Ad of the week, no. 2

10 Feb

My ad of the week this week is for Here it is.

It’s a remake of this old Yellow Pages ad.

Now, if you’re anything like me, the first thing you’ll have said about this ad is this: A FUCKING REMAKE? OF AN AD?

A remake of a film is bad enough, as we all saw from the remake of Psycho, the remake of The Italian Job and the remake of The Pink Panther. Oh, and the remakes of The Stepford Wives, Starsky & Hutch and Planet of the Apes. And, of course, the remake of Ass Blasters 9 was a fucking insult to the original.

Seeing as all adland creatives are frustrated movie writers / directors (and actual real-life failed movie writers / directors) you’d think the agency would know this was a dead idea walking.

But I think they’ve managed to pull it off.

Not really! It sucks like Divine Brown’s vacuum cleaner.

Not only have they simply remade the original without deviation, improvement or alteration, they’ve ‘updated’ it in such a lumberingly predictable way that it makes me wonder if a client was involved. You know, a typical client. Not one like me, who would have remade the original in such a way that it became the gold standard of ad remakes, with a central idea that erupted like Gordon Ramsay in a heat wave when someone overcooked the lentils.

In fact, I’ve got it: you remake it exactly like the original, except J R Hartley is a woman with massive bristolas, and she’s looking for a porno she made when she was 15 and on crack. THAT’S the modern British version, not this milksop northern toolbag with his hangdog look and his stupid fucking name.

And what about his fucking daughter? ‘Fancy a cup of tea, dad?’ EH? Surely she’d just roll her eyes with studied ennui and change her Facebook status to ‘SOOOOOO embarrassed right now’. Then she’d probably go upstairs and take some meow meow and knife a stranger. Or something. I dunno what teenaged girls do. Not in this country, anyway.

His daughter certainly wouldn’t make him a cup of tea and let him use her phone. For starters, it’ll have dozens of pictures of her boyfriend’s danglebag on it. Also, is she really going to encourage her Dad to relive his days as a drug-fucked musical failure making a ‘trance mix’ called ‘Pulse and Thunder’ that, clearly, nobody in 1992 or since thought was anything but complete shitpoles? I think not. She doesn’t want her friends seeing her Dad doing anything. Him being an accountant would be fist-bitingly embarrassing for her. But being an ex-muso who, if his dress sense is anything to go by, thinks he’s still got it? For-fucking-get-a-fucking-bout-fucking-it!

That said, the one thing the ad does get right is how massively up their own sphinc-holes the employees of niche music shops can be. I remember spending several days wandering around the various sweat-funked basements of London’s vinyl scene some years ago looking for a record by DJ DK – a one-off release by a seriously talented hip-hop mixologist / vocal stylist / rhyme criminal who committed his genius to vinyl once and felt immediately limited by the medium so carried on his phenomenal phonological phatness in his bedroom only. Could I find it? Could I fuck. Just got laughed at by people in gravity-defying trousers.

So, well done for that. Fuck off for all the rest.

I am Dave Knockles! And I’m looking for a record called ‘Rollin’ With DK to BK’.


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