DIARY: I’m only a punter but...

I need to get this off my chest. Car ads. I hate them so much I have become a complete car-ad bore.

I need to get this off my chest. Car ads. I hate them so much I have

become a complete car-ad bore.

Take that burgeoning soap opera with poor, brainy Catherine and her

legs. Daft bint. Dating a chap who has a jokey, blokey hatchback that

feeds him all his best lines. Then there is the car that thinks it is an

aeroplane. Well let me tell you, I had one that did the same thing - it

didn’t survive.

The photo shoot with a Volvo in a twister? Okay, if you need a car built

like a shotputter and you’re likely to drive into nature’s finest...but

seriously, how often is that situation going to arise? I’m more

interested if a car cleans up nice after four children and a dog have

spilled yoghurt on the back seat, ground chocolate into the carpets and

deposited damp hairs and saliva on the windows.

I have a grudging affection for the Micra sex, food and bondage ad

because I had a Taurean lover once and they are all driven by sex and

food (and sometimes bondage). But the car’s the wrong colour. That

torrid and passionate owner would have a sleek Italian job, slate grey

or dark blue.

I suppose the commercial with the whale in the Grand Canyon reassures me

about the benefits of global warming, but the product shots at the end

kind of take the edge off it, because it makes it into an overt car ad.

Oh, and the X Files-style one for the VW is nice and interesting. Don’t

even see the product.

But the Aussie who is driving that red car hell-for-leather somewhere

sunny and is trying to play Chuck Berry? Clearly he has taped over his

favourite tracks - would you trust anyone who is such a dork? Nah.

I don’t want to have an image built that will make me feel inadequate

and have to strive to fill the driving seat like the chap in the ad.

I think that there is a lot to be said for a car that one is obviously

superior to. I drive a little Eastern European number. And if Luciano

Favoritti ever spoke to me, it would be in soft Eastern European tones,

possibly marvelling that I had managed to get 92mph out of him yet


But don’t listen to me. I’m the girl who liked the Utterly Butterly


Thank you. I feel much better.

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