I’m partial to Cider. You can now drink it in with ice in your glass, it’s a nice flavour of ‘orchard Alderman’ and you can sip it with your other middle-class pompous rugger-buggers in a beer garden at the local white-washed gastro-pub having paid £4.80 for the privilege. Once upon a time, Cider was the stuff that bearded, raincoat wearing, babbling tramps would swig from a 5 litre blue bottle, but since Magners had the ingenious idea of serving it with ice and marketing it at fuckwits, it’s now a completely different drink. Strongbow is no Magners. It’s not even a Bulmers. It’s still the common rancid cider crap that reminds you of when you were 14 years old swigging it cheekily in the woods with your mates. So how to market it in this age of cider-as-a-middle-class-drink? Well, if all else fails, do the ‘bloke’ thing.

The ‘blokey’ marketing however, has been done to fucking death. In fact it’s going beyond that. Even Death himself is sick and tired of watching half-arsed attempts at matchoism. I think it was the Coke Zero and Pepsi Max ads that tipped it over the edge (although it was teetering on the edge with the WKD ads).  So when Strongbow decided that they would advertise their rat’s piss with some sort of humorous, masculine, enticing 1 minute narrative it was clear from the start that it would neither humorous, masculine or enticing. What is it actually is, is fucking gashbag. Their attempt at parody is woefully bad. You can see what their trying, and yes, if it was a kid’s TV program then it might pass as suitable. But seeing as though their promoting a drink aimed at adults, it’s just ends up being something which you scoff at. The CSI-esque, 24-style visual metaphors are about as subtle as a Jedward-shaped strap-on. The granny-as-a-hard-arsed-bastard routine has been done and had never been funny – you only have to look at Catherine Tate’s ‘Nan’ to see how unfunny it can actually be. And worst of all, the black guy in the van. Ethnic minority quotas in advertising are so obvious these days that you find it odd when you see an all-white cast on a poster or TV ad. But this attempt really is groin-grabbingly blatant that is sticks out like a ginger at a Royal Wedding. In what world would anyone watch the advert and think ‘that black man in the van is contributing to the overall feel and story-arch really well and I don’t feel at all that he is anyway there to simply get this piece of shit through the advertising standards committee’?

Quota fillers are fucking everywhere you look in advertising. This is a slur on the advertising industry which is dominated by the same middle-class, white, chang-snorting, hooker-killing, bed-hair styling, rugby-shirt, chinos and boat-shoe wearing crimes against society. The cliques are such that the industry is filled with these cunts and they have no creativity what so ever in terms of representing diversity. Hence, the ‘quota-filling’ feel that is rife in the industry. Right, now where’s the White Lightning?

Jamie Redknapp. Man. Model. Muppet. Sorry, that last one was an editorial slip. Although, having said that, I think that you would be hard pushed to find someone who actually thought that he wasn’t a walking bag of pig anuses that spouts nothing but detritus and clichés. If you did find someone who didn’t think that, chances are they work for an ad agency, as he seems to be FUCKING EVERYWHERE. Not content with laughing at me as his giant 20ft frame peers through the pisser window at work at me, he has decided that the money he gets for making every armchair football fan on Sunday afternoons want to rip out his pelvis through his japs eye, is not enough. So by whoring himself out to Thomas Cook, Nintendo and now M&S, he now has a ubiquitous presence on prime time TV as the Christmas adverts crank all the way up to brain-mashingly frequent. If I see him once more I’m going to paint the ceiling my brains, and the floor with the inside of my genitals.

M&S have a bit of a monopoly on cheesy middle-England targeted Christmas fuckwittery. And now they’ve added the prince of puerility to their cast of shitbag shills. But when did he become a DJ? I know that being a football player generally means that you automatically qualify as having worst taste in music than a deaf mole, but even this is a stretch. And then there’s the Wii ads. If there was any doubt at all about his acting pedigree, then this takes that doubt and buries it neck deep in bat shit and rhino rectums.  It’s more fake than a £7 note.

In short, Redknapp is a sell-out of the highest order. If he had a kid with Carol Vordeman, the kid would be born wearing a sharp (but not too expensive) suit, offering you leisurely gaming on the Costa Del Sol, all paid for in one easy monthly payment. And they’d be a top top player to boot.

I know it’s a relatively old one, but this advert really grinds my gears:

Now, anyone foolish enough to think that these kind of adverts are genuine need some sort of help from men in white coats. Placing this ‘test’ in a shopping centre in some vein attempt to make the whole thing seem more genuine is like a footballer trying to convince us he’s not a completely genitalphillic, sex-obsessed, prostitute-nailing scum bag by getting married. Everyone in any advert is an actor. And generally, not very good ones. The give away in this advert is that piss-poor delivery of the lines, particularly the one ‘how does it work’? Well, sir, I’m so glad you asked as it allows us to show you some complicated graphic and use words like ‘pro-Argen’ formulae to blind you with fake-science speak. How does it work? It doesn’t, we’re just going to make up words to say it does. It reminds me of a fantastic Mitchell and Webb sketch that I saw once, which satirises the whole thing a damn sight better than I ever could.

So please don’t think for one second that this stuff really does cure sensitive teeth. It doesn’t. At all. As is states “results may vary” – from it never fucking working at all, to it never fucking working at all.

BT are offering YOU the chance to write the next chapter in the worst advert-cum-soap ever. Don’t be surprised if you see my brains all over my bedroom ceiling. Please, someone save us from this re-hashed attempt at novelty. But then I saw that the options on the website were fairly limited, so I thought I would offer my own. So CLICK HERE to vote. Then spread it around. I suspect that any of these results would be better than what BT could come up with, but then I suspect a retarded fox with no legs and the Bad AIDS could probably do better than BT.

Infomercials suck. Big time. Trying to fill 3 or 4 minutes with the benefits on 1 product is really fucking stupid – you just end up sounding desperate, cheap and just not very good. But rarely are they so disgustingly gratuitous. Have you seen this?

I mean, seriously!?? “Shake Weight, FOR MEN!” For men? No shit sherlock you could have fooled me. It’s going to kick my butt apparently. I’d be a little more worried about the other side of me to be honest. They say sex sells but these guys are hoping that sex for 1 is going to sell. But wait! “It’s science fact, not science fiction”. Truedat, I guess that men who normally watch science fiction will have no need to improve their muscles for this kind of motion….

Why is that there seem to be only a few brands that keep cropping up on my “fill-me-with-so-much-rage-that-I-punch-kittens-to-death” radar. Have you seen T-Mobile’s latest crackpot piece of filth?

T-mobile seem to think that bringing in ‘normal people’, getting them to laugh uncontrollably at really stupid things like their on ecstasy and relating it to some sort of ‘flashmob’ mentality is a good type of advertising. Well, it’s not. Particularly if it’s done as badly as this. The kind of diabetes-inducing, syrupy dogma is, I assume, supposed to imbue us with some sort of warm fuzzy feeling with which we can identify. The only ‘warm fuzzy’ feeling I when I watch this ridiculous faux-reality shite is the one in my pants as I shit bricks.

As the great MC Hammer once, said, “let’s break it down”. T-mobile have struck a deal with Blockbuster or some other dying company that is still living in the fucking stone age by renting DVDs (you have approximately 0.4 weeks before your business model falls foul of that upstart thing called the Internet), which is a stupid idea from the outset. But, in order to try and flog this as a good idea (which it is not), they decide that they’re going to try to describe the different genres of film by handing out props and costumes. They may have well as handed out anthrax packets. That bloke who’s “into” sci-fi, seriously, if I ever met him in the street, I’d strip him naked, nail his tongue to the exhaust pipe of my car and drive him across a field of broken glass. The jokey, pretentious ways in which these people have been told to behave is a shameful attempt at head-fuckery. I want them ALL to die, especially the dog.

So BT are sticking with their stupid storyline ads. In fact, they’re increasing the cast by adding the estranged father. It’s like a really shit soap opera. I’ve said before that thy try to develop the story in line with whatever product they’re trying to flog, but by doing so, just end up making stupid and completely unrealistic scenarios. But now, BT are not even bothering to flog anything – they are just telling the story with no reference to any new product. And that line “if a conversation is worth having, then use a BT landline”. Seriously??! How can they justify that? Presumably all the conversations I’ve ever had over a non-BT landline are not worth the fibre optic cable it is carried on. And, you people who talk on mobiles, shame on you! How dare you use modern technology to converse with people! Why are not talking on a landline you fools!! Don’t you know how immoral and untraditional you’re all being!?

Fuck off BT. Perhaps instead of spending money on crappy actors (that scene with the girl with water splashed on her cheek to make it look like she’s crying is like something out of Eldorado) and developing your infrastructure and products you wouldn’t be losing out to your infinity better rivals.

Erving Goffman once said that the most sophisticated forms of advertising are those that are “half-finished frames” which invite the consumer to participate by filling in their own picture. Now, far be it from me to be critical of Professor Goffman, but I think that he may have got the word ‘sophisticated’ confused with the word ‘contemptible’. Take a look at the Josh Brolin being all broody and twatish in the ‘I am Mercedes-Benz’ campaign:

Having a car advert that doesn’t actually show the fucking car has long been a blight on our terrible terrible excuse for advertising industry, but this one has a certain element of Goffmanism to it that makes it all the more, well, shit. In positing a “half finished frame”, I guess Mercedes are attempted to allude to our sense of wonderment and style, and when we fill in the gaps in a product, we are filling them in with the way we want to see the product (which is generally in a way which is good and makes us want to affiliate with, and maybe buy the product). A Goffman reading of advertising ridicules advertising that is matter-of-fact, left to the likes of Skoda and Ford.

This ‘creative’ style of advertising, letting us fill in the gaps, is, however, simply lazy. Why won’t you tell us about the performance of the car? Maybe because its so inefficient it it’s planet-destroying skills makes Unicron envious? Maybe because the price is only affordable by Tory-voting, Eton-educated, gold-snorting, horse-shagging cunts? Get real please. Tell it like it is. We deride politicians for PR and dressing up the truth so why do we accept it from our advertising? It’s insulting. And getting a jumped up B-list Hollywood celebrity with so much drugs in his system he can’t wank properly without getting scared that his baby gravy will morph into some sort of giant Mercedes-Benz and chop him up into little bits, is a very stupid way to spend an advertising budget.

So next time you find yourself ‘filling in the gaps’ of some new-fangled advertising campaign which shows a car being showered by purple pencils while a semi-naked midget with clown make up on slowly morphs into an exhaust pipe and then fires fillets of shark meat from a bazooka toward the camera, just remember you are watching some ad-man’s coke-fuelled vision that he probably came up with while gang-banging a 17-year old boy in a Park Lane hotel having just been on a 56-hour drink and drug bender. Maybe you’ll think twice.

Pies are brilliant. They’re up there with burgers, Chinese takeaways and threesomes. Pies are God’s stool samples. They’re so amazing that they are worshipped in parts of Scunthorpe as demi-Gods, and where is law to shag a pie every night. But where should we go for a good value, wonderfully crafted, mouth-watering and pant-moistening pie? Well, before I saw this, I would have said Greggs:

Why do they feel the need to say ‘home of fresh baking’? Surely the fact that when you go in a Greggs you can SEE the ovens behind the counter? That is, if you can see past the massive blob of flesh masquerading as a human being in front of you. Surely the smell of FRESHLY BAKED bread and pies as you walk in the shop should be some sort of indication that they bake them on site? I mean it can’t be that the filthy pedo with stained jogging bottoms, a raincoat, missing teeth and a combover paying for his sausage roll in coppers that is giving off that aroma can it?

But maybe I’m being too harsh, I mean, they are trying to make their way in a crowded market place and they are emphasising  their quality as well as their good value. Fair enough. But then why oh why oh why oh why oh why do they feel the need to promote it with this sugar-coated, diabetes-inducing, stomach-churning, teeth-rotting advert from the sixth circle of hell? Pricks dancing around a bakery with grins so wide that even Jordan’s twat would have trouble competing in a wide-off contest is not my idea of sound advertising. And don’t even get me started on the song – it’s so sacchariferous, I’m pretty sure that serial killers chop up their victims to music like this. It seems like they are trying to say that the people in Greggs bakeries are full of the joys of life, and every bit of their working day is filled with sunshine, bunnies, fields of daffodils and tulips and everyone is soooooo happy to work for Greggs. Jog on. Getting up at 4.30am in the pissing rain, cycling to a bakery through London traffic and nearly becoming the latest RTA victim to be carried away in a bin bag en route, spending all morning in a room hotter than the surface of the fucking sun and more greasy than a horny teenagers crotch, then having to serve the dregs (or should that be Greggs?) of society with a smile when all you really want to do is rip their shin bones out and stab them through the genitals so they can’t procreate, does not sound like the kind of job that would make me want to pirouette around a fucking cake trolley.

If you want to change your image Greggs, don’t listen to the ad agency that clearly employed a West End wannabe director to make some sort of jumped up musical number, that belongs on Saturday night on ITV with fucking incorrigible cunts clapping away like demented spastics watching a Tom and Jerry cartoon. Please.

Having a penchant for beer, ciggies, kebabs and the occasional bit of heroin injected into my eyelid, I am a frequent visitor to my local hospital. I’m on first name basis with their rectal surgeon and they have started crediting me with nectar points. Lovely people. It’s an NHS hospital, despite it being actually relatively clean and the staff having a clue (joke). Sometimes I’m tempted to go private, but then I realise that I not the kind of person rich enough to buy a continent, or to pay someone to whack me off who have all their original teeth. Given BUPA’s advertising campaign however, I can see why people are sigining up to them.

The way that the advert preys on people’s fear of the NHS is deplorable. This Daily-Mail-Waitrose-Wine-Bar piece of toff bollocks makes my fucking blood boil (but then given the amount of alcohol in my blood it’s doesn’t take much). In my best Lloyd Grossman voice, “Let’s luuk ut the eviduunce…..”

  • “Being with Bupa, she didn’t feel alone”
  • Consultant being bringing a cup of tea inferring they spend lots of time with the patient
  • “She woke up after the operation in a clean cosy room and felt at home”
  • “After care is not an after-thought”

I think that’s all the scaremongering buttons pressed don’t you? The other adverts in this series all the same too. They are playing on the inference that the NHS is dirty, smelly, you get treated like shit and you’re forgotten once you’re out of the door. Which, the Daily Mail (which is read WITHOUT EXCEPTION by all the fucktards that this advert is aimed at) would have you believe is the case with every single hospital in the fucking country (an example can be found from only yesterday – from the fantastic Enemies of Reason blog). Now, there is no doubting that this can be the case in some NHS hospitals (albeit isolated), but to infer it on an advertising campaign is not only sneaky, it’s unethical. Sure, getting people to pay for their own healthcare is less burdening on the NHS, but having a pop at them to try and make money is Murdoch style evil. Leave it out BUPA, you fucking fuckwits.

P.S. Apologies if that sounded like a political rant, it wasn’t meant to be, but seemed to turn into one. You can tell there’s an election coming up.