Bradford and Bingley

by

Hopes and dreams. Aren’t they fragile? Look at all those people, trapped in their grey and humdrum lives and abused on all sides by modern living. There they are, on the side of the tube platform having everything they ever hoped for blown away by one blast of industrial travel. Their hopes are so simple too… so, so, so simple. To own a house, to have a little bit of the outdoors to call their own – to have a single spot on this massively overpopulated planet that they can use for one fleeting moment as a source of relaxation.

I feel sorry for them. Trudging to and from work each day, rising at ungodly hours to scrape together enough money to live… how I wish that they could earn enough to have what some people would say is a basic human right. But, alas, I understand that lending and repaying are the cornerstones of civilization and to say that people shouldn’t have to work their entire lives just to own a tiny portion of land is tantamount to treason against capitalism.

Thank god, then, for banks and building societies. Thank god for their charitable attitudes to ownership and their self-appointed rules and regulations which keep them in positions of unimaginable power over the hard-working plebs they call customers.

Thank god, too, for advertising companies who see no creative paradox in ripping off sweet French movies that eschew traditional values to serve their own interests. After all, the only thing wrong with sweet French movies that eschew traditonal values is that they don’t endorse the idea that money is the only thing that matters and that banks and building societies are the only route to happiness.

Advertisers are great because they have simple tricks like grey representations of real life and colourful bursts of morgage propaganda. They can employ cute chicks to talk like children and deflect any ideas of fiscal responsibility. They can conjur up visions of idyllic lifestyles that are only achieveable by signing years away to multinational corporations… and they can make their ideas heard in a fair and balanced manner by screening it 20 times a day on every channel under the digital sun.

Thank god, I say, for Bradford and Bingley.

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16 Responses to “Bradford and Bingley”

  1. AJ Cann Says:

    Bradford and Bingley, the Northern Rock of optimism? 🙂

  2. wally bazoom Says:

    Bloody good article, Dave.

    *falls on sword*

  3. Dave Medlo Says:

    Thank you Wally… I see we have a lot of tight lipped Bradford and Bingley fans around here…

  4. Roszs Says:

    I like the way they also advertise buy to let mortgages on that advert, thereby negating the quite basic dream of “I’d like to own my own house” with “we’ll help you buy LOADS of houses, thereby making it even more fucking difficult for teh plebs to do anything but pour more money into your coffers each week”. Bah. Good article, Dave, and don’t take lack of chicken kiev chat to heart!

  5. Napoleon Cockaparte Says:

    This advert stinks. Well done for having a go at this bastard advert. Fucking advert.

  6. Swineshead Says:

    Did someone mention chicken kievs?
    I’ve had to remortgage my house because I spent hundred and thousands on those bastards.
    Of pounds, not decorative cake sweets.

  7. Gilbert Wham Says:

    That’s all very well, but at least it’s not some cunt from the Halifax singing at you, now is it? Especially not Howard. I quite like her in her Clockwork Orange hat.

  8. Napoleon Cockaparte Says:

    I had some more of those rotten old TESCO kievs again last night. They really don’t come up to kindly, yet slightly more mean than he used to be, Norfolk turkey farmer Bernard Matthews’ exacting standards. Whoever came up with the recipe for TESCO’s kievs should be birched.

  9. piqued Says:

    You hated them so much last week you had some more yesterday?

    That makes sense doesn’t it.

    Wel dunz.

  10. Napoleon Cockaparte Says:

    Yeah. A bit odd now I come to think about it. Mind you, reading your blog, I’ve got the impression you’re not overly fond of the monstrous hangovers you regularly suffer from … yet there you are, only days later, having y’self another one. Strange, eh?

  11. piqued Says:

    Not really. A hangover is a small price to pay for booze filled nirvana as well you know. I have it on excellent authority that you, like I, enjoy a wee drop of the good stuff though I won’t call you a hypocrite as I think that’s a bit off.

    I’m afraid you simply have to accept that you do like the Tesco Chicken Kiev and you’re now rather jaded by Mr. Matthews Avian ‘flu itchings, ultimately resulting in you embracing the Tesco Kiev with much more enthusiasm than Matthews diseased offing, if you’re not already?

    I look forward to you falling and weeping at my Converse begging for forgiveness at your lack of culinary judgement.

    Until that day arrives, and it wont be long, I wish you a good day, Sir.

  12. Napoleon Cockaparte Says:

    It’ll be a cold day in hell when that happens, believe you me. Yes, I do like a beer, but not like you because you’re an alcoholic. The only future you’ve got is trying to squeeze drops of White Lightning out of your floppy man-udders as you sit in the gutter of your own shattered dreams. It’s a box for you! A box, d’ye hear? Toothless, mindless, babbling about broccolli and sausages, you’ll do anything for a sip of Kestrel Super – anything up to and including having businessmen fart in your mouth for money. And not just ordinary farts, no! Farts fed on beetroot, cabbage sandwiches and Winalot, all mixed up in a gut’s worth of Irritable Bowel Syndrome. That’s your future right there, you bastard bloody tramp-in-waiting.

  13. piqued Says:

    I see you’ve diverted the conversation away from The Matthews/Tescos Kiev situation by employing shouting hyperbole and ‘comedic’ distracters, projecting alcoholic drinking habits on my sober self, citing cliché riddled tramps juices,‘White Lightening’ and ‘Kestral Super’ before disappearing into googly bowling la la land where you pepper your post with crude words like ‘fart’ and ‘big fat cocks all spunking off’

    Very suspicious, indeed, I think I’ve hit the proverbial nail on its wiry barnet…

    You really do prefer the Tesco over the Matthews, admit it you slavering fool. Take responsibility for yourself, FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST MAN HAVE SOME RESPECT FOR YOURSELF

    *flings a small amount of poo across the office*

  14. Napoleon Cockaparte Says:

    I don’t prefer TESCO kievs to Bernard’s, so fuck you you spazzmoid Joey flid …

    … actually I’m going to have to stop right there as I’m giggling a bit too much for my own good.

    SKILL!

  15. piqued Says:

    Thou dost protest too much, you love the wares of that harridan Dame Shirley Porter

    Anyway, my dad is bigger than your dad.

    You smell, pooee.

  16. Napoleon Cockaparte Says:

    You smell of poo, you mean. It comes of being so drunk all the time you mistake your own underpants for a toilet.

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