These are the things that trouble me in the shower. Along with the increasing difficulty in seeing my toes. But that's not what I want to talk to you today about. Today I want to talk to you about why the fuck is it that everything needs an Expert superglued on the side in order to be sold to cunts.
I didn't buy aforesaid shampoo because of the dubious celebrity of Mr Taw. I bought it because it was pretty much the only one in the supermarket which wasn't aimed at people with ovaries. And it was on special, and I'm cheap. But for some men, presumably, Thomas Taw is the difference-maker in the purchasing decision process. Presumably, otherwise the twunt wouldn't be on the side. And presumably, Thomas Taw is scoring a decent wedge of folding for the privilege. Now, I wouldn't know Thomas Taw from Thomas Cook, Dylan Thomas or Thomas the Tank Engine but his pretense of expertise has the imprimatur of Unilever behind him and as such I'm being asked to accept it on face value. Ditto the makers of Campbell's chicken stock, who for an extra 50c a pack will sell you 'Real Stock' (as distinct from 'Fake Stock' made from rubber chickens) created with something called a Manu Feildel, which apparently is not the starting left back for Paris St Germain, or rustic French slang for a paddock full of cowshit, but some form of celebrity chef from the televizzle. Gabriel Gate with twattier hair. And that's a significant achievement.
Surely, though, it wouldn't be anything more than a piece of piss to, if your company's promotional stable was short a celebrity hairstylist, chef, interior decorator or freelance dolphin-annoyer, to simply invent one with help from central casting and a big fuck-off marketing budget. In fact, that was what I was sure Continental had done in a recent ad for (yet again) chicken stock. What the fuck is it with chicken stock and Z-grade celebritard panhandlers. Anyhoo they'd clearly got some hairy, sweary, Gordon Ramsay Lite prick from the agency in. Pompous, pretentious, supercilious, brooding, posing, taking himself ludicrously seriously - just had to be a pisstake on the whole celebrity chef endorsement culture, and Ramsay's cuntery in particularly. Even the name had to be made up. 'Marco Pierre White.' Seriously.
Fuck this nonsense. Imma start washing my hair with Solvol. Or Palmolive Gold. Noone ever complains of Dry & Damaged Arsehairs. Or maybe they do, but we'd have to ask an expert...
The Doctor is OUT.
5 comments:
I've often wondered if it was an egg before the chicken scenario (to maintain the rather poultry analogy... geddit?). Reckon the likes of Campbells, et al, do pluck some schmuck from the anonymity of a sweatbox kitchen somewhere, ruffle his/her feathers and invent a believable enough back-story to get the TV shows and their flock to idolise him/her as some sort of crowing demi-god of French toast.
All just to ship a few more units of their stock.
Works though. Everyone wants some kind of premium differentiator on their product. A sprinkle of celebrity expert fairydust - even if it's entirely PR boolsheet - creates that differentiation, and justifies a higher pricepoint.
I make my own stock. Enough to do a couple of soups or stews in one go. I'm reasonably sure the chicken and veggies I chuck in at random are the real deal.
For hair products, I pride myself in jumping on the latest bandwagon (Argan Oil), before there even was one :)
Wonder if that makes me an expert? Might have a chat to a PR type person of my acquaintance :)
I was eating at his restaurant in Paddington last year (had no idea who he was etc) and went out for a smoke - he came out for one too and then he started chatting about my tie. He wasn't a bad guy, even when people came up to him on the street and interfered with his cigarette!
He still can't knot a tie though.
I get Beloved to shear my head so the hair is within a centimetre of its life. Radiotherapy gave my hairstyle a tonsure at a jaunty angle anyway. Suddenly it don't seem to matter too much. Cow manure, I'm told, makes excellent shampoo. Have a go at that mate.
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