WTF? Trouser bandit

The first of an occasional series of ads that require no comment.

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One in the eye for another pesky God-like being

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.

Agency: BMB

See also: Bounced out; International relations all ale and hearty - part 3

Fancy a poke?

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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.

Those were the days

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.

Choo choo choosday post

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.

England have nowt to shout about

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 bringer of light

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.

Old wine, new bottles

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

CMM media experiment

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.

Carve-up

From today's Daily Mail.

Orangina splash some serious beastkakke

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.

Just like any day in Manchester

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.