The Worst Advert of 2022
"A growing phenonemon of people being massive twats and thinking they’re awesome."
It’s the first AdTurds newsletter. Sorry about that. But I have been compelled to bring my spleen out of deep freeze and thaw it out at room temperature for 24 hours before giving it full vent, with appropriate seasoning.
If you like it, why not forward to someone you like - or even someone you hate. Frankly, after the next 1000 words of invective, horror and anxiety I’m not sure which is more appropriate.
Needless to say I’m hungry for sign-ups and validation. That’s pretty much the point of having a newsletter, after all, so likes, comments and shares are all much appreciated. The more subscribers, the more likely I am to keep doing this.
What’s that I hear? “Yes, yes, shut up AdTurds, we know all that!” Fair enough. But here’s a button and that.
The worst advert of 2022
280 votes later the country has spoken. The Marc Jacobs ‘Daisy, daisy, daisy…’ advert beat off stiff competition from the ‘Bank of Ant And Dec’ Santander efforts, Philip Schofied’s disastrous dalliance with WeBuyAnyCar (though he probably came off with more money in his pocket that any customers ever did) and the Domino-o-o’s yodelling ad.
My own personal bête noire - the one with ‘real farmers’ singing about milk, if by singing you mean making noises slightly less disturbing that their own flocks as they approach their mechanised doom - was some way down the rankings. Meanwhile the ‘banks pretend to be your mate’ adverts (shared out between Lloyds, Santander and Halifax) took almost a third between them.
There were plenty of other answers, including multiple votes for Ionos, On The Beach and Omaze. Someone simply wrote this:
Period pad advert even if I have two children too explicit and revolting they my son who is her felt like he was going to puke
While another ventured ‘And and Dec scam trousers’, which I’m still puzzling over.
In the end Marc Jacobs won, with 51 votes to And’n’Dec’s 32. By my reckoning that’s 51 tellies whose pictures have yet to fully recover from having an unwanted Christmas gift hurled at them.
Sometimes it’s hard to pinpoint exactly what drives people to such fury. With this one, not so much. Yes, there’s the utter vacuity of the whle enterprise, the sense that we’re careening towards total oblivion because of the blank stupidity of exactly people like this. The vague sense that these sirens are luring us towards a gigantic wicker gender non-binary full of livestock and virgins. And the frankly surreal juxtaposition of this nonsense with a soundtrack from Suicide ramps up the sense that someone spent several million quid just to take the piss out of us.
But it’s the ‘daisy, daisy, daisy…’ kicker that really sticks in the craw. The fake laughter. Those infuraiting winsome grins. As if to put a full stop on the fact that this is an advert doing its level best to fuck with you.
Here’s what I said at the time, in a round-up of the contenders:
Is there a less deserving smugness that’s the unearned self-satisfaction of perfume adverts? They all give the impression of being on on a massive joke you’re not invited to be part of – and indeed they are. Because you could throw a dart into any of those shelves at the local B&M and hit a bottle that is more expensive by weight that enriched uranium. That’s the joke – there’s this smelly stuff you don’t actually want that costs more than a 2kg tub of Flora that you’re going to end up buying anyway. You’re not in on it because you’re the mark. The Marc Jacobs advert makes it explicit: they’re laughing at you.
From there I went off a long exploration of what makes Matt Hancock so insufferable because, well, Matt Hancock is a twat. But he’s symptomatic of a growing phenonemon of people being massive twats and thinking they’re awesome.
Hancock. Boris Johnson. Elon Musk. Nadine Dorries. Andrew Tate. Marc Jacobs.
For them there will be no comeuppance. Just more money and validation jizzed into their empty wallets, mouths and brains. It plays on a fear we all have that the universe is fundamentally uncaring and unjust; that the arseholes are going to get away with it.
No justice. No reckoning. No comeuppance.
They’re bloody well going to get away with it aren’t they?
From the vaults - Tom Hiddleston’s Japandering nightmare
Needless to say, this rumination on the context of a new Tom Hiddleston Centrum Advert is pure fiction. Or is it?
“Ah, another day begins! Looks nice out. Hope Tom Hiddleston isn’t downstairs making us breakfast again!
“Just patter down these tasteful stairs and… oh God. How did he get in again this time? The locks changed, the bars on the windows…
“Is it too late to run upstairs and grab the Mace – or even jump from a first-floor window? Probably break our ankles but… shit! Tom Hiddleston’s seen us. Better play along or Tom Hiddleston’ll get angry. And cry. And start wanking too probably – like last time.
“Fuck! Tom Hiddleston’s got a fucking knife. OK. Stay calm…
“‘Heyyyyyyy!’ to you too, you fucking sicko. Jesus, will Tom Hiddleston ever leave us alone?
“‘Pop back and make you breakfast…?’ Christ, Tom Hiddleston really is nuts. Wonder how he escaped from prison this time. And how did he find us?
“What’s that Tom Hiddleston’s got on that plate? A fried egg on top of vegetables and fruit? Pretty fucking weird – but at least it’s not Tom Hiddleston’s own severed toes with a sprinkling of Tom Hiddleston’s pubes like last time.
Safe from the endless degrading acts Tom Hiddleston makes us carry out to satisfy his perverted desires!
“Pepper on top? Whatever you say. Best to not upset Tom Hiddleston. Wait – there’s probably crushed-up sleeping pills or Rohypnol in this stuff. Better pretend to eat while secretly feeding it to the dog.
“The dog… where is the dog? Wait, the knife. The knife in Tom Hiddleston’s hand. Oh God…
“Maybe that’s why Tom Hiddleston’s looking so regretful – almost like he’s trying to apologise for something…
“Shit, listen to what Tom Hiddleston is saying – he gets upset when we don’t play along. Just pretend to be Tom Hiddleston’s wife and listen very carefully to what Tom Hiddleston is-.
“What the fuck? Is Tom Hiddleston speaking Chinese? Shit – this is new. Do we have to pretend to be Chinese now?
“Centrum, what’s that? Probably best not swallow whatever that is or we’ll be waking up in a cellar dressed in leather chaps and chained to a wall again.
“Jesus, the way Tom Hiddleston keeps rubbing his hands like he’s Lady Macbeth – and that furrowed brow. And those eyes – eyes that have seen too much. Those hands that have closed around so many elegant young necks…
“‘A bit busy for the next few weeks’. Oh God, what’s Tom Hiddleston got planned? Something involving saws and scalpels probably. For weeks. Where’s Tom Hiddleston going to take us?”
“Wait, is Tom Hiddleston going? OK this is our one chance to get Tom Hiddleston out of here. Just play along with Tom Hiddleston’s twisted domestic bliss fantasy and we might just get out of this alive.
“Mess about with Tom Hiddleston’s collar a bit – it will soothe his murderous sexual desires. Could we gouge Tom Hiddleston’s eyes out while his defences are down? Maybe crush Tom Hiddleston’s windpipe?
“No, no – his bloody, eyeless face twisted in a mask of hatred as he rages, sightless, around the kitchen swiping with that carving knife is too horrible to contemplate. He looks calm. We just have to get Tom Hiddleston outside the door and we’re safe…
“What the fuck? Tom Hiddleston’s actually gone?! We’re safe! Safe from the sex dungeon, safe from the needy passive aggression of his twisted psyche! Safe from the endless degrading acts Tom Hiddleston makes us carry out to satisfy his perverted desires!
“Finally safe from Tom Hiddleston!”
This week’s vintage ad - British pork’s got the lot
A comprehensive list of all the things that make this vintage British ad for roast pork could take some days, suffice it to say the scarcely-concealed violent intent could hardly be more apparent if voiced by a Russian defence minister.
It’s character actor Anthony Dutton doing his best to put the fear of God into you over what might conceivably happen if you don’t buy British pork this Sunday. Is it the Kubrick stare? The teeth bared in clear threat? Perhaps the disturbing silence of the other diners or oddly proprietorial references to the wife?
Either way, chances are we’d not venture around for dinner, thanks all the same. After all, we’ve only his word that what he’s serving up is pork.
Well, that’s mercifully it for this week. But sign up below otherwise I’ll send Pork Dad around.
The smug ice cream eating kid on some holiday ad,could do with a good slap!