As another commentator rightly pointed out on here recently, the branding gurus appear to have hit something of a creative wall. So having exhausted the over-friendly, personal approach and the whacky, crazy ‘what’s that all about?’ viral stance, they appear to have gone back to basics and plumped for the good old ‘ it does what it says on the tin’.
However, their endeavours to tread a new path have thrown up some horror stories as certain products tend to go that little bit too far…
Take this one. For crying out loud, when a woman needs to dip her bits in something perfumed and soothing, she isn’t usually planning on shouting it from the rooftops. It reminds me of that utterly misguided M&S advert when a plump bird ran naked to the top of a hill and announced she was normal. No love, you’re a tad overweight and it’s nothing to shout about. Obviously, there’s no need to go out and get a burka just yet, maybe cut back on the cupcakes, but streaking is taking the piss. I may well have no issues with my lady garden and I baulk at the rise of vaginoplasty but screaming that I love it from my bathroom shelf is definitely a step too far.
Or perhaps you’d be interested in the Shreddies advert. Just what one always wanted, the ability to shit your pants in peace. I was leafing through a Holland & Barrett magazine when I spotted this so as those of a carrot-munching disposition are not renowned for a crazy sense of humour, I had to look online to make sure it wasn’t a spoof. Apparently it’s not. Now I don’t wish to be unnecessarily cruel to those genuinely suffering the embarrassment of an out of control sphincter, but if you were encumbered and embarrassed by your emissions, would you not want to find a discreet solution? I am also perplexed at how shreddies come into it? Surely Nestle should be told? Are they predominantly worn by those nana’s knitting Shreddies or does excessive consumption of cereals result in unstoppable flatulence?
As to whether they’d work or not….well smell reduction is a plus point but after a while of farting with wild abandon, safe in the knowledge that no one knows, I’d reckon seepage is bound to happen.
My eyes have been well and truly opened, and not in a good way.
And what the hell is Monkey butt?
I have yet to have a conversation with ANY of my female friends about chafing buttocks. I know a few who swear by a liberal application of talcum powder in the summer, though I’ve never asked them if they put it between their legs and just presumed it was for their feet to stop their sandals rubbing. My eyes have been well and truly opened, and not in a good way. The urban dictionary tells me it’s handy for blokes who find wiping their shitter a bit too arduous and I imagine that cyclists are also well aware of the term. However, Lady anti-monkey butt strikes me as a niche too far. Imagine popping back for the first time to a lovely lady’s pad only to find that she addresses her sore, red, weeping bumhole and stinky fanny with an array of specially devised beauty products. Nice.
Bring back the good old days of Ponds Cold Cream, Oil of Ulay and Palmer’s Cocoa butter. Nice normal names that you’d happily display in your bathroom cupboard. I blame that Dr Christian on Channel 4 for encouraging people to whip their festering sores out for the general public to laugh and point at and think it’s time we drew a line before the marketing and advertising moguls dream up something even more outlandish. Clunge cleaner anyone?
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