Posts Tagged ‘Christmas’

Willie’s Chocolate Christmas

December 23, 2008

unbearable oafs

That Willie arsehole (only on TV because he’s mates with Marco Pierre White) gets a Christmas gig, apparently with a hyper-budget, for reasons we can only grasp at like the blind, intolerable worms they consider us to be over at Channel 4.

Channel 4! Home of morons!

Is he sleeping with Isadora Buck-Tooth, the channel controller? Maybe he’s blackmailing the scheduler, Julian Tit? Are ALL the people at Channel 4 complete wankers?

So Willie, who apparently sells a chocolate lozenge for a living (big bloody deal), gets some people over so he can show off his enormous house, nauseating offspring and revolting wife.

His wife deserves special attention, as it happens, as she’s an example of all that is wrong with this particular class of brainless, born-rich, constantly-on-the-box bastard. She’ so proud of her lobotomised husband and the father of her dribbling kids that she spends the entire episode talking about just how crazy they are, how life is so tough but so much FUN!

She goes about proving just how gruelling her life is by spending the whole hour busy making goodie bags for 20 locals. It’s hardly spending a 15 hour day at the pit. Judging by the size of their manor, life must be a real fucking slog. ‘Boo’. And, indeed, ‘hoo’.

Later on they again demonstrate that money is tight, by cooking an entire fucking lamb for dinner. And, being a ‘crazy madman’, Willie cooks the lamb underground. Just as we’ve seen the Hairy Bikers do before. Just as we’ve seen on TV before, umpteen times.

Apparently, he keeps telling us, this is the first time he’s cooked for his family all year and it feels so cosy to be back for Christmas. At this point, the viewer can’t help wondering why he’d invited a fucking camera crew along, if he wanted the proposed quality time with his family.

Are these people complete unfeeling chancers – prepared to film even the most intimate or private family occasions? Do none of these idiots – Nigella, Jamie and the rest – realise that we see through this pathetic illusion and know full well that they filmed their sentimental, elaborately expensive schedule-grout in October?

I genuinely reckon that they think we believe it’s Christmas because they said it is. They think those of us with a gravel drive instead of a garden will start re-laying it so we can stick a dead sheep under it to cook. They think we’re going to start calling our beef stews ‘tagines’ and they think we’re actually going to make chilli popcorn at some point in our lives.

They can get fucked.

Happy Christmas.

Christmas Ads: Currys

December 18, 2007

The fact that Santa Claus – or at least the globally accepted image of him with a red coat and white beard – was invented by Coca-Cola as part of a 1950’s seasonal campaign is something that should irk me and my fellow advert deniers. He is, after all, one of the most exciting and beguiling characters of childhood and there should be something slightly unsavory about his popular origins stemming from commerce. It’s hard to resent Santa for this, though, as the jolly old fellow has remained in popular culture through his own means, as opposed to aggressive and intentional marketing.

This particular incarnation has entered into the public domain and is not the fiercely defended and trademarked image he could have become. Santa Claus, with his sack of toys and jolly laugh, is the international symbol for Christmas, and not just Coca-Cola. That said, it is still Coke who have the best representation of him, for while their adverts may be cloyingly sentimental and horribly saccharine, they come closest to what I remember wanting Santa to be like when I was a child. His rosy cheeks, earnest generosity and kindly appearance is, free from modern day cynicism and paedophile jokes, a bewitching image for a believer as he represents all that is remembered fondly from childhood.

He has been reimagined, recreated and reinvented many times over the years but few, I think, are as interesting as his appearances in this years Currys campaign. These initial cameos and, later, promotion to main character represent not only how Christmas dwindles and dies as the mind becomes adult, but also the shift in values and myth within modern society.

Let’s look at the evidence; the Santa of old ran and owned his own factory, handling the means of both production and distribution. The Santa of Currys is an employee in a corporate warehouse, selling other peoples products and shipping them through a third party. While before Santa would manufacture hand-made goods and simple toys, he now deals exclusively with electrical items and brand name products. The presents that Santa of yore handed out were crafted by indigenous peoples that used ethically sourced local materials, but Currys’ Santa works in an outside-the-UK factory dealing with products that have horrific electricity usage and are made by exploited third world countries.

It’s also worth noting at this point that Santa is now merely an employee of Currys, as opposed to before when he owned and ran a successful independent business. Far from being his own boss, he is now a uniformed employee presided over by two twenty-something metrosexuals who clearly believe their destiny is to provide cheaper TVs to the people. This is worrying for the future of Santa. It is as if his previous magical capability to sculpt toys for the worlds children is no longer enough, or can no longer survive in the modern cutthroat business world. Even though he carried no overheads per se, the odds of survival for a small business in the highly competitive Christmas market are slim and there appears to be no more room for the altruistic benefactor.

That he is reduced to working in a Currys distribution department speaks volumes about the job market for elderly gentlemen. While he was once a worldwide shipper, his lack of corporate experience has reduced him to factory line assembly, where the best idea he can come up with is to have products in stock when people turn up to pay for them. No doubt this demotion has had an effect on his personal politics too. Clearly once a great socialist believer, he has now fallen foul of capitalism and his gifts are no longer free, just reduced.

There is one glimmer of hope, though; in each advert he lets slip a little clue that he is really is Santa. Be it confessing a love of mince pies, a secret visit from a Blitzen or a veterinary trip for Rudolph he shines through with his true character; the false name of Klaus drops away and the dodgy German accent is forgotten… he is the Santa we know and love.

When you become an adult the wonder of Christmas fades away. Each year you hope it will be as magical and amazing as it was as a child, and each year you are numbed by the crass commerciality of it all. The Santa of Currys is much like that too; you suspect the worst but hope for the best. Maybe he isn’t broke and desperate, maybe he has infiltrated the enemy and plans to bring down the false idols of Playstations and plasma screen TVs. Maybe he is undercover and at midnight on the 24th will hijack their shipments, distribute the goods himself and refund the exorbitant prices. Maybe he is a new guerilla Santa – a master of disguise, of espionage and of infiltration. This is the new Santa, the Daniel Craig of new Santas… not only does he inspire delight and offer hope, he also kicks ass and sets right what keeps going wrong.

What I suspect will happen though, is that he’ll talk up the January Sales and get fast tracked up the management ladder. The Coca-Cola Santa would never go corporate…

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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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