants, dangerous dogs, PC-obsessed council officials and smiling paedophiles, all of whom just happen to LIVE NEXT TO YOU.
The Mail hankers after the good old days when you could flog your hoodies, immigrants, parking attendants, dogs, council officials, paedophiles, and the people who lived next door to you if they looked at you in a funny way.
It is therefore quaintly amusing to observe the mock outrage in this article from today's paper which showcases some pre-feminist advertising - the subject of a book which claims to be new, despite Amazon showing it's been around for at least 8 years. That's the Daily Mail for you. Always out of date.
November 27, 2007
Ever had work constipation? It's that feeling you get when, coming back to work after a break, you find you have so much to do that you don't know where to start. Luckily, I have a large mug of tea before me and this magazine to read.
... really from the chap who created this.
November 22, 2007
So, England are out.
Frankly, I don't give a damn. That's because, being 75% Greek, I still have a team to cheer on at next year's European Championships.
The assumption that England have a divine right to qualify has always puzzled me because I could never understand what could possibly motivate complacent millionaires to win, especially when they're up against modestly-paid but passionate players from "little" countries.
I loved the irony this morning when this ad popped up just after the morning news. It's a prime example of the shit advertising on daytime telly (I'm off work this week to decorate Chimplet #2's bedroom), and has amazingly been around for three years. That's three years of annoying shouty woman haranguing smug git in fake courtroom. Sadly apt for those poor Anglo Saxons with injured pride. I doubt you could make a claim for it though.
November 20, 2007
The first time I saw one of WCRS's Phones 4U ads I was as high on a kite on industrial-strength painkillers. Since then, every time Jack appears on the box, a tiny cognitive strand shudders in the woollen ball of my brain; I see a suited Satan with an American accent teasing freaky sinners in Purgatory.
Do that thing with your fingers and I'll take you to a special place. Go on. Candyman. Candyman. Candyman.
November 19, 2007
Remember how Lucozade, tired of its medicinal claims, relaunched itself as a rejuvenating sports elixir and carved itself a new market? Here's something similar.
Clever clogs Nicole Kidman (brains and beauty, yet all the women I work with hate her; yes that Chanel ad was pretty disgusting but she did put up with a high-maintenance cross-eyed midget with a Napoleon complex for ten years, so cut her some slack) fronts a battery-operated puzzle system designed to make train commuters feel they're not wasting their travel time.
I'm not knocking it - but brain training is not new. I've been doing it for years.
It's called reading a book.
(BTW, who the fuck is Dr Kawashima?)
See also: Brain mash
November 16, 2007
We've all seen the news: kids watching the wrong stuff on TV; kids spending more time online. Here at Giraffe Towers, we wanted to see the implications first hand.
We therefore incarcerated a test subject in the basement of our (as yet unfinished) brand laboratory.
We exposed him to 140 hours of web TV nonstop, without sleep, and fed him a modern diet of blue Smarties and Dr Pepper. We then set him loose and monitored him using hidden video cameras.
One unexpected side effect is that the previously cheery little fellow started to speak in German, despite being a monolingual chav kid from Basildon. Remarkable.
November 15, 2007
November 13, 2007
It had to happen eventually. An ad that left me speechless for at least twenty seconds.
Those Orangina bubbles evidently aided the transit of peculiar substances through someone's nervous system. How the hell did they arrive at this? Bambi hits adolescence, smokes weed with Mowgli and dreams of furry animal sex. It's so off-the-scale in smutty weirdness that I can only approve.
There's even a giraffe in it.
Agency is probably Y&R.
**Edit** There's an even longer version here; plus there's a print campaign.
November 12, 2007
It's such a shame this never was aired. It has three incendiary elements which, when combined, mean that the ad almost writes itself: a petrol station, a surly chav oik and Harvey Keitel.
One can imagine Texaco execs horrified at the extremely negative image implied on the brand by this remarkable work. Oh yes, and the thought that it's OK to reward bad service by blowing something up.
November 11, 2007
It didn't help that I read Scamp's review of the new Guinness ad before I watched it. But no, I didn't like it either.
It seems that all the world's village idiots descended upon a South American shanty town to faff around with dominoes. This has nothing to do with good things coming to those who wait, but everything to do with wasting your time because life has no meaning.
Good things come... yes they do, to those who have earned it. That's the point of a well-earned pint.
November 09, 2007
Dancing chimps, part 1.
The boys from the mailroom celebrate a pay rise.
(See the original ad with surprisingly phallic logo)
Dancing chimps, part 2.
And in Man-Ches-Tuh, research groups interview the local youth.
(Non-Brits: Think Oasis, Stone Roses etc.)
November 08, 2007
Attention: Trends gurus!
Sellotape together some randomly gathered "facts", present them with some dramatic music and you will have a YouTube hit on your hands. This popular presentation already has over 2 million hits to its credit since appearing on the video sharing site in February.
Some of what's in it may be true, some may be tosh; without attributing any of this data to its original source, the presentation suffers from credibility failure.
Still, some nice talking points are here, especially if you're into scare-mongering futurology (or a Daily Mail reader).
To see where bad information gets you, see everything labelled Fuckwitapedia.
November 07, 2007
Many lifetimes ago I worked with the Dutch. I've never met so many people over six feet tall in my life. And their cash... their pre-Euro currency had the look of Toytown money. The men were heavily into checked and Euro-tartan suits. And this was after the 1970s.
Holland's a nation I've never quite got my head around, but maybe its armed forces advertising might give one a clue to the national character.
If you can handle the intense psychological trauma of a child's tooth falling out then the Royal Dutch Army would like you to launch yourself up a muddy wall. Equally, if you are disinclined to pretend bananas can be guns, then you are clearly the right sort of person to stand around in sandy countries wearing cool sunglasses. That's what's soldiering's all about.
But if you take out the soldiering references then these could just as easily be recruitment ads for a career in social services.
Maybe the hard nuts join the Dutch marines instead.
November 06, 2007
It would be wrong of me to recommend the cr3ation b3ta site because unscrupulous music fans would be able to instantly trawl the internet for mp3 files. You shouldn't use it because you might be tempted to find music and download it for nothing.
I use it only for research purposes, and so should you.
See also: This is my new toy
November 05, 2007
I woke up in the middle of the night to find a six-foot tall angry beetle looming over me. He started swearing, and then the bastard began to slap me on the head.
I was warned that there's a nasty bug going around.
Don't get caught out. Defend yourself.
Keep one of these beside your bed.
November 04, 2007
Regular readers will know how much I dislike my neighbours. It's bad enough that their growing tribe of inbred cats (just one generation away from finding them sitting on the porch, strumming banjos and brewing catshit moonshine) infest my garden.
Eskimos are said to have identified over a hundred different types of snow. By carefully traversing our lawn, I think I have achieved the same feat for cat turds. Previously indifferent to cats, I have since developed a deep prejudice against them.
This is because our neighbours are too sodding lazy to do anything about them. When I'm running the country, they'll be first off the benefits and down the yoghurt mines, doing something useful for the downtrodden middle classes.
You see, gentle reader, the neighbours are what I call the Plasma Poor. Neither of them have been observed going to work, and yet they miraculously appear to be materially better off than anyone else in the neighbourhood. Takeaway meals are delivered four times a week. Sky multichannel is available in all four bedrooms. Two of them are Chelsea season ticket holders. They have (at the last count) five multi-gened children clad in Nike trainers.
At the Future Foundation's State of the Nation conference last week, one of the speakers speculated as to why the middle classes haven't rioted over the apparent inequalities between themselves and the extremely affluent.
I'll tell you why: it's because the middle classes are in a state of permanent bewilderment over seeing their taxes being channelled to the Plasma Poor - Britain's secret underclass of workshy layabouts. By a counter-intuitive masterstroke from the god of improbability, the Plasma Poor are able to afford the sort of goods that the middle classes have to save for. They are the post-early adopters.
Think I'm wrong? Go to a Basildon Dixons on a Saturday afternoon and see who's in the queue.
Dammit, why can't these people be respectably poor, like my Northern grandparents, who were brought up on one lump of coal a day for breakfast, a piece of string for Christmas, and a deferential nod to the factory owner as he rode by on his white horse?
(Nostalgic sigh) It was therefore with mixed feelings that a fortnight ago, I observed the neighbours taking delivery of a 40-inch HD-ready plasma TV.
I'm not sure what to make of this technology. On the one hand, it's bloody amazing (having taken the decision to forego holidays for two years in order to buy our own Sony Bravia). A large flat screen somehow dominates a room in an understated way. Don't ask me how that works, but it does. And when you finally rig it up to High-Definition input, the results are staggering.
On the other hand, it's difficult to decide whether these things have the air of exclusivity that makes a new technology desirable. We've gone through the early adopter phase with flat-screen tellies without, say, the equivalent of the Apple iPod dominating the market. Sales volumes have hit that mass necessary to drive down prices, but which one do you buy? Which brand is going to give you that sanctimoniously smug buttock-tremble?
Sure, the Sony Bravia is probably the one brand name that sticks out because of the Balls ad (the Paint and Bunnies have been less memorable and I believe have somehow diverged from the brand; my own personal dinner-party research revealed that, at first, most people thought the Balls ad was for Hewlett-Packard).
Take this current crop of ads.
Philips' Aurea is an LCD TV with multi-coloured backlights. That's its USP. And its advertising suggests that backlights on a bloke's telly will dazzle foxy chicks into bed. It's a weird hybrid between Ikea-catalogue mood lighting and entertainment. You can achieve the same effect with a lava lamp. It's a lot cheaper too.
Now, I really do like this one from Toshiba. It's a boring picture, but the message is bang on for those wondering when to jump on the home technology bandwagon. The only problem is, the answer could just as easily be a telly from any other manufacturer. The ad might make me go to a TV shop where I'd end up buying a Sony instead.
OK, this is cheating a bit 'cos it's not a telly, even though it's a fine example of integrated technology i.e. all the bells and whistles and geegaws in the camera that are meant to help you make best use of your fancy new flat-screen TV. I can't be arsed to figure out what 3CCD is because, frankly, the image doesn't make me want to read the copy.
As Belinda Parmar (probably the most cheerful planner I've ever met) points out, it's not exactly feminine in its appeal, either. Do Panasonic only want men to buy this camcorder?
I spotted this ad in ES magazine, the Evening Standard supplement aimed at women, and it sticks out like a sore thumb.
October 31, 2007
October 30, 2007
You can see what's happening here, can't you? Those pesky Argentinian Y&R scamps thought we'd see ickle bunnies frolicking harmlessly on the Teletubbie lawn (more here). "Aaaaaah", we're supposed to coo.
Wrong. It's a bleedin' waste, that's what I see. Rabbits are vermin, 'tis true, but they're also an abundant source of low fat meat, delicious in pies and stews.
Here in England there's a slow realisation that another form of vermin, grey tree rats, are even more destructive than bastard bunnies.
I have seen squirrel pie on the menu. Let's eat them all and let the little British red squirrel reclaim the trees. Mind you, that's probably racist talk, that.
I like badgers.
This is wrong:
See also: Go bunnies
October 29, 2007
You'd get better English out of a monkey, speaking to the average British youth today. My teen chimplet listens in dismay at the received pronunciation of BBC newsreaders from as recently as the '70s when those interminable Channel 4 list shows appear on the telly. It's as if they were talking Martian.
Speaking correctly is for losers (cue thumb and forefinger "L" on forehead). "I was like, yannar wotimean, innit" litters teen sentences like a massacre at Grange Hill.
This is why I love this Armstrong & Miller sketch (first shown on TV last week), with WW2 pilots in cut-glass English accents using modern "street language".
There's another one here too.
See also: The bi-annual outing of the Inglish brigade
October 26, 2007
The Times describes the furore caused by this poster and press ad initiated by the Tuscany regional government in a bid to combat anti-gay descrimination.
So long as paternalistic mind viruses originating from centuries-dead desert philosophers continue to steer prejudices, then there will always be a need for campaigns like this.
The Vatican is pissed off, thus proving my point.
However, anyone wishing to follow the great chimp god and his holy giraffe is welcome in my church, whatever the nature* of their physical manifestation.
*straight, gay, bi-, tri-, trans-, white, pink, green, brown, purple, tartan, black, orange, grey, polka, alive, dead, animal, vegetable, mineral, Daily Mail readers, left-handed, unipod, duocephallic, the smell of freshly cut grass, butchers, bakers, candlestick makers, postmen, firemen, milkmen, cybermen, policemen; their wives, chocolate, bubblewrap etc.
October 24, 2007
There's very odd behaviour on show here, from the domestic graffiti, to the maternal violence and criminal dancing. But this is Egypt, after all.
Guilty agency: Leo Burnett.
See also: Those Saudis know how to have a good laugh
October 23, 2007
A Nun is in the bath when there's a knock on the bathroom door.
"Who is it?" shouted the Nun
"The blind man" came the reply
The Nun tells him to enter, knowing he wouldn't be able to see her in all her glory because he's blind.
He walks in and says "Nice pair of tits, where do you want the blinds?"
Characteristic Down Under fare from DDB Sydney
October 19, 2007
There's nothing particularly wrong with this campaign from Leagas Delaney, for a brand that has been in the UK for a number of years but appears to be positioning itself as new, and authentic Italian. It just amuses me that it reads just like a zillion examples from all the basic advertising manuals from the last 50 years: Find one thing that appears unique about the product; suggest that this feature makes it superior to all of its competitors.
After all, I have never considered the thinness of pasta to be an issue. The British pasta revolution angle does seem rather clumsy though. Didn't they learn from Trident?
October 18, 2007
Here's my good deed for the, er, year. Much of my charitable work includes working with distressed giraffes, but sometimes I like to stretch to something really worthy. Here's an admirable spoof beer PSA from a budding film maker. That she happens to be a babe is purely coincidental. Come on, give her points for having a go.
October 17, 2007
I haven't trawled many blogs recently, so don't know how often this vid has featured. I have only just been pointed to it by one of our account directors. It's a cracking fight between account management and creative director, Cruise v Nicholson.
I just hate that sodding "I-" word... I think planners are more guilty of its misuse than anyone else!
October 16, 2007
October 15, 2007
It's easy to get riled at the thought of posh hangout Claridge's offering 30 brands of bottled water from around the world. There is something mildly uneasy in the thought of such a commodity being shipped from one continent to another when it's already freely available on tap.
The urge to be green seems to blind many people to reason as well as make them ready to accept unproven doctrine i.e. local produce = good / food miles = bad. But what if lugging huge volumes of a commodity thousands of miles is cheaper or more fuel efficient than transporting smaller volumes from nearby?
Bottled water is suffering an image problem because it symbolises purity and simplicity and yet the bottled brands struggle to prove points of difference with marketing as sophisticated as any other fmcg. That was fine before environmentalism became a new religion.
Using a brand is an act of self-expression. I can't believe that any sane person would notice any difference in taste between bottled water brands while they are munching a slap-up lunch or dinner. But if you want to pay £50 a litre, then that's fine. It's no different to wearing a fine pair of top of the range Nikes when cheap Reebok knock-offs will do the job just as well.
Personally, I'm sticking with the tap.
October 13, 2007
October 11, 2007
It's hard to believe that it was only in 2004 that Barry Scott burst onto British telly. It seems like he's been around for a decade.
Type in “Cillit Bang” on YouTube and you’ll get pages and pages of videos spoofing his shouty style. Hell, the real ads are as cheesy as you can get. Even the name of the product, by household giant Reckitt Benckiser, sounds like a joke.
Scott is almost a self-parody, but I think using him as the face of the brand is bloody brilliant. 12% market share in 3 years is no laughing matter. Here he is in one of the more recent Cillit Bang ads.
Under-rated comic Peter Serafinowicz (most famously the voice of Darth Maul and the exasperated flatmate in Shaun Of The Dead) has been spoofing Scott on his new TV show. He’s a brilliant mimic – watch the two Cillit Bang spoofs here and here.
October 10, 2007
I own a Motorola Razr, but then I'm cool anyway, and if the trendy mobile looked like a lump of clay then, well, I'd just damn well make it look good.
Here's Mr Beckham with one.
Holding the phone, he looks ok, and almost as sexy as me. But with the ear wotsit, he looks a twat. The moody mean look and messianic halo enhances the general twatness.
The only people who can just about get away with wearing one of these are London black taxi drivers (who don't care how bad they look, and are thus immune to this type of dorkness), call centre staff, and anyone working for Jack Bauer.
Your golden ticket to la dolce vita, chav-style;
Buying into the Beckham illusion;
Put your tongue in, Becks
October 09, 2007
Despite a shocking dress sense that frequently amuses, creatives have been proven to show mortal traits. I'd even go so far as to say that creatives can be normal. I love these guys, especially the ones shut away in their little bijou offices who show real enthusiasm when someone other than their immediate neighbours drop in.
When I praise their work, their little faces light up. That really makes my day. Come on you planners and account people - dontcha ever say anything nice to them, you miserable bastards?
I'm kind of getting the feeling that TV mentalist Derren Brown is becoming something like the dog that won't let go. I've heard that when a Bull Terrier has its death grip on some kid's leg, the only way to get it to unclamp its jaws is to stick a finger up its arse.
Here's Mr Brown, once again picking on ad creatives, this time repeating his UK telly trick on a pair of innocent US Saatchites. It's still fun to watch, but please stop being horrid to these people. Someone stop him before he does the same thing in other continents. Someone with a big finger, perhaps.
See also: Making a monkey out of the creatives
October 08, 2007
Jeez, what is about women and animals on my expensive furniture? Having squired chimplets from several secret mistresses, I thought I'd finally hit on The One, until she started eating trifle on one of my patent leather sofas. One of the hairy chimplets made her drop it. Wasn't his fault, so I booted her out for the last time and got custardy. Hoorah for British law.
So here's the next One. Thought she was ok - I could take the insect hallucinations but drew the line at her wearing fucking stilletos on my leather cushions.
After having had her shoe allowance cut (undoubtedly the second-worst thing a gentleman could do to his mistress), she stalked off for a sulk.
Now, where has she gone? Ah there you are. Hello there... wait a minute.... Hey... what the fuck...!!!!???
More furniture grief:
Those worms didn't come out of my arse, madam;
Get off my bleedin' chair
October 06, 2007
October 05, 2007
October 04, 2007
October 03, 2007
October 02, 2007
Ask any crop farmer about bunnies and he'll describe them as vermin. I've seem many a good golf course destroyed by these evil little parasites. Why does popular culture portray them as cute and cuddly and sexy? Mice breed faster, after all, but I've yet to see Ann Summers stock a Manic Mouse.
I blame the women.
Rabbits are good eating, though.
October 01, 2007
OK, so Oz has big sky and fierce light, but their Bloody Hell campaign hiccups with this lazy ad. The matey irreverance of the campaign with its cheeky tagline hits the right tone - anyone who has worked with Aussies will know what I mean - and works well when showing the landscapes that are unique to that country.
Well, we have helicopters in England too, and some jolly nice rocks. These are off our south west coast.
September 28, 2007
I'm amused by this Wonderbra ad for the Malaysian market. It remains true to the brand while avoiding offending Islamic sensibilities. Even so, there's a touch of the Benny Hills about it.
Still on the subject of chest holsters, I note with curiosity how China has forbidden TV networks showing ads for "push-up bras and figure-hugging underwear ahead of a major Communist Party meeting next month."
This gives me the excuse to link to an old feature.
September 26, 2007
These images greeted readers on page 3 of last night's Evening Standard. The model is a 27 year-old anorexic who weighs just under 5 stone, and she features on posters erected in Milan as the city runs its fashion week.
The campaign is backed by the Italian government and by a fashion house. The pictures are truly shocking, but although they might change the public view of the fashion industry's long-standing love affair with size zero models, I do wonder if they'll affect anorexics who, after all, already suffer from a distorted body image.
The Nolita campaign is backed by a website.
September 24, 2007
Holy Mary, there she was again, crushing garlic cloves in a way that guaranteed a boob shot. Plenty of "Mmmmms" and "I love the way it bulges over the sides" and "Look at the way the cream dribbles."
Nigella Lawson's up to her food porn tricks again, aided by a shaky-handed cameraman with an overactive zoom lens.
Still, I'm not complaining, although I always take a dislike to the imported friends populating her garden who always seem to have just popped in. Funny how hubby Charles Saatchi is never there too. Apparently he hates her cooking. I'm not kidding.
There's definitely a bit more of Nigella on the screen this year, which is good. But there's also a little bit too much of something else. One of tonight's recipes involved tipping a pile of chicken thighs into a pan. Was that a flash of Waitrose on the packet? What? Not the same Waitrose that's owned by John Lewis? Not the same John Lewis that stocks Nigella Lawson Bread Bins, Nigella Lawson Measuring Spoons and a handful of other Nigella Lawson goodies that look remarkably like the utensils stocking the kitchen? Not the same kitchen from which Nigella presents her BBC (advertising-free, according to the rules) show?
Well, what the heck, I'm not complaining cos I've got a soft spot for Nigella, especially as she officially an enemy of the numpty public. Apparently, Nigella's recipes are too complicated and her writing style too clever for your average Brit-educated fuckwit. That just shows you how far we've fallen.
Don't ask me why I was there, but I happened to be in a Tesco Express in Basildon (pikey capital of Essex) at the weekend, when it struck me that there is a good measure for the general fuckwittedness of an area.
It works like this. Patrol the supermarket aisles, particularly those that stock home cooking staples such as flour, oils and so forth. Work out the average number of people in these aisles.
Then go to the ready meals aisle and count.
In Basildon the ratio was about 15:2 in favour of the spotty chavs piling their trolleys with 4-minute microwave meals. Somehow I can't imagine these fuckers know how to hold a cookery book, let alone try and read it.
Nigella, keep using the long words.
See also: 500th post: agency anecdote
September 21, 2007
September 19, 2007
I'm muchly enjoying the waterfall of vitriol gushing from ADam - Creative Director, spotted in Copyranter's link haze last week. Utterly hysterical.
"Adam spends the morning letching over a female freelancer who is wearing jeans lower than a crackhead’s morals. So low, in fact, her clitoris pops out like a puppy dog’s nose hiding in a travel bag."Required reading for anyone foolish enough to want to get into advertising.
The 2006/07 Football Association Yearbook has just been published. The following pages are reserved for use by the England team.
Yes, I know I'm regurgitating an old joke.
Just look at those hairy armpits.
Ads for HP by Publicis Romania. Found on Ads of the World
September 17, 2007
The great British public. You know who that is, don't you? Yes, it's everybody else. It's not your family or your mates, but it is that amorphous mass three or four times removed from you whose collective IQ is several points below that of the average Daily Express reader.
Christ, we're supposed to advertise to those fuckwits who swallow every lie told in the Madeleine McCann "story", and who are now queueing outside branches of Northern Rock, waiting to withdraw their cash from the otherwise solvent bank. Why can't selling cars, chocolate bars, clothes and shampoo be as easy as that?
To a financial services company, there's no consumer action more devastating than a mind virus that compels the average numpty to ditch logic and then cut and run.
Before you sympathise with these tits, consider the exasperated Northern Rock staff interviewed on BBC radio this morning. They weren't showing worry over their increasingly shaky job prospects, but over the idiotic, self-destructive mindset of their customers.
The majority of people in these queues had savings of just a few thousand pounds. According to British banking law, the first £2,000 of a customer's savings are 100% guaranteed. If the bank goes under and you have £2,000 in there, then you get it all back. After that, the next £33,000 is 90% guaranteed. Most of these panic-stricken lemmings were withdrawing savings well below that limit, meaning that the penalty clauses meant to prevent early withdrawal from higher interest savings accounts were kicking in. In other words they were paying to get their money out quickly.
It's easy to blame the media. And yes, the penalty issue should have been explained better, as well as the implications of a competitor taking over the bank. But you can explain 'til you're blue in the face when collective numptyism takes over.
It's enough to make you weep.
You'd probably wonder what a forty-something male who is at least a foot too short for his weight would know about women's shoes. No, I don't go to those sort of parties, but I do have a six year-old chimplet, pink variety, with a footwear habit that would put Imelda Marcos to shame.
Using a six year-old to draw conclusions about several million adult females may seem like a very dodgy weighting measure, but anyone who has manipulated TGI to prove that 2+2=5 will know that you can make truth mean whatever you want it to mean.
I therefore count myself an expert, and casting my professorial eye across these wonderfully detailed print ads by Lowe Brazil, would say that they're bang on the money.
OK, turning your pantheon of fairytale princesses into sluts isn't new, but giving them that dangerous edge while flaunting Melissa's flamboyant shoe range is kind of fun.
The truly sobering thought is that those of us bringing up our own little princesses know that the little madams are going to grow up, and we don't want them seeing ads like these.
via Ads of the World