This approach to TV does tend to leave me way behind in the gossip stakes though, the twitterati will be tweeting about such cultural significances such as the latest Big Brother Evictee whilst the planner will be backed up with 2 weeks of unwatched footage. A fellow dinner party guest (ta Emma) will inform me of who won Celebrity Masterchef because I forgot to Series Link it when were back in England. I will completely miss what could be seminal master pieces of broadcasting history like Heros, The In-betweeners and Mad Men. Thankfully the good ship Amazon are on hand to dispatch, at a slightly over-inflated shipping price, direct to my door in a box-set DVD format.
My random approach to watching the goggle box does have one major draw. By and large my eyes and ears are unsullied by the evil that is advertising, given that I can and do, fast forward past the adverts. I deplore pretty much all TV advertising. Some of it makes me so mad I'm sure my eyes might spurt blood or something equally quite heinous. Processed junk food marketed as 'healthy choices' particularly make my blood boil, however I am not going to quote any one particular brand for this, mainly because lots of people have done such a good job of these sorts of posts before me, and will undoubtedly do sterling jobs in the future, and also because such a post would involve a degree of research that quite frankly, I cannot be arsed to undertake because it feels a little too much like hard work.
Breakfast cereals aside, those bloody women who pop up be-decked from head to toe in hot pink, tutting over the state of your laundry, well they can go and take a run and jump off a cliff. Seriously, I'd like one of those mo-fo's to show her badly dressed ass round my gaff when I'm hanging out the washing in a 60 kmp head wind a-top of our terrace. 'Ah but these clothes are still stained' she'll smile smugly whilst brandishing some powdered shite that probably costs more than raw cocaine ounce for ounce. 'You try and get fucking cat-fish slime out of clothes in a washing machine that only takes cold water' I'll retort before hurling her and her sodding Vanish over the wall to crash to her bloody death 3 floors down. See if Vanish really can get rid of bloodstains...
Next on my list of most hated commercials comes the ubiquitous beauty market. Having a fully botox-ed face of some has-been super model who's even older than me (and hell as we've established, that's old) banging on about how good some anti-ageing cream is, well, it's about as honest and sincere as having Victoria Beckham heading up a McDonald's campaign. Likewise a mascara advert with the lovely Penelope Cruz's lashes looking divinely thick and luscious is quite quickly demoted to a pile of advertising shite when you read the small print (42" screens are good for something other than hiding a multitude of sticky fingerprints on the wall), 'models lashes are inserts'. I'd have a great deal more respect for Maybelline, Rimmel et al if they said 'Models lashes are actually spiders legs posing as lashes of an ageing transvestite working the bars of Manchester's Canal Street'. Likewise Shampoo adverts... 'cos you're worth it, pet' Cheryl Cole/Tweedy/Derek Dancer Dude's byline should read 'model's hair is actually the property of a 7 year old child from Goa' not the blink and you'll miss it line of 'styled with natural inserts'.
Luckily my take it or leave it approach to TV viewing has largely left me bereft of such annoyances. However the one thing that we do as a family watch, live, is football. Jeff Stelling & co. are mainstays of our Saturday viewing, even Joseph knows that at 4 o'clock (we're an hour ahead remember) if his Dad's working and well, 10 am if he's not, the television is tuned into Sky Sports. Which means that for one day a week I am at the mercy of the UK's finest and not so finest Advertising Execs.
Clearly the Sky Sports channel doesn't generally dry-freeze my brain with images of aesthetically enhanced paparazzi fodder trying to flog me some slap, it does however open up a different window of advertising. Mascara and shampoo are swapped for razor blades, washing powder shoved aside for Lager or at a push trendy Cider, and the piste de resistance of 'boy' advertising - car stuff!
Lager/Cider/Beer adverts to be fair I don't mind. I may have a conflict of interest here given that I worked in the brewery trade for most of my adult life in one form or another before I moved out here. And anyway they are generally quite funny and don't insult your intelligence, probably because they are marketing themselves at people with a base-line level of intelligence, but never the less...
Cometh the man, cometh the male grooming ads. Gillette - the best a man can get. Or alternatively, Gillette - the most shoplifted items in the world. A fact that is glaring obvious to me is that perhaps if Gillette saw to it to maybe lower their price a tad, you know so you don't have to make a choice between shaving and feeding your children, that maybe, just maybe, people wouldn't be so hell bent on half inching them... just a thought. Bizarrely, every pretty (but alarmingly dull) boy, sporting celebrity they sign up then goes and does the dirty on his wife, Mrs Blazer touting tosser Federer beware...
So we're left with car stuff. I tend to switch off generally when car adverts come on, firstly because I don't need or want a new car and secondly because I know jack shit about them. However, the recent BMW campaign has caught my eye. It seems that the major selling point of their poncy cars is that they, quote, 'manipulate the wind!' I only studied Physics to GCSE level and by some miracle managed to attain a C grade* and it was a loooooooong time ago, but even I can pull deep into the recesses of my memory that stores the occasional bit of useless information to remember that ALL objects, stationary or indeed moving, will manipulate the wind. Hardly a big selling point is it BMW?
Thankfully, as in all walks of life, there are good things and bad things. Car insurance adverts are no exception. Granted I would seriously like someone to garrot the moustachioed
*Seriously the fact that I even passed my GCSE Physics is a miracle given that our teacher, a Belinda Carlisle dead ringer, would either spend all lesson flirting with the good looking boys, or lock herself in the store cupboard for the entire lesson whilst crying! This insipid creature also thought that a banks ATM/Cash machines had a little man behind them who sat there 24 hours a day doling out your cash.... And they say that education has gone down hill... I worry, really I do.