Tag Archives: adverts

Tough But Gentle Too…… [2022 Edition]

Ihave often wondered what it would be like to be a mum. According to Persil being a mum involves doing a lot of laundry, and not being able to afford pretty hats. Persil’s centenary ad [2007] features Marion, a single mother of two sons, and five daughters. Marion has just been mugged for the last packet of Birds Eye fish fingers and she is now lying prostrate in the washing powder aisle in Asda; her whole life is flickering before her like a series of old TV commercials.
Marion’s five daughters never needed much care – they never got grubby, and all were born with an innate understanding of intelligent dosing and how to handle excessive foam – it was in their jeans. The girls were neatly washed and scrubbed and dispensed out into the world shortly after their fourteenth birthdays. Unfortunately, Marion’s two sons, now 45 and 48 respectively, still live at home, and neither has the ability to set foot outside the house without being covered in mud/strawberry milkshake/banana/Bacardi/lipstick or baby oil. And, even though both became quantum physicists, neither have ever mastered the art of how to pour Persil into the soap powder drawer. Instead they have learnt that the laundry room is out of bounds – it is their mother’s secret, private, place where they must never venture – curiosity may leave them badly scolded.
Marion is tough but gentle and knows where, and how, to seek Comfort. Sometimes late at night the ‘boys’ hear the rumbling of the much loved washing machine accompanied by their mother’s squeals of delight as she deals with stain after stain whilst also making good use of the extra spin cycle.
Regaining consciousness, Marion smiles to herself… to hell with pretty hats…. the rewards of motherhood come thick and fast depending on the washing program.

First published on The Scarlet Blue Archive 13th May 2009 – edited and revised 2022

All Because the Lady Loves…. [2022 Edition]

Some women have it all. They spend their days reclining on plush sofas wearing silk pyjamas, taking selfies for their Instagram feeds, and testing a limitless supply of premium anti-ageing products sent to them by marketing departments in high end stores. If that isn’t enough, they also have gentleman callers dropping at their feet. One such woman is Debbie Von Arlington-Grange who lives in six bedroom neo-Georgian barn conversion, known as ‘Rose Cottage’, just down wind of the Dartford tunnel. She also has a luxury yacht called ‘Hello Dolly’ moored at Dover with obvious Russian connections.
Here we see gentleman caller, Kevoff, desperately trying to keep Debbie sweet. He fearlessly dives off the white cliffs into the shark infested waters of the English Channel. He swims to Debbie’s yacht, climbs aboard, and delivers a perfectly wrapped box of Cadbury’s Milk Tray. Then, without so much as a nibble on a coffee cream, Debbie sends him packing.
Why? Because firstly he didn’t text to inform her of his impending arrival, and furthermore, because he forgot the Champagne, flowers, and the 65″ widescreen TV she wanted; he also forgot her dairy intolerance; and that she prefers Black Magic. To add insult to grievance, he then proceeded to make a soggy mess all over her pink shag pile carpet, AND, quite frankly, she is weary of him trying to convince people that there are sharks in the English Channel.
You’ll be pleased to know that I’m not as high maintenance as Debbie. I enjoy the simple pleasures in life; I don’t have a yacht – I’m quite at home on a lilo, and after a Moscow Mule or two, I might be persuaded to share my strawberry creams, and soft centres, so long as the ironing’s done.

Actually, I am probably more high maintenance than Debbie. Please bring me Lindt chocolate [don’t expect me to share it], and a bottle of whiskey. And what is all this nonsense about a lilo??? AND ironing???

First published on The Scarlet Blue Archive 12th February 2009
Revised and heavily edited in 2022.

Next week: Debbie does Dymchurch.

A Festive Flashback…. [The Ghost of Christmas Past]

Time to get in a festive mood, so here is a flashback from November 2008 – HERE

‘Here come the girls…’ is the chant from the new Boots Christmas advert, obviously pandering to it’s female market by illustrating how women are better at organisation than men.

To do this Boots have made a short ‘fly-on-the-wall’ documentary about a group of women who are in the advanced stages of ‘Secret Santa’.  Each woman has pulled a colleague’s name out of Santa hat, and now they’re stampeding, like a cattle dressed in tinsel, to Boots to buy cheap and cheerful goods for Christmas. One of the token blokes is shown as being so incompetent that he is seen trying to gift wrap a stapler.

Part of me dislikes this ad because I think it encourages men to wallow in the myth that they are  incapable at choosing suitable gifts, and thus it discourages them from putting any effort into doing any Christmas shopping. Basically, women get lumbered with present finding. It’s not on. Being a man is not an excuse to be useless.

Anyhow, I do like that this ad is set in an office, and I like the tune, but I think that Boots are missing out all the good bits that only happen at Christmas, so I suggest a ‘Here come the girls’ sequel. In the sequel, Boots join forces with the people who make the alcohol awareness information films and together they show the true horrors that are unwrapped at the annual office party.

Firstly there is always a weeping wailing woman who sobs into her soup for 3hrs, making horrible stains across the tablecloth. In a drunken stupor she confesses loudly that she has been sleeping with the Group Operations Director for the last 3 months, but now he’s dumped her for a bright and shiny 18yr old receptionist. Nobody is surprised by this revelation as the GOD has form.

Then focus should shift to the couple who throughout the year have been working each other up into a sexual frenzy with furtive glances and breathy tension. At the Christmas party they cross the line of no return resulting in a ripped shirt, laddered tights and a pair of lost knickers. The next day he brags, and she denies. It takes another 6 months of furtive glances and breathy tension before they do the exact same thing at the company cheese and wine party. Six years later they get married. And buy a bungalow.

Finally there’s the drunken blonde floosey whose party piece is to snog everyone under the mistletoe and declare undying love, forever and ever, to anyone who’ll listen. She then takes it upon herself to entertain her colleagues by scrambling unassisted onto the table to belt out a rousing chorus of ‘I Will Survive’, just before flashing her tits at her boss and throwing up in his lap . Oops.

At least we don’t have to put up with this nightmare in 2020.

Each and Every Day

Dove Chocolate 'Each & Every Day' from Luc Job on Vimeo.

I seldom speak of the day when I woke up in Paris, and decided to live my life within a 24 hour timeframe. Friends and family considered the idea to be ill-conceived, and my chosen attire too flimsy for November, but they didn’t have my vision, or a swanky teal dress from Rhyll.

It was fun to be a child again, eating chocolate for breakfast, wearing white plimsols, and traversing the streets on my skateboard. Gone were my worries, gone was the weight of responsibility. I no longer had any baggage, or a wardrobe, or a toaster for that matter, and I was determined to cling to this feeling of freedom, at least until lunchtime.

At 1pm I was a teenager, and in the spirit of youthful rebellion I cut my fringe without a ruler; threw darts at an innocent gentleman in the hope of causing a romantic incursion; flirted with a riot policeman called Tom; and then finally, as the afternoon drew to a close, I pranced precariously on a balustrade with Dick. Strewn in my wake were broken hearts, chocolate favours, and a trail of twinkling wrappers spinning through the air like confetti from a shotgun wedding. I shall not mention Harry.

At the age of 69 I caught the night bus home. My hair was streaked with silver and my skin was crying out for a good moisturiser – possibly something from Estee Lauder, failing that, Nivea would do. At the age of 87 I collapsed into bed exhausted; I was also a little bit forgetful, and free from teeth. I sucked on my last chocolate and with the realisation that life is very short I resolved that from then on I would live each day as if it’s the only one. I mean, who needs a toaster/wardrobe/good shoes/a hairdresser/or a high fibre diet anyway?

Apologies. I began writing this post way, way back in May 2019 and since then the Youtube has become unavailable. Please click on the Vimeo link to view the film of my antics. I thank you.

Swede Dreams

Ilaid back on my chaise longue, which is a worn purple velvet affair swamped with grubby throws and cushions, Charmaine loomed above me – glasses poised at the end of her nose – notebook and pencil in hand.

“I have to practice, Aunt Scarlet, now close your eyes and relax”

I muttered something about wishing I’d taught her modern calligraphy. It was my own fault that I was now being subjected to Charmaine’s latest fancy, which was to train as a dream counsellor.

“Would you like to have a go with my vintage 303 nib?” I asked, with a pleading intonation.

Charmaine ignored me and chewed the end of her pencil as she flicked through her notebook. She looked displeased, and in exasperation she threw the notebook aside and took a huge tome from a picnic basket that she had dragged into my studio from the hallway. The huge tome thudded onto my desk causing my collection of tiny bears to topple over.

Opening the Dictionary of Dreams, Charmaine thumbed through the pages in an expert fashion, but couldn’t seem to find what she was looking for. I knew this because her brows had knitted themselves into a puzzled frown.

“So you’re saying that he was creeping up to your house across a muddy field? He looked like a scarecrow and every time you looked out of the window he froze and stood still? He wasn’t chasing you? You were making soup? And you felt strongly that it was Autumn, and that the scarecrow was Swedish?”

“I didn’t say he was Swedish! I said he was a swede! Look you silly girl, it was exactly like this…”

Charmaine’s brows unravelled to reveal a wide-eyed expression and I swear she looked almost relieved, but also a tad annoyed. In my defence I seldom remember my dreams, but she was so keen; I didn’t think it would hurt to be inventive.

Why have cotton when you can have silk?

Iseldom speak of the days when I pretended to be Audrey Hepburn and travelled everywhere in a Mercedes Benz 300 Cabriolet. Friends and family considered my pretence as something to be endured, and the mode of transport an unnecessary expense, but they didn’t have my vision, or a chauffeur called Dylan.

Recruiting Dylan was easy, though more luck than judgement. I was returning from the corner shop, where I had bought a large bar of chocolate and because it was such a lovely day, I decided to travel home on a passing vintage bus. I knew the bus would take me 800 miles out of my way, and possibly through Italy, but I was feeling reckless, a little giddy, and I was wearing clean cotton knickers.

Some may think my excursion extravagant, perhaps wasteful; some may frown, purse their lips when reading this; and some may be exasperated by my misuse of the semi-colon, but is how I am: impetuous, even with grammar.

And so I grabbed myself a window seat on the bus, sat back, and considered eating my family sized bar of chocolate. Would it be greedy to eat it all in one sitting? Would my fellow travellers think me rude if I didn’t share? Despite my propensity for being temerarious, I still cared what people thought. Thankfully the bus collided with a donkey and cart and my dithering was brought to a halt. I peered out the window, widened my eyes in an attractive manner, only to see Trevor trying to intercept my journey by throwing fruit and veg all over the road. I sighed. Even my heavily applied CGI couldn’t disguise me from my stalker.

I looked out the window and saw an opportunity to escape. It was Dylan driving the Merc. He looked dashing, and possibly diabetic. We exchanged meaningful glances; coded messages; a mental handshake; a wink and a nod; and I realised my chocolate would be safe with him. So I hopped off the bus, but not before flirting outrageously with the bus driver so that I could steal his cap. I was pretty enough to get away with this sort of behaviour, especially when rendered in glorious Technicolor.

I plonked the stolen cap on Dylan’s bonce, thus anointing him my official chauffeur, and settled myself in the back of the Merc. This was more like it, what had I been thinking by using public transport? I had been a fool, a nincompoop. I took a bite of my family sized bar of chocolate. I relaxed, and decided that from now on all my knickers would be made of silk.