Moral Apocalypse Now

As regular readers will know, I have a fascination with ads featuring utter fuckwits. One of my favourite ads ever, is 60 seconds of a complete tool being his stupendously idiotic self as he test drives an Audi. Another favourite is this glorious celebration of male corporate twatishness. And another advertising dickhead that caught my eye recently but, unlike those last two, wasn’t built on a foundation of intelligent irony, was this masterclass in crass and boorish fuckwittery.

But now I feel we’ve met the advertising arsehole to beat all advertising arseholes. The top dog of TVC twats. The daddy of dickheads. Prancing across a backdrop of incongruously moody cinematography, this asinine City boy intones cliché after vacuous cliché in an inevitably failed attempt to depict working long hours in a bank as some heroic Nietzschean endeavour. The result is an ad that looks like a trailer for the worst straight-to-Channel 5-Britflick ever and comes across as a manifesto for greedy, pretentious half-wits. This moustachioed cretin in a Top Man suit fancies himself a stylish, self-made master of the universe. However, he reminds me of a wannabe Patrick Bateman crossed with that wanker Miles from This Life and a less likeable (is this actually possible?) version of Bexy from The Firm. Gliding glibly through a pathetic montage of emptiness, doing the hard yards of – OMG, what a legend! – getting up early for work, copping off with attractive ladies, looking mysteriously stressed and distant at parties, keeping an eye on his Nokia 3310 and shaking hands – stock library-style – on those big deals, the irony that he has no time for friends, relationships or even to spend in the stupid apartment that the whole thing is an ad for is clearly lost on him.

As matey drops his shallow reflections like a trainee motivational guru reeling off a series of spoof haikus, as he pushes through “the days that melted into months and years”, as he reminds us that he’s driven by “the need to be different”, “to make the impossible…possible”, he thinks he’s selling us a Londoned-up version of the American dream. But it’s just a boring Capitalist fantasy that would make me laugh if it wasn’t so depressing. Sod this hateful lifestyle wank, what’s desperately needed in London is affordable housing for decent working people. Instead, what we get here is some cut-price Howard Roark, some Martin Amis cast-off telling us that the peak of human existence is “To look out at the city that could have swallowed you whole and say ‘I did this'”. It’s supposed to be deep and inspirational but it’s lame and unintentionally hilarious. It feels like the harbinger of a hideous moral apocalypse and I need a shower every time I watch it. Enjoy!

(Thank you FiFi for drawing my attention to this piece of rubbish-fantastic advertising for the ages.)


About antmelder
Executive Creative Director at Host/Havas Sydney; passionate vegetarian; lover of books, boxing and Bruce Springsteen.

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