Chimpanzee Media Monitoring. Advertising without the intellect. Warning: occasional references to giraffe porn
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Don't bash the Bishop
Muchee likee these smutty Bishops Finger ads by JWT (via AdsOfTheWorld), which are cleverer than the country wench work previously pimping the brand (Here's my finger; Pull my finger). It's a nice play on the brand name even if it does conjure disturbing images of priapic clergymen. The connection between beer and slobbering over women will no doubt garner the usual gaggle of numptyist complaints. As recent big media stories have shown, the great British public, emasculated by a shitty economy and a genetic inability to protest properly (unlike the French, who aren't afraid to burn the odd sheep to get their point across), enjoy nothing more than writing angry letters or leaving irate voicemail messages. Christ, we're a fucking scary bunch when we're riled.
Admiral Akbar’s School of Dangerness: Uncle Ben’s
Beware the danger of glass containers with strange looking liquids. Many are cunningly designed to appeal to Standard White Housewives, especially Types 3-5, (those most commonly found in kitchens) whilst maintaining her domestic breeding unit.
Upon opening said container, colourfully-clad ethnic stereotypes will detect the interaction of liquid and air, even when on the other side of the planetary body. Said ethnics can usually be found dancing in front of a recognisable landmark. Observe here that ethnics facing left are in safe mode.
Ethnic stereotypes facing right have been activated.
A typical accessory of the Standard White Housewife is the Useless Husband. His sole purpose is to stand beside spouse and annoy.
To some, this sight is appealing.
Some ethnic stereotypes are heavily associated with overcrowded trains. Do not allow this to deceive you. Our spies inform us of the existence of a stable matter transference unit that allows ethnic stereotypes to travel several thousand miles in an instant. These people are not to be trifled with.
Useless Husband can be utilised if in Carry Object Mode.
This is not a bowl of vomit.
Late detection of incursion is possible by observing the environment. Note red letterbox and black taxi.
Other clues might include taxi driver saying “cor blimey guvna”, red buses and cheerful chimney sweeps. The invasion force is near.
This is the point of maximum danger. The combined breeding unit is in Feed Mode.
Useless Husband hears a noise. The Proximity Alert at the breeding unit’s domestic access point has been activated. This is the critical moment.
MAJOR FAILURE OF THE USELESS HUSBAND!
Ethnic Stereotypes have infiltrated the breeding unit’s territory! Unprepared, the domestic breeding unit is surrounded by forces outnumbering them three to one!
Decency prevents the depiction of the resulting carnage.
The circle is complete. The four elements of the domestic breeding unit have been recycled.
Taking a cue from last week’s Charlie Brooker rant against advertising, here’s a prime example of an agency surfing the internet to use someone else’s ideas. Was artist Keith Loutit credited by RKCR/Y&R for their Landrover Discovery work? Whatever the answer, you can’t look at the ad and say “ooh that’s clever” and give the agency all the creative kudos. Here’s an example of Loutit’s work.
There was some research published recently that claimed 40% of young adults do not know how to cook a jacket potato. Considering that all you do is wash it and shove it in an oven, one’s Daily Mail Reflex is to assume that youngsters are just too stupid. I think it’s more plausible that nobody’s actually bothered to show them. My 10 year-old didn’t know how to drive a car, but, after seeing a particularly harrowing episode of Dora the Explorer, he was so worried about how he’d survive a zombie apocalypse that I let him loose in our Hummer in Sainsbury’s carpark, as well as revealing that a brain shot is the only way to kill the undead. He also knows how to cook a potato. You see? Showing and doing is the only way to teach. Presumably the same 40% of potatophobes won’t be buying anything from McCain’s spud range because they’d have the added burden of opening the bag. Health & Safety rules would forbid the formal teaching of scissor-use but, again, one’s Daily Mail Reflex leads one to assume that the aforementioned youths would just use a flick knife. But seriously, I’ve long been intrigued by this brand. It really is a case of great advertising, shame about the product. Agency BMB have fun with the food porn genre in a way that trumps M&S. The recent Media Guardian piece about the campaign sums up my thoughts too: the ads work because, dammit, you know they’re bad for you but the copy makes you really want it. The problem is that having tried the product, it’s fucking awful. The whole goose fat thing (no doubt inspired by Nigella) leaves one’s teeth coated in a residue that’s ickier than a waitress’s forehead at a bukkake party. Still, it’s the ingredient that would draw the shopper away from the infinitely cheaper raw loose spuds and onto the dinnerplate equivalent of a deep fried Mars bar. It’ll be interesting to see how brands like McCain survive the recession. After all, lighter purses are the greatest spur to changing consumer behaviour. That 40% who can’t bake a spud? They’ll learn, because they have to.
The world we live in now. And how can you ban a campaign (The Sun) that ended months ago?
An ad at the pinnacle of WTF?ness
The end of advertising will look like this.
Monkey invasion sub-plan #9923
And while you are asleep we will send in tiny robot elephants to inject custard into your brains. You will be filled with a desire to spend your holidays sitting beside motorways, smiling happily at the thought of kittens. You will engage lorry drivers in pointlessly inane conversations before quietly murdering them to placate the purple fairies. In the evenings you will complain to the BBC.
Oatibix is served by WCRS. Bless.
Pueraria Mirifica - boobs or bollocks?
It was one of those twelfth-pint quests for wisdom that, without warning, hit you before deciding to continue with the next drink. I wondered out loud why it is that the part of a woman between her hips and her breasts is called the waist. My muslim drinking pal informed me that it's because God could have easily fitted in another pair of tits there. Speaking of which, here's an even worse joke about chest puppies: a naturapathic website charging clown money ($100+ a pop) for tit cream. I really can't understand why they'd need so many gratuitous demo videos(**Not Safe For Work**) which I've studied carefully and concluded that there's no difference between Before and After, other than with the viewer for whom it's probably quite difficult to remain sitting still.
Blow your noses and seize him!
Major Media Event Alert: Monty Python has launched its own YouTube channel. That's my excuse for posting my favourite Python movie clip here. It's one that the chimplets enjoy, sympathising with the agony of the Roman soldiers as they strain to hold back laughter. To them, it's just like those occasions when someone farts in school assembly.
Mike Hunt's mate
No idea of origin...
received via email
More woo infiltrates UK advertising
Two current ads from British telly that are worrying. We like to think that regulations keep our advertising clean from bunk and woo. I believe that consumers should be left in no doubt about what they’re being sold. This first ad at least has the honesty to be open about the organisation behind it. Brits in general have a healthy scepticism about religious messages, so hopefully the vast majority will ignore it.
But it can’t be right to sell a scientifically unproven concept such as God in a TV ad. You can hold a Mars bar. You can see the AA man fix your car. You can get that cheque from the insurance company. But what proof do you get that you’ve received divine service? And yes, it could be argued that it’s the church they’re selling, not the deity, but what would be the point in signing up unless you believed in a divine being? It’s like selling the sizzle without there being a sausage. Take a really close look at this second ad.
At first, I thought it was a peculiarly-skewed tourist promotion. I can see the message being enticing to almost anyone (although I’m gratified that my teenager, upon seeing it on Sky News, scoffed and judged it “weird”). But when you visit the website, there’s the feeling that this is some kind of humanist, all-inclusive, officially-endorsed peace-promoting charity. Dig around, and it turns out the the way to happiness follows an unexpected path. Dishonest, or what?
The iPhone app all girlfriends should have
Now this is what I call a product demo. It's an iPhone horse racing game which is demonstrated, in a lurid stroke of genius, by two blonde chicks spanking themselves. No more need be said.
When little girls' things make you think of Kill Kill Kill
Can you take the fear? Can you, really? Then prepare the brain bleach and don't blame me if this forces you to scoop out your eyes with a spoon. This... thing... it will haunt your dreams. For ever.
Buxton rips Obama a new catchphrase
Regulars will know how much I enjoy Adam Buxton’s TV and radio work. He has carved himself out a niche online too, and has just posted this Obama-inspired masterpiece.
It’s not like this in the films I’ve been watching
Funny, but you’d think with the subject matter in hand that ads for lube and condoms would be a bit better than this. Maybe the Trojan Games were the high water mark and since then, all the fun has evaporated. Or perhaps it’s a British thing, and we’d expect ads about sex to be funny. Instead, swap the products advertised herein for something more mundane, like shaving cream or a chocolate bar, and suddenly they would be quite amusing. Bored.
My first giraffe-related post in fucking ages
I have a white coat and have spent the last 15 minutes designing a certificate on Powerpoint. I am now a scientist so, yeah, fuck you Richard Dawkins. And, guess what? Just before I entered Giraffe Towers this morning, I happened to notice a red car with the first three registration letters RYX. Afterwards, I thought: what were the odds of me seeing a red car with the registration letters RYX at precisely 8:20 this morning? Fucking astronomic, that’s what. This proves I am psychic. And now, to complete my day of awesome, I have seen proof that there is a god, and here it is. Dear chimp worshippers: because a giraffe’s head doesn’t explode, there must be a god.
(Curious to see how long this video stays up until it dies of embarrassment…)
Beware the Violent Kittens Of Death
Part of the fun of being a parent is the joy of the many opportunities where one can confuse the shit out of the rugrats, knowing full well that they’ll grow up and find you out. For instance, Chimplet #1 believed for years that I was a retired Jedi and my spaceship was buried under my house. Other deliberate misconceptions enjoyed by the tribe are that my exercise bike could be easily transformed into a jet pack, that the Cretaceous extinction really came about because of the Fourth Awesome Dinosaur War (e.g. Velociraptors with plasma guns, Pterosaurs with miasma bombs, etc.), and my personal favourite because it is still believed by Chimplet #3, that little girls have to decide on their 10th birthday whether they want to remain humans or turn into a horse. I reckon this Toyota ad by Publicis Mojo must have been made when the creatives were completely shit-faced, or they are still very young and under the influence of a Dad With An Overactive Imagination cos the scenario here, that cats go to clubs and have huge fuck-off kung-fu fights with weapons, is one that’s right out of my book.
Up Mario's pipes
I now have lost any inclination to use Gumtree or play Super Mario after reading this personal ad.
Something else for Daily Mail readers to complain about
I can’t be arsed to find the film clip that this ad is based on, because I want as little to do with wee Tom Cruise and his crazy space monkey friends as possible. Instead, I’d like you to appreciate the athleticism and convincing air guitarism displayed by this ugly skinny bird. And just look at that jolly nice furniture.
This is why I use a map
Copy: "Stock Avenue or Stroke Avenue?" DRAFTFCB Caracas, Venezuela; pic via Coloribus
Obama wins. Death Star explodes.
With 300 British and over 100,000 Iraqi deaths, don’t tell me that American politics doesn’t matter to us. The election result is the USA finding its halo again. Once on the side of the angels, many of its countrymen and women working on this side of the pond were aware that affection for their nation by the pesky people of Yurp was virtually non-existent. Obama’s win is like Darth Vader’s mask coming off. The end of the evil empire, I hope.
So we broke in through my own bedroom window and decided to strip on the way out of the room. Don’t ask about the logic, or my fucking huge Y-fronts, but wonder instead about the strange spell that my new carpet exerted on Mistress #14. Just what is it about women and home furnishings? There must be something in the Shake ‘n Vac that turns their brains to custard. I mean, thirty quid a square foot and the daft cow dumps her bird-murdering beast on my brand new carpet. Be a love and give it a good scrub and hoover. I'm off to the footie.
