This fucking disgraceful advert has appeared on our screens. It’s so insufferable, it makes the Picture a Loan advert as joyous as being fellated by Nigella Lawson (I’ve seen the way she eats food) with Natasha Kaplinsky going cockadoodle-do on my face.
Due to its audacity, its sheer mind-bending shitness, one spends a good five minutes following it with one’s jaw dropped, trying to work out if you’ve just actually seen it or not. It’s so surreally outdated, it’s like you’ve just awoken in front of a crackling TV in a safe house in 70s Belarus after being drugged and kidnapped by a Ukrainian gang. It’s so impossibly vacuous, banal, witless, doltish, obtuse, etc… that writing this short piece for WWM may be the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.
The advert is also properly terrifying.
The ‘vert starts off with a bird walking into a white hairdressing salon who we’re informed is called Georgia Goodall, the Beauty Editor with Reveal magazine. Presumably this is justification for the shitfest that is to shortly follow? Well, no. Being the Beauty Editor for Reveal magazine isn’t really pertinent to anything. What’s Reveal magazine for a start? What the fuck does a Beauty Editor edit? Zits? Beards on women? Balls?
So, before we’ve even cut to the gist of the advert, I’ve gone from a normal, upright position on my couch to a ball of confusion peering at the TV like a spooked Meercat. Goodall is attractive enough in a mumsy sort of way, but the words all spilling from her gob have baffled me to such an extent, I’d not turn a hair if she appeared singing ‘We are the World’ dressed in bondage gear jamming her mimsy with a packet of Fruit Pastilles, though I may be inclined to buy Fruit Pastilles…
Goodall appears to be trying to sell us some shampoo, I can hear ‘leading salon brands’, ‘half the price’, ‘out-performs’ and some ethereal music when all of a sudden a tiny red haired tranny bursts out of the wall behind the Goodall, runs at her like Alien exiting John Hurt’s chest and attempts to grab the product from her meaty fist.
The creature, a sort of tiny pink version of Cory from Slipknot begins squeaking in a barely discernable accent whilst gurning in my horrified face.
‘I tolds you befores darlink dis is salon quality eets honly for pro-fesheonarls’ it speaks. The head of the creature darts to and fro and wobbles in the camera eye, before strutting off like a downsy Mick Jagger.
With my mouth open wide, ready to retch out my toenails, a part of my brain is activated. Maybe it was a childhood nightmare, a ghost story told to me by my granny at dusk of such magnificent hideousness that my premature brain had buried it deep in my psyche, but I recognised the creature…
If your stomach and tolerance can face it, see it here. These days when it comes on TV I’m out the door running to the nearest pub in order to quell the memory before it over powers my delicate grasp of reality.