Tuesday, April 15, 2008, 11:33 PM
I'd like to just unleash a couple of vat-fuls of scorn on advertising agencies that respond to a brief for a car advert with what is quickly becoming the most tired of advertising clichés: "Hey! Let's take it to pieces!"
I can barely bring myself to continue hammering my disdain into the keyboard, so let's just get on and show the guilty parties:
The one that started it all - people should have recognised that there would only ever be one:
Then one that tries to be a bit more wispy:
Now let's have one with a bit of a twist "the car parts are a bit second rate, but let's bang them about and make some noise!":
Just like the spice girls, there needs to be a sporty one:
The latest one that frankly deprives me of the will to live. This ad agency should file for creative bankruptcy:
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Sunday, March 16, 2008, 10:39 PM
I have to say that I am shocked and stunned by this. I don't have anything against pasties, and I don't really object to the consumption of Quorn (even though I must confess I do not know what it is). Hell, I don't even have a problem when people mess around with traditional recipes.
What I despise are missed opportunities, and whoever introduced this product is guilty of having failed to name it a "Quornish Pasty". I mean, the name "Quorn" lends itself to so many great adaptations*, yet either this name was missed, or some litigation-shy marketing department decided against it. What's the good in an unusual name if you can't expand on it now and again?
*Another favourite is the term Quornography, which refers to lightweight erotic material characterised by an absence of meat.
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Thursday, February 28, 2008, 07:22 PM
This is fantastic. Not sure what I'm meant to do in response, but it is fantastic all the same:
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Tuesday, February 19, 2008, 11:44 PM
I stopped, transfixed in front of the window of Books Etc when I saw this.
As a major product push to their new 'Feed your mind' campaign, they are pushing Jordan's autobiography. In it, you get to read about her tits, her kids and her husband. You also get a deep insight into her breasts, norks, baps, funbags and hooters. That includes her tits.
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Tuesday, February 19, 2008, 11:13 PM
I was out with a friend this evening, and we were slap bang in the centre of London and running out of time, imagination, and looking for affordable, convenient places to eat. We walked past the front of a Garfunkels, and I realised I had walked past these restaurants thousands of times without even contemplating going in there. It's a form of food racism, similar to what I feel for Angus Steak Houses - I don't even come close to entertaining the thought of eating there - such an abstract concept, you might as well suggest grabbing a quick meal at Phones 4U.
Anyway, assisted by a couple of pints and reassured by the branding, I snapped out of my reverie, and suggested that we go in 'just to see what it's like'.
I'll save energy on this entry, and just cut to the chase - Garfunkels is avoided by every Londoner because it is a truly horrible place to eat. In fact, you don't even have to consume food to realise that it is nasty.
I have experienced National Rail ticket inspectors more engaging than the staff, and the proudly-priced food arrives staggeringly fast (destroying the illusion that 'someone' 'made' it) and has all of the taste of a sheet of A4 paper. You receive the bill as you take your last mouthful, and you are practically ushered onto the street, along with the rubbish bags that they are carting through the place. To call Garfunkels a restaurant is to call Robert Mugabe a politician.
All I can do to gain closure and put the episode behind me is to give you an anagram of the name of the place: Falser Gunk
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