This is one of those odd ones that I hate/like.
A bit like shaving your balls, it’s not nice to do but I like the way it feels afterwards. Or wanking off looking at pictures of your mum, which is nice at the time but after it you feel a bit… well… suicidal.
The advert starts with the usual humourless twattery; bubbles, filters, clean, cool…beer-guff – the sort of shite they wheel out for people too scared to drink proper ale (which should be dark brown, flat, a little cooler than warm and drunk by men – not baseball hatted tossers with three quarter-length shorts and Billabong t-shirts).
We’ve seen it all before. Swirling effervescent liquid glittering like silver sunflakes in tan gutmud with some Burton-deep narration – rich and manly – eulogising over it. Wonderful, delicious etc… hyperbole in a glass.
But wait. No. Something’s not right. The camera has pulled up through this pond of gassy gall and two young men are in conversation… Wait – the one on the right appears to be the one actually narrating… The one on the right IS the man evangelising about the wonders of Coors.
Now this is fucking annoying. At this stage of proceedings my exasperation dam has broken and a flood of rasping sighs gas into my living space like a farting cow. The tit on the left castigates the ‘narrator’ on the right for ‘doing that’ but by now my tolerance is repaired, something wonderful is about to occur…
I really don’t understand why this has happened; I can’t comprehend why any part of my being seismically shifts as it does. I mentally down tools and like a five-year-old waiting for the steam train to round the mountain, I freeze in anticipation for the narration to continue off-camera. The two protagonists look at each other in silent astonishment, then look behind.
Approaching them, extolling the virtues of the ‘clean crisp taste’ in exactly the same throaty tones as the narrator is a plain looking girl with a rather large mouth. Sweet Christ, no.
SHE’S the narrator, it’s her!! She’s nothing to look at. She’s mousey and a little rotund but something about her, the way she walks and the manner in which she ‘speaks’. The coquettish way she chinks her bottle at the end of her sentence. Dear reader… I FUCKING LOVE HER!
I’m left sitting there in silence, grinning from ear-to-ear like an utter twit, like I’ve just been touched by the hand of Christ. Why has this happened?
Oh beautiful Coors girl, be mine, be mine, you fat frog.