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Thank you, advertising

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?

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