Well, actually, this is really part 3, but that doesn’t matter because no-one reads this crap but me anyway.
Celebrities in advertisements piss me off. That’s a done deal, they just do. They don’t need the money and they trade off of their public affection for this money they don’t need. Well-known people have often promoted products, but it always used to be that they acted as characters, in their capacity as actors, to sell them. Now they say ‘I’m Kevin Spacey, buy this camera’. Piss off Spacey, you mug.
Where I reserve a special pot of bile in my innards though are for those everyday folk, jobbing actors, extras, models or whatever, who are also in adverts. I don’t mean those ones where some bloke who used to be on the Bill turns up, I mean people who are just in an advert. I hate them, because they are turning up specifically to pretend to love the thing they’re advertising and it’s pitifully sad. They are sitting there, out of choice and, with no prior reference to them or who they are, are telling me that they love this shit, and that therefore I should too.
Cuprinol have a campaign for their domestic wood protection materials. Varnish and preserver to you and me. Not long ago the Cuprinol campaigns were straight-talking ‘Does wood good’ type ads. Ok, I’d think, I get what that is. I might buy it. Now they have a campaign called ‘The Wood Preservation Society’.
First off it nicks the song from The Italian Job and changes the words. Assholes. Secondly, it gets a load of idiots to march around in unison, mouthing along to this crap, and acting like spraying their fence panels and decking is literally the best thing they could possibly think of doing and, doing it with Cuprinol particularly, makes them just about cum in their pants.
DFS are constantly trying to convince me that I need to buy a new sofa. They aren’t the only ones though. I can often not believe that the UK economy can support so many businesses that seem to only sell chairs and sofas. Go to any retail park near you and see how many of them there are. It’s astonishing. Add in the bed retailers and you’d think we never spent any money on anything that didn’t cushion us when partially or totally horizontal.
DFS adverts feature young and old, but definitely groovy, families out for a fucking great day, buying a sofa. They leg it about, joshing and larking with each other as they try one dreadful corner set after another. Amazed at the reclining luxury the young mum, with the stylish and pretty daughter, giggle together on the floral prints, while the groovy dad and clean-cut kid man around, being fey-blokey and loving the manly leather 3-piece. Or, it’s got needlessly clean couples, being middle-aged, attempting to appeal to desperate middle-englanders who are clamouring for excitement and fulfillment in their middle-aged lives, just being totally fucking happy on their awful settee. It’s a settee!!
These people are trying their best to show that they love the product, that they love the company. They are attempting to exude the delight and excitement that the advertising companies want viewers to feel that they will also experience when they patronize this business. They are so unbelievably excited about their relationship with the woodstain/cereal/car/insurance/sofa etc that it’s hard to believe that there can be any room in their lives for human relations, emotions or personal connections with other people. No, these wide-eyed idiots are all about the purchase. They only get their high when they’ve got that lawn-feed tightly in their grasp.
The people in these adverts I can’t call actors. In the same way that I can’t call children dwarfs. They might have a lot of similarities, but they’re not what they resemble. What these people do is to absolutely throw themselves into the role that they are given. That’s fine. But the role that they are given is awful.
I don’t know whether they feel bad about what they do. I don’t imagine that the majority give two hoots about whether cynical busy-bodies like me find their life choice to be grimy. But, there must be a few who know. Who know that it’s not gone right for them. Who know that they are winding away their artistry. Maybe they do a bit of stage-work as well, which we just don’t see, and that is their fuel. The thing that powers them. Maybe they’re laughing at the people, in the Coronation St breaks, watching them pretend to love that coffee, those garden shears. I hope so.
I cannot bear to watch their excited faces as they bounce on that sofa, as they glide around that kitchen, as they labour over that dirty saucepan. I become frantic if I can’t find the remote control and have to watch housewives practically develop multiple orgasms at the cleanliness of their hob. The shine on the breadboard. The depth of colour in their roots. Go to hell.
Yes, yes, yes. There are PLENTY of better things to worry about. Yes, there are genocides, miscarriages of justice, famines and torture. Yes, I know that I could better direct my bile. It is, however, equally true that these people could get off of my television and stop trying to sell me the detergent I can’t afford, don’t want and don’t need. And, what’s worse, is they know it too.