Posts Tagged ‘Advert’

Heat

October 2, 2008

How does one sum up the contemporary female as viewed by the gutter press?

Well look no further folks, it’s here.

Being perpetually presented with media stereotypes of women, the new Heat advert is the perfect representation of all that is wrong with how we view the role of the young woman in today’s society. What is more disturbing is how this celeb crap is something women aspire too.

My favourite whipping boy (and she’s got a face like a bloke) is Jordan, the tit-waggling tart who, by a combination of self exploitation and sheer greed, has managed to make a fucking fortune by using the media to reinvent herself at the expense of her own family. As a role-model, the damage has already been done. Every other aspiring ‘celeb’ is only too happy to be seen, cosmetically adjusted for the purpose of the universal proletariat bloke, swaggering about wearing nothing but tooth floss in order to gain the attentions of the paparazzi.

But there is more. After the mutual exploitation has established a ‘celeb’, said celeb will often bite the hand that fed it. This results in violence – think Allen/Winehouse who regularly find themselves having to punch their way out of their own homes or clubs when the monster they’ve created turns to suck the very marrow out of their bones.

It has to be said that the violence is usually dished out by those that, to some degree, have earned their fame via talent (the likes of Jordan and Marsh couldn’t afford to spurn the attentions of the press) but obviously such behaviour keeps the artist in the public eye, which will ultimately result in record sales. young women are left with the notion that it’s acceptable for women to use their fists as well as their tits.

Now the Heat advert. Incidentally, Heat is nothing more than a paparazzi-landfill with a desire to do no more than poke its nose into the lives of those that jangle their enhanced privates / damaged emotions at cameras before dishing out gushing praise or more commonly, screaming vitriol, to nosy gossips and fishwives.

So, after being presented with a typical cover of Heat, an expose on some gits Lumpy Thighs’ for fucks sake, two women start to punch the crap out of one another.

We’re presented with the idea that Heat is of such value that two perfectly normal women are prepared to kick seven bells out of each other in order to read the last available copy. But even within the advert there is more bird-baiting, while these two fairly ordinary wankers roll about on the floor a model serenely plucks the magazine from the shelf looking down at the ‘ordinary’ pugilists with a certain degree of disgust.

Sort of says it all about the magazine, it’s content and it’s readers.

Actually, I could go on and on about this… but I won’t.

Garnier / Topps Tiles

July 30, 2008

For the last few years the bastards at Garnier have been hissing ‘Take Care’ at me. Anyone else find this particular version worrying?

I used to be lithe and slim, I’d never smoked a cigarette in my life and only had a glass of wine at Christmas with the family. On the basis that I refuse to be told what to do by anyone, especially a faceless corporate suit, I’m now so fat I can’t see my own feet (or penis). On most days I’m pissed before 10am and have recently taken up the crack in order to sate my desire to smoke and take class A’s in one convenient package.

I’ll not have the bastards tell me what to do.

So imagine my surprise when, following a night of unprotected sex with a visibly ill 50-year-old European prostitute, another organisation – via the now-pawned TV – hissed ‘take care’ at me.

I thought I must be dreaming (or still whacked, I’d had two and half bottles of cheap Port the night before and had polished off three grammes of really bad speed as Dominika lowered herself for the umpteenth time on my weeping member…) when I turned my swollen head and fleetingingly saw a logo for Topps Tiles fade into the ether.

Of course I was still whacked (or dreaming, not that I have dreams anymore, I hate myself, I’ve nothing to give save sewage) but why the fuck would a company selling tiles want me to ‘take care’?

Take care of what? The tiles? Why the fucking Christ would anyone want to take fucking care of Tiles?

I mean, don’t get me wrong here, I’m not a monster – I’m happy to wipe away the accidental shard of diorrhea or splash of coagulated blood when little accidents occur on what’s left of the tiles in the room with a broken sink and chod bin – but ‘take care’ like that Garnier bird does with her skin? Fuck that.

I can see why someone would want to take care of their hair, or skin, or whatever (penis?). I used to be like that until I waged my one man campaign to prove that I could stick it back to the man as much as his sticks it to me.

But tiles? I don’t understand. Tiles are inanimate. They don’t care, or feel. They’re like my sister since I kidnapped her husband and held him up for ransom for an eighth of skunk and a drink – just a fucking eighth… And a drink.

Tiles don’t give a shit, okay? They don’t fucking care. No one does.

No one

does.

One Minute Review – New Dyson Advert

April 21, 2008

Dyson's BallCrap vac

“Hello, I’m James Dyson.

I made a big deal out of the fact my overpriced vacuum cleaners were made here in Britain, got loads of praise for supporting the home team, got myself a knighthood, then made 800 workers redundant when I greedily shifted my manufacturing operation to the Far East.

“Even though I’ve already charged you vast sums of money for one of my old vacuums, I’ve now had the revelation that they were all shit because they don’t pivot around on a ball, like the new one I came up with in 2005 does. I even say in my new advert that there was a problem with the way all old vacuums moved around – that, therefore, includes my old cleaners.

“But you can swivel if you think I’m offering you a refund for selling you a shit vacuum last time. And you’ll not get an apology, neither.

“I’m James Dyson. Buy one of my new vacuum cleaners, and ignore the fact I’ve admitted I sold you a bum deal last time around.”

Christmas Ads – Iceland

December 5, 2007

Kerry Katona 

Jumbo norked Kerry Katona is an enigma. Heralding from scrubber prole ‘girl band’ Atomic Kitten (in which, according to her, she didn’t sing a single note) – possibly the most physically repugnant grouping of ‘musical’ people since The Flying Pickets – Kerry went on to… well, I don’t know what. I do know she’s in possession of humongous mummy-cushions, that she’s not fussy about cock and is capable of being pregnant about four times at once. Katona also likes to take drugs and go on TV and she fucking loves a good hiding from her fella. Her latest squeeze looks like a shell-suited Artful Dodger without the top hat.
 
But somehow Kerry has managed to maintain some sort of career in the public eye. And here is the enigma. How, what, why? She’s clearly very talented at getting sperms all up her clout but what else? The answer is nothing whatsoever, save one. Iceland has concluded she’s an excellent vehicle for their showcase of comestible horrors. In this instance Kerry makes sense.
 
By mugging at the camera like a nightmare of a ventriloquist’s dummy coming to life but with larger hooters, she’s now associated with selling the cheapest possible frozen food to the lowest echelons of society. Now that it’s Christmas, Iceland have decided to throw in a giant hirsute Nolan sister to help Katona reach out to the families of illegal minicab drivers and ticket touts up and down the whole of Albion, mainly the north part. And Croydon.
 
Featuring tables and tables groaning with inedible foodstuffs that you’d turn down in favour of chewing off your own calf  – 400 duck parcels for 8p, 1,600 mini hot dogs for tuppence, mini-jam pignuts, breaded-prawn diarrhea-skewers, chicken-vomit filo-warts, jitler-coated ambulance-diallers – Kerry manages to mug so gratuitously it’s a wonder her fucking skull doesn’t actually fall out of her mouth. Whilst Nolan maintains the aura of greedy dim-witted bear, Katona (clearly bonked out of her face on git-powder) literally zooms in and out of shot bearing an expression of such obsequious falsity and psychotic enthusiasm it’s only possible to be viewed through a mesh of trembling fingers whimpering in the corner of your sofa. I’ve no idea what she’s saying, nor do I wish to know in case it harms me.
 
That’s why mum, so ineffably useless her poor wee rugrats would do better off being raised by donkeys (and if it weren’t for Kerry’s gargantuan curd beanbags, I’d call the fucking police) goes to Iceland.

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