I can appreciate that advertising is a difficult job. In today's cost-conscious society, people will invariably gravitate towards the cheaper end of the market for their stuff. To that end, companies have to think smart and come up with slogans and statistics which prove their product is the best choice for the consumer.
Of course the flip-side is that companies must also put a certain spin on their research and data, to ensure their product is shown in the best possible light. I'm sure many millions are spent each year proving the quality of their product, so if the results they get aren't exactly what they hoped for, they'll need to massage the data slightly to get what they want out of it.
There's an advert on at the mo for ink cartridges, specifically a particular company (can't remember which one) and how their products are much more efficient and use less ink that their competitors. They fanfare this fact with a "You could save up to £75 a year on ink" slogan on the advert, suffixed with the obligatory asterisk. Usually, such asterisks lead you to some tiny text elsewhere on the screen detailing how many people were asked, how many printers were used, etc, to give you a better indication of the scope of the research.
However...the disclaimer on this advert basically said "Based on 1500 pages of text and photos. Results may vary"
Er, "Results may vary"? Isn't that just another way of saying "You could end up with any old results. We haven't got a Scooby Doo what'll happen"?
How this had got through whatever watchdog or governing body manages these matters is beyond me. It's like an advert saying "If you drink this product, you'll live 'til you're a million*" then putting elsewhere "* Your lifespan may vary". They've literally made up the results, yet qualified it by saying "Well, it might not pan out exactly the same for you, in which case, tough shit"
If this is tolerable in our great British media, I see no reason why the general public can't use it on CV's or personal ads:
"Male, 35yo, ripped like a prize fighter, hung like a baby elephant, seeks pneumatic, improbably-breasted librarian for rutting *"
* Actual rippedness and cock length may vary.
Thursday 30 April 2009
Wednesday 29 April 2009
I don't ask cos I don't care
"In a roll, lose control, but we're alright" sang hat-wearing walking sideburn Gaz from UK supergroup "Supergrass" on their debut hit "Alright". It was welcome news to those of us who were concerned about his well being at the time, as anybody who remembers those halcyon days will recall the nation being beside itself with worry about Gaz's plight.
The point I'm spectacularly labouring is the propensity for the British public to enquire about someones well being as an opening gambit, when we clearly couldn't give a shiny shite whether the questionee is in fine fettle or about to shuffle off this mortal coil.
I don't ask people because I don't care. Call it harsh if you will, but in general, the health of the people I come into contact with on a daily basis has little to no effect on my life or work. If somebody I had time for had just returned to work after a bout of the old swine flu, I might enquire "How are you?", if only to determine how big a gap I should maintain between us until the virus dies down.
It's one of those unusual traits of our society that we're all guilty to some extent of using "How are you?" or "Are you alright?" as a conversational pleasantry, but if I was trying to describe an objectionable person to you and said "They're the type of person who if you ask them 'Are you alright?', they say 'No'", you would nod knowingly and thank your lucky stars that you hadn't had to tolerate the cretin in question.
I guess it harks back to the old 'stiff upper lip' days, when our forefathers buried their ills deep down and enjoyed a pint of mild instead, whilst their very being came apart at the seams. Everyone was in the same boat so it did no good moaning about it. "Only pussies say 'no'. Another pint please, landlord".
I might be doing everyone a disservice; maybe it's me who couldn't care less and the rest of the nation does. However, I'm willing to bet a sizable sum that if someone replied "Well no, actually", the asker's internal monologue will shift from pleasant interest to murderous impatience quicker than you can say "Well go to a doctor then, arsehat".
Anyway, enough about me - how are you getting on?
The point I'm spectacularly labouring is the propensity for the British public to enquire about someones well being as an opening gambit, when we clearly couldn't give a shiny shite whether the questionee is in fine fettle or about to shuffle off this mortal coil.
I don't ask people because I don't care. Call it harsh if you will, but in general, the health of the people I come into contact with on a daily basis has little to no effect on my life or work. If somebody I had time for had just returned to work after a bout of the old swine flu, I might enquire "How are you?", if only to determine how big a gap I should maintain between us until the virus dies down.
It's one of those unusual traits of our society that we're all guilty to some extent of using "How are you?" or "Are you alright?" as a conversational pleasantry, but if I was trying to describe an objectionable person to you and said "They're the type of person who if you ask them 'Are you alright?', they say 'No'", you would nod knowingly and thank your lucky stars that you hadn't had to tolerate the cretin in question.
I guess it harks back to the old 'stiff upper lip' days, when our forefathers buried their ills deep down and enjoyed a pint of mild instead, whilst their very being came apart at the seams. Everyone was in the same boat so it did no good moaning about it. "Only pussies say 'no'. Another pint please, landlord".
I might be doing everyone a disservice; maybe it's me who couldn't care less and the rest of the nation does. However, I'm willing to bet a sizable sum that if someone replied "Well no, actually", the asker's internal monologue will shift from pleasant interest to murderous impatience quicker than you can say "Well go to a doctor then, arsehat".
Anyway, enough about me - how are you getting on?
Friday 24 April 2009
How come tramps aren't fat?
Occasionally, and it is only occasionally, I learn a fact. Even rarer than that, the fact in question is so well-known and agreed upon by the general populus that when it transpires that I didn't know said fact, the only acceptable response is to thrust the tongue into the lower lip and deliver what is widely regarded as a "belm".
Such an event occured (the lack of knowledge, not the belm) just yesterday, when I found out that alcohol is in fact highly calorific.
Talk about a kick in the teeth. I, like most Britons, rely heavily upon alcohol to a) get a party started, b) make me seem funnier, more charming and harder than everyone else in the room and c) as an emergency mouthwash. Imagine my displeasure then, when I discovered that Sweet Lady Booze is actually slowly turning my into a lardarse at the same time as delivering epiphanies on the true plot of the original Star Wars trilogy.
To say I was disappointed was something of an understatement, as in recent weeks I've started using a gym and eating healthier (not healthy, merely healthier). Now it turns out that when I wind down of a Thursday evening (or Friday or Saturday) with a nice glass of Tesco's own Italian Merlot, I'm actually piling all the weight back on that 7 minutes of mid-paced ambling took out at earlier that day.
After nearly 4 minutes of soul searching, I concluded that the only solution is to work out more. It was either that or drink less, so I'm sure you can appreciate the inevitable logic of my decision. I did approach it in a mature fashion and look for low-fat alternatives in the alcoholic spectrum, but that was a pipe dream from the kick off.
So, if anyone out there is reading this and has come up with a viable alternative to burning off the calories I've gained through controlled exercise, let me know, because the alternative is literally too scary to consider.
Such an event occured (the lack of knowledge, not the belm) just yesterday, when I found out that alcohol is in fact highly calorific.
Talk about a kick in the teeth. I, like most Britons, rely heavily upon alcohol to a) get a party started, b) make me seem funnier, more charming and harder than everyone else in the room and c) as an emergency mouthwash. Imagine my displeasure then, when I discovered that Sweet Lady Booze is actually slowly turning my into a lardarse at the same time as delivering epiphanies on the true plot of the original Star Wars trilogy.
To say I was disappointed was something of an understatement, as in recent weeks I've started using a gym and eating healthier (not healthy, merely healthier). Now it turns out that when I wind down of a Thursday evening (or Friday or Saturday) with a nice glass of Tesco's own Italian Merlot, I'm actually piling all the weight back on that 7 minutes of mid-paced ambling took out at earlier that day.
After nearly 4 minutes of soul searching, I concluded that the only solution is to work out more. It was either that or drink less, so I'm sure you can appreciate the inevitable logic of my decision. I did approach it in a mature fashion and look for low-fat alternatives in the alcoholic spectrum, but that was a pipe dream from the kick off.
So, if anyone out there is reading this and has come up with a viable alternative to burning off the calories I've gained through controlled exercise, let me know, because the alternative is literally too scary to consider.
Wednesday 8 April 2009
Why are the chavs so sad?
Every weekday I go into our canteen at work around the 9:30 mark. As a result, social misfit overlord Jeremy Kyle is plying his wares on his eponymous car crash of a TV show. If you haven’t seen it, I can save you the effort, as every episode goes like this:
- Kyle is smug
- Member of the social underclass (Liam, Destiny, etc) is wheeled out, sporting a haircut fashionable only with people in a certain salary bracket
- Kyle shouts at them for refusing to acknowledge their baby/drinking themselves into an early grave/not adhering the Carney Code
- Wife/bird/chap/lover is wheeled out with a face like a slapped Labrador
- Hilarious argument ensues, relying heavily on the word ‘slut’
- Nothing is resolved.
- Kyle looks smug
It’s easy to poke to fun at this pointless piece of voyeurism based on its ‘cost-friendly’ production values and reliance upon the moronic sadness of the great unemployed, but it does raise one pertinent question:
Why are the chavs so sad?
If the media is to be believed (and I can’t think of a single reason why it wouldn’t be) today’s dole scum enjoys a healthy giro, low-cost alcohol and regular unprotected sex in playparks. All this with a built-in reluctance to work and a well-developed sense of not giving a shit about anyone or anything else in society. I wish I could be that lazy, inept and stupid, yet still enjoy such hedonistic benefits. Talk about nirvana.
The thing is though, Kyle’s hard-hitting journalistic skill proves that they’re all upset. They all seem to be cross with each other and feel that aggressively declaring “I know you slept with that slag, Terry!” whilst not wearing a bra is the only way to resolve such deep-seated issues. Maybe cider has gone up in the latest budget, or all the local talent has gone off to do a BTEC and cannot be reached for carnal relief of an evening. I can’t think of any other reason they would be so sad and be forced to air their grievances on national television.
Maybe I’m doing them a disservice; maybe these people want to work and are treating Kyle’s show as a shop window. Let’s face it, it gives them a chance to show problem solving, communication and bare-knuckle boxing skills in one place. In many respects it’s like a video CV for Macdonalds or Halfords. If that’s the case the kudos to them; anything that helps them afford something other than Ben Sherman clothes and a razor to remove their laughable moustaches can only be a good thing.
- Kyle is smug
- Member of the social underclass (Liam, Destiny, etc) is wheeled out, sporting a haircut fashionable only with people in a certain salary bracket
- Kyle shouts at them for refusing to acknowledge their baby/drinking themselves into an early grave/not adhering the Carney Code
- Wife/bird/chap/lover is wheeled out with a face like a slapped Labrador
- Hilarious argument ensues, relying heavily on the word ‘slut’
- Nothing is resolved.
- Kyle looks smug
It’s easy to poke to fun at this pointless piece of voyeurism based on its ‘cost-friendly’ production values and reliance upon the moronic sadness of the great unemployed, but it does raise one pertinent question:
Why are the chavs so sad?
If the media is to be believed (and I can’t think of a single reason why it wouldn’t be) today’s dole scum enjoys a healthy giro, low-cost alcohol and regular unprotected sex in playparks. All this with a built-in reluctance to work and a well-developed sense of not giving a shit about anyone or anything else in society. I wish I could be that lazy, inept and stupid, yet still enjoy such hedonistic benefits. Talk about nirvana.
The thing is though, Kyle’s hard-hitting journalistic skill proves that they’re all upset. They all seem to be cross with each other and feel that aggressively declaring “I know you slept with that slag, Terry!” whilst not wearing a bra is the only way to resolve such deep-seated issues. Maybe cider has gone up in the latest budget, or all the local talent has gone off to do a BTEC and cannot be reached for carnal relief of an evening. I can’t think of any other reason they would be so sad and be forced to air their grievances on national television.
Maybe I’m doing them a disservice; maybe these people want to work and are treating Kyle’s show as a shop window. Let’s face it, it gives them a chance to show problem solving, communication and bare-knuckle boxing skills in one place. In many respects it’s like a video CV for Macdonalds or Halfords. If that’s the case the kudos to them; anything that helps them afford something other than Ben Sherman clothes and a razor to remove their laughable moustaches can only be a good thing.
Friday 3 April 2009
We are gathered here today...to out-tack Stringfellow
It's coming up to a year since I became engaged. I say 'became'; it was completely my decision. I didn't wake up one day to find I'd contracted a fiancee. Let's just say that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, so I tied her down before she reads any of these blogs and realises I'm a social retard.
With this wedding caper in mind, we recently visited a wedding fair (or possibly 'fayre', although it wasn't massively medieval) to get some ideas and generally frighten the living daylights out of me.
Let me make it clear, I'm not scared of the commitment or any other aspect of marriage. I just expected to leave all the details to her and get a text the day before saying "Church. 11am. Don't be too pissed". Sadly that is not to be.
What I really want to comment on though is the sheer level of tackiness that seems to make up a modern wedding. Back in the 70's, you picked a church, put pillars on your cake and had the reception at a local pub. Now, it's all subtle lighting, grand venues and soft-focus photography. And it looks shite.
I want my wedding to be a simple affair; friends and family, vows, bridesmaids who make you think you've made a mistake choosing the Mrs, speeches, telegrams, low-level racist uncles and a bit of dancing. However, if you gave any of these fly-by-night chancers the reins, you'd be up to your eyes in personalised balloons and leather-bound photo annuals before you could say "But that looks wank".
Every aspect of the wedding was covered, but the whole event felt shrouded in a tacky, over-sentimental film, where flying in by helicopter, sporting a rooster-style haircut and having 'mood' shots of the happy couple in black and white were par for the course. Sorry, folks, but that's not me (and happily not the Mrs, either). We're not going to be in OK magazine, nor are we the type of people who sport a tattoo bearing our children's names or a butterfly. We're simple, traditional people, so let's keep the wedding the same, eh?
I'm all for a bit of indulgence (one of my many ideas involves top hats and canes bearing the respective holders' football club crest) but I refuse to pose next to a Ferrari or look pensively into the middle distance as it tips it down and our relatives grow increasingly bored and begin to refer to us as 'pretentious twats'.
I think the only way I can guarantee that we don't fall into the trap these shysters are setting for us is to employ a simple test as we venture on this nuptial quest. Whenever we are faced with a difficult decision, be it suits, flowers or whether to black up the best man, we should quietly ask ourselves this:
"What would Peter and Jordan do?"
With this wedding caper in mind, we recently visited a wedding fair (or possibly 'fayre', although it wasn't massively medieval) to get some ideas and generally frighten the living daylights out of me.
Let me make it clear, I'm not scared of the commitment or any other aspect of marriage. I just expected to leave all the details to her and get a text the day before saying "Church. 11am. Don't be too pissed". Sadly that is not to be.
What I really want to comment on though is the sheer level of tackiness that seems to make up a modern wedding. Back in the 70's, you picked a church, put pillars on your cake and had the reception at a local pub. Now, it's all subtle lighting, grand venues and soft-focus photography. And it looks shite.
I want my wedding to be a simple affair; friends and family, vows, bridesmaids who make you think you've made a mistake choosing the Mrs, speeches, telegrams, low-level racist uncles and a bit of dancing. However, if you gave any of these fly-by-night chancers the reins, you'd be up to your eyes in personalised balloons and leather-bound photo annuals before you could say "But that looks wank".
Every aspect of the wedding was covered, but the whole event felt shrouded in a tacky, over-sentimental film, where flying in by helicopter, sporting a rooster-style haircut and having 'mood' shots of the happy couple in black and white were par for the course. Sorry, folks, but that's not me (and happily not the Mrs, either). We're not going to be in OK magazine, nor are we the type of people who sport a tattoo bearing our children's names or a butterfly. We're simple, traditional people, so let's keep the wedding the same, eh?
I'm all for a bit of indulgence (one of my many ideas involves top hats and canes bearing the respective holders' football club crest) but I refuse to pose next to a Ferrari or look pensively into the middle distance as it tips it down and our relatives grow increasingly bored and begin to refer to us as 'pretentious twats'.
I think the only way I can guarantee that we don't fall into the trap these shysters are setting for us is to employ a simple test as we venture on this nuptial quest. Whenever we are faced with a difficult decision, be it suits, flowers or whether to black up the best man, we should quietly ask ourselves this:
"What would Peter and Jordan do?"
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