Tag Archives: adverts

When I grow up….

Before I continue with all things bottled I have a question: Who did you expect to be when you grew up? As a child I took it as read that I would grow up to be a sophisticated middle-aged woman who would travel the world wearing top of the range frocks from House of Fraser and make polite conversation, late into the night, with the occasional French gentleman. I believed my future would look something akin to this……

If this was not to be then I at least expected dinner party invitations for every night of the week so that I could stuff my face with After Eight mints whilst wearing the aforementioned top of the range frock, although perhaps something more slutty from Debenhams or British Home Stores [RIP]……

In a nutshell I expected a glittering, glamorous future, full of fancy frocks, and worthy enough to merit a pithy voiceover. When the transition from eating fish finger sandwiches from a tray on my lap in front of the telly to being an internationally adored lady of leisure with an inexhaustible expense account would happen I didn’t know, but happen it would. Only it didn’t. I am still waiting.

The problem is that the future I imagined is impossible because this future is very much set in the past. I was set up for disappointment the moment these adverts hit my TV screen. Did anyone ever live like this? In any case, the dinner parties I have attended have had more in common with this…

No fancy frocks, just best jeans and a paper napkin to protect a nice top from gravy staining. Sigh. Obviously I was a gullible child when I was suckered by these adverts, although in fairness, I was more taken with the lifestyles promoted than the actual products; we always had After Eights at Christmas and we were allowed to eat them for breakfast whilst wearing pyjamas.
Anyhow, before I get on with my bottle project let us return to my question: Who, or how, did you expect to be when you grew up? I am not expecting anyone to be as shallow as me, hopefully you all aspired to greater things than living life in an advertisement for After Eight.

Lucky You…..

….or not so lucky.

I did used to enjoy writing those old advert posts, but over the past few years I have been consumed by calligraphy, and, to be fair, I haven’t seen many adverts that I’ve felt inspired by. Is it my jaded old brain or the new swathe of boring adverts that are to blame? Bit of both I reckon. Also I have a tendency to be scrolling through my iPad whilst the adverts are on so maybe I should pay more attention?

Anyhow, here is an old advert post from 2011.

Due to the sluggish financial market the Halifax staff have little to do. They are under strict instruction to only authorise two mortgages this year and can only lend to people who don’t need loans. The financial advisers have all been made redundant and now the entire business is propped up by the canteen staff who have diversified by setting up a radio station in the basement of an NCP car park in Buttocks Booth just off Lumbertubs Lane. They broadcast daily, via telegraphic transfer, to five mountain goats on a farm in Southwold, Suffolk.
Scottish widow Sandy and Co-operative Carol provide the morning entertainment with a breakfast show. They are a tight team; they have a mutual interest in investing extra digits in their hedge funds and have bonded over unit banking. Alas, they are so enamoured by one another that they have failed to notice the potential threat of a hostile takeover bid from tea boy, Derek. He has coveted their breakfast slots from afar and, in an effort to remove the women from the helm he has sabotaged Sandy’s liquid assets. He completes the arm’s length transaction by passing Sandy her mug. The mug handle breaks causing hot tea to spill across the mixing desk. Carol and Sandy are unfazed by life’s little dramas. They have each other and therefore the accelerated depreciation is negligible. They smile sweetly and, still laughing, still singing from the same spreadsheet, they tell Derek that life is better with a beaver.

And to finish on a topical note a little gilded insult from Lulu’s suggestion on a previous post,

gilded-insult-gold-leaf-calligraphy-uk

Trump?

NEXT TIME: Under the weight of all the books, the chair breaks, leading Ms Scarlet to enrol on a chair restoration course where she meets a man in a bobble hat who offers her a hobnob and a cup of tea from his tartan themed thermos flask….

Saw this….

….and thought of me.

Yes, when I was tiny I had dreams of being a dancer. I used to practice my dance moves around the house, didn’t we all? Bouncing on the sofa gave my allegros extra spring; the polished parquet floor made me glide like a swan across a lake, and the nylon nets could be ripped down to make a fetching fairy gown.
The towel rail in the bathroom, complete with fluffy white towels, was my own personal ballet barre where I would practice tendus, ronde de jambes, and some frivolous frappés. I would round off my routine with a couple of grand pliés – meaning that I would bend my knees and sink down to the floor whilst keeping a firm grasp of the towel rail… indeed, my grasp was so firm that one day I found myself carrying the towel rail, complete with fluffy white towels, down the stairs and into the living room to explain to my parents how the towel rail had inexplicably detached itself from the wall. My parents were not impressed, nor surprised, as the previous week I had fallen out of the shower taking the shower curtain with me.

Anyhow, enough with the jolly nostalgia, this week I have been pitching for the BBC weather forecast contract. So far I have impressed them with my age, experience, and traditional methods, which include Tarot card reading; an in-depth knowledge of what ladybirds do when there is a snowstorm brewing and, by looking out of the window and sniffing the air. I am aiming to charge them £50 a week – they are umming and ahhing about this as Charmaine is also pitching, she says that when the weather is inclement her nibs perform differently, to quote – ‘they go proper stiff’, and she is willing to demonstrate this by flashing them every evening on tea time telly for only £30 a week and six million extra viewers.

Next week: Charmaine does something interesting with a box of crayons [again] and Aunt Scarlet gets a tattoo….

A Sign of Good Taste…

Another short interlude…

Here we see Darren. He is hoping to be selected as an ambassador for the Littlehampton Confectionery Display Team. He is submitting one of the finest examples of his work in their annual ‘Exposure’ competition. It is a grand affair. It is held in a disused caravan park close to Southend pier, and display enthusiasts come from far and wide to exhibit their elaborate confection. For example, competitor Annie has flown in from Amsterdam and has done something gratuitous with a fudge finger fan, whilst Gavin from Gateshead [the winner in 2006] has been imaginative with a Toffee Crisp and an artfully adapted 12 inch Twirl; Maggie, a mother of three [the winner in 1908, but never since] has chosen a minimalist/conceptual approach – her piece is entitled ‘Red Smartie with Toothpick’.

So far the judges have been less than impressed with the entrées, but Darren is confident that he can lick his rivals. Darren has a secret. Darren has balls, golden balls, and he knows how to arrange them. He waits in the wings as poor Simon, a professional kitchen fitter from Stevenage, sobs and stumbles from the judging panel after his Sherbert Fountain fails to font, and his Lion Bar goes limp.

Darren feels the tension rising – his moment has arrived, he takes a deep breath and walks into the spotlight. His golden balls are piled pyramid high upon a silver platter creating a sophisticated yet captivating display that brings the essence of Egypt to Essex. Darren stands proud. It has only taken a smidgeon of superglue to keep everything erect.

Alas, Darren is unaware of the envious Maggie who will do anything to win, and from the wings she gives Darren an almighty shove sending his nutty nibbles into orbit to splatter down upon the judges heads. Horrified, Judge Erica picks golden nuts from her hair, and exclaims, ‘With your display you are soiling us!’.

Darren hangs his head in shame, but he is not downhearted. There is always next year when he is planning an ambitious assemblage with Annie, they are hoping to cause an extravagance of good taste with a giant curly wurly and a custard cream flan.

First published on the Scarlet Blue Archive 8th January 2010 12:45 BST

Drive Sexy….

Ihave a headache this week. I am also bone idle. So I thought I would take this as an opportunity to take a brief interlude. There may be further interludes. This interlude takes the form of a re-post from 2009 – Back in the days when my face had more elastic than my knickers.

Here we see Maureen from Margate. Despite eating five pots of yoghurt a day, Maureen is still feisty and has plenty of verve. She has just stolen a wedding dress; a white dinner jacket; a picnic hamper, and a Val Doonican CD from Bhs, and is now cruising in her brand new Peugeot with the intent of snaring a man with whom she can share her booty. After turning right at the traffic lights at the top of Bromley High Street, Maureen finds herself on the A30 where she spots hitchhiker Gavin.

Gavin is an unemployed petrol pump attendant from Plymouth, seeking work on Bodmin moor. He has not been lucky. As he recovers from being knocked over by a coach load of pensioners on a day trip to Glasgow, he is attracted by the sight of Maureen’s bumpers as they are wonky and need realigning. Pleased with Gavin’s attentions, Maureen lifts her bonnet and displays her engine. Gavin is immediately drawn to her magnetic stack and her reciprocating pistons. After checking her gear head efficiency, oiling her big end, and playing with her hooters, Gavin collapses in the passenger seat and prepares for Maureen to give him the drive of his life. She does several miles down Fanny Avenue; enters Butt Hole Road; gets a bit lost in Lickfold before leading him astray in Ladygate Lane. Gavin is quite relieved when they arrive in Cardiff.

In Gretna Green, Mike, the Mexican Priest, is waiting to perform the wedding ceremony for Gavin and Maureen. He is fond of his nuptials. When they arrive he does his best Elvis impersonation, he wiggles his turbo, reaches a point of high excitation and blesses their future by writing a heartfelt message on the rear window of the now grubby 207. Finally, they are wed. And Maureen is happy that she took lessons in learning to drive sexy.

First Published on The Scarlet Blue Archive 23/09/2009 21:36 BST – but with less punctuation.

I was very peppy back then. Where has my pep gone???? I blame the adverts, they just don’t make them how they used to. Bastards.