By now the haze of Christmas parties is bound to have worn off and you’ll be sitting there with nothing to show from the festive period but a photocopy of your genitals and an unplanned pregnancy; you’re probably looking back on the month or so preceding this and thinking, “Where did it all go wrong?”

That’s simple. You’re one of these people who gets so excited about the concept of Christmas that you vomit all over your facebook with excitement the first time you see that terrible Coca Cola advert.

SO YOU’VE PROBABLY ALREADY GUESSED THAT I’M GOING TO RUB IT IN YOUR FACE WHILE YOU RUB YOURSELF AND WONDER IF YOU MIGHT HAVE CRABS.

After all, that’s what Christmas is all about.

Let’s talk turkey (aha!), the Coca Cola advert is an unmitigated disaster zone of hackneyed ideas and 50s’-style ‘buy this, it’s good for what ails ye’ advertising. The fact that so many people see it as a sign of the festive period beginning is enough to make any sensible person run out into the street with a bolt-gun to start euthanising children before their parents manage to indoctrinate them into believing that advertising has anything to do with the start of the Christmas period.

Of course, I wouldn’t do that as I’m far too afraid of the brutal honesty of children to ever go near them whether I’m armed or otherwise.

Regardless of that fact, the Coke advert signifies the beginning of Christmas to many people who like to pour onto social networks proclaiming, “OMGCOKEADVERTITZTOTALLYCHRIMBOYAAAAAALOLMAO.”

The obvious question is ‘What has Coke ever done for Christmas?’. That is, aside from inventing Santa Claus in his current form and covering up your relatives’ alcohol problem on Christmas day. Coca Cola isn’t a particularly festive drink and therefore they’ve taken to disguising it with picture-postcard, Werthers Original style visuals and a song that is, I’m afraid to say, worse than Cliff Richard’s Millenium Prayer.

Coca Cola doesn’t bring the joy of the season and the idea of millions of people suddenly rushing to put their trees up when the Coke advert comes on fills me with a sense of dread usually reserved for a nuclear holocaust and a new Michelle MacManus album. Have you ever actually seen a Coca Cola truck like that? Are they like TV License Detector vans? There’s only one and it spends its life on a thankless PR dirge around the country?

Yes, Coca Cola invented Santa Claus, the red suited jolly version at least and we’re supposed to be infinitely grateful to them for allowing us to use him in our children’s folklore. Of course we should be! Thank you Coca Cola! Given the size of the company, they could easily charge you royalties every time you put out a mince pie and a glass of sherry on Christmas eve.

But wait. If we are to assume that the ‘accepted’ version of Santa Claus as the big, jolly red-coated gent that we see today comes directly from the marketing bods at the Coca Cola Company* then we might as well be telling the children of the world that their presents will be delivered by Ronald McDonald or those dickheads from the Pepsi adverts. Christmas owes nothing to Coca Cola and the mere suggestion that it ‘marks the beginning’ of festivities is often made by the same people that complain when there’s Hallowe’en costumes in supermarkets in mid-September.

Still, if you are one of the bleating sheep that rely on Coca Cola to tell you when you can start being nice to people then think of it this way: when you’re a kid, you believe that Santa Claus is real and maybe you believe that he’s directly responsible for delivering Coke. Then you grow up and you find out Santa isn’t real and you actually have to go out and buy gifts for the people you love. Maybe you want to cling on to part of that Christmas magic and the first sight of the Coca Cola trucks gives you that sense of wonder and joy that you’ve been lacking since you hit puberty.

It’s a nice thought isn’t it? It still means you’re being manipulated into feeling an emotion by an advertising company though. Maybe that’s what Christmas is all about after all.

Still, Merry Christmas an’ all that.

*In fact the depiction of Santa Claus in his ‘current form’ predates the advertising of Coca Cola but given that Father Christmas is essentially a series of lies to build the hopes of children and amuse the dull lives of adults (much as Hecklerspray do), we thought we’d keep the lie going. You’re welcome. Merry Christmas.

Christmas is a time of giving and it’s also a time for making so much money that to view it all packed into one room would melt the mind of anyone from the working classes while simultaneously destabilising the economic security of a developing African country.

Of course, anyone with 70 pence and a reasonable idea of how to sell a Twix to a starving man can turn a profit in this world and if you keep scaling things up then eventually you’ll be left with enough money to buy Greece, pump it full of fake snow and turn it into a Winter Wonderland theme park in time for next Christmas but that doesn’t mean that Christmas is all about clawing at cash.

EVEN THOUGH IT IS.

Some things at Christmas are more traditional like made up folk tales designed to force children to stop behaving like entitled little shits. No, not Santa. You’ll find that the Nativity story’s a pretty good moralising tale if you’re looking to instill the magic of ridiculous claptrap into impressionable youngsters from the moment they’re old enough to whimper the word “materialism”. If you don’t instill the wonder and merriment of Christmas into their soft-spots then they might turn out to be dribbling morons with less chance of interfering with the genitalia of the opposite sex than George Michael has of seeing in the new year with a glass of Asti Spumante in a public lavatory.

You know- like these people:

I had always assumed that it was the prerogative of retail companies to make their staff out to be the last bastions of good taste and intelligence. No doubt because retail workers are so often portrayed as being affected, surly neer-do-wells with all the wit and charm of a rim job from Piers Morgan.

Or at least they are in the sitcom I co-wrote which starts on Channel Whimsydoo on Monday at quarter-past-fucking-never.

Anyway, the point is that it’s very rare to see a retailer portray their staff as dead-behind-the-eyes shut-ins as opposed to the informed, sensible and professional dickheads that you catch thwarting Darth Vader in PC World adverts. Which is why the Christmas offering from The Range is so bloody surprising.

Their staff are apparently all lobotomy patients while it appears that their advertising team necked back a couple of bottles of vodka before declaring an entire country hilarious. You see, if you’re going to “reverse market” (don’t look it up, it’s not a real thing) then you could do worse than actually picking a product that doesn’t imply you sell spadeloads of tripe but that this particular national stereotype is a step too low even for barrel-scrapers like yourselves.

The Range claim that they sell pretty much everything you could ever need. I will wait with bated breath to see the reaction when someone nips in for some anti-venom to treat a particularly hideous cobra bite. Although, putting semantics aside for a moment, coupling your stores policy of selling everything ever invented along with staff that look like the forgotten victims of genocide and a racist megaphone that imparts the same wisdom as a Tickle Me Ku Klux Klan toy is a sure-fire way to find yourself being picked on by a keyboard bully with an outlet and bloodied stumps where his fingers used to be.

That’s me in this scenario.

The worst part of it is that this isn’t even the worst part of the advert. Two minutes of what I laughingly call research taught me that this dancing berk, who depicts- with alarming accuracy- the childish excitement of every retail manager I’ve ever come across, actually has a name and a back story.

You don’t believe me? This is on The Range’s Facebook.

Well HAR DEE BLOODY HAR. What a loveable nerd created almost entirely by committee to be a hideous amalgam of every character from The Office. Aren’t The Range a clever bunch for creating such a memorable and thundering cock to be the figurehead of their campaign. There’s even a video on Youtube where you too can learn to dance like Malcolm in an attempt to become as ironically cockish as he is. I’m not going to link to it because it doesn’t deserve any more hits. It’s had one too many. One.

So aside from cultural references to Star Trek and the fantasy genre as well as, for some inexplicable reason, reggae what is it about Malcolm that’s so wrong? Is it the fact that he’s closer to the image of an everyman that he almost becomes real and therefore comes out from the television until he’s tugging at your flacid genitals like some kind of penile necromancer? No!

It’s because the whole thing is so forced and foetid that it’s like being a fly on the wall in Chris Moyles’ studio. Not only the humour but the whole idea of the ‘viral character’. Remember the insufferable arsepiece that spouted the word ‘Wonga’ in a mockney accent before returning to his Hackney Cab? He wasn’t supposed to turn into the must have merkin attachment that he did, it just happened. Advertising companies are now trying to force these personalities down our throats until we’re left spewing up name badges and crying out for the end of days.

It’s become clear while writing this that although The Range’s campaign might not seem that bad on the face of it, it’s one of those ones that actually becomes significantly worse if you try to apply a little logical thought to it. Is The Range’s Christmas campaign one of the worst of all time? Probably not but it’s trying really hard and you have to give it some credit for trying to be so offensively crap that it might drive someone to suicide.

Probably me.

There’s no video content for this week’s Badvertising, primarily because caretaker of the advertising corner, Michael Park, has become the victim of legal action after a woman’s head exploded after seeing his smug, self-involved face on her computer screen more than the appointed twice in a month. This means that it’s back to plain ol’ words!

When you’re making an advert, it’s important to establish a relationship for the sake of the viewer. Now, what do we mean by that? There are myriad different types of relationships in advertising from the authoritarian ‘expert’ who spends a worrying amount of time bellowing out of the television, to the ‘friends’ who love nothing more than snuggling up on a couch eating Maltesers and taking intravenous injections of air freshener.

There are antagonistic husband and wife duos as well as the brother/sister combo and occasionally you get to see a couple of children sitting around being accosted by a rip-off mouse. It’s just how advertising is. Relationships are usually established pretty damned quickly.

Except here…

Who is this woman? Aside from being someone who breaks into people’s houses and demands cups of tea while speaking like Margaret Thatcher after she was forced to chain-watch all six seasons of Sex In The City, she appears to be an apparition who believes solely in the spread of bingo.

Perhaps she belongs to the Church Of Jesus Christ & The Latter Day Tweak of the Thumb. Who knows. She could be the Queen Bee or the Dancing Queen. She’s definitely not one of the Two Fat Ladies. There we go, we’ve got rid of all the woeful bingo puns in one paragraph that you could have ignored if we’d had the good grace to warn you beforehand.

Once this mad bat has cracked her laptop out, she begins indoctrinating her shocked victim into the ways of bingo until the poor, bemused fool is too broken to even question this woman’s presence in her kitchen. There she was getting on with a spot of ironing and the next thing she knows, some vampiric whore who has just eaten a live chicken to sustain her blood lust is hovering over her talking about her father liked to engage in orgies.

Everything happens so fast, even the audience is left completely unaware of who this woman is. One thing’s for sure, she must have an endless supply of laptops if she’s not even bothering to take it with her. Do vampires have a lot of money? That’s a thought for the Hallowe’en special…

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When E4 had eventually grown tired of showing endless repeats of Friends and Scrubs, the channel eventually spat out its own unique programming, aimed at the sort of person that hecklerspray writers aren’t; the young, the cool, the hip and the trendy. Arseholes, basically.

On one end of the spectrum, there was Skins, a programme which captured everyone’s dream college lifestyle, in a show which frequently used drugs, booze and sex, but portrayed them in the most extreme way to great effect.

Skins was escapism for most whilst The Inbetweeners offered a firmer dose of reality, especially for hormonal teenage boys. These are the sort of people who couldn’t quite make that move from fingering a girl to using an empty packet of Space Raiders as a makeshift condom when that first awkward sexual experience arrived.

The show has, like many of its Channel 4 predecessors, made the leap from small screen to the cinema, or a dodgy DVD off someone in the pub. The Inbetweeners Movie has broken UK box office records, even though it feels like a watered down version of the TV series.

We don’t have a total feeling of hate towards The Inbetweeners. If anything we truly admire something that was able to last an impressive three series, despite having the same jokes more or less each week. Whether they’d be about Will’s mum, mocking Jay’s supposed conquests, alternative words for the female lady garden or generally being rejected by women when a vague opportunity arose.

After series three finished, it almost seemed like the natural place to finish. For once, a TV show wasn’t going to finish with flashbacks, somebody waking up in the shower or a gathering of ninjas bursting into kill everyone. Instead, the main characters went on a camping trip following on from taking their A-Levels. As per real life, this is the time that most people take their first independent holiday abroad and this is where The Inbetweeners film takes us.

In a nutshell, the film goes along these lines of all four characters going to Magaluf one of them keeps on seeing an old flame, four new women enter the scene, they all fall in love and make a mess of it, all before patching things up at the end. Suffice to say, it’s a run of the mill plot which could be applied to any situation in life, such as moving to a new city or starting a job, all be it with minor script changes.

Sitcoms like The Inbetweeners always do well as people incessantly latch onto and copy the catchphrases. These are the same people who delight in posting the term “lol” on your Facebook status. Choice highlights from the TV show include “bus wanker”, “clunge” and mocking anyone who says the word “friend” in a tone similar to someone who’s just experienced a stroke.

In this movie however, there doesn’t seem to be any memorable moments that stick in the memory once you’ve left the cinema. Of course there are moments of humour but based around a lad’s holiday abroad, most people have been there and done it, making the viewing experience nothing out of the ordinary. Erratic drunken behaviour and unexpected surprises? Not particularly groundbreaking or imaginative.

But the people of Britain have flocked to the flicks, catapulting it in to the record books for a UK comedy. Whilst the movie industry will be celebrating high visitor numbers, we’re sure that pissed off cinema staff won’t be happy when they have to clean up spilt drinks and thrown snacks after pack screenings finish. Unless you’re a cinema buff, you probably won’t know this little snippet:

“Between Wednesday and Sunday The Inbetweeners Movie took £13.2m, putting it comfortably on top of the UK and Ireland box office chart. Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason held the previous record for highest opening by a UK comedy. According to the producers of The Inbetweeners Movie, that film took £10.4m in its first weekend in 2004.”

If movies based on real life experiences are going down a treat at the box office, then we’ll be working on a script over the next few months in which three people have an awkward conversation in a launderette. Eventually, one of them will realise that they’ve mixed their colours with their whites… with hilarious consequences.

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Here at hecklerspray we love to get involved in the great big sexism debate that rears its head every time Editor Mof slaps one of the female writers on the arse and tells them that they’re doing a great job “for a bird”. After that, the ensuing three day wildcat strike by our female staff will come to an end and everything will return to normal. Until next week.

It will come as no surprise to many of our readers that things don’t actually go that way at all and that it is the male writers who live in fear of their colleagues sexually harassing them while belting out ‘Swagger Jagger’ by Cher Lloyd at the tops of their voices. We don’t dare call it caterwauling because they can and will slash our faces.

The hecklerspray bedsit is a liberated feminist zone… of fear.

You’ve consumed Orangina before, of course. The sparkling orange flavour drink with bits in which, if served at the right temperature, can make you feel as cultured and French as a Parisian dandy but if served at half a degree more or less than it’s supposed to tastes like sucking dog vomit through an unwashed pair of underpants.

It’s been the market leader in sparkling orange flavour drinks with bits in for decades now but Club Orange has brought its irritatingly 80s-named product kicking and screaming to the Irish market (for some reason) in an effort to pull the market share from their orange-drink-with-bits-in rivals. Of course, they’ve taken a leaf out of the alcohol industry’s book and decided to market their product entirely at dribbling, masturbating fiends with less of a moral compass than Ashley Cole in a whorehouse.

It’s all about bits. Lady bits, to be precise.

You’ll remember last week when Badvertising focussed on the names that women might have for their vaginas. Unfortunately, there’s only one name in this entire sixty seconds used to describe both breasts, buttocks and vaginas. That’s bits. You see, the term ‘bits’ can be used to describe pretty much any erogenous zone on the body. ‘Bits’ can be anything really and these ladies seem to have the best bits going.

In case you haven’t watched the video yet it is one minute long. Sixty seconds. The best quickfire comedians could probably manage to squeeze (ha!) around twenty jokes into that short time but instead the people from Club Orange have gone for one joke, hammered home like a double homicide carried out with a mallet. They’ve murdered humour, they’ve murdered snappy advertising, they’ve actually managed to murder the spirit of innuendo and, somewhere out there, fourteen year old boys are bludgeoning another blunt instrument not even considering that they might want some sparkling orange flavour drink with bits in.

Unfortunately, in accentuating the ‘bits’ of the women in the ad (and by ‘bits’ we mean breasts, let’s not mince our words), they’ve made their ‘bits’ look worryingly artificial which makes a question nag at the back of the viewer’s mind. What are the orange bits in this sparkling orange flavour drink with bits in actually made out of?

Silicone.

The only way for Club Orange to redeem themselves in the eyes of right-thinking males and females who want to partake of an orange flavoured drink with bits in without having their sexuality either undermined or mocked would surely be to do a counter advert where men openly flaunt their ‘bits’ for the titillation of women. They won’t though and if they ever do, we want a cut for having the idea.

We also want Editor Mof to appear in it.

Our demands are very, very simple.

Beer. Lager. Come on folks. We all love a nice cool, refreshing lager after a hard day sitting in the bedsit, angrily hacking words into our typewriters but lager advertising is notorious for playing up to ‘laddy’ stereotypes or generally misrepresenting the product as being anything more than yellow piss-water that no-one in their right mind would splash out three quid on.

Beer advertising is a minefield. On the one hand you have pressure from the public saying “GIVE US MORE BOOZE AND GIVE US IT CHEAPER!” and on the other there is pressure from regulators and central government saying, “DON’T GIVE THEM MORE BOOZE, THEY KEEP HITTING EACH OTHER  WITH BROKEN BOTTLES!”

Under such pressure it is difficult to encourage people to consume the product in quantity which, make no mistake, is exactly what alcohol manufacturers want you to do. The more you buy, the more they sell to pubs, clubs, supermarkets and off-licenses.

The more you drink, the more you poison your liver, the more money they make. They’re like drug dealers or tobacco companies. Or are they?

Yes. Fundamentally speaking, they are.

Therefore the companies have to work much harder to make sure that their products are distanced from the actual aim of the thing and are seen more as rewarding you for a hard day doing whatever the hell it is that you do with your day. As such, you’ll have noticed a move towards the aspirational side of things. Carlsberg have moved from their “If Carlsberg Did…” campaign, as people were beginning to realise that Carlsberg isn’t the best lager in the world- not even close.

According to a website all about advertising (that actually believes the nonsense they write:

“The aim of the re-launch was to focus the brand around a universal human truth — the connection between endeavour, achievement and pleasure. This is captured in the new tag line “That calls for a Carlsberg”. The creative reflects on the pleasure of an ice cold beer as a reward for achievement.

The opening thematic campaign features landmark moments in history, giving them a twist and placing Carlsberg as the reward.”

Yes, that’s exactly what they’ve done…

EVEREST! One of man’s crowning achievements. The cold, the sheer altitude and the time it takes to climb, it remains one of the most mysterious and tragic locations on earth. Everest is so rooted in the mind as being a challenge that we refer to our biggest life challenges as being our ‘Everest’. It’s one of the focal points of human endeavour.

You would never look at a person who had just climbed Everest and call them a berk. You would look at them with appreciation for their resolve and respect for the mountain that they conquered.

It’s hard to imagine standing on Everest’s peak, looking out across the entire planet (okay, not quite) from its highest point. It would surely take your breath away, if the thinness of the air hadn’t done that already. It’s easy to imagine long minutes of stunned silence and reflection from the expedition while they take time to absorb the full scale of the task they had just accomplished. It’s a life-changing moment.

It’s a champagne moment. It’s a really expensive malt whisky moment. It is, if you’re pushed, a really good Czech beer moment. It is not a moment where you whip out eight tins of 3.8% abv Carlsberg and toast to the achievement before smacking each other about because someone “looked at the Sherpa funny”.

Carlsberg, at a push, is a reward for all the other taps in the pub being off or for it being on special offer in a club. It is absolutely not the reward for life-changing, momentous events because, by that logic, If Carlsberg Made Human Endeavour Then It Would Be A Massive, Piss-Weak Let Down.

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Hello, readers! There’s a Royal Wedding tomorrow! I’m sure you’ve missed most of the coverage though, the press and media have decided to be quite low-key in their build up to the nuptials and have decided just to show the odd quick snippet of footage just to remind people that it’s actually happening.

Here at hecklerspray we want to offer our own form of congratulations and advice to the happy couple who are going to spend most of their lives dodging the limelight. Married life, eh? Living with someone? It’s tough, it really is.

In sitcoms, relationships are used as devices to reveal character traits that one would usually miss, usually a negative one for comic effect. Or, in the case of Two & A Half Men, to parallel Charlie Sheen’s life for no comic effect whatsoever.

Cleverly enough, there’s a big ol’ furniture store that knows about sitcoms and the relationship dynamics that work within them.

‘Us’ versus ‘Them’.

‘Us’ being whatever gender you are versus ‘Them’ being the gender of your partner. If your in a same-sex relationship then the dynamic is slightly altered by the fact that sitcoms expect same-sex couples to never argue over trivial nonsense like the location of a shelving unit.

Thosh wacky guysh (that’s more Dutch than Swedish, to be honest) from IKEA are letting the happy royal couple know, albeit indirectly, that married life won’t be such a breeze while also encouraging them to forego the gifts of antique, period furniture from their half-dead mutant relatives (groom’s side) in favour of ingenious storage solutions from the Duke of the Davenport.

In order to do this, they’ve got a battle of the sexes going on. That’s what relationships are, after all, telling the other person how much you hate them and everything about them as much as you possibly can for as long as you can until the only way to solve things is to build a rickety wardrobe that will fall apart within the first three months of having it because you’re too busy fighting through tears to concentrate on the instructions.

That’s what relationships are. At least, according to IKEA they are.

It’s 2 vs. 2. A battle of the wits between two men who look like they’ve been blasted out of a howitzer through a branch of Next and two women so bland that they’ve even gone as far as to dress one of them up as a beige Dennis the Menace, which is ironic really as we’d like nothing more than to see her get hit in the head with a well-placed catapult shot.

Of course, the big argument is “Who’s messier?” men or women and the pantomime audience of poor, unfed, unwatered people being ordered to laugh at some banal jokes and 70s’ observations based entirely on sexual stereotypes did their best to add some enjoyment to the jokes. At one point you even hear someone in the audience shout “rubbish!”. Maybe that was us actually…

Innuendos and weak puns about shoes, coupled with jokes about ninjas which are so painfully on trend that they actually make us want to commit violent crimes aside, this advert doesn’t actually come to any real conclusion aside from subtly utilising all of the IKEA storage space available to them. Who is messier?! The people must know! The Royals must know!

Can you imagine William and Kate’s first fight? They’ll line the servants up in the drawing room and it will go exactly like this. Shouting at the help about how messy each other are and how when they have kids one of them might have a chin. It’ll be carnage. Royal carnage which will appear in the pages of OK! Magazine and give IKEA more publicity than they’ve already had.

The sitcom has taught us that relationships and the people in them can be funny and raising a laugh from mundane domestic situations has been a mainstay of comedy for centuries. It takes a spectacular level of commitment to fail at something so simple. IKEA have managed it and so will The Prince & Princess of Whojimmiflipit.

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Beauty, real beauty, isn’t skin deep.

Wait – no wait – beauty is skin deep. It’s all those internal organs that aren’t. Also the veins are jammed way down deep in there. And you know what? All that inside stuff can be as ugly as it needs to be, because those things usually aren’t what have to pose for pictures and such.

Unless you’re unfortunate enough to get our Uncle Morty as a mortician. Taking pictures of things with their skin off is a definite passion of his. You should have seen it when he had the former mayor down there. It was gorgeous.

You know what else is gorgeous? You – but only when you properly exfoliate with the grainy dung of a nightingale. Don’t be ashamed – nowadays bird poo is as essential to true attractiveness as tooth paste and hair conditioner.

It’s good enough for the Beckhams you know. They smear themselves with it all the time.

Are you lonely? Does E Harmony only work up until your online conquest has to see your stupid face? Does the front of your head look like it lost a fight with an electric sander?

If so, don’t worry about it. The earth has provided a way to get you back in the non-ugly game. All you need is a small paint brush, some sort of a mixing dish, and a nightingale that won’t really mind when you wring some poop out of it.

That’s because nightingale poop is the latest celebrity fad for facial cleansers. The latest two lovers to jump on the dooky-dabbin’ band wagon are the Beckhams, a couple famous for constantly getting their hair trimmed or something. As the Daily Mail puts it:

“Victoria, who has long battled problem skin, puts her new clear complexion down to a bizarre new beauty regime involving bird poo. And it seems David has been getting involved too…Victoria, 34, has been regularly indulging in £100 Geisha Facials, using a paste made from nightingale droppings, to combat acne she has suffered since her teens.”

The poop-paste is really supposed to work well. In fact, we have such faith in it that if you use it and still don’t find a healthy, satisfying relationship within six months, we will personally examine photos of you to let you know what other ugly features you should probably work on. We may even have some coupons you could use, depending on where exactly you’re totally gross.

And if that doesn’t work, we have several recommendations as to websites you can use to buy a foreign spouse online, and then lawfully import them into the country. What’s good about that is that your purchased spouse would generally be really ugly too, and so would have no room to talk. Your self-worth-sense will positively rocket.

Just let us know what you need us to do.