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Bloody Awful Annoying Barclays Mortgage Advert

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barclays mortgage advert

Fuck off, Barclays, with your bloody awful annoying offset mortgage advert, now.

Fuck off, Barclays, with your bloody awful annoying mortgage advert, now.

Fuck off, Barclays, with your bloody awful annoying advert, now.

Fuck off, Barclays, with your bloody awful advert, now.

Fuck off, Barclays, with your awful advert, now.

Fuck off, Barclays, with your advert, now.

Fuck off, Barclays, advert, now.

Fuck off, Barclays, now.

Fuck off, Barclays.

Fuck off.

The post Bloody Awful Annoying Barclays Mortgage Advert appeared first on AdTurds.


Galaxy Duet Advert: Crimes Against Music

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See the Galaxy Duet advert. See its fearlessly multicultural cast. Appreciate its mixture of classic and contemporary; refined and urban. Feel its effortlessly transcendent musical symbiosis. Tremble as everything you know is turned on its head. There is only pre-Galaxy Duet advert and post-Galaxy Duet advert now. Can anything ever be the same again?

I ate a whole Galaxy bar once. My university flatmates had perceived that I was in a very bad mood and bought me a 400g bar of the stuff. I may have been giving up smoking at the time - or I may have just been in a really foul mood. Either way I ate all of it in one go. 14 fucking portions of Galaxy chocolate in a sitting. Sickly sweet though it was - like a Mellow Birds version of chocolate - I was a bit more chipper after that.

galaxy duet advert

There's no real reason for telling that story, beyond the fact that it's my only direct experience of Galaxy. But for about 30 seconds it took my mind off the debilitating noise from this Galaxy Duet advert, apparently voiced by a lady named Chanele McGuinness and a man rejoicing in the unlikely sobriquet of Bxnjamin. How do you pronounce that? I mean if you're Prince you can get away with a symbol; if you're the guy off the Galaxy Duet advert there are going to be a lot of people asking how to pronounce your name.

"You know, Bxnjamin."

"Err..."

"Off of the Galaxy Duet advert. You know, Bxnjamin..."

"You mean Benjamin?"

"...yeah, ok, Benjamin."

I always feel a bit mean having a pop at people who are probably only trying to make a bit of cash and a name for themselves. But if you star in a choclatier's horrible advert and are actively defacing a song most people recognise as rather beautiful you might as well go on Britain's Got Talent and openly insult the audience for being the braying, Cowell-worshipping morons they patently are.

This is yet another advert where I simply refuse to believe that virtually everyone involved knows it's absolutely dreadful. Everyone on Youtube thinks it's awful (it's telling that comments are disabled); everyone on Twitter hates it. Funnily enough there are people on Facebook who don't hate it, then again Facebook is awash with Britain First, Vote Leave and Boris Johnson Legend! groups, so what do they know?

Galaxy Duet advert on Twitter

The post Galaxy Duet Advert: Crimes Against Music appeared first on AdTurds.

Piers Morgan Realises He Is A Twat

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I wrote this for a now-defunct satire site years ago, but scanning Twitter earlier on today it struck me how apt it would be for Kelvin Mackenzie, if I replaced the word 'twat' with 'cunt'.

Former tabloid journalist and TV personality Piers Morgan is reportedly in turmoil after realising he is a twat.

The despised celebrity is understood to have suffered a moment of clarity while watching tapes of his old interviews.

Morgan is believed to have then spent hours poring over his cuttings file as the terrible reality dawned on him.

Morgan heads for a meeting with medical professionals, hours after realising what an emormous twat he is.

Morgan heads for a meeting with medical professionals, hours after realising what an emormous twat he is.

"Piers suddenly went white while watching a clip of himself on TV," said a person who knows Morgan, but was not willing to be described as a friend.

"He just started mumbling 'Oh my God, I'm a twat' again and again while staring at the TV. When he read some of things he's written in the past, he vomited several times, wept, and vomited again."

"We all know he's a complete twat, but to see the slow realisation dawning on Piers that he was a raging twat was terrible to watch. Even though he's a twat."

Psychologists claim that four out of five twats are unaware of their conditions, and even after a so-called 'Twattish Breakdown' many continue to live their lives in some kind of normalcy.

"We're all aware of twats in our everyday lives, and particularly in showbusiness." says Dr Raj Abel.

"But most of these twats aren't even self-aware. They're under the belief that they're perfectly reasonable, normal human beings."Often they have a high opinion of themselves, which can be what leads them to be such twats."

"They're so twatty, they're exactly the sort of article to approvingly retweet an article about what a twat they are."

"But when a twat finally has that moment of clarity, it can be a terrible thing," added Dr Abel, who has led research into the field of twats.

Jamie Oliver is believed to be one of the first twats to come to terms with his condition, and has devoted his later career to reversing the public's perception of him, despite several notable relapses.

But most twats never come to terms with their afflictions, living out their lives despised by the vast majority of their fellow men.

"Most twats find employment on chat shows or as newspaper columnists in right-wing filth rags like the Daily Express, Mail and Sun," said Abel.

Kelvin Mackenzie, Richard Littlejohn, Ian Wright, Matt Dawson, Matthew Fort, Greg Wallace, Jay Rayner, Giles Coren, Boris Johnson, Jeremy Clarkson, Keith Allen, Alex James and Toby Young are among other celebrity twats expected to start question their twathood in the aftermath of Morgan's moment of twat clarity.

"Generally it's only other twats who can stand be be around twats," says Dr Abel, who spent several months counselling Chris Evans in 2002, when the carrot-topped entertainer had a devastating twat-awareness breakdown.

"So those who have met or worked with Piers will be most at risk. We're in real danger now of a kind of twatty tsunami rippling out across the UK showbiz industry, with the biggest twat in the world at its epicentre.

"That's practically 100 on the Twat Scale," added a clearly-concerned Abel.

Morgan is said to be under 24-hour supervision as he comes to terms with how epically twattish he is.

The post Piers Morgan Realises He Is A Twat appeared first on AdTurds.

How Dirty Do Andrex Clean Routine Adverts Make You Feel?

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I asked people how dirty they felt after watching the Andrex Clean Routine adverts.

Here's what they said:

• As dirty as Katie Hopkins secretly feels every time she utters some hateful words she only says for money.

• As dirty as Mark Oaten's briefcase.

• As dirty as Amanda Holden.

• As dirty as the money in Sepp Blatter's bank account.

• As dirty as John Travolta's [redacted].

• As dirty as every penny Kelvin MacKenzie has ever banked.

• As dirty as everyone involved with Andrex's advert feels.

andrex clean routine adverts

In all seriousness - as far as one can be serious about this sort of gash, anyway - just how funny is the concept of wiping your arse? It's certainly not as funny as the people in these adverts make up.

And the gibberish responses uttered by these children - at the off-screen urging of the adults who probably wrote these lines - are not funny either.

Children are occasionally funny. But they are often not funny at all. Certainly not when forced to be cute for the jaded, listless amusement of adults in advert and television programmes.

I find something vaguely awful about press-ganging children into entertaining adults in this way: in music, in television and especially comedy.

It doesn't hurt that I am utterly immune to the mediated cuteness these media forms always take. To hear a child laughing might be a wondrous thing; for an advertiser to harness it in an effort to make us buy something is to sully its wondrousness, its innocence.

The affectedness of the Andrex Clean Routine adverts make me cringe, frankly, as it should any sane adult as far as I'm concerned.

Having tried to make us vote for what we do with our soiled toilet roll in the scrunch or fold campaign, asked us how wiping our arses makes us feel and forced minor celebrities (Dawn Porter and Arielle Free) to humiliate themselves for cash in an attempt to make us block up sewers, it seems we're now stuck with watching children come up with euphemisms for cleaning their rectums. The world's gone fucking mad.

How do the Andrex Clean Routine adverts make you feel?

Let me know how you feel about these adverts - and send a message to Andrex - below.

The post How Dirty Do Andrex Clean Routine Adverts Make You Feel? appeared first on AdTurds.

Halifax Top Cat Advert Disaster

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It's very much in keeping with modern times that mortgages are advertised by a stray animal that is famous for living in a bin. If you think about it that's where lots of people mis-sold unaffordable mortgages pre-crash probably ended up. But I'm in two minds as to whether this Halifax Top Cat advert is intentionally riffing on that idea or not - and whether it's a good thing even if it is intentional.

top cat advert halifax

Halifax has created a bit of a niche for itself over the last 15 years by deliberately undermining the idea of banks as being stuffy and officious. Going right the way back to Howard the dancing manager - via adverts that suggested all the Halifax staff were running radio stations - this is a brand that has been desperately signalling "I'm mad, me" like the office twat laughing at a Crazy Frog ringtone.

But is this Halifax Top Cat Advert really what we want from our banks? Isn't it quite a good idea if you're not perceived as a bunch of wankers in such a financially insecure world? Wouldn't it be better to suggest that Halifax are quite careful about who they lend significant fractions of a million pounds to?

top cat halifax advert

Who knows. These days we seem happy to spunk money left, right and centre and listen to politicians tell us that we can have whatever we want as long as we let businesses dictate the way we live.

I have a bank account with Halifax, because they offered the largest cashback for transferring a bank account. And for no other reason. And the first time I tried to use it - to pay in two £50 notes - I had one of the most surreal experiences of my life. Here's how it went:


AdTurds: Hello, can I pay these £50 in to my account please?

Halifax: No, we can't do that.

AdTurds: Why not? Aren't they legal tender?

Halifax: Yes, but we're not allowed to bank them.

AdTurds: What am I supposed to do with them then?

Halifax: You have to take them to the Bank of England.

AdTurds: The Bank of England... in London?

Halifax: Yes.

AdTurds: The Bank of England on Threadneedle Street in London? I have to physically take them there to bank them?

Halifax: Yes.

AdTurds: No. There's no way that's true. You must be mistaken.

Halifax: No. You have to take them to the Bank of England.

AdTurds: ...

Halifax: Let me check. There may be a branch in Warrington (checks computer). No, London's the only place you can take them.

AdTurds: Can I speak to someone else? I mean no offence, but you're clearly wrong. I mean, the internet. Telephones. No way do you physically have to transport bank notes to the capital city to be able to bank them.

Halifax: I'm sorry but that's how it is. I can write down the address for you if you want...


And at that point, realising I'd walked into a scary John Carpenter film, I slowly backed away from the counter, wondering if the shutters were going to come down and the Halifax staff would immediately attack me with knives and start feasting on my brains. I went to the bank I've always banked with, NatWest, and asked if I could pay in my fifty quids. Here's what happened:


AdTurds: Can I pay in these £50 notes please?

NatWest: Yes.


Not a blink, not an upwards glance, not a beat missed. No 'you have to go to a place 250 miles away at a cost far in excess of the value of these notes'. A simple yes. Perhaps we deserve the services we get. Perhaps if we choose to bank with someone on the basis that they give me a tenner more than someone else I deserve the kind of idiotic advice I got over that fifty quid.

halifax top cat advert

This Halifax Top Cat Advert tells us everything we need to know about our glib, brainless and wilfully idiotic relationship with money. An easy-come-easy-go, on-tick, never-never lifestyle that is our reward for being total dicks with money for the last 30 years. It's a Tory government advert; a Noughties and Tweenies Britain advert; a thoroughly stupid advert that, for some reason, thinks a bad Phil Silvers impression that was originally a parody of an army-set 50s American sitcom is a good framing device for selling mortgages.

Then again, this is a bank that has repeatedly had its knuckles rapped for a variety of issues. Perhaps we really don't care about how badly our banks behave, as long as they package it all up in a stupid advert.

Maybe a mangy conniving cat that lives in a bin and his dimwitted apprentice really are the best mascots for Halifax. A bank apparently run by - and for - stupid people.

Watch: Halifax Top Cat Advert

The post Halifax Top Cat Advert Disaster appeared first on AdTurds.

Tesco Fist Pump Advert; Naked Curtain Erection

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tesco fist pump advert

I thought it conceivable that the Tesco adverts featuring Ruth Jones and Ben Miller might have been quietly forgotten about, given the shoeing they received in the run-up to Christmas. Indeed the new Tesco Family haven't been on screen for some months, alas it was just a stay of execution. They're back - and this new Tesco fist pump advert suggests they're not going away any time soon.

What's more the same tropes are back in place. He's still an abysmally uncool Stupid Dad who revels in his #accidentalpartridge dorkishness; she's the sensible one who wavers somewhere between amused, bemused and gagging for it. They're a typical modern-day couple who escape their horrors of their everyday existence with a trip down the supermarket and playful sexual banter. It's enough to make you wonder what else Miller might be doing with his fist.

There's nothing intrinsically unpleasant about any of this and Ruth Jones and Ben Miller play their parts with all the comic timing and lightness of touch you'd expect two seasoned and able performers to. They're also shorn of their infuriating manchild here, which is what was driving most viewers to despair at the end of 2015.

Will he remain off camera though? I doubt it. A big fat wedge of Tesco's demographic pie is middle-aged parents with a kid or two on the go. Having two hot-to-trot empty nesters isn't going to play. What a dilemma.

It will be interesting to see if this plays out because Tesco must know that the dopey Millennial, played by Will Close, made people want to go and scream murderous abuse into the Twittersphere. But can they get away with sticking to two middle-aged comics representing their broad demographic sweep? Stay tuned...

The post Tesco Fist Pump Advert; Naked Curtain Erection appeared first on AdTurds.

New Admiral TV Advert: BDSM

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admiral tv advert

The Admiral is now showing a slight edge to her character, telling off hapless Tom for exactly the sort of kooky nonsense that seems to be her stock-in-trade in this new Admiral TV advert. Combined with her omnipotence this brittleness set me off on a disturbing flight of fancy.

What does the Admiral do when everyone's gone home at night? And what if the overwhelming burden of superhero-level powers, coupled with the high-pressure boardroom environment that goes with running a multi-billion insurance company were to have releases that might be deemed... unconventional?

I offer the following as my script for the next advert. Perhaps an Admiral TV Advert: After Dark kind of thing. What if, when she's finished always looking out for the customer during day, by night she's more concerned with looking out for her own sado-masochistic sexual needs? Granted, we're not likely to see such depravity on-screen but it all fits when you think about it. The uniforms, the slavish devotion to 'customers', the overly familiar relationship with work colleagues. In fact, there's enough material here for an entire conference...


Admiral: Evening Tom

Tom: Oh. Hello.

Admiral (simultaneously): Is there something...?

Tom (simultaneously): It's just I didn't expect...

Admiral (simultaneously): ..wrong?

Tom: (simultaneously): ...to see you. Hahaha!

Admiral: Sorry. Go on.

Tom: It's just... we never see you unless it's at the office? [Beat]. Can I smell gin?

Admiral (removing hat and shaking hair out): Oh, come on Tom. Even Admirals let their hair down from time to time you know.

Tom (awkwardly): Oh, haha. Yes I suppose all work and (tails off).

The Admiral fixes Tom with a grin and moves slightly closer

Admiral: Aren't you going to invite me in, Tom?

Tom (laughs without humour): It's just, er...

Admiral: You aren't going to keep a girl waiting on the doorstep, Tom?

Tom: No! No, come in. Excuse the, er. It's just I wasn't expecting, um...

Admiral (a little slurred): Aren't you going to offer me a drink? When I have too much to drink I'm naughty! I bet you like naughty girls don't you Tom?

Tom: Oh, haha! Well we're all a little bit naughty sometimes. Look, I've got this Fray Bentos pie in the oven...

Admiral (pouting): Don't you like me Tom? I've got all dressed up for you. I thought you'd like it.

Tom: It's... very nice. I always wondered if you actually wore it after hours... Look, this is...

Admiral (hiccuping): Aren't I beautiful, Tom?

Tom: Yes but I'm... I'm seeing someone.

Admiral: Oh, oh God. I've made such a fool of myself.

She starts crying.

Tom: Look, it's OK. Look I'm very flattered. You're a very beautiful... Admiral.

Admiral (sniffs): Am I really beautiful? No-one's every told me I'm beautiful.

She touches his hand.

Tom: Very beautiful. I mean there are lots of men... If things were different...

Admiral (softly): I've seen you looking at me Tom.

Tom: What?

Admiral: In the office. I've seen you looking at me; undressing me with your eyes. You want me Tom. You want to make love to me don't you.

Tom: Make love?

Admiral (looking down): It's so very unprofessional you know. Looking at me, lusting after me. And with me being your boss...

Tom: What do you mean?

Admiral: I could overlook it of course, if you were nice to me.

Tom: I don't...

Admiral: I mean if you were very nice to me, Tom.

admiral tv advert

Tom: Look, I think...

The Admiral removes her tunic to reveal a peephole bra. The aroma of Fray Bentos Steak & Kidney pie can be detected coming from the kitchen.

Tom: Oh Jesus.

Admiral: So you see Tom. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement. I'm always looking out for my staff Tom.

Tom (flustered): Look, I think I can smell burning and I said I'd visit my Mum...

Admiral (directly): Jesus Christ. Tom, you're going to walk over here, bend me over this couch and whip me until I come. Is that understood?

Tom: But...

Admiral (sharply): Is that understood?

Tom (softly): Yes.


15 minutes later

Admiral (breezily): Tom?

Tom (slowly buttoning up shirt while looking at the floor): Yes?

Admiral (coldly): We don't need to mention this. Ever.

Tom: No.

Tom miserably closes the door behind the Admiral, just as a smoke alarm in the kitchen rents the air.

The post New Admiral TV Advert: BDSM appeared first on AdTurds.

Mikado Advert: Chomping On Cocks

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I cannot wait for someone to SFX a bunch of cocks into this new Mikado advert, in lieu of the sticks of Mikado biscuits these actors are chomping on with an abandon verging on reckless and positively orgasmic. In fact the slobbering 'nom-nom-nom' noises seen towards the end of the ad seem to almost invite the notion of a comedic blowjob. Go on - watch it now and imagine there's a big throbbing whopper being guzzled.

New Mikado advert

As a result I've uploaded a bunch of screengrabs from the ad, which urges biscuit eaters to 'Unleash Your Mikado' at precisely 2.15pm when you're at work. If any passing Photoshoppers have a spare five minutes while enjoying a cup of tea around that time, be my guest.

The time is actually significant as snack manufacturers believe there's something called the 'afternoon snacking market'. But what is the afternoon snacking market?

afternoon snacking market IMG_2121

This artificial construct, being pushed mercilessly by advertisers, is a mid-meal break-out that should consist of ten minutes strolling around outside while eating an orange, but is more likely to be a listless ten-minute flick around social networks and consuming 300 calories of sugar, chocolate and butter at your desk.

Will it catch on? Undoubtedly. We live in an age of 'I do what I want' and in that context biscuit-makers aren't going out of business anytime soon - it's the capitalist equivalent of enabling alcoholism or being a feeder. I also think it unlikely that it's a coincidence the advert features three women to one man, no doubt reflecting the result of some violent focus-grouping.

New Mikado advert

In light of what seems to be a growing consensus over the dangers of sugar, I wonder whether we'll look back on adverts for snacks and junk food in the same way we now view ads for cigarettes or the fact we used to let kids play with lead soldiers.

In that context this silly, dayglo Mikado advert looks a lot less silly and rather more sinister. Though it is hard to overlook the potential for some Photoshop disruption - feel free to have at the pics below and upload them to 4chan or something.

Bonus turds for violently assaulting Toni Basil's Mickey too.

Mikado advert screengrabs

New Mikado advert

New Mikado advert

New Mikado advert

mikado advert

mikado advert

The post Mikado Advert: Chomping On Cocks appeared first on AdTurds.


New Fage Yoghurt Advert

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"Hurry up garlic, there's a dish in distress." So concludes this new Fage Yoghurt advert, which poses the unlikely TV detective pairing of, er, some garlic and some yoghurt.

I'm not convinced it's up there with Sherlock and Watson, or Morse and Lewis, but I'm well prepared to believe it's better than Rosemary & Thyme. As is traditional these days one of them - I'm guessing Yoghurt - will suffer from some sort of modish mental illness. Let's say anxiety attacks, for which she's undergoing a course of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy.

fage yoghurt advert

She's got a broken marriage behind her too and a strained (geddit) relationship with her two kids, who are called Curd and Good Bacteria. When life gets her down she's prone to hitting the bottle - and I don't mean tahini!

(Incidentally, the first few times I watched this advert I thought the simpering voiceover was talking about 'creamy strange yoghurt', which would be an interesting pitch).

Anyway, Garlic, he's easygoing and wisecracking. OK, he doesn't play by the book and he's got some rough edges, but he gets results. There's more than meets the eye to this Jack The Lad though. And if we know him like we think we do, Garlic has probably got his eye on a tasty dish! You're our hero, Garlic!

fage yoghurt advert

Together Yoghurt and Garlic will probably get into all sorts of scrapes. Plus there's the added 'will they; won't they' suspense. Think Mulder and Scully, but with an allium and milk fermentation. She's creamy and thick and he's flavour-packed.

Their arch enemy, Bland, is probably a crime-boss, though an oddly tasteless villain. Occasionally they meet up with underworld informant, Salt, and retired creeping vine, Cucumber.

If you hadn't guessed I thought this Fage Yoghurt advert was fucking ridiculous. Two things of note though. Fage? And how much raw of Garlic's flavoured-packed cloves are piling into Yoghurt in this ad? Dirty Garlic and Yoghurt! Get a room you two!

The post New Fage Yoghurt Advert appeared first on AdTurds.

McDonald’s Punk Advert: Crimes Against Music

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mcdonald's punk advert

You know what the least punk thing in the world is? McDonald's. You know what the second least punk thing in the world is? This McDonald's punk advert.

Food isn't very punk fundamentally, despite the best effort of Gary Rhodes' hair. Piercing your skin with unsterilised needles is punk. Spitting at your favourite band is punk. Starting a band in a garage, even though you can't really play is punk. Fighting is punk. Al fresco blowjobs behind youth clubs are a bit punk. Underage smoking, abusing drugs, flirting with extreme political views and vomiting on old ladies - all punk.

It's hard to think of anything that chimes less with punk's rebellious, alt, DIY ethic than a global multinational repurposing animals into the kind of sugary, salty discs fast-food joints laughingly refer to as food. When I look at the cover of Never Mind The Bollocks... I don't instinctively think "I'd like to eat a Big Mac". Likewise, when I see a McFlurry I don't go and sniff glue on a double-decker bus.

When I listen to the Buzzcocks I don't equate that music with visiting a drivethru alongside the sort of people who bundle up all the plastics and cardboard containing their high-calorie gak and throw it out the window. Although McDonalds' awe-inspiring contribution to the amount of filth on British streets does have a vague ring of 1977 about it.

I have visited McDonald's restaurants on about ten occasions in my entire life and I don't intend to add to that tally. Never have I seen a member of staff resemble anything like a model from Suicide Girls, although the co-opting of punk, grunge and goth by massive online brands pretending they give a fuck about tattoos, burlesque, beards and loud music seems to be what passes for rebellion amongst today's youth, irrespective of the fact that covering yourself in tattoos and making your ears look like well-chewed gum is just about the most conformist thing you can do in 2016.

mcdonald's punk advert pepperjack shit

Even culture's most alarming, atavistic, nihilistic movements get repackaged by rich white people and sold back to an unsuspecting generation of youngsters, flushed with hormones and keen to fit in. Today's teens, despite displaying the same outward fashions as their 1977 forbears, are much more likely to obediently spend their cash at a Maccies while Instagramming a pic of their slurry-in-a-bap rather than brick it, more's the pity.

McDonald's punk advert

Anyway, the advert itself. Why is the British teen equivalent of Ralph Malph sat in a Capri with his Dad visiting McDonald's. Would you be seen dead visiting a drive-thru with your Dad? And why a blingy Ford Capri? It's not in any way punk. Give me a clapped-out purple Austin Allegro and we'll talk. Why can't he speak? Why would anyone in their right minds eat pepperjack cheese - a material closer to plastic-coated vomit than food? What does punk have to do with a mass-market product called The Peri-Peri Chicken One, like it's an episode out of Friends. And why shit all over The Buzzcocks?

So many questions are posed by this McDonald's punk advert. The lingering one in my head - as ever - is what on earth people are thinking when they choose to actually hand over money for this shite in McDonald's.

What do you get? Diabetes with an impacted bowel thrown into the bargain.

The post McDonald’s Punk Advert: Crimes Against Music appeared first on AdTurds.

Brexit: The Ultimate Victory Of The Tory Press

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"If you proved to people that the world would explode if they voted out, they'd still vote out".

I found myself saying this to someone I was talking to at the weekend as an example of how the debate over whether to leave the European Union has moved beyond rational debate. I said it as an example of the exaggerated hyperbole this blog deals in regularly. But I'm not sure it is that exaggerated or hyperbolic. There is absolutely no point in engaging someone who is voting for Brexit in debate. There's a horrible anti-debate, anti-intellectual anti-everything spirit that means you might as well engage a chaffinch in discussion as a Brexiteer.

If you've made up your mind to vote leave consider this: could anyone say anything to you to convince you otherwise? The answer is almost certainly not.

up your delors

Leaving the EU is not a rational decision. It's a decision born of frustration, a sense of powerlessness, the nagging feeling that people are doing better than you. And I get that. I get that low paid, low security jobs are spirit-crushing. I get that you want more money and to be able to do other things. Money can often buy greater freedom and if you don't have it - or you feel you should have more of it - it's not a good feeling.

If someone comes along and gives you a magic pill they say will stop all that, well it's appealing. But you probably know deep down, it's not as easy as that. Because nothing ever is. Channeling at that anger and resentment and dislike of politicians into voting to leave the EU is like burning your house to the ground to protest about your home insurance renewal.

Here are the headlines on Brexit. Virtually everyone who works in trade, industry, security or finance thinks Britain will be worse off if we leave the EU. It is proven beyond any doubt that we will probably continue to pay about the same amount to the EU every week if we want access to the single market (we do if we still want to be able to buy luxuries like, say, food). Here's why:

That £350m a week figure? A flat-out lie. It's a straight-up lie. We get about half of it back already. And the rest - say, about £180m - is pretty much exactly what we'd pay after a Brexit to stay part of the single market. Net saving: zilch.

A 'Tory Brexit' - a canny phrase because that's exactly what it would be - would be bad news indeed for jobs, workers' rights, trade unions, the NHS, housing associations... Everything Labour voters like; everything all of us need. Boris Johnson and Nigel Farage are very rich white men and right-wing Conservatives. And they're going to be in charge for at least four years after Brexit. That's frankly a fucking terrible idea. Because you apparently hate rich, unelected politicians so much you're going to hand a bunch of them the keys to Great Britain for the next four years.

Last week I called Vote Leave liars and charlatans for claiming the NHS would be better off if we left the EU. That suggestion is like a ravenous paedophile wolf suggesting it can mind the kids for ten minutes if you want to pop out and get a pint of milk.

Let's talk about immigration, as Vote Leave want us to. They want us to 'take back control'. How would that work exactly? If we want to have access to the single market - even Farage, Johnson, Gove and IDS say we do - we will have to accept free movement of labour. Other European countries under this exact same arrangement have to. So they get no more meaningful control over their borders and few of the benefits of EU membership.

EU treaties currently mean we can instantly deport illegal immigrants, criminals or rejected asylum seekers back to where they came from. If we leave we won't be able to do that. Those people could stay in Britain for months. And our current border, the one that starts in Calais. Calais IN FRANCE. That'll be gone too. So by 'taking back control' through Brexit we probably have less power in governing Britain's borders.

The environment. Science. Higher Education. The arts. Gay rights. Travel. Agriculture. Whichever way you look the overwhelming consensus is that Brexit will be a major setback for Britain. That's 'making Britain great' in the same way that cutting your tongue out and tattooing a cock and balls on your forehead would be a great career move.

I could provide you with a link to all this stuff but there's no point. You've made up your mind already. Why?

Perhaps because our forefathers - the ones that lived and fought through WWII - would be turning in their graves if they knew we'd end up 'ruled by Europe'. Er, no. Statistically people of that generation would rather stay in Europe than leave. The people who were at war with lots of parts of Europe want to stay in Europe. Let that sink in.

What about Churchill? No dice there I'm afraid. The cigar-chomping PM's grandson says Churchill 'loved Europe' and says suggestions he'd vote leave are 'wrong' and 'appalling'. It's no coincidence that David Cameron and Gordon Brown have invoked the rows of the war dead in this debate. The modern Europe - united, at last - was the WWII generation's prize for suffering through two world wars. The best way to make sure those countries stopped fighting each other, it was reasoned, was to make them work together. And guess what? It's worked for 70 years.

You remember all that shit we were told would happen if Scotland had voted for independence? Well that's going to happen in the event of a Brexit. The endless Tory government, compromised energy and nuclear security and diminished international role - which is it of those prospects that is so attractive?

Ah, security. Another subject on which there's a consensus that we'd be worse off. Europe shares tonnes of security information with us at the moment. You know who wouldn't share tonnes of security information with us, were we to leave the EU? That's right. Europe. Our military is on its arse. Being part of a bigger military, in these frightening times, is no bad thing.

You know who wants Britain to leave the EU, apart from Vote Leave? Donald Trump and Vladimir Putin. Trump, essentially, because he's a troll and he knows anti-Europe sentiment plays well to Republican voters. But let's consider Putin, a man who is both a Bond villain and the man in charge of the second largest nuclear arsenal in the world.

It's considered fairly likely by various experts that there'll be a war with Russia in the next 10 years, so aggressive and nationalistic have they become. Gangs of Russian thugs are marauding around France as I write, smashing up the heads of football fans. Their Russian deputy chairman of the Russian parliament's response? "Well done lads." I shit you not.

I think it fairly likely that the Euro 2016 violence is state-sponsored, just as I consider it fairly likely that Putin's recent Syrian adventure was a deliberate effort to destabilise Europe by driving millions of refugees from the Middle East to cross the Mediterranean. By bombing nurseries, hospitals and the houses of civilians. Putin is trying to facilitate the break-up of the EU because it strengthens Russia's influence in the area and weakens the West's ability to oppose a regime verging on the fascistic. That's why Putin wants Britain to leave the EU.

Hey you. That person I was talking about who will vote leave even if I demonstrate to you that the world will blow up if we leave the EU. You're still voting leave aren't you? You didn't even blink, not for a second. You're probably lining up a comment about taking back control or quoting Ian Botham right now.

I'm not even trying to change your mind, just demonstrate to you how beyond reason you are.

To change your mind is the most powerful thing you can do, the perfect illustration of a mind clear enough that it can admit to itself that it might be wrong. But changing your mind is out of fashion these days. It's a sign of weakness, not strength. We live in an age not of considered ambivalence but of idiot certainties. The belief that everything will be alright if we hack our own legs off is the ultimate expression of it. But how did this happen?

We've been told now for around 35 years that Europe is corrupt, undemocratic, wasteful, venal, bonkers. They want to unstraighten our bananas, ban Christmas and make everyone a disabled lesbian. Why? Because they're frogs, krauts, wops and spics. Because they hate Britain. Because they couldn't beat us in war so they subjugate us through bureaucracy. As far as the kind of people who tell us this stuff are concerned anyway.

But you surely know that virtually every organisation is corrupt, undemocratic, wasteful, venal, bonkers. Your Sunday school, cricket club, local political party is. Unlike big business of course, which is never any of these things. You probably give a couple of grand to your local Tesco every year but I don't hear you complaining about the cashier's pension, or that you didn't get a chance to vote out the incumbent fishmonger (not that you would anyway because, statistically, you don't vote).

But you know this. You know that civil servants aren't elected. Doctors, CEOs, judges, the church, the military, academics, diplomats, historians, pilots, scientists: unelected. You know that you get a chance to elect an MEP and you know that you barely ever vote. When you're given new opportunities to democratically elect state officials, like police commissioners or mayors, you don't vote. So how come you've such a bee in your bonnet about unelected EU officials?

You know who else won't be elected? Our new Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, when we vote to leave the EU. A privately-educated, self-interested, unelected, careerist politician. How much more elitist and undemocratic do you want your PM? But you know this.

You know all those stupid stories about bananas and Christmas and lesbians are made up. Just as you know that, on the whole, the French, Germans, Italians and Spanish are lovely people. Just as you know that it's shameful that we won't help drowning Syrian children and that east European immigrants work their arses off and large swathes of our economy would collapse into dust without them.

You know that this is all true and you know that we'll probably be worse off. But you're voting leave anyway.

Because there been a cancer needling away in your head for the last 30 years, whispering this bullshit into your ear every day. Every single day in black letters on muddy white paper, the ink seeping into your fingerprints like poison. Finding its way into Facebook posts and echo-chamber TV news and received wisdom. Bullshit in the pub, bullshit at work, bullshit on social media.

Europeans are not your enemy. The EU is not your enemy. Immigrants are not your enemy. The face of the enemy is probably one you don't even recognise. They are the people who have spent decades convincing you to vote for something that will make you worse off, less safe, more impotent.

The Express. The Mail. The Times. The Sun. The Star. The Telegraph. The Evening Standard. I name them now and forever as deceivers, misleaders, false prophets. Unelected, loaded, corrupt, untaxed. They will lie to you every day to empower their owners and ensure their own continued undemocratic control over what happens in British politics. Brexit will be the ultimate achievement of the Tory press.

Vote Leave - and do the bidding of our real unelected, untaxed offshore masters.

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Source: FT

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On Cunts And James Martin’s Asda Advert

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James Martin then. In this Asda advert. You knew it was coming, surely? No-one can get away with an advert so awkward it could only be worse if it starred Jeremy Corbyn. Not without some lunatic on the internet writing about it anyway. But the fact that it's James Martin lends an added piquancy.

I've disliked James Martin for a while now. The housewife's favourite (Martin is presumably desirable only to people whose hormones have retired to a bungalow) is a likeable enough presence when chopping up carrots or dolloping some clotted cream on a treacle tart, but he's been on my radar for a years now for something he wrote in 2009.

Martin used to write one of the those celebrity car columns for the popular press. You know the ones - 500 words of sub-Clarkson blah about how great every single car that was delivered to my house is, nary a bad word lest I annoy the PRs and editors that actually pay me for driving cars. If you read one such car column - Richard Hammond and Chris Evans write similar columns - and base your car purchase on them you might as well walk into a showroom because you saw a nice car advert and throw wads of £50 notes at salespeople.

Martin's petrolhead credentials were also dealt a severe blow when he attempted to enter the Mille Miglia. Rather than taking on the endurance race with an actual car, Martin turned up with a pair of leather racing gloves and a poster of a Triumph Dolomite. In fact most of the accompanying BBC documentary showed the celebrity fennel-botherer looking at an Alfa Romeo Duetto and crying.

Anyway, I digress. My chief complaint with James Martin, perhaps best known for presiding over competitors to make an omelette in 27 seconds, is one such car column where he described running some cyclist off the road for a laugh:

"God, I hate those cyclists. Every last herbal tea-drinking, Harriet Harman-voting one of them. That's one of the reasons I live in the countryside, where birds tweet, horses roam, pigs grunt and Lycra-clad buttocks are miles away. But recently, there's been a disturbing development.

"Each Saturday, a big black truck appears at the bottom of my road, with bikes stuck to the roof and rear. Out of it step a bunch of City-boy ponces in fluorescent Spider-Man outfits, shades, bum bags and stupid cleated shoes, who then pedal around our narrow lanes four abreast with their private parts alarmingly apparent. Do they enjoy it? They never smile. I'm sure they just come here to wind me up.

"Twenty minutes into my test drive I pulled round a leafy bend, enjoying the birdsong – and spotted those damned Spider-Man cyclists.

"Knowing they wouldn't hear me coming, I stepped on the gas, waited until the split second before I overtook them, then gave them an almighty blast on the horn at the exact same time I passed them at speed.

"The look of sheer terror as they tottered into the hedge was the best thing I've ever seen in my rear-view mirror."

To this day I'm not sure whether he meant it or not. In all likelihood James Martin has nothing against cyclists at all. There's an even better chance that he's a nice guy and, were you to meet him, he might cut you a slice of homemade Hunstman's Pie and chat about sport. But if he didn't mean it that's even worse.

Being a cunt

Controversial opinions are very popular these days. But merely disliking cyclists is so Noughties. These days you're not even approaching controversial unless you're actually wishing death upon refugees - that's the benchmark for getting a radio show or column in a national newspaper anyway. Stewart Lee once described it as 'having controversial opinions for money', but really that's outdated too. 'Being a cunt for money' is a bit more like it.

But really these people don't even have the balls to be cunts. If James Martin had really run some cyclists off the road for a laugh - rather than pretended to in a newspaper column - then he might qualify as a genuine cunt. But I don't believe it for a minute. Just as I don't believe the biggest pretend-cunts on Twitter (Piers Morgan, Tony Parsons, Toby Young, Louise Mensch, Julia Hartley-Brewer, Dan Hodges et al) are really cunts at all. They don't have it in them to be a proper cunt like, say, Nigel Farage. They've simply realised there's gold in faux-cuntishness.

Jeremy Clarkson paved the way for pretend cunthood. I have worked with people who know Clarkson and the impression I get is that he isn't a cunt at all - his recent backing for Remain suggests that even Clarkson realised he had to row back from his professional cuntness. Perhaps a realisation overcame him that his words held power and that there was a real danger people might actually believe the dangerous things he spluttered in return for money. I've had the feeling for most of the last week that Boris Johnson has been coming to terms with the same realisation - that his own cunting had reaped some dire reward.

However in these strange times being a cunt, even a pretend cunt, isn't the career-killer it used to be. To be a cunt or appear to be a cunt is, more than likely, to have a lot of followers on the internet and - in a few lucky cases - to be able to forge a career out of cuntery. It is essentially a cross between lying to people and poking them in the eye with a stick. The bigger the stick, the more you earn.

Katie Hopkins, the biggest pretend-cunt on the planet, probably wouldn't pluck out the eyes of a crying Syrian child refugee just for the hell of it. But she'd be happy to pretend that she would, just to annoy and appal you so that the Mail On Sunday gives her some money. In a roundabout way these people attain some level of cuntdom, simply by pretending to be a cunt.

So there you have it. Much like the bloke who goes made in that episode of Colditz, simply be pretending to be mad, a pretend cunt can become a real cunt. And we're knee-deep in cunts in Great Britain at the moment. As Jarvis Cocker says, cunts are still running the world. But they seem to lurk around every corner of social media in a country still reeling from blowing its own knees off.

I'm sure James Martin isn't a cunt. But in pretending to be one, all those years ago, he demonstrated to the world the whole sorry, pathetic and grubby affair of being a cunt for money.

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Voltarol Tennis Advert: New Balls Please!

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voltarol tennis advert

Very little to say about this Voltarol tennis advert, featuring a Stupid Dad being beaten at tennis by his lithe and pain-free wife, like the loser he is.

Very little, that is, apart from the last few seconds featuring a bizarre crash zoom on the sweaty chump's face, along with a painfully gasped "New balls please!" that seems to imply some sort of testicular torsion.

The fact that it brings back some welcome 80s sitcom-style daftness, mixed with a healthy dose of cackhandedness, is more than welcome.

Sounds like our tennis husband could do with some bollock gel. New balls please!

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#BeLegacy

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belegacy stella artois

Look, I know, right? They're only doing their jobs and it fell to someone in the retained agency Stella Artois employs to come up with a catchphrase. There had to be a catchphrase, a hashtaggable piece of blah that people could electronically write at one another whenever something amazing happened. Something that conveyed all the heritage, excitement, aspirational and 'fucking hell!' All encapsulated in one crapulous assortment of letters.

Just Do It.

The client had said something as good as 'just do it' - quotable, meaningful and concise and brilliant in equal measure. And the people knew they could never come up with something as good but they had come up with something so they started to brainstorm. When they could have been walking in the beautiful British countryside, enjoying a great pub lunch, reading a great book or just having sex - they were brainstorming instead.

And someone in a room about half a mile north of Euston stopped gnawing on their pencil and said '........ #belegacy'? And someone wrote it down on a whiteboard with a bit of a crinkled nose to suggest they thought it sucked balls but felt tipped it next to the other ones anyway.

#gobig

#scenes

#putashiftin

#legendhappen

#asserthistory

#belegacy

#seizeactualness

#inhabitnow

#urexist

#humandoing

#engageforever

#dreamactualise

And seven people looked at the hashtags and felt a well of sadness in the pit of their chests and looked out across London; for a second they faced up to what a colossal waste of time and energy it all was and teared up as they thought of fields, beaches, friendship and the baby birds in the early summer trees.

They thought of being six, 11, 18, 21. Times in their lives when anything could have happened. They could have done any job, gone anywhere, been with anyone and done anything. Before the job, spouse, car and house that now defined them. Before hashtags.

And then they thought of the deadline and the client and the bonus and the graphic designers waiting for the brief. And they knew the graphic designers longed to create quirky, minimalistic magazines about food, bikes, tech and architecture. And they knew the graphic designers would have to make these utterly insignificant gestures of marketing fart, which would then be returned by a client making just enough changes to make their job seem meaningful.

And they thought of the people who would hear #belegacy - and they knew the people would hate it and see through it and they knew they'd have to do it anyway. They'd have to approve #belegacy and tweet it and actually say it while looking enthusiastic, for God's sake. And they knew there'd have to be an app. And someone would have to be paid half a million dollars for Facebooking, tweeting and Instagramming #belegacy with some pictures of beer and sunsets.

And they thought of being children, and they thought of love and family and the meaning of it all and they thought of being dead.

#belegacy

And a little switch flicked off for a fraction of a second and then flicked back on again. And they nodded and wrote things down and agreed that Jasper would action that item and left the room.

And they looked down at the streets below and thought how the people and cars looked like ants. And they knew whatever happened from that point onwards there would always #belegacy.

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McDonald’s Advert Voiceovers: An Everyday EveryDave

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"Why havent you made a post about that annoying CUNT that is voiceovering the McDonalds ads????His churpy disposition while plugging corporate crap is beyond fake and contrived!! Come on stop moaning about James Martin ripping cyclists and get to the real route of evil!"

So spake Kirsty in a missive to me earlier this week. And she's got a bloody good point. Not about James Martin, who deserved the monstering he got recently because of his past misdemeanours and continuing Asda adverts (seriously, what is he doing in these people's houses?). Because that chirpy voice on the McDonalds' voiceovers has making me dig my nails into the palm of my hands until I draw blood for several years now.

It's a voice that has almost certainly been focus-grouped to death, a voice deemed sufficiently non-threatening, familiar, colloquial and trustworthy. Exactly the same sort of voice you could imagine ordering a Big Mac, complimenting a barmaid on her smile or overcharging you for some roofing work.

A Brexit voice; a working-class Tory voice. Perfectly nice feller, but don't get him started about the Poles. Three kids, and one he never sees from a teenage dalliance with Suzy 'Melons' Mellor in the back of his Focus ST.

Works as a plasterer and odd-job man these days but he's had loads of jobs. Got an NVQ in construction, learned his trade as a plumber's mate and built his own patio.

Drives a Ford Transit these days, but didn't pass the entrance exam at Dagenham. Throws his daily copy of The Sun in the front window, like a fry-up and a beer, packs three different England shirts for the annual family holiday to Spain.

Does this person exist? Apart from a marketing persona drawn up on the back of a fag packet by various agencies as exactly the sort of south-eastern C2 they'd like to attract to their brand (pictured above), no. But they're all character details and traits I can imagine went into identifying this voiceover and everything said voiceover needs to communicate. If that voice doesn't align with the offering and connect with the audience you might as well not bother.

Consider, for example, the McDonald's voiceovers spoken by Donald Sinden, David Hyde Pierce or Gwyneth Paltrow. Imagine Sue Lawley doing the McDonald's advert voiceovers. Derek Jacobi, Alan Bennett or Paul McGann. These are all people who earn a lot of money using their voices. But throw them into a McDonald's advert and it's just weird.

So we end up with a cockney Dave and the myriad associations it's possible to make with a friendly, everyday voice that sounds seconds away from slipping into 'apples and pears' and 'me old china'. A voice that says things like 'McDonalds is just like you' and 'eating something called a Happy Meal at the age of 45 is a perfectly reasonable thing do to' and 'associate McDonald's with being English, even though it's an American-based multi-billion multinational'.

There's a rabbit off though. Because in the latest set of McDonald's adverts 'Dave from Essex', as his persona is surely called, isn't doing the voiceovers. There's no voiceover at all on this effort, which suggests that a McDonald's burger at 5am after your soul-destroying nightshift is a familiar, welcome reward, rather than a grim, coming-down, drunken or knackered calorie top-up somewhere out of the rain.

And what's this? It's one of those Donald Sinden-style voices I was talking about earlier in this new advert that's happy to crap all over The Jam's That's Entertainment. It's a rather different sort of McDonald's advert - one that's trying to align Maccies with rewards and even, unlikely though it may seem, as the sort of thing you deserve to celebrate the end of a day, a birthday or reunion.

Let me say this now. If you want to meet me for a coffee, a meal or just to hang out with a gang of friends - and then suggest we go to McDonald's - I'd think you're either clinically insane or five years old. If someone in a group of people I'm with prior to wedding suggests a little trip to McDonald's I'd think they're still drunk from the nigh before. And if someone Skypes me from a McDonald's I'd assume it was a cry for help.

I get that McDonald's is easy - especially if you have two shrieking kids in the back of the car. I get that it's often the only place open and I can understand that people find a sort of comforting familiarity in their sugary, empty-calorie foodmatter, even if I think they're barking mad.

I get Dave from Essex and that vile little whistle. You know where you are with it. Even though it's the worst voice you can ever hope to hear, short of Nigel Farage turning up on your doorstep supping some ghastly warm southern beer and chomping on a McNugget.

Edited to add: Incidentally, put the subtitles on while watching this latest ad and you get all manner of violent malapropisms, a couple of which I'd included below. Half like a Fall song; half like the random scribbles of a US gun nut prior to a mall shooting.

Screen Shot 2016-07-28 at 16.18.32 Screen Shot 2016-07-28 at 15.55.27

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How Red Dwarf Explains ‘The MSM’ And ‘So-Called Experts’

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A growing trend on social media and, increasingly, internet conversation, is a deep and vicious dislike of being told what to do, think and behave by other people. To some extent this is wholly laudable; on the other it's one of the most idiotic and perilous facets of modern life. To varying degrees and across the political spectrum hatred, mistrust and frustration are fuelling the successes of Donald Trump, Jeremy Corbyn, Nigel Farage and dozens more. And this can all be explained with a short clip from venerable science-fiction show Red Dwarf.

The Mainstream Media (MSM) is one of the banes of our modern existence - the vocal part of the military-inudstrial complex determined to keep us down, tell us lies and advance the wishes of our masters. It wants us to stay in Europe, stay in NATO, get rid of Jeremy Corbyn and feed us messages inimical to our own interests: from climate change to Europe to Donald Trump.

Or is it? The belief that the media is working against our interest through bias, selective reporting and outright lies is one of the prevailing beliefs of our times. Yet the reality of this situation is far more complex that the black-and-white certainties of the modern age. Another prevailing phenomenon is a deep mistrust of those identified as elites, and this is another difficult situation to explain.

Cynicism can be healthy, vital even. But at one extreme it can mean that people are inclined to ignore the advice of scientists, economists, doctors... people who have spent their lives devoted to knowing what they're talking about. This reached its apotheosis during the Brexit campaign when Michael Gove said these actual words: "People in this country have had enough of experts".

Had enough of experts. Just consider that phrase for a few moments. In a world where knowledge, experience and judgment have become dirty words we might as well start playing with lead soldiers, take up smoking when we're 12 and driving without wearing seatbelts again.

Saying that I have a few fantasy scenarios where Michael Gove might 'ignore the advice of experts:

A sherpa: "I wouldn't walk out onto that slippy precipice overlooking a 1000-foot drop Mr Gove."

A fireman: "Your plan to unicycle into that burning building while doused in petrol is an error, in my opinion, Mr Gove."

A physicist: "Juggling plutonium bars is likely to blast your body in harmful radiation, leading to a painful death, Mr Gove."

Pshaw. What do these 'experts' know anyway?! They are elites so anything they say can be disregarded. It reminds me of an early episode of Red Dwarf, Confidence & Paranoia, where two elements of Dave Lister's psyche are made real. Confidence, the positive side of the coin, eventually tries to convince him that he doesn't need oxygen in deep space and anyone who tells him otherwise is a 'loser always trying to make you feel small'. In an attempt to prove that what he's saying is true, Confidence takes his own space helmet off - and explodes into a million pieces.

That, in a nutshell, is the modern discourse across politics and the media. Doctors. Teachers. Scientists. Politicians. Anything any of them say can now be ignored, ridiculed or attacked because of anti-intellectualism, inverse snobbery, jealousy or contempt. And in every newspaper, on every TV channel there's a modern-day Confidence telling us that there are losers around every corner trying to make us feel small.

Donald Trump and the Brexiteers (surely a pub-rock band name) are the most obvious examples of this, despite the fact that they are some of the richest people in the public eye and are demonstrable liars. But their willing accomplices are the newspapers and echo-chmber TV channels. The MSM. So why do I object to the denigration of the mainstream media?

Mainly because it's a kissing cousin of the same paranoid attitude towards 'so-called experts'. The media can be a dangerous beast: Fox News, Russia Today, The Sun, The Mail and The Telegraph are all organs of vested interests, compromised to varying degrees and with different editorial lines and standards. And most media in the United Kingdom is shown again and again to be unconsciously biased through the editorial focus they give to certain issues, or choose to present tinfoil-hatted fringe nutters as valid sources.

"Who told you you need oxygen?"

"Who told you you need oxygen?"

Mistrust of these media sources - the BBC, Guardian, Times, Economist, Washington Post, Der Spiegel, Channel 4, anyone - means that we're inclined to instinctively reject anything that we don't want to hear, because it's 'bias', in modern parlance.

In the news vacuum have sprung up people to promise to give it to us straight, unvarnished and with a distinct lack of political awareness. Unfortunately they tend to be complete crazies, attention-seeking careerists or the sort of people you wouldn't sit next to on the bus. They are, frankly much less trustworthy than most of the sources they rail against.

What exists in modern distrust of the MSM and those identified as elites (those so-called experts) is a very Marxist critique of the media and bourgeoisie. But it's something else too: a misdirected, dangerous and fundamentally stupid rejection of advice from very clever people who know exactly what they're talking about.

Reject it and you risk disaster. You may not literally explode into a million pieces, but a fate just as grisly awaits those who dismiss out-of-hand the messages they don't want to hear.

Trump image: Gage Skidmore, Flickr

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James Corden Confused.com Advert

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So, the James Corden Confused.com advert. Just when I thought I was out... they pull me back in.

I am as impervious to James Corden's supposed delights as I am to the people complaining that I'm not funny anymore. To me he seems affable - a great fella to have a pint with. I wish him no specific malice and I'm happy that other people find him funny.

To me he is a mystery, his supposed funnies as baffling as quadratic equations. I did not enjoy Gavin & Stacey, I did not watch Horne & Corden and I have never seen him in a game show.

Apparently he's a pretty good dramatic actor, though the only things I've ever actually enjoyed him in are hilarious sci-fi pisstake Cruise of the Gods and Doctor Who (in two episodes that were pretty much sci-fi pisstakes.) Apart from a Tango advert from about 50 years ago, that's it.

By all accounts Corden has gone to America to be a talkshow host. And that's all well and good. Alas, that hasn't stopped him appearing on my television every seven or eight seconds in this godawful Confused.com advert. Time was someone went to the States they stayed there, to the great relief of everyone in Blighty (cf. Piers Morgan).

james corden confused.com advert

Now, a digression. This is by no means the worst Confused.com advert there is. There are fully seven years of writing on this website about Confused.com adverts and, lest I remind you, a lot of them involve a wiggly cartoon with an enormous vagina. Or a Nicky Campbell lookalike screaming in your face while you eat your potato waffles and try to recover from another day of drudgery. Or a horrible 'for-cash' vlog by a man called Amazing Phil who is not amazing and, for all I know, may not even be called Phil.

No, the James Corden Confused.com ads are not the worst. But they are as debilitating as a nauseous hangover at a toddler's ballpool party - shouty, loud, annoying and wearying. People on Facebook and Twitter and Sky and The Sun seem to exist in a constant state of shouting these days. They're not shouting anything that makes any rational sense, just expressions of their approval, annoyance or surprise.

Think Chris Kamara, a burbling proto-human who communicates with shrieking roars and a creased forehead. Or Keith Lemon, displaying his appreciation of Holly Willoughby's breasts by leering and pointing at his cock. Dapper Laughs, with his vocabulary consisting of 'bruv', 'slut', 'bants' and 'rape'.

Just imagine a world where people communicated in audio emojis, honking their feels at one another while brandishing an iPhone. In a recent survey I did 93% of Facebook posts that people shared consisted solely of the word 'scenes', in the vast majority of these cases that single word was enough to garner around 45 Likes or similar expressions of approval. Meanwhile one in three comments contained the sarcastic words 'what a time to be alive', apparently because there is no other way in the English language to express sarcasm.

james corden advert

My thoughts exactly.

LOL. Saying 'amay-zing!' in about four syllables and a high-pitched voice. Taking a photo of a slimy burger and chips you paid £15 for and subtitling it with 'nom' or 'winning'. Ignoring the fact that most people who have ever claimed to be 'winning' are total losers, the random declaration of such a thing seems to be the accepted medium for a Uniladding, Ladbroking, Nandos-ing generation. Perhaps it's a symptom of the fact that we need to subtitle everything that happens in our lives, an existence mediated by Snapchat filters and Instagram hashtags.

"Just call me Mr Greenlight." Brilliant. Whoever came up with that really earned their money. Barking at a dog. LOL. Awkward, Brentish asides to an uninterested passenger. Amazeballs.

That all we aspire to in life is some traffic lights changing in our favour - and this is worthy of a whooping "I'm the King of the World' acclaim - is a kind of party political broadcast for 2016, perhaps the shittest year since records began.

The fact that the soundtrack to this James Corden Confused.com advert is a song by a man who was killed it a car crash sums up the whole blithe vacuity of the whole enterprise. Which seems to be James Corden in a nutshell.

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We Need to Talk About The Kevin Bacon EE Adverts

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Kevin Bacon EE Adverts

The Kevin Bacon EE Adverts weren't always a problem. The idea of him riffing off the 7 Degrees Of Separation meme - 'you want to be as connected as me?' - and referencing provincial British television series and characters was winning. It didn't yell in your face, it wasn't pointlessly weird and it was pretty engaging. I even considered covering these original ads in an 'adverts I like' post. Then I probably decided I couldn't be bothered.

But like most adverts they've thoroughly outstayed their welcome. Bacon now behaves not like a supercool movie star who you could actually have a pint with, but a creepy uncle who resembles a weasel's skeleton with an overbite that could open a tin of beans from across the road.

I've nothing against Bacon but the guy's about 77 years old and pretending to be down with the kids, even if he's sending himself up in a red latex jumpsuit when he looks like a deflated molerat, is all kinds of horrible.

"How about a bit of Bay?" How about a bit of 'fuck off with your shit music, mate'?

Britney Spears has a new album out? And? The sort of people who give a flying one about Apple Music on their new £800 smartphone are either intense 40-year-old graphic designers or people whose parents weren't even born when Britney was a sexy schoolgirl. And that desperate 'put my new one on?'. Ergh.

And just look at this parade of footy people joining 'Kev' in slurping on fat corporate cock. Horrible.

No, Bacon has jumped the shark. The pork has vaulted the piscine. It's back to your wilderness years of straight-to-video horror films, listless sequels and roles as the 'weird old one' in shortlived American sitcoms. Always waiting for the axe to fall, a mere five episodes in.

Yes it's a hard life for 80s movie stars. Between the botox, the teeth-whitening and endless nutribullets - a grisly portrait of ghastly Hollywood ageing - there's only Kevin Bacon EE Adverts to look forward to. That or the raddled red-carpet appearances of old-age - or a crossdressing death in a speedball motel room anyway. Ho hum.

Kevin Bacon EE Adverts Kevin Bacon EE Adverts

The post We Need to Talk About The Kevin Bacon EE Adverts appeared first on AdTurds.

The Walking Dead: A Modern Atrocity Exhibition

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"Negan." That's something Facebook was prompting me with yesterday in one of those daft 'stories you might like' sidebar. These are, in my experience, usually stories I either dislike or have no interest in whatsoever. Frequently, with a weary 'go on, I'll bite' air my interest is sufficiently piqued to take a look. It appeared that, in this case, Facebook was keen for me to watch a video of a pregnant woman getting her head bashed in with a razor-wire baseball bat. What larks.

This is, of course, the latest episode of The Walking Dead, yet another series that skilfully crafts empathetic and relatable characters then does something horrible to them. It's emotional manipulation in the shape of entertainment and I tend to avoid it. From the popular zombie series to Game Of Thrones to Sons Of Anarchy (all programmes people tell me I should watch in a manner that suggests they're not wholly in control of their own brains) I've decided I just can't be bothered investing 400 hours of my time in watching talented British actors killing each other in inventive ways.

I watched the first series of The Walking Dead. It was OK. But The Walking Dead is just relentlessly grim. There's no wit about it, it's just a load of zombie tropes explored much more imaginatively by George Romero. So after one series that was it for me.

You can't exist these days without absorbing some of what Game Of Thrones is about. Tits, goblins and decapitations seem to be about it for me. Every part of it I've ever seen has been Charles Dance looking solemn, a topless woman prancing around a fire or someone getting a limb lopped off. I'll just watch Jewel In The Crown if that's what I'm after.

Someone once told me I'd love Sons Of Anarchy and, because it had Ron Perlman in it, I dipped in and out of it. The bits I remember were various leather-jacketed men cocking guns, the guy from Queer As Folk staring into the distance and someone getting gang-raped. The homo-eroticism of the whole thing - not to mention how unintentionally ridiculous it was - was extraordinary but fundamentally it was unimaginative, grim, gang-warfare trash. I was bemused at how anyone could have imagined I'd like it.

I'm generally bemused by the supposed 'unmissable' nature of these programmes. I'm immune to their supposed delights. They're glossy, expensive things designed to neutralise your mental powers for a few hours and they're not even good as far as I'm concerned. And by and large I can ignore them and leave other people to slowly dissolve into their couches while their brains marinade in a diet of dull Hollywood sex and empty, brutal violence.

Except something that caught my eye today, barely 12 hours after I'd been reading about the resolution of the latest TWD cliffhanger, which involved various people getting their heads stoved in. Apparently fans have been on tenterhooks for six months pondering which of their beloved characters were going to get their brains pulverised. As TV goes it's not exactly 'Who shot JR?' and apparently the naked manipulation this amounts to has led some fans to abandon the show. Still, millions tuned in, it seems to be almost illegal not to watch these shows in 2016.

Walking Dead season 7 advert

Anyway, today I looked up and saw this this billboard, showing a dozen or so people kneeling down in front of said baseball bat rather like they were the unwilling stars of an execution video. Which, I gather, they essentially were. The legend "WHO SURVIVES' was emblazoned across it. It was an advert for explicit, hideous violence; an invitation to subject yourself to a traumatic punch to the gut; a vicarious thrill amid the drudgery of modern existence. Scenes I recall from The Walking Dead - and other comparable box-set shows - are pornographic in their loving explorations of sadism, cruelty and terror. In this regard The Walking Dead is an abusive partner, with the willing audience on the receiving end.

An article I read on the subject pointed out that the insane levels of explicit violence that are celebrated in these programmes were once the preserve of video nasties. But the famed X-rated material of the 80s was generally alt cinema: challenging, disruptive, funny, satirical, subversive or wilfully stupid.

The glossy production values, wall-to-wall promotion and top-level casting of The Walking Dead and Game Of Thrones are a gateway drug - or a figleaf - for sustained amounts of graphic material to be beamed into our homes via our latest subscription. Increasingly I suspect the sex and violence is the point - the narrative twists, cinematography and high-calibre talent are mere window-dressing. In a world where real horrors are a few clicks away - and the news seems so unremittingly awful - it's perhaps understandable that we seek fictional atrocities.

But as I gazed up at the vast billboard promising an exciting carnival of bloody, visceral gore I felt genuinely unsettled. Is it really so harmless? What makes us seek these things out and, in a world where personal choice is elevated beyond most other considerations, is it wise they're so prevalent? In a world where we advertise such things, actually advertise violence whose very point is that it's gratuitous.

In another atrocity exhibition, JG Ballard explored how the mass media invades and disrupts our minds. His later novels explore people for whom violence, rape and insanity are simply the next natural step for humans stifled and bored by real existence. If one illicit thrill loses its power are we driven to seek another? And what does it do for our capacities for empathy, humanity, if the news reports we see are matched by our leisure choices? Black Mirror is the forum of our age for these concerns, where we fret over what technology will do to our near future. But it's not our near future; it's now.

In our glum, passive reception of gory outrages - designed, let's not forget, to make us watch sponsor messages - are we escaping the real world or finding ways to come to terms with it? Protecting ourselves against it. Perhaps it's not even as noble as that. Maybe we just love violence and these shows are feeding it. Questions of taste, decency and restraint seem quaint suddenly and it's hard to conceive of what would now be considered beyond the pale.

We're training our minds to receive these images without flinching; to absorb these terrors as everyday. Normalising them. And our on-demand subscriptions are keeping track of what we watch so they can feed us more. Watch violence; get more violence. Advertising, data, media and money in a disturbing confluence - feeding us fictionalised snuff videos. Upping the ante; raising the threshold.

I wonder what these nightly doses of sex and killing can be doing to us. If these box-set TV shows are doing something horrible to our own brains. Will it drive us all mad? And will we know when it has?

The post The Walking Dead: A Modern Atrocity Exhibition appeared first on AdTurds.

Loads Of Amazing Old Print Adverts From The 1980s

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I buy old magazines. I love old magazines. As well as being an interesting magazine with lots of good (or rarely less than interesting) writing in them there are images and design that serve to date the mag - like a little time capsule; a snapshot of the precise time they were created.

But there's more than that. There's the bits no-one pays attention to when they pick up the magazines. The adverts. Concentrated and contextualised and absorbed 30 years later they're even more fascinating in providing an insight into how people thought, what they spent their money on and how attitudes have changed.

Adverts for golliwogs, adverts for cigarettes - they seem unthinkable and appalling these days. I'm of an age where I can sincerely state that no-one thought anything of them when I was little. I even remember collecting badges for Golly pinbadges.

Anyway, when I see the old mags I buy them and I read them. The words and pictures are great but it's the adverts that I love. It's one of those rare occasions when advertising pleases me. Below are some of my favourites - or some of the adverts I think are significant for some other reason, not all of which are noble.

But as a mark in time that demonstrates how times change they're fascinating, even rather lovely things. Shorn of their ultimate aim - to make you buy things - they're intriguing and brilliant cultural artefacts.

The post Loads Of Amazing Old Print Adverts From The 1980s appeared first on AdTurds.

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