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.
"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?
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.
Spotted on a major North London road. Anyone taking offence at this post should note that I too am a bubble and don't give a shish.
See also: How to get beaten up in London
"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.
See also:
FACT! Femininity!
FACT! Toronto!
FACT! Religious War!
FACT! Rocks!
FACT! Chuck Norris!
FACT! Fornication!
FACT! Pens!
FACT! Kangaroos!
FACT! The 19th Century!
FACT! Dinosaurs!
The first of an occasional series of ads that require no comment.
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.
[Click image to enlarge]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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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