Posts Tagged ‘Fizzy piss’

Charlie Brooker’s Screenwipe

October 11, 2007

Brooker 

Right, we’ve been skating round this one for long enough now.

Early on in the days of WWM, some little tool piped up and, in other words, called we contributors ‘Brooker-lite’. Needless to say, he was subject to a written stream of abuse and pretty much to this day the names ‘Charlie’ and ‘Brooker’ have become WWM’s equivalent of paedophilia-scat. Piss.

The main issue here is that Brooker does pretty much what we do. He slags off telly using lots of hyperbole, metaphors, cynicism and witticisms e.t.c… for the sake of amusement and largely at the expense of genuine criticism. Yet we don’t mention him on here, which is a bit weird seeing as I’m betting that most of us watched Screenwipe on Tuesday night and found it fucking funny. Why do we dare not speak his name? A sense of pride? Jealousy? Competitiveness?

Brooker has two weekly columns in The Guardian, his own TV show and is turning into a bit of a celeb. He’s fucking won already. Pretending he doesn’t exist (and we do whether you acknowledge it or not) is bizarre.

Here I go then. Firstly, this series isn’t as good as the last one.

Already I am putting myself in the firing line by suggesting Brooker has lost it, is past it, is somehow not as good as he was, when I’m merely saying he’s going over similar ground from series one and the first time round it was funnier. That’s all.

In the first series there was something self-deprecating about the way he presented himself. Innocence, if you will. He was clearly uncomfortable being filmed yelling at the TV and couldn’t help smirking at his own overacted rages. There was something rather, well, endearing about it and about him, like Stephen Fry crying himself to sleep.

Now Brooker has had a second series commissioned and probably a third because it’s jolly good, it leads one to thinking that all of his ‘oh isn’t the TV biz awful’ stuff is a tad misleading, even divisive. I mean he whacks off in perpetuity about how shit it is getting into TV, yet there he is on TV after essentially getting known through a short Saturday column in one of the less popular broadsheets. Indeed, my brother was a runner for about a year before ending up with a great job at the BBC as an editor a few months back. Yes, it can be a bit shit but doing anything for the greater good is, right?

Brooker is now becoming a pastiche of himself. Now, this needn’t be a bad thing. To be frank it’ll probably work out well but at the moment I’m still watching the transition. He’s polarised between the real Charlie, a funny defamatory TV critic, and Brooker, the shouting TV comedy reviewer actor-clown. Christ – he even tried slapstick last night.

So, this series isn’t quite as good as the last one. So what? Despite a few niggles, it’s by far and away one of the best, and funniest, shows on TV.

Advertisements

Resident Evil: Extinction

October 2, 2007

Resident Evil

The really rather lovely Milla Jovovitch returns again to the insufferable Resident Evil universe in this, the third in the shitty zombie computer game movie series.

This time around the rotten old Umbrella virus has infected the entire planet, turning the earth into a dying desert world. Milla, dressed like Lara Croft, rides around this wasteland on a motorbike looking for survivors. She has to visit petrol stations …

“Hold up!” I roared, upending an enormous bag of nuts into my lap, “This is Mad fucking Max! And it’s not even good Mad Max … it’s Mad Max 3 – Beyond Thunderdome! The robbing fucking …”

… because fuel’s low on the ground nowadays. She also listens out for radio messages. One message she responds to sees her captured by evil redneck future people who throw her to a pack of those skinless Dobermans Resident Evil’s so fond of.

Needless to say Milla, who fans of the series will remember is a superhuman genetic experiment kinda gal, kills most of the dogs and escapes. The redneck future people aren’t so lucky. Because they all get killed. By the dogs. In the future. Etc…

“Or that Don Johnson movie where he has a talking dog! What was the name of that? He had a talking dog? He ate dog food out of the tin? It was in the future? Don Johnson? Dog? Talking dog? Yes? Yes?”

Meanwhile, in a bunker under a fenced complex surrounded by faaaaahsands o’ zombies (see: Day of the Dead) …

“They’ve just fucking nicked that straight out of Day of the fucking Dead!”

… a team of boffins are working on an antivirus to ‘tame’ the zombies. They have a zombie in a room chained up, just like in …

“Day of the fucking Dead! This is an outrage!”

… well you get the point. The boffins, led by an evil mad British scientist, are getting the antivirus from the blood of clones of Milla Jovovitch’s character which they grow in a big laboratory. Instead of growing the clones then killing ‘em for the blood, they allow each one to wake up in a fake version of the house/complex from the first movie, and then see how long she lasts before being killed by one of the various booby-traps she encounters as she wanders around (room full o’ lasers, surprise zombie attack, nasty thing that comes out o’ the floor, etc.). They then nick her blood and throw the body in a big pit full of other versions of Mila’s character. I mean, what a ridiculously convoluted way to go about getting blood from a girl … didn’t they just think to ask?

Anyway, in the outside world Milla has occasion to rescue a Desperate Band Of Survivors © who are being attacked by a legion of zombie crows. The survivors are led by what’s-her-face out of Heroes, her out of Final Destination, you know, not the cheerleader, the other one …

“Hello hello hello,” says I, desperately hunting down the Kleenex, “Now that’s more like it. Surely this is the sort of cheap horror entertainment that’ll stoop low enough to flood the screen with tits ‘n’ ass to get bums on seats? Surely her out of Heroes is in this for one reason and one reason alone – to get it all out? Huzzah!”

NOTE TO THOSE EXPECTING HER OUT OF HEROES TO DISROBE AND SHOW OFF THAT EXTRAORDINARY ASS OF HERS: She doesn’t.

The shitbags.

Anyway, Milla, her out of Heroes, the inevitable guy who’s been bitten by a zombie but isn’t telling anyone he has been (see: just about every zombie movie ever made), the spunky teenage girl, a bloke from Resident Evil: Apocalypse, and the other survivors head off to Las Vegas to get fuel …

“It’s always bloody fuel in these future movies! If I’d written Mad Max I’d be suing the living shit out of these robbing bastards!”

… and are attacked by a crate-load of zombies in boiler suits. The zombies have been put there by the evil mad British scientist to kill everyone and capture Milla. The reason that most of the survivors need to be killed is that the writer of this drivel, having the mental age of an excitable eight year old boy, can’t cope with so many different characters. Can’t write ‘em? Kill ‘em, kill ‘em all.

So, just about everyone’s dead, Milla’s really really annoyed and the mad British scientist has been bitten by a zombie. He returns to his evil underground lair and injects himself with loads of the rubbish antivirus. This turns him into a lumpy slimy thing made from balls and elbows and he kills everyone underground …

“I’m sure the same sort of thing happened in the second film didn’t it? Didn’t it? Eh?”

… then broods, and waits.

With crushing inevitability Milla and her out of Heroes and the soldier and the spunky teenager break into the zombie-surrounded complex using a big explosion. All but Milla escape in a helicopter to the supposedly virus-free last bit of Earth that isn’t buggered. Here it’s called ‘Alaska’ … in Waterworld it was called ‘Dry Land’.

And so, underground, Milla and the balls/elbow man have a fight. Like in the finale of Doom, both characters are pumped-up super beings fighting in an underground lair. Lots of things get smashed up.

Then, when all seems lost, one of the Milla clones comes to the original Milla’s rescue and turns on the machine that makes all those lasers turn into a grid pattern thing. This kills the balls/elbow fella …

“Well they’ve done that before …”

… and the scene has become the Resident Evil series’ equivalent of the throwing the alien out of the airlock bit so beloved of the Alien movies. If in doubt, repeat.

The movie ends with Milla and Milla looking at faaaaahsands of other Milas, all ready to be woken up and used as a cheap plot device in the next movie in the series.

“Well that was a pile of crap,” I grumbled, hoping the producers of these appalling movies meet a grisly end that involves knives ‘n’ axes ‘n’ shit.

Warning: This article contains spoilers.

Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps

July 5, 2007

Two Pints of Piss 

Too pointless for laughter and a sackful of shit

In the absence of Tycoon, I realised that I would have to turn my attention elsewhere this week, and as I was drifting aimlessly through the channels late last night, I came upon an easy target. Not just an easy target mind, but an insipid, zombified beast wearily waiting to be put to sleep forever. And while, unfortunately, it is not yet within my power to do so, I was nevertheless struck with the irresistable urge to clobber such a pathetically inept and flailing subject on it’s sickbed. No, I am not referring to Make Your Play or indeed Glitterball, though you would be forgiven for thinking so. No, I’m talking about Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps.

Canned laughter aside, there are no indications whatsoever that this is indeed intended for the purposes of humourous relief. In fact, any claims at all that this is funny are just out and out lies and anyone who even so much as smirks at the situation-based japes therein should be punched in the face for days, mercilessly relieved of their scalp, tossed into a volcano and shot at on their way down. Especially since those who enjoy its witless attributes are clearly chavvy types anyway. This is not intended as a purely throwaway remark either. It’s bland, shallow and utterly void of redemption, as well as being as much a reprehensible enemy of intelligence as anything else, anywhere on this knackered planet. As such, it is not just a programme for chavs, it is a fucking chav.

Taking into consideration that I have yet to encounter another human being who speaks well of this awful show, I am somewhat bamboozled as to the reasoning behind BBC 3’s incessant airing of it. As soon as it strikes midnight, it’s there. Multiple episodes, back to back, five nights a week. Lord above, how many series of this cascade of rancid camel shit have been commissioned? Someone, somewhere, needs a rare old twatting.

Ralf Little has long since bypassed his own sell-by date and must no longer be allowed to surf his own faded projection of success. Granted, he was quite funny in The Royle Family, but time has passed and now he’s just an offensive stain. I don’t even know the names of the rest of the cast but quite frankly I pity the joyless wankbags. I find comfort in assuming they’re all two strokes short of a climax.

I realise that this is not the only British sitcom guilty of bringing comical emptiness to the masses, (My family, My Hero, anything with Nicholas Lyndhurst post Only Fools And Horses) but Two Pints of Lager should voluntarily die for the sins of all the others as far as I’m concerned, minus any kind of resurrection.

Already, I have devoted a near-regrettable amount of my own precious life-span to this unworthy subject, and if I dedicate any more then I’m in danger of becoming a fool to myself.

The F Word

May 9, 2007

 The F Word

Ramsay. He’s an interesting fellow, old Ramsay. Where Jamie Oliver isn’t just a narrow eyed, chubby cheeked berk, but actually has talent, drive and passion, Ramsay, it would seem, isn’t just a scrotum-faced sac of testosterone. He may resemble a huge testicle squirting spermy insults into the faces of innocents, but credit where it’s due, the fellow knows what he’s doing. He’s got ten michelin stars for Christ’s sake. In these foodie times that’s akin to having found ten holy chalices.But still, there are problems. I have no problem with swearing, and I have no problem with confrontation, but every once in a while the mask slips a little and we see a well of rage beneath the choreographed bad-mouthing and at any moment we sense he could smack out. Is that choreographed as well? Or is it this dangerous aspect that makes Gordon appealing? For me, it does the opposite. It makes him look like my old P.E. teacher, and he was a cunt.Ramsay teaches people, has a position of authority over them. That gives him the perfect opportunity to humiliate them. Throw in a camera crew and the opportunity multiplies. Watching a recent Kitchen Nightmare, we were subjected to Ramsay mocking a chef far further down the food chain for never having cooked mussels.

‘You’ve never cooked mussels?!’

‘No.’

‘YOU’VE NEVER COOKED MUSSELS?’

‘No.’

‘YOU’VE NEVER COOKED MUSSELS?’

‘NO. I’VE NEVER COOKED MUSSELS’

At this point Gordon proceeded to start doing a ‘joey’ impression at the chef, who reciprocated the gesture, and any semblance of adult behaviour disappeared. It’s only fair to point out that GR was berating the ‘chef’ of what was little more than a greasy spoon during this tirade, so his not having cooked mussels wasn’t exactly a massive shock.

Herein lies the problem. Walking around and calling people ‘big boy’, telling them to ‘stop playing with their doo dah and put the fucking tortellini on’ and continually (and I mean endlessly) asking them ‘where their balls are’ is exactly what a games teacher would do. And what’s the big deal anyway? Tortellini, mussels? Who gives a shit?

Now we’re into the second series of the F Word. This consists of Gordon wandering around a conceptual restaurant, teaching normal people to cook. With bursts of the worst theme music I’ve ever heard in my life buzzing in unneccessarily at any given moment.

GR arrived in the kitchen this week and slammed down the bloody carcass of a deer, shouting ‘THERE’S DINNER’. Echoes of Brando in Streetcar Named Desire. Primal man and his bloody package. Yeah – terrifying. The problem is, the highlights in his schoolboy hair rather shattered the image.

This week it was a group of ex-Etonians who Gordon quite rightly tore to pieces. They were put there for a reason – to make Gordon with his working-class authenticity (where the fuck did he get that accent then, big boy?) look good. And they couldn’t have chosen better targets from his bile – one of the chaps had an opening spiel that ran thus: ‘Yah, Dad set me up on a pretty solid share scheme so I get a pretty healthy income from that’. To top that off, he resembled a rapist.

Gordon also cooked a dessert with Natasha Kaplinsky, a woman so artifiicially constructed that I have genuinely forgotten what happened in her ten minute segment. Did she even speak, or did she stand there with those reptilian eyes, staring the camera out? I can’t for the life of me recall. By the time we got to the section where Gordon caught a facehugger in Lapland and cooked it, I’d only just come round. This section of course featured the obligatory Gordon topless shot. Every Gordon show features Gordon topless. He must have it carved into his contract in the producer’s blood.

An hour is a long time to spend on a cooking show, so obviously some junk is going to get chucked in. In series one, Ramsay had the excellent Giles Coren to fall back on for small pieces to camera about this and that, but he made his mark and has his own (far superior) TV shows to make these days, so Ramsay has called in Janet Street Porter (argh!) to fill his shoes. If anyone can tell me what was going on in her attempted assassination of Prince Charles’ food range last night, please give me a shout at the email address in the top right margin. She seemed to be trying to fit two ‘Supersize Me’ type shows into a ten minute slot and believe me when I tell you, it was a garbled fucking mess. With her narrating it, it was always going to be.

Finally, on top of this (where does he find the time? Oh yes, he’s got a whole bloody hour to fill) Gordon interviewed that very current, very ‘now’ comedic figure, Dawn French. Is that the best they could do? I know she’s still working (if you can call The Vicar of Dibley working, rather than just turning up) and she clearly digs her food, but really – how are three separate interviews with her over an hour possibly going to be any fun? Dawn has kissed Gordon! Ha ha ha! Dawn and Gordon keep saying ‘fanny’! Great! Oh look! They’re kissing! Again! Faaantastic.

The problem is, I’ll probably keep watching. The food is good and the format is hit and miss, with more hits than misses. If only Gordo would stop behaving like a 12 year old who’s taken crack instead of his normal Ritalin dose it might be a bit more bearable.

Strongbow (again)

May 8, 2007

Strongbow 

Someone else has posted on this fucking advert, I thought I’d stick my two pennies worth in as it’s perpetually on.

Last night I noticed something about the main turd in the advert. In comparison to everyone else in the commercial he’s startlingly ugly, yet clearly the protagonist of some sort of ‘good’.

For a start he orders the drinks by thumbing a cocky finger in the direction of the token black man to his left (it’s okay, Strongbow drinkers aren’t all young racist working class cunts on the poverty line) and the au fait fop to his right (nor are they to be found in town centres beating the fucking shit out of anyone with a lisp). Strongbow man is the leader of the pack, the winner, and the go-getter…

Ugly’s two companions are bought ‘lager’. What a generous chap this Strongbow drinker is, despite looking as if he’s been formed for millions of years in a peat bog, he’s a bloody good bloke.

The lager-drinkers sip their pints and are briefly refreshed and get on with watching the football with all the handsome cheery men in the pub. But Ugly, as we know, stands there for most of the fucking night welded to the spot, mouth open exhaling loudly because he’s being that refreshed. What a barrel of laughs he must be on a Saturday night. All of his pals are seen in the background having a killer time as clearly their team score. Yes s s s s s s s…Not for Ugly, he’s in a world of his own.

After he’s snapped out of his trance he once again displays another act of philanthropy by offering his two under refreshed mates ‘crisps’. Crisps? No one has ever, ever looked at me and said ‘crisps?’ In fact, I don’t think in the history of pubs and crisps one man has ever turned to another and said ‘crisps’.

It’s a baffling bit of marketing. Obviously we (men) are supposed to somehow relate to the Ugly cunt because he’s not a groomed male model type, he’s a bloody good ugly bloke offering beer and crisps to all and sundry with a kind, open fizzog. But then he contributes nothing to the social bonding clearly taking place in the background; he doesn’t even notice his mates for an age, and they don’t notice him either. No one fucking cares even when he starts acting like a lunatic, no one comes over and checks to see if he’s alright, they just carry on as if it’s perfectly fucking normal to be stood stock still breathing loudly in one direction for an hour…

So where does this leave us? Somewhere like this: If you look like a bag of dented bells, whilst being prone to long, evening length, bouts of vertical epilepsy and have mates that only hang out with you because you buy the drinks and ‘crisps’, then drink Strongbow.

Fat Man’s Warning

May 4, 2007

Steve Daly 

I’m glad I’m not fat. If I was, I would be even sicker than I already am of all of the health based scare-mongering going on.

This time it’s a fat American who thought he’d drag his unwanted, sagging mass into the
UK to warn us that we’re heading for a plague of pigshit if we keep munching burgers and cakes, etcetera, in Fat Man’s Warning, last Sunday.

His name is Steve Daly. Apparently he’s a comedian but I wouldn’t be surprised if his act just consisted of him poking fun at himself for being fat in the hope that others might not.

It’s hardly worth mentioning that his feet are too fat for normal shoes or that he can barely do anything other than eat. Nor is it worth saying that he’s on the verge of death, they always are in these programmes about massively obese food botherers. Anyway, there’s no way his heart can keep pumping blood around that mess for much longer.

I read an article about his quest in a local rag prior to it’s airing, and I recall a quote by Daly in which he claimed that “Britain is about four years behind
America, and soon you’re all gonna be as fat as me”.

Later in the show he again reiterated that Britain is about four years behind America.

Two things here, This unsightly shit is an arrogant arse, who clearly thinks we are so stupid and ignorant about the weight debate, that we need some stinking pile of shit to come over here and ‘save us’ with his one man crusade. Well I happen to think he should sort himself out before he mouths off outside KFC or McDonalds with his banner aloft, trying to spread fear among the public.

Next, I would beg to differ that we are indeed four years behind America. It sounds to me like something Americans tell each other to feel good about themselves.

So anyway, you get the picture, he visits
Britain’s towns and cities pestering those foolish enough to engage with him. He waddles around with a placard saying ‘I love KFC, look at me’, trying to strike up preachy conversations about food with locals.

In one scene, Daly prowls the streets protesting about himself again, and starts a conversation with some teenage lame-brain who commented that the government should ban McDonalds and the like, since they know it’s unhealthy. At this point Daly praised the boy for his intelligence in saying this.

Good idea, why not ruin it for everyone just because some fat hoovers have no self control?

Those who can’t regulate their eating habits deserve to suffer. Some may say they should be lead them down to the bottom of the garden like worn out dogs and shot for being the broken creatures they are, but obviously, I would never say such a thing.

Anyway, the show was shit. In fact, this programme was so one dimensional it felt like a conversation with Jade Goody.

Daly is a useless toilet with no people skills, who isn’t even particularly clever or articulate. As for being a comedian, he must have left his joke book at home because he didn’t crack one gag, and if he did, then I didn’t hear it.

I felt that the scene where he coaxed a bunch of young kids to climb inside his trousers was bumbling into the arena of the perverted, but somehow he got away with it. Ok, he wasn’t wearing them at the time, but still…

In one of his sermons he cries “A child, when it’s obese won’t make it past fifty three years old”. That really makes sense, I thought. That must be why I never see any fat 54 year old children anywhere.

Here is what I couldn’t understand – one minute he’s drawing crowds as he delivers his grim message of doom, the next he’s wandered off somewhere else and is scoffing chips, kebabs and the whole caboodle with fat locals. There is a scene later on where he goes into Mills store with a load of kids – yep, hanging around kids again (seemingly the only people who’ll listen to him) – and buys a carrier bag full of chocolate bars. I’m guessing he thinks he’s doing research when actually he’s sending out confused messages. He’s telling people not to eat the very stuff he’s stuffing his fat face with. I think it’s an elaborate ploy in which he plans to consume all the junk food in the world for himself.

Another pearl from the Steve Daly book of wisdom? Ok: “Blackpool is a giant toy in the happy meal of
England”.

Shit stuff.

Super-Skinny Me: The Race To Size Zero

April 24, 2007

Skinny 

Chubbiness seems to be a big issue at the moment. Louise out of Eternal was on TV a few weeks back, along with with her idiot husband, to talk about going to size zero as an experiment. I’m no expert on womens’ clothes sizes so this confused me. I know a size 16 is quite big and I’d hazard a guess that models can fit a size 8 or 10 at a push, so surely a zero is about as thin as a bamboo cane? What’s the point in that? I never got to the truth because I was drunk and the whole thing washed over me.
As I see it, clothes sizes don’t mean anything to me. As far as I know, we chaps couldn’t give two hoots about the size of a ladies jeans, so long as she carries herself with a bit of style, or failing that, a bit of sauce. There are lovely ladies with massive behinds, and equally there are beanpoles who are effortlessly ace. Men are far more accepting of different shapes and sizes than ladies are led to believe, in my experience. Unless they are FHM or Loaded-reading men, in which case, why would a lady care what they think?

From what I could gather, the likes of Lionel Richie’s offspring are size double zero. Have you seen the state of her? Why is she a benchmark for slimmers? Surely she’s a brittle-boned warning?

Sunday night saw Superskinny Me: The Race To Size Double Zero transmitted on Channel 4, so a chance for me to catch up on what the devil all this nonsense is about. Two female journalists, Kate Spicer and Louise Burke, underwent strict dieting and workout regimes in order to see just how tough it would be to achieve this size zero look.

As they underwent the experiments themselves rather than interviewing genuine anorexics and bulimics, I found their methods somewhat cheap. Supersize Me (which this was clearly based on – have a look at that title) was an amusing documentary in that it used the daily munching of McDonalds not as its focus, but as an alarmingly funny way of holding viewer-interest whilst Spurlock gave us the lowdown on the crap McD’s put into their food and the the way they pump cash out of consumers. The food regime element was just a spine running throughout, to give us a bit of puke-action among the stats. As was his ridiculous moustache.

Superskinny Me missed this point and neglected to give us any factual information whatsoever, apart from a handful of moments in a Doctors surgery where the two journos were scolded by the medics, which was a direct copy of Spurlock’s formula. We learned a little about the methods used to acheive weightloss – too many colonics, no food, lots of water based ‘meals’ – but we didn’t learn who was responsible for making this tripe seem like a valid and healthy way to lose weight. There were no culprits to blame for inflicting this culture of starvation on its prey. No doctors, dieticians, Hollywood agents, models, bogus nutritionists… and it was all the more annoying for that lack of knowledge.

What we ended up with, after this paucity of information, was two priviledged, Chelsea based journalists moaning about how hungry they were. Burke was bubbly but slightly dim. If you ‘eat’ only water for a day you’re likely to go thin, so stop moaning about and lazing in bed complaining of a dicky tummy. As for Spicer, she was an ex-boarding school annoyance, relentlessly pursuing her story and having a great time flashing cleavage and skinny legs throughout.

I’m not sure exactly what they were trying to achieve. They tried diets and detoxes which were clearly going to make them ill, and they acted like martyrs when the sickness struck. It was hard to elicit any sympathy whatsoever, especially when they actually seemed to be enjoying the weight loss. Upon finally squeezing into a size double zero pair of jeans, Louise was clearly delighted. It became suspiciously clear that the ladies were beginning to enjoy their weight loss and new look. The aim was possibly to prove that weight-loss is addictive, but to me this stank more of two journalists who wanted a decent story abusing themselves to try and get it – and happy accident – they lose some weight into the bargain.

This is surely a deeply stupid way to try and make a point, not least because teenage girls without the Sloane Square apartment and network of shrinks on hand are clearly going to absorb these methods of self-sabotage and run with them. Brilliant. Well done ladies, you’ve just made the situation worse. I wonder how much you got paid?

The only real way to end the show would’ve been watching the two drip-fed girls in their hospital beds, actually perishing from starvation, rather than having a paid-for holiday in the dark side of diet. An enforced food-tube direct to the gut might be a bit more trying than a morning without solid food, so stop whingeing, you bloody idiots.

Strongbow

April 18, 2007

Fizzy piss

Adverts are a really easy target. They have a limited time to deliver a very specific message and that must be prioritised ahead of normal storytelling logic; you don’t need to know why the Englishman is involved in the mass exodus of a city during a Latin America Revolution, you just need to know that wearing Lynx makes him calm doing it, and it impresses the shit out of really hot women who are also inexplicably caught up in said revolution.

It’s a form of social contract between the advertising industry and the audience. The audience accept that the adverts will not stand up to scrutiny and therefore do not ask for greater detail than they are given. In return the advertising industry get to rape all that is good and holy in the world, and are allowed to systematically destroy societal values, culture, language and laws until the population bow down before the almighty God of consumerism.

Anyway. Their simple nature gives them a form of exclusion from too much dissection. A man could go mad trying to chart and satirically write about all the logic flaws contained in adverts, and who really cares? Blot on the landscape of life they may be, and sociological fascination most definately, but the simple narrative is too insignificant to spend too much time worrying about.

The internal worlds that TV adverts exist in are very fragile. Mostly we’ll accept the fictional version of reality as they present it, but if they step outside that carefully constructed world the whole thing falls apart. It with this in mind that I’d like to discuss the new Strongbow advert – the first from their new “aaaaaah, first pint” campaign – and one specific section of it.

Strongbow ad

First off, it’s quite a good advert. The idea is clear and concise, the target demographic well catered to and the presentation slick yet charming. The basic concept is a good one – we’ve all experienced that lovely first hit of a cold pint on a summers day and they are saying that by drinking Strongbow you can prolong and heighten that sensation. The man in the advert goes into some kind of orgasmic trance when tasting the stuff, but that’s a good enough representation of the idea.

Or is it? I have issue with the background action of this advert, and I believe it’s broken its contract with the audience and has failed to stay within the confines of its set universe. The first question to ask is how long a period does this incident take place over? Judging by the amount the two lager fans drink, I could estimate no more than ten minutes, which I think is a fair time to consume a quarter of a pint. Ten minutes is statistically long enough to run into a charity collector in a pub. It’s low odds, but it could happen so I have no problem with that indicator of the passing of time – what worries me is the football match.

There is no football match playing when they enter the bar, nor is there one playing when the main character comes out of his alcohol induced coma. This can mean one of two things – that either a flash mob of sophisticated football fans overran the place for ten minutes before beating a hasty retreat, at the exact same time as our man first sipped his Strongbow (statistically very unlikely) or he was engaged in a buddhist experience of the liver for well over two hours.

This would mean not only did he miss a good portion of his evening out, but also that he didn’t see the football and his two friends will be a good three pints in by now and probably quite pissed. What is the message that Strongbow are trying to send out? That their drink is so fucking good you will become paralysed for several hours and totally incommunicable to the outside world? Maybe their grand plan is to create a nation of zombified alcoholics? Pubs across the land will be filled with exhaling Strongbow drinkers, grinning like petrified corpses and making noises like the recreated humans in Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

Of course that’s not the case; the football match was just used as a visual indication of the passing of time – but this is what I mean by a poor narrative within adverts. The advert has failed to make me want to buy the product as every time I see it I think “Christ! Poor bastard, how long was he there for?”

Of course it could be argued that since I’m talking about it the advert has succeeded in raising the profile of the product. Then again, the fact that it tastes like sugar fermented in pomane and mixed with piss also guarantees that I’ll never drink the stuff, no matter how good or how crap their adverts are.