For reviving me from the slough of meh I have been wandering aimlessly through of late, a smallish sign of life, but a significant one nonetheless.
Why yes, dear reader, I was yelling at the telly! And the object of my ire? Well, an advert, obv. It was for some sort of yoghurt. The basic premise was two pretty-ish middle class sorts enjoying their yoghurts on a balcony, as that's what pretty-ish middle class sorts do, I am given to understand. Tra la la, they cried, fiddle de dee, when I'm done with this yoghurt I shall probably be off down some cobbled streets on me bike with a basket on the front, well nourished middle class hair streaming behind me, to meet my boyfriend, who is most probably called either Toby or Jamie; and then we'll toddle off to watch and fail to comprehend something by Fellini or Kurosawa, someone foreign anyway. Tra la la, how nice to be me.
I may be extrapolating somewhat, but hey.
Anyhow, one of these pretty-ish middle class sorts knocks a pot plant off said balcony, where it narowly misses a chap (who you may be surprised to learn is a good-looking ish, middle class sort). He looks wryly up at the pretty-ish middle class sort and she, giggling, gestures upwards in an attempt to convince him that the pot plant, which, dear reader NEARLY FUCKING KILLED HIM, fell from a balcony further up.
This is in no way a rational response, you nearly kill a man, and you giggle and carry on eating your fucking yoghurt. I am forced to conclude that the message of this ad is: eat our yoghurt, you will be absolved of conscience and responsibility. But I feel a debt of gratitude. Thank you, makers of whatever yoghurt it is, first time I've got particularly narked at anything in weeks. Now, where are those fucking meerkats?
Why yes, dear reader, I was yelling at the telly! And the object of my ire? Well, an advert, obv. It was for some sort of yoghurt. The basic premise was two pretty-ish middle class sorts enjoying their yoghurts on a balcony, as that's what pretty-ish middle class sorts do, I am given to understand. Tra la la, they cried, fiddle de dee, when I'm done with this yoghurt I shall probably be off down some cobbled streets on me bike with a basket on the front, well nourished middle class hair streaming behind me, to meet my boyfriend, who is most probably called either Toby or Jamie; and then we'll toddle off to watch and fail to comprehend something by Fellini or Kurosawa, someone foreign anyway. Tra la la, how nice to be me.
I may be extrapolating somewhat, but hey.
Anyhow, one of these pretty-ish middle class sorts knocks a pot plant off said balcony, where it narowly misses a chap (who you may be surprised to learn is a good-looking ish, middle class sort). He looks wryly up at the pretty-ish middle class sort and she, giggling, gestures upwards in an attempt to convince him that the pot plant, which, dear reader NEARLY FUCKING KILLED HIM, fell from a balcony further up.
This is in no way a rational response, you nearly kill a man, and you giggle and carry on eating your fucking yoghurt. I am forced to conclude that the message of this ad is: eat our yoghurt, you will be absolved of conscience and responsibility. But I feel a debt of gratitude. Thank you, makers of whatever yoghurt it is, first time I've got particularly narked at anything in weeks. Now, where are those fucking meerkats?
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