Men. Aren’t they just the most sickeningly feckless creatures?

At least that’s the picture of “men” Oven Pride portray in their latest advert for “oven and BBQ cleaner in a bag”.

And it’s so outrageously patronising to men and such a depressing picture of married life that I get an overwhelming urge to kick my eyeballs out every time I see it.

The advert features a couple who are straight out of a 1970′s sitcom – she’s a sour-faced battle-axe in training and he’s a simpering emasculated idiot. Their relationship is so loving that they can barely bring themselves to look at each other. So instead they take part in a bizarre silent and deeply menacing gurning competition.

There she stands – hands on hip, desperately trying to suck her lips clean off her face – as a statuesque representation of womankind’s disgust at the inadequacies of men. Whilst he fidgets uneasily on his stool, presumably because he’s so idiotic he’s put his underpants on the wrong way.

This tension is only broken by an aggressively condescending female voice over claiming that Oven Pride is “so easy – a man can do it”. On hearing this, the woman thrusts the box of Oven Pride into the man’s chest with the force of an elephant on a pogo stick.

Relieved that his internal organs are still internal the man sets to work cleaning the oven.

But it’s not all bad news for the man. From the look on his face, and the mildly masturbatory way in which he shakes the bag, cleaning the oven gives him an almost orgasmic pleasure.

In fact with just a few more shakes of the bag and a shift onto the other buttock to contort his back-to-front underpants a little tighter and… yes, yes, there’s the face of a man who’s just inadvertently ejaculated whilst cleaning a household appliance:

Now I’m sure that this Oven Pride is supposed to be ironic. It hopes to get house wives all round the country knowingly tutting and shaking their heads at “men never doing the bloody cleaning!”.

But it paints such a depressingly misanthropic picture of marital life and such a staggeringly patronising picture of men that any irony is completely lost.

Oh, and did I mention that it’s depressing and patronising?

Here’s a quick bad ad submission from Anthony.

Everytime I see this overly-long advert, it makes me cringe.

The worst bit of it is where everybody is gathered around at the end rythmicly shouting “One one eight!”.

Just awful.

As every TV’s Worst Adverts fan worth their salt knows, Ghostbusters is one of my favourite films and I die a little bit inside each time I hear Ray Parker Jr straining out every line to the directory enquires based version of the Ghostbusters theme tune whilst simultaneously taking it up the poop chute off the 118 boys for a few dirty dollar.

It’s enough to make poor ghost-busting meta-psychologists cross their streams. It really is.

In a world exclusive I can bring to you the first draft of the new Ultralase advert featuring Jonathan Edwards and Steve Redgrave. Enjoy:

“Jonathan? How are things?”

“Steve. Same old, same old.”

“Must be 8 years since we competed together at the Games.”

“Where did you go?”

“Well, while I was competing with you I was having my wonky eyesight fixed.”

“Having your wonky eyesight fixed and competing at the same time?”

“Yeah, vision and competition. And Ultralase helped me see straight again.”

“Sounds easy.”

“It was. Getting A1 vision changed my life. Now I’m earning more money then I ever thought I could. Even the misses is happy. Oh and I was knighted.”

Is it me or does that remind you of anything?

Quite. The. Onscreen. Rapport.

Here’s a bad ad submission from Simon that I’m publishing virtually in full as I suspect it will help bring to end what’s probably been a very cathartic journey for him: 

“Arrgghh, the gotomypc advert!

Two businessmen are about to give a presentation to the board. But, oh no disaster “The presentation is on the office computer”.

You’re in a presentation. The clue as to what to bring is in the meeting title. But the fucking idiot has forgotten it. Left it on his machine in the office. What a fuck nuts.

But come on, it’s happened to all of us, hasn’t it? Hmm. Not me, John.

Options open to him at this point:

1. Apologise and make up some bullshit file corruption error. Maybe wing a manual presentation, you know, like people who know what they’re talking about.

2. Get a squadron of birds to steal his work PC and bring it into the presentation (or pre-sentation, if you come from where the ad’s from). Please Note: If you’re going to do this, you’ll need some Wagner going on and some hilarious fluttering about. Give it some drama since, you know, I’m rooting for this dunce.

3. Ask to borrow a PC or to connect his laptop to their internet connection; opening a completely unapproved line with the outside world (Jack Bauer would word this better, but I’m so enraged…). Or maybe he could get all hi-tech and use his modem as a wireless for his laptop. But he’d probably struggle with this one; seeing as he’s got a presentation that day, and has forgetten to bring it with him. In fact the chances are his feet are still wet from trying to work out how to use the toilet that morning.

It’s your pick. 1, 2 or 3.

If you picked any of the above, you’re still in a presentation and you still look like an arse.”

Nice one, Simon. Hope it’s made you feel better.

Q. When it was OK to treat women as objects?

A. 1984.

Currently, to stop us worrying about the world slowly melting and dribbling into space, we’ve got the credit crunch.

A problem essentailly caused by a group of retarded children trying to prove who has the biggest penis by fucking around with our livlihoods. And the penis competition became so fierce and the impact of the credit crunch so great that it’s the only thing anyone can talk about or even think about - even for proper grown ups who don’t work in London!

Don’t believe me?

Well, you might kid yourself that you were thinking about which shoes would go best with that new dress you’ve just bought. But you weren’t. You were thinking about the credit crunch.

And you might pretend that you were thinking what to have for lunch but you weren’t. Cer-red-it Cer-runch!

But I’m so sick of thinking about it or even hearing the phrase that I’d literally rather an environment catastrophe happen then have to listen to one more reporter’s histrionics whilst telling me that “this time next week the economic outlook will be so gloomy” I won’t even be able to afford to take a shit.

Although having said that, there is some fun to be had with the credit crunch. Because, just like the media and Tory MP’s, I’ve started blaming the credit crunch for all the bad things that happen:

Why are you late? Credit crunch.

Why haven’t you finished that work you promised me by this morning? Credit crunch.

Why haven’t you got a job? Credit crunch.

Except, if the new Jobsite advert is to believed, the credit crunch isn’t the reason why you haven’t got a job. The real reason is because you’re a stupid, useless, lazy wanker:

Or as Rob, who submitted this bad ad, put it:

Max Beesley insults anyone and everyone with his patronising and arrogant pseudo-edgy monologue. Basically, this advert repeatedly calls you a twat over and over again.

I hate angry adverts that shout at you. Hate them. And there are few more guaranteed ways to get me to not do something then to shout at me to do it.

So when someone very aggressively tells me to “UPLOAD YOUR CV NOW!” I’m inclined to think “Actually, I think I’ll just set fire to it then wank on the ashes instead, thanks very much.” So this advert kind of misses the mark with me.

But more so, the message I think this advert sends to potential employers is that the candidates on Jobsite are so stupid, so lazy and so feckless that they’re only on Jobsite because Danni Minogue’s ex-boyfriend shouted at them.

They sound ideal. When can they start?

Of course, that’s not really true. Employers don’t need to worry about the quality of candidates on Jobsite, I’m sure they’re fine.

Just a shame there aren’t any jobs anymore.

Bloody credit crunch!

Just when you thought it was safe to go back into the living room, something you just can’t bring yourself to give a toss about is back on our screens.

Yes, BT’s Adam and Jane are back on – at least they’re back on the nightmare box:

I had very low hopes for the future of the relationship when Adam went and took his “dream job” in Cornwall. 

You see, Jane was mad.So mad, in fact, that the only way she and Adam could communicate was using Instant Messenger – just like millions of fully grown British people do every day. Sadly for them, the internet was broken in Cornwall meaning poor old Adam couldn’t tell Jane what he was ‘feeling’.

Then Adam was so distracted by Owl TV that Jane wasn’t mentioned for a few months. 

But suddenly, out of the blue, a letter arrives from her!

Yawn.

The big problem I have with Adam and Jane is that I’ve got a deeper and more meaningful relationship with my right (and ocassionally my left) hand then they have with each other.

I don’t believe it which means I just don’t care.

Anyway, in spite of this apathy, TV’s Worst Adverts can exclusively reveal to you the question that Jane asked Adam – that Adam mysteriously answers “Yes” to: 

“Would you pay to watch Iron Man?”

So now we know, there’s no need to keep up this charade of a relationship, is there BT?

Judge for yourself.

Like many of the stars of 80′s TV shows who have had their series cancelled, Skeletor has fallen on hard times. Unable to find a proper job on “civvie street”, Snake Mountain has fallen into disrepair and God only knows when he last changed Panthor’s litter tray.

So poor old Skeletor has had bend over a think of Eternia while the man sticks it to him:

Not really.

This is, in fact, the horrifying sight of, the now 113 year old, Iggy Pop whoring his bag of bones for swiftcover.com car insurance.

Some folks on t’internet have claimed that, following the Johnny Rotten/Country Life butter affair, this advert sounds the death knell of punk.

Others refuse to believe that Iggy Pop, an icon of this anti-establishment rock music genre, could throw his principles out the window and flog car insurance?

What has he become? Some sort of stooge?

Anyways, if punk is dead (which it is) then, from the looks of him, I’m fairly certain Iggy Pop won’t be far behind.

“I’m selling you time.” Iggy tells us.

“Get a life!” Iggy emplores us.

If only poor old Iggy Pop would listen to his own advice and make better use of the precious little time he seems to have left and not churn out any more of this guff.

You know what it’s like, you want to get fit, you really do, but it’s raining outside.

No bother; have a cup of tea instead.

I wonder how much money I’ve wasted on the gym when I could have just been sat on the settee instead?

Judge for yourself.

Abba have got a lot to answer for.

Or more to the point the makers of Mamma Mia! have got a lot to answer for.

According to DVD sales figures (which I can’t find now but definitely heard this or read it or dreamt it), one in four British households have been subjected to Pierce Brosnan‘s singing and Julie Walter‘s dancing over the Christmas Holidays.

Although the performances are clearly laughable, your brain is far too mashed by sprout fumes and subdued by a cocktail of drink – the contents of which is lost in the haze but definitely began and ended with Cockburns – that it was just about bearable. Just.

But the worst thing about the success of Mamma Mia! is that the people at Take A Break have seen it:

I can’t decide whether the choice of the Bee Gees song is ironic or not because there’s only one word for this advert: Tragedy.