Go Out? Me? 'Ow?

That’s it! I’m never going outside again. It’s safe here, it’s warm and only Pither’s rules apply. What a supreme irony, bearing in mind what has finally convinced me that either the world has gone mad and it’s brain-sappingly dangerous out there or it is in fact me who has gone mad and I’m not safe to be let loose on the public.

Go-Cat! Go-Fucking-Cat!! – that’s what has at last tipped me over the edge. I just don’t know where to begin on this one. I really don’t. Is it about the awesome stupidity and mind-numbing irrelevance of marketing? Perhaps it’s the terrifying depths to which the intelligence of the consumerists have sunk? Then again, perhaps it’s just the cats of today? I don’t know.

I almost dropped me chips when I heard it…………….“Go-Cat Indoors,” the advert purred.

“………………….for cats that don’t get out much.”

WHAAAAAAAT?!?!!? CATS THAT DON’T GET OUT MUCH???? AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


I know this country has chased the United States of America down the standards toilet, I know everything now has a price and not a value and I know nothing is allowed to just “be” anymore – it has to be “sold”, BUT SELLING A PRODUCT AIMED AT AGORAPHOBIC CATS IS FUCKING LUNACY!!!

What next?
Pedigree Chum Personality Disorder – For Dogs Who Think They are Napoleon?
Friskies Tentik Fodo – For Dyslexic Kittens?
Nazi Nibbles – For Hamsters Who Want To Annexe the Sudetenland?

They’ll come one day, you watch! I mean, if the ad men can sell Shreddies by telling the great unwashed that they are knitted by a bunch of piss-stained, crumbly old grannies crammed into a basement somewhere then everything is possible.

Go-Cat Indoors can go – outdoors……to Grantham.

Debt and the Long Distance Runner

First of all, a message to everyone involved in advertising. If you have anything to do with this lying, amoral, pointless trade then please do not read on. I urge you - nay, I beg you - for all our sakes, take yourselves off to a darkened room, open a vein and then sit quietly until it's all over, for all of us.
For those of you left, what the fuck is the latest bastard Visa advert all about? This piece of publicly-aired pubic pus features a bloke jogging stark, bollock naked, except for his socks, from the middle of the desert, through a couple of trailer trash towns where he gains half a boiler suit, through some shite city where he swaps his grubby work gear for a proper suit, to the steps of a church where, having amazingly managed to have a shower, shave, haircut, make-over and pedicure somewhere on the pavement outside, he makes a dramatic entrance to join, we are led to believe, his bride-to-be at the altar - all of this to some mind-numbing dum-dum-dum dee-dee dum-dum-dummer soundtrack.
I say again - what the fuck is that all about? How, in the Holy name of Fuck, does this illustrate or promote the services of a corporation which invites you to borrow money at an exorbitant interest rate so that you end up divorced, in prison and with your children taken into care because you can't afford to pay it back? Perhaps if you ran the film backwards it would make more sense. You know, you see the man enjoying the happiest day of his life, wedding his sweetheart in church, and then, on discovering Visa and how to get into debt, he is forced to move further and further out of the city and into less expensive areas as his bills mount until he loses his job as a fucking women's hairdresser or ponce or whatever it is we are supposed to think he started off as and ends up as a grease monkey in a succession of poverty stricken, one-horse towns until he loses that job as well, gambles away the last remnants of his clothes (apart from his socks) to make yet another "minimum payment" and finally, filthy dirty, exhausted and without hope (but with socks), he takes himself off into the desert to die a sad, pathetic, lonely and agonising death from heat stroke, starvation and exhaustion.

Back in adworld, why choose a flasher who lives in the desert to plug your tawdry product in the first place? If I wanted to con the public into believing that they actually needed the festering, vaginal discharge which is Visa I could think of someone better to front up my adverts - The Devil, perhaps? Pol Pot? Hitler? Jim Davidson? Whichever "face of" Visa I plumped for I would, however, expect them to be fully clothed and live nextdoor to some trendies and not a few scorpions, a rock and a lizard.
Secondly, I would like to give the impression that my "face of" creature had at least a modicum of intelligence. Just in case it hadn't occurred to you, that would not include some twat who is so terminally thick that, instead of sliding his credit card out of his bum crack (the only place I believe he would have been able to carry one) and booking a bus ticket to get to church, he runs totally naked for 50 miles in testicle-exploding temperatures to keep his date with destiny.
Thirdly, are we supposed to be so blind to this idiot's idiocy that we are expected not to think any less of him because he has apparently forgotten it's his wedding day, let alone that he might need to be dressed to attend the ceremony and sort out a way of getting from his fucking rock in the desert to the church? Forgetting your house keys as you close that front door behind you is excusable. Forgetting someone's birthday is something which happens to us all - but forgetting you're getting married and that you're stark bollock naked is pushing the bounds of credibility a little far.
Finally, are they seriously trying to tell us that by carrying a Visa card you are immune to prosecution for indecent exposure? "Bollocks out in public? Oh yes, Visa - that'll do nicely!" I think not.

No, it's advertisers again. The entire business consists of no-brained wankers with no concept of anything in life, the universe or anything except for money and themselves who draw on the "skills" of fuckwit arts graduates who do not earn enough money from their life's work - which involves them labouring to create "modern art" in the guise of some voles soaked in kerosene stuck on the top of old bikes - and so dream up equally meaningless, pretentious pap to impress their brain-dead employers who are so easily impressed in the first place that they think Teasmades are "really neat".

Fuck 'em. Advertising (AGAIN!!) and Visa - and THAT fucking advert - can go to Grantham.