Hello there. God, it really has been ages this time hasn’t it? Days, weeks, even months have passed since I last visited the blog and yes, I am deeply ashamed of myself. There has been a reason for this neglect though. You see, as well as my usual life of wine, women and song*, ( *arthritis, rubbish telly and crushing despair ), I’ve actually been doing lots and lots of work.
Yes, I know. Weird isn’t it? However, strange as it may seem I’ve been in quite a bit of demand in my capacity of hip-swinging*, ( *hobbling ), Manchester Copywriter about town. Done a couple of websites lately and lots of stuff on a rather nice project involving a dead swish updating of a classic British sportscar. The ads and stuff should be out soon so, the moment that they are, you can expect a suitably ‘”Looky, look, look. Look how clever I am, me.” post, plugging it all.
Anyway, enough about me. We all know what we’re really here for don’t we? Yes, that’s right, slagging off ads on the telly,even though I haven’t had anything on the telly for bloody years. Not that I’m BITTER or anything. PERISH THE THOUGHT. Obviously this time of year provides spectacularly fruitful pickings on the crap ad front. None more so than the crop of ‘men’s fragrance’ ads that inevitably spring, like tiny, shitty, snowdrops onto our tellybox screens every festive season.
So, let’s have a look at Diesel’s Only The Brave and Paco Rabanne’s 1 Million offerings, shall we?
Now, as an arthritic, overweight 40something,( ok , almost 50. But how can I put this? Oh yeah. Fuck off. That’s it. ), I’ll concede that I’m perhaps not in the target audience. But in all honesty, who the flipping flip is? I’ll tell you who. Fops. A bunch of bloody fops, that’s who. And who wants to smell like a fop? I don’t, for one. They smell all foppy, them fops.
I mean, for christ’s sake, who’s aspiring to be these two tossers? What’s more, where’s that ‘Only The Brave’ bloke running to? It appears to me that wherever he goes, everyone’s already left. And when he finally does meet up with the designated drivers, they all reverse the hell out of there as soon as they clap eyes on the sweating, breathless fool. Not that I blame them of course. In fact, if I was in one of those cars, I’d be banging it into the closest available forward gear and accelerating at great speed right at the ponce.
And as for 1 Million man, while I quite admire the fact that one smouldering look and a click of his beautifully manicured fingers can make a lady’s clothes fall off, I’m also well aware of the teachings of Saint Bono of the Holy U2. Now he says, and I’m sure that you’ll back me up on this, that every time you snap your fingers, a child in Africa dies. See? 1 Million man, for all his finery and olfactory magnificence doesn’t look quite so appealing now, does he?
The callous, callous swine.