Just a few months back when I was doing a last minute trawl of the cheapo card shops to pay my annual “Your father is still alive” tax I noticed a card that read:

“Happy Father’s Day, Uncle”

If you’re looking for a sign of just how liberal our society has become suerly this is it: not only are we openly talking about incest, we’re actually make a greetings card celebrating it!

But it didn’t end there. A quick scan of the shop revealed that you can also get a card that wishes you a “Happy Birthday from your Pet Dog”, a card that commiserates you on “Failing your Driving Test… Again” and card that welcomes you “Home on Parole”.

And now Always seem to think they’ve spotted a gap in the market and are, in their latest adverts, wishing women a “Happy Period!”.

Yeah, have a “Happy Period”.

Alright, blood from inside your body is coming out of your body from an opening between your legs. So what?

No need to get all upperty about it, is there?

So why not have a happy one instead!

With this in mind, and knowing my special someone was about to start her period, I went out and bought a “Happy Period” card. I got some balloons and streamers too and a cake I had made specially. “Have a Happy Period” it said, in big red letters.

When she walked through the door, I let off a party popper and cheered “Happy Period! Woo!”.

Anyway, this is the reason I haven’t posted much over the past couple of weeks.

I’m making a steady recovery though… I can type again at least and the doctors say within a month I should be back up on my feet.

We seem to be too ashamed of the bloody awfulness of this advert in England that I can’t find a copy online so here’s the French one instead:

Did you remember to have breakfast this morning?

For your sake, I hope you did. Because God only knows what might happen to you if didn’t.

At least, God only knows what might happen to you if Dame (my 3rd favourite Dame after Thora Hird and Hilda Bracket) Kelly Holmes’ apocalyptic breakfast-skipping vision of the world is to be believed.

Here’s the shocking evidence Dame Kelly presents us with in here fight to, like, make us eat, err, stuff in the mornings:

A) A boy waits at a bus stop. As he stands to get on the bus THE CONTENTS OF HIS BAG FALLS TO THE FLOOR! The true horror of this event is indescribable.

“He obviously skipped breakfast this morning” tut-tuts Dame Kelly.

B) A woman repeatedly tries to operate a photocopier even though IT ISN’T PLUGGED IN! Oh dear, Lord, No. Noooooo!

“She skipped breakfast too” Kelly smugly informs us.

And although it’s easy to poo-poo Kelly’s advice, after all she’s athletics’ David Beckham, she’s more wooden then the New Forest and she’s wearing a track-suit (how else would we possibly remember Dame Kelly Holmes used to be a sportswoman if it weren’t for her wearing a track suit?) that she stole from the 1970′s, it’s actually very good advice indeed.

Don’t believe me, well you should.

Because on the day Gary Glitter became a paedophile he skipped his breakfast. Yeah, that’s right. His dietary imbalance directly lead to his desire to touch little girls. I’m sure this will come as little comfort to the victims of the Glitter Hands but had he eaten just a single slice of toast they would have been safe.

OK, I made that one up, but this one is true:

One day in August 2004 I skipped breakfast. And ever since that fateful day I’ve had to watch repeated interviews with and listen to inane commentary by Dame Kelly Holmes. Please stop licking your lips! God that dress is inappropriate! Put those eyeballs away!

If only I’d been more of a Crunchy Nutter that day. If only…

Any way, as an Olympian if there’s one thing Dame Kelly Holmes knows how to do it’s run really quickly round a slightly elongated circle. And, as a corporate shill, if there’s one thing that Dame Kelly Holmes knows it’s that if you skip breakfast you *may* miss out on energy for your brain and that eating a balanced breakfast (not just Frosties on Pop Tarts then?) *can* help you perform better.

I know this too because the tiny white text at the bottom of the screen tells us “Research shows that people who eat breakfast tend to perform better in the morning”.

Yeah, research – possibly done by Scientists, possibly done by primary school children (who may or may not have eaten breakfast that day) – categorically shows us that people who can be bothered to shove food down their offence-hole in the mornings *tend* to perform better.

If you’re uncertain as to what “tend” actually means I can tell you. “Tend” means “We couldn’t really prove anything for sure”.

So go on, have a bowl of Corn Flakes every morning and you *might* get better at “zipping things up” and you *could* perform better at “photo copying stuff”.

One thing you’ll know for sure though is that Dame Kelly Holmes won’t be judging you as you fail hopelessly at even the simplest of everyday tasks – you non-Olympian, breakfast-skipping loser.

While I’m on an Olympic sponsorship theme, here’s the advert from Omega:

If George Clooney had his way this advert would never have been shown on our teles (something to do with China vetoing the United Nations’ attempts to force Sudan to allow peacekeepers into the region. Isn’t that just so typical of them?).

But it seems that the power of the Olympic sponsorship deal is greater even than the power of everyone’s favourite people’s Champion and Hollywood bore, George Clooney.

Which magically means we get to watch (see what I did there?…) Omega make the mighty claims that:

“We have the ability to stop time.”

“And to let it run.”

Now I can’t help but think that just because they’ve been the official Olympic timekeepers since 1932 Omega have gotten a little too big for their boots.

Because if you’re honest though Omega, it’s more the second one that the first one isn’t it.

In reality, you have a man, or more likely a computer – putting another honest hard-working proletariat out of a job (wait until Clooney hears about that one) who can stop a watch.

Not time itself.

Come on, you don’t really have any involvement on a universal level, do you?

But then again, if they they did how would we know?

Hang on, why am I suddenly completely naked with full make-up (which I must say has given my skin a dewy glow)?

Not really.

That’s nothing to do with Omega – I always write advert reviews dressed like that.

Stop time? Honestly…

Following on from the great DFS – Nickleback crap off we had last month, here is the advert that you voted the most ear-bleedingly, eyeball poppingly bad of the two DFS puked up on our screens.

Enjoy!

More guff from Peugeot about their new 308 SW:

“Room to explore your dreams”

Anyone who’s dreams involve a Peugeot 308 SW in any way shape or form – regardless of how many “individual seats” it might have and even if that dream is seeing all Peugeot 308 SW wiped from the face of the Earth – isn’t doing dreaming properly.

Judge for yourself.

I’d lined up this advert from Churchill Car Insurance on the grounds that “it was a bit of a rip off of a recent AA Car Insurance advert” – you know a bloke driving a car insurers around in his car.

But in the time it’s taken me to get round to writing something (which at the moment is approximately the same time it takes Jupiter to get round the sun) there’s been a bit of a storm in a dog’s bowl over the Chruchill’s Dog using the F-word:

Does it sound like he says “Fuck”?

“Oh Yes” (do you see what I’ve done there?).

Of course, in no way is this as bad as the time the Kia Ora boy used the C-word or when Mr Soft said the N-word (who even knew he could speak?).

But with Churchill’s track record of inappropriate behaviour around women – one that would put even John Leslie to shame – revelations that he swears come as little surprise.

In the next advert I fully expect to see him dry humping the leg of a Queen Mother lookalike (if not the actual Queen Mother – you know what dogs are like, they’ll dig up anything) whilst smoking crack and listening to Scooter.

Where will this dog’s crimes against the British public end?

Do you remember the good old days?

You know, when Britain was Great and when old people used to live in bungalows?

Well those days are gone, my friend.

Nowadays there’s either a hoodie or an illegal immigrant on every single street corner and old people don’t live in bungalows any more – they live in regular houses with stairs and everything.

“What’s this madness?” I hear you cry. “Old people cant do stairs!”

Cardigans – Yes.

Werthers – Yes.

Stairs – No.

But I’ll tell you why old people don’t live in bungalows any more, it’s because bungalows are for old people and old people don’t want to be old people. They want to be young people so pretend that they still are by living in young people’s houses. You know, the ones with stairs and everything.

And if you try to get them to move to a bungalow now, they flatly refuse. And we all know how belligerent old people can be. You’re forever hearing them say things like:

“Why did I come into this room?”

and

“Whoops, my trousers have fallen down”

and

“I didn’t discover the Arc of the Covenant and the Holy Grail and set free a shit load of enslaved Indian children to not live in a house with stairs!”

Leaving you with no choice but to reply:

“Look, they were just films, Harrison. You didn’t actually do any of that stuff. Now pull your trousers up and read this Acorn Stairlifts brochure you’ve been looking for.”

Yep, Acorn Stairlifts help give old people that eternal youth fantasy that all pensioners – well, the ones who don’t live in the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull – are looking for.

Don’t believe me? Watch their advert.

WATCH IT!

Possibly. The. Worst. Advert. On. TV.

The lack of subtlety of the advert is amazing. It’s nearly the advertising equivalent of pulling your chair up really close to an old person and speaking loudly in their ear. This is undoubtedly because all old people are a little bit mental in the brain and can’t understand anything unless you clearly spell it out for them. You know, clearly spelt out or somehow related to a story about the War.

In fact, I don’t know why they didn’t just go the whole hog and have an advert that is simply a shot from a conservatory onto a garden, with a face that’s near the camera and out of focus, and a voice over saying:

“YOU KNOW ACORN STAIRLIFTS COULD REALLY HELP YOU GET ABOUT THE HOUSE MORE, DEARY. THAT’S RIGHT, CHURCHILL HAD ONE AT DUNKIRK.”

Anyways, it’s the whole little Jimmy sub-plot in this advert that throws me. You can’t help but feel sorry for him.

He’s clearly adopted (Come on, make some effort to get 3 actors that look vaguely alike) and he’s not coping with it very well. So he’s gone all “Romanian orphan” on us and is sat on a stool, tied to a bannister with a scarf, that he’s trying to make it go up and down with the remote for the tele.

Good God, Jimmy! You’re what, 10 years old? Don’t you have any friends to play with? From the way he’s dressed, I suspect not.

A shabby old t-shirt, trousers that are too short in the leg and (sharp intake of breath) sandals with socks! In my opinion making your child wear sandals with socks is tantamount to child abuse. You might as well send them Youth Hostelling on Jersey or to Austria to stay with Uncle Josef for few months. That’s how serious an offence “sandals with socks” actually is.

That’s the sort of thing that could scar a poor kid for life. It really could.

So when the old man proclaims “He’s going to be an engineer, like his Granddad.” (Although quite how the old duffer knows who the adopted kids Granddad is, isn’t explained), I suspect what’s closer to the truth is that little Jimmy is “going to be a little bit mental in his brain, like his Granddad”.

Because he’s sat on a stool, tied to a bannister with a scarf, that he’s trying to make it go up and down with the remote for the tele.

In reality I suspect it’s a highly clever way to make old men think that having a stair lift in their home isn’t such an embarrassment, particularly if it’s to help you do something for your grand kids. And yes, a lot of Grandsons look up to their Granddads. But it’s just so laughably unsubtle and such a ponderous tale (“Hang on a minute Dad, it’s gone quiet…”) that I want to scratch my own eyes out just to have something to do until the advert finishes.

Anyway, what do I really know? I’m off to lie in a cardboard box in front of the oven and try to operate a conveyor with my mobile phone so I can be just like my Granddad.

Ta ta.

Right, I should say from the off, even before you start typing:

“It’s hardly the worst advert on TV, is it Silky you shithead?”

I’m being more pedantically critical of this advert than I would be off, let’s say, The Gadget Helpline advert.

And I’m allowed to as well.

Not only because I’m the one mashing the keyboard with my fists eawmfwldkrewal, kdsaq d,kfr[rsu,erxc but because this advert is in a different league to, let’s say, Moonpig, in terms of production quality. I’d even go as far as saying someone actually thought about what was going to be in it before they started filming it.

I like to think of it as the difference between criticising a West End play and a primary school Nativity play. One is performed by attention seeking egomaniacs and the other is a West End play etc.

Anyways, where was I?

Ah, yes this Budweiser advert:

I really, really want to like this advert. I think it’s got a great (Warning: hippyish meaningless bollocks about to be typed) *feel* about it. I think it’s filmed nicely and that Colonel Parker/Sanders fella sure does talk funny in it.

But, but, but… I really, really hate the use of a modern band covering a “love to hate it” track as the way they depict dedication.

This probably stems from my hatred of bands that appear on Radio 1′s Live Lounge and *ironically* cover old tracks through a sneer. Bands that have names that mean less than nothing (read: that I just don’t get) like Vampire Weekend, Conjunctivitis Photocopier and Erectile Disco Function.

Bands that introduce the track with an underplayed and thoroughly unenthusiastic: “Here’s one that you might recognise.”.

Yeah, you’re damned right I’ll recognise it because it’s catchier, better written and has sold more copies then anything you’ll ever do, you self-satisfied, contemptuous cunt.

So maybe this advert is quite so scornful of the song it covers but it’s still trading on the hilarious irony of using Popcorn.

It’s been done before and it wasn’t funny then and it’s not funny now.

No, surely they could have thought of a funnier, more original way to depict dedication.

You know, like maybe if they rehearsed loads for a gig at a theme park only to find out that a puppet show was above them on the play list. Now that’s funny and surely no-one’s thought of it before?

OK, as I’ve admitted before, it’s easier to slag something off than it is to create something, but I just don’t find this idea in the slightest but amusing.

I told you it was pedantically critical…

I’ve mentioned previously that I’m not the biggest fan of the fashion industry. And anyone who’s seen the way I dress will tell you it’s true.

No, to me, fashion is the 10lb floater in the public toilets of modern life. Even the smell of fashion makes me retch if I get within, let’s say, ooh, 10 feet of it.

And that’s standing upwind.

But some people like the smell. In fact they love it. And they like the feeling too.

So they dip their hands in the bowl and smear the fashion turd all over their bodies. God it makes them feel so good, it’s almost sexual. It’s kind of like covering your body in fashion chocolate sauce except it’ll give you fashion hepatitis when you lick it off.

And when I see these people walking down the street I can’t help but think, as I tuck my navy blue polo shirt back into my jeans and do my belt up another notch:

“What do you look like wearing that shit?”

But it often does make people feel good about themselves because the message from the fashion industry is so often “Wear this and it’ll make you unique and special”.

And we all wish we were special, right? So very special.

But the fashion industry is a creep and what people don’t hear – because the fashion industry puts its hand over its mouth and says it in a whisper – is that “We made 500,000 of them in China last month alone! You fools!”.

Take the VO5 Extreme Style hair, erm, wank, for instance.

By putting the hair, erm, wank through your, erm, hair you can transform yourself from just another uniform, faceless, erm, soldier into a unique and special, erm, soldier. Or some shit like that.

In fact, it will make you so unique and special that you’ll have hair that only looks exactly like the hair of 7 other people on the military base that you’ve been mysteriously taken to.

Oh, and it will mean you’ll get to hold hands and cuddle on a Jeep. Ahh.

Note: If you really want to see unique hair you should see mine first thing in the mornings. Then again in the afternoon when I try to tame it but only make it worse.

Obviously what’s seemingly lost on the non-conformist, mould-breakers is that by buying this product they’ll be conforming to the business model or mould, if you will, that the hair, erm, wank manufacturers have devised or cast, if you will.

Tsk, I bet all those non-conformists feel pretty stupid right about now, don’t you?

What I love about the BBC is it’s independence and it’s complete lack of advertising.

AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HAAAAA!

Sorry about that, I can never say that with a straight face.

Whether the BBC is busy promoting a West End musical or pumping police propaganda into our living rooms it seems far from independent these days.

And you simply can’t turn onto a BBC channel without seeing an advert for one of their other BBC shows (OK, they might call them “trailers” but there’s at least one on ever 30 minutes on each channel).

Generally these range from the tediously factual “Songs of Praise on BBC 1 in 30 minutes” type to the outrageous tabloid headline “Pensioners Raped in NHS Hospital by Government on Panorama Tuesday 8pm” type.

Neither of which particularly bother me.

However, this one for the return of Bianca Jackson to Eastenders takes the biscuit. It really does:

Yes, Bianca shouting “Ricky” at the top of her voice may have been her trade mark but, oh God, her singing voice on this advert makes me wish I were deaf.

Sung in one droning note, it has the same effect on my brain as stuffing a burning bag of dog shit in my ear and having an angry door step owner stamping it out.

And she quite literally (Ricky) butchers one of the greatest pop songs ever written with her mockney accent:

“When argh ad you to maa selve argh deedn’t warghnt you argh round.”

She annunciates like she’s Barbara Windsor to the power of Dick Van Dyke.

Oh, Anita Dobson must be turning in her grave!

No BBC, this advert is too much, too much I tell you.