Oestrus Pudenda Creative Genius

It is a dark night indeed when one of Hollywood’s most celebrated talents dons a latex suit and (allegedly) beats the living shit out of his mum and sister or is it? Perhaps the bitch had it coming, I had to slap my gran only last week.

I for one have met my fair share of pushy parents at castings and the pound signs that ping in their eyes when little Tarquinii jumps through hoops are thinly disguised, just as the thunderbolts shot across the room if Tarquinii fails to perform send shivers down my spine.

I remember when I was eight and all I wanted to do was play in the dirt and throw stones at girls. Poor young Christian Bale, through no fault of his own, was being dragged round studios to hawk overpriced crap to Middle America. Just watching American commercials makes my skin itch so being forced to work in them must be close to a living hell.

I’m sure young Christian was a prodigious and ubiquitous talent, he did after all land the starring role in Empire of the Sun aged just twelve. but just as Citizen Kane spent a lifetime trying to find that crappy sledge, is it possible all the attention, pressure and roids finally erupted into a long overdue (alleged) ass kicking for a childhood lost in the lights of one of the most vacuous, intensive and intrusive industries in the world (I know air traffic controllers are under a lot of pressure but they don’t start aged eight).

So, next time Young Tarquinii says he would rather go and play than take instructions from the fat bearded paedo in a baseball cap maybe his parents should listen, as who knows what might be standing at the bottom of the bed ripped and roided to the max, looking for payback on a childhood thrown to the wolves of marketing. If, however, your son is keen to join a dance and theatre group aged eight, by all means take him along and while your there resign yourself to the fact that you won’t be getting any grandkids from that one as he is undoubtedly gay.

OP out.

Well, I’ve watched it over and over again, but I still can’t find any redeeming feature in the Dairy Milk Trucks advert. As you’re no doubt well aware, it is the long awaited follow up to last year’s brilliant Gorilla TV and viral ad. Like Gorilla Trucks is beautifully filmed, with lavish cinematography. Like Gorilla there is no particular link with the product (although the Gorilla was sitting in a purple, gold and white studio), only the ‘moment of unmistakable joy’ that eating chocolate brings. That, unfortunately, is where the similarities end.

Even when he was just sitting waiting for about thirty seconds at the beginning of the ad, Gorilla demanded your attention. He oozed character and there was something about him that was captivating not just on the first viewing, but every time the ad was aired. Gorilla was deservedly a critical and viral sensation, and even though Dairy Milk was not an important part of the commercial, everyone knew what was being advertised and remembered the product.



Trucks, on the other hand has all the character and joy you would expect from something set in an airport. According to the marketing boys at Cadbury:

We’ve brought the high speed excitement of a Hollywood car chase to these
slow-moving airport trucks. It’s a magical piece of film designed to bring a
smile to your face. The production is set to make unlikely stars out of the
humble airport trucks much as we did with our drumming gorilla.

Yeah, if you say so lads. The only thing it has in common with Hollywood is that it is so tedious to sit through it feels like an overlong feature film. it is the kind of slick, soulless dirge that is so bland it easy to ignore and forget even while actively watching it. But unlike Gorilla, there is no reason to watch it at all. Apparently they spent three weeks pimping the trucks, used 140 crew members and 240 lights to create the effects, but instead of spunking millions on an ad that looks like it was made with CGI or toy cars they could have achieved the same effect by spending a fiver on a pack of Hot Wheels or filmed what goes on at most Sainsbury’s car parks on a Friday night.

If you don’t believe me see for yourself, you can’t say you haven’t been warned:

I had the misfortune to witness Tottenham’s truly pitiful capitulation at home to PSV last night and my eye was repeatedly drawn to the following slogan rotating on the electronic advertising hoardings:

Like football? You’ll love the army.

Quite how some twat in a Soho office managed to make that association is beyond me, but I know I’ve never come home from a game in the park and thought ‘oh, I really enjoyed that kick around, perhaps I’d enjoy getting shot in the face even more’.

I can’t even say I’ve ever turned off the TV after watching France v Brazil and felt a strong yearning to watch my friends’ limbs get blown off at close range.

Funny that. Why not extend the anology a little further:

Like chocolate? You’ll love being gang raped.
Like flowers? You’ll love being mauled by a pack of pitbulls.

Wankers.

I’ve decided to start imparting my vast knowledge of advertising to useless plebs like you. Consider yourselves very, very lucky.

I’ll update this blog whenever I’m not too busy being brilliant or shagging some gorgeous bird.

If I can be bothered that is.

Laters.

OP