Ten Million Simultaneous Cups of Tea
Like anything else made to be noticed, advertising is a beast with a loud rour and blunted claws. Advertising is business, and most of the good stuff comes not from a desire for artistic immortality or a genuine desire to amuse, but from the cold knowledge that there are particular target markets who require this good stuff before they drop their guard and buy the damn thing.
But not all target markets are savvy ABC1's who flatter themselves immune to commercial persuasion. Most advertisements are simplistic and dull, the purpose of which is not to entice you to go out right now and buy this wonderful new doodad, but rather to maintain brand awareness – if you decide to change your electricity supplier, you go for the one whose sponsorship of the weather has pissed you off for years. You don't just immediately leap into bed with the Alabama Magic-O-Power Concern (calls terminate in Sri Lanka) because a breathless telephone call promises low, low prices and a free smoking monkey for every new customer.
So there is a certain level of "will this do?" in the industry, as there is in every other industry. And none so much as the abysmal and ubiquitous battle of the sexes advert that now seems to make up fifty percent of the time between programmes. Every advert follows the same template. One half of a relationship is shown conforming to some gender-based activity (watching football, shopping, whatever), and then the other half of the relationship say or do something to make their partner look stupid. The squashingly insulting nature of this drivel is enough to drive a man to leap savagely at the television, squatting on all fours with their eyes pressed against the screen, bellowing "in the name of all that is holy, split the hell up! You hate each other, and every poor bastard around you who has been forced to live with your endlessly smug one-upmanship knows it! Get off my screen before I beat you like a gong!"
Or perhaps instead prompt a weary roll of the eyes and a reach for the remote. But you get my drift.
The bottom line is that the idea must work, or it would have long been hauled off to the knacker's yard and shot. But who are these people? Who in the name of hell finds this stuff amusing? They're out there, and probably being flung about in their own wretched whirlwind of romance. Get the suckers when their guards are down… before they return to earth with a bump that shatters their sense of optimism for good.
Alternatively, hire Peter Kay. That seems to work.
But not all target markets are savvy ABC1's who flatter themselves immune to commercial persuasion. Most advertisements are simplistic and dull, the purpose of which is not to entice you to go out right now and buy this wonderful new doodad, but rather to maintain brand awareness – if you decide to change your electricity supplier, you go for the one whose sponsorship of the weather has pissed you off for years. You don't just immediately leap into bed with the Alabama Magic-O-Power Concern (calls terminate in Sri Lanka) because a breathless telephone call promises low, low prices and a free smoking monkey for every new customer.
So there is a certain level of "will this do?" in the industry, as there is in every other industry. And none so much as the abysmal and ubiquitous battle of the sexes advert that now seems to make up fifty percent of the time between programmes. Every advert follows the same template. One half of a relationship is shown conforming to some gender-based activity (watching football, shopping, whatever), and then the other half of the relationship say or do something to make their partner look stupid. The squashingly insulting nature of this drivel is enough to drive a man to leap savagely at the television, squatting on all fours with their eyes pressed against the screen, bellowing "in the name of all that is holy, split the hell up! You hate each other, and every poor bastard around you who has been forced to live with your endlessly smug one-upmanship knows it! Get off my screen before I beat you like a gong!"
Or perhaps instead prompt a weary roll of the eyes and a reach for the remote. But you get my drift.
The bottom line is that the idea must work, or it would have long been hauled off to the knacker's yard and shot. But who are these people? Who in the name of hell finds this stuff amusing? They're out there, and probably being flung about in their own wretched whirlwind of romance. Get the suckers when their guards are down… before they return to earth with a bump that shatters their sense of optimism for good.
Alternatively, hire Peter Kay. That seems to work.
posted by Jamie at 2:19 PM
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