Here’s a non-exhaustive list of things that Peter Kay has managed to ruin for all of us in his 37 years of existence: the Bolton accent. Jolly fat men. Amarillo. John Smiths beer. Bob Marley. The Brits. Garlic. Bread. Garlic bread. All charitable endeavour ever undertaken. The concept of comedy. Quite large swathes of life itself.
And now, as if that wasn’t enough, as if we, the British people, had not suffered sufficiently at his pudgy hands, he’s gone and ruined Christmas as well. Is there no depth this monster will not sink to to cause us pure, dazzling pain?!
You’ll have to excuse the hyperbole. It’s just that here at hecklerspray, as you might have surmised from our endlessly positive and chirpy outlook on the world, we ruddy love Christmas. And the moment Christmas arrives for us is the first magical frame of the Marks and Spencers Christmas advert. And this year, mostly due to the behemothic presence of Mr Humour Black Hole, it’s all kinds of rubbish.
You see, M&S had quite a good thing going with its recent ads.
They’ve got a nice roster of models – couple of unattainably fit birds, couple of less fit birds, one for the mums and one giggling in their pants for the boys – and they’ve abandoned their pretence that Myleene, Twiggy and Dannii somehow all live together in a great big pile in the New Forest, and when Take That come round, Mark doesn’t try and do naughty touching with anyone.
Now the ads do what clothes ads should do, bigging up the rather mediocre rags in a live-action magazine fashion spread style, so we can see just how fantastic a faux-leather aviator jacket can look, as long as you’ve got a handy biplane to drape yourself all over. Because, otherwise, you’d just look like a ridiculous bat swooping through Greggs, obviously.
But now Christmas is engulfing everything like a tinselled fart, and the M&S festive ad has arrived. Soundtracked by the Bee Gees rather irritatingly insisting that We Should Be Dancing – don’t they know we’re in the midst of a Spending Review? Can’t waste valuable shoe leather on that kind of flippant behaviour – it firstly depicts Peter Kay as a dance instructor who’s the frightening progeny of Wagner and the fat kid from The Goonies, then takes us through a Benolyn max strength-induced nightmarish cavalcade of “classic” dancing scenes.
See some gangly ladies clod-hopping through Saturday Night Fever! Chicago! Grease! See some kids rather unwisely channelling Britney Spears being overtly sexual in a school corridor! And see Peter Kay keep turning up like a persistent bailiff, mugging at the camera so we’re left in no doubt just how funny it is that he’s flapping his big limbs about in a malcoordinated fashion. At one point, he even materialises as the bloke from the Go Compare advert and physically shoves Twiggy to the ground, as if that’s in any way acceptable.
This is all wrong! Where’s Stephen Fry making mince pies sound like an upper-class euphemism? Where’s James Nesbitt smarming over jumpers? Where’s the slightest hint that this is in any way a Christmas advert, aside from the 14,000 Santas that barge in at the very last second as if the advert itself had suddenly remembered what it was for and utterly panicked?
There’s not a cheeky glass of Advocaat in sight. It’s an affront to a public who demand complete gift-wrapped and sparkly bauble saturation in every form of entertainment from November 1st onwards.
But although it’s got many problems – models can’t dance, Twiggy’s sobbing down the phone to Women’s Aid, and everyone in their right mind hates Dannii Minogue – portly Peter radiates complacent, smug awfulness from its core, continuing on his happy journey to reach the attainable heights of being The Absolute Worst Thing To Happen To Television Ever.
And it’s he, hecklerspray reader, who has already destroyed the whole festive season for us. We’ve taken down the tree, we’ve burnt the mini Lady Gaga figurine who was perched sluttily on top, and we’ve made steak sandwiches from her charred fairy dress.
Now, pass the horseradish: we’re eating through the pain. Merry blummin’ six-weeks-till-Christmas.
John V. Keogh says
I recognized Twiggy, but how did you know who the other people were? Still, I’m glad you’re watching this trash so I don’t have to.
Callum says
JRME, you are almost always right about
everything (and witty to boot) but I am going
to stick up for the John Smiths ads. Yes, they
should have been killed off before they lapsed
into a parody even staler than, erm, a pint
of John Smiths, but the early ones (‘Ello Britney
and of course, ‘Ave It) were classics.
As for the whereabouts of Stephen Sodding Fry, he was
too busy doing a light hearted programme
about the BP oil spill. Please oh please can you
do a hatchet job on him next? You don’t have
to mean any of it, but nonetheless, the more
abusive, unpleasant and mean-spirited you make
it, the happier I will be.
Anyway, I read in the paper today that too much
Smartphone usage whilst in the toilet can
cause piles, so I’d better stop there.