Have you seen this crap? A young gentleman and his mates stand at a bar, all of them the types of chap who could make Guy Richie collapse in an onanism-frenzy due to their Fred Perry attire. Two of them sip lagers and munch McCoy’s crisps. They are wearing suits and V necks. Not work suits. They wear suits on what would seem to be an evening away from work - a leisurely drink with their mates. There are no women in the pub from what we can gather, just East End gangster types with shaven heads. The whole thing is stylised like a Lock Stock nightmare. It is the sort of pub you would never want to go into in your right mind.
The protagonist of this little piece of crap goes over to the jukebox to put on some tunes. He is knocked into by a man with a tray. Cripes! His finger slips on the jukebox! He’s put in a song and he doesn’t even know what it is!
He shrugs. He returns to his mates. As he crosses the room, the tune he has inadvertently selected kicks in. It is Puppy Love by 70’s teen heart-throb, Donny Osmond. Good heavens! What will the lads think?
We gather what the other drinkers think from a couple of split second shots. A cropped bloater looks across with incredulity. What was he thinking? A fellow pauses at the pool table to look across with disgruntlement.
The crisps are removed from his hands and he is removed from the pub via a large suction tube and the words MCCOYS - MAN CRISPS dominate the screen, after one of the party asks where they’re all going to be meeting at some future arrangement.
What are McCoys playing at?
Error Number One
Is it just me, or is a pub in which there are only well-groomed men seem a bit at odds with the notion of complete masculinity? Isn’t it suggestive of a gay bar, where more likely than not one or two of the clientelle will be a tiny bit feminine?
Error Number Two
Puppy Love is a song about a young man yearning for a woman. ‘They’ll never know…just why I love her so’, go the lyrics. It is, in fact, an apt song for the young man to play. It would assert his masculinity, surely? He’s yearning for female company for Christ’s sake, and it’s no surprise as he’s surrounded by pink, spherical men.
Error Number 3
When he is ejected from the pub, the tool used to do so is a long, spherical item which I wouldn’t hesitate in dubbing phallic. He is literally sucked off in a pub filled with men. The fact that once this act is concluded, when we are at the point of climax, one of the men asks where they’re all meeting at a future time - essentially arranging another time to do exactly the same thing - it seems we’ve just watched a massive gay East End orgy.
It seems that the advertisers, whilst brainstorming in the boardroom, took the branding up the wrong alley. Mrs.
41 Comments
You know full well that putting ‘Puppy Love’ on a jukebox doesn’t assert masculinity. It is a song for 12 year old girls.
It’s all about context Roszszs - CONTEXT.
Puppy Love was released in a cynical attempt to make 12 or 13 year girls go a bit funny in the downstairs area, thereby making Donny Osmond’s record company loads of money (I know he covered it, but I dunno who did the original and I’m too lazy to check).
That is the context.
In no way is it suitable for a grown man to put on a jukebox in public. If he wants to listen to it he should do so in the privacy of his own room, or maybe in a prison cell, as he is probably a peeedo anyway.
No - that is the context of its first release.
The context in these circumstances is that a young man yearns for a young lady. This is understandable as he is surrounded by fat thugs.
I can put on ANY SONG I WANT on a jukebox and not feel ashamed as I am comfortable with myself.
*does girly dancing to Scissor Sisters*
Would you put Puppy Love on though?
And don’t bother LYING.
No… but I also wouldn’t be eating crisps in that weird gay bar with loads of Jason Statham berks.
Next time I am in a pub with you I am going to put Puppy Love on ten times in a row and pretend you did and larf as you get your face booted in.
It will be a very rough pub as well, none of your All Bar Ones that you normally hang out in.
London only has All Bar Ones these days - or Pitcher and Pianos for plebs (visiting northerners).
*eats rocket and lemongrass in virgin olive oil panini with kettle crisps on the side*
*munches McCoys crisps down coal mine*
I’ve stood in a pub full of well-groomed men playing pool and it didn’t strike me as being in the slightest bit gay. Admittedly all the men were 50-ish and sported the same needle-sharp quiffs they’d had as lads, but still, you could have cut the testosterone with a fucking knife. I imagine if you’d put Puppy Love on in that atmosphere they’d have simply beaten you to death before turning back to their conversations about gambling, hitting the wife, big tits, bloody immigrants and mending shit.
Crisps?
Fair enough Napoleon, but if you HAD - they wouldn’t have sucked you off would they? I SOMEHOW DOUBT IT
You never know with these ‘Olden Days’ types of chap - kept their cards close to their chest and all that. Mind you, I’d give odds of 2-5000 that they wouldn’t, no.
*stands rooted to the spot exhaling loudly being ignored*
*adjusts bodyform*
*farts, then blames it on an old woman*
I’m eating Kettle crisps and drinking beer (lager).
I’m from the north (well, living in north Midlands) and I don’t find the Pitcher and Piano type of bar-cum-eatery at all sophisticated…give me Cafe Rouge any day.
Well done you, Matt.
Bollocks, I typed really long reply and it lost it.
7:22 is very early…I was still dreaming then and talking of which it was very odd:
I dreamt I was in some back to back house near my old primary school, I left it to go somewhere, only to come back and find the neighbours had ransacked the place and gone through all my stuff. Someone had hung a shirt of mine out and spray painted it, but the worst thing was someone had made a series of collages from my photos (not that I have any) and with accompanying text had laid out my inner most fears for everyone to gawp at.
I still woke with an erection though.
This is what happens when you apply patchy literary and feminist theory to a crisp theory, I fear.
Problem 1-
They are wearing suits in a vane attempt to make the advert aspirational. McCoy crisps have recently made efforts to tie their brand in with lager and this one is no exception. They are all wearing suits in a foiled effort to tie in with Carling. The pub is a traditional one because of McCoy’s demographic of underage beer swilling oinks. I agree, terrible confusion but nothing homo-erotic I’m sure.
Problem 2-
Puppy love. In this context there is nothing to suggest that the guy is pining over a lady. To the contrary, he is pining over a beef flavoured bar snack in the possession of another man. The crips replaces the woman. He seemed to choose the song by mistake, also - careful not to emasulate or alienate the audience. Nothin gay here either.
Problem 3-
Phallicy. What isn’t phallic in this world to the distorted subconcious? You could apply that argument to the pint glasses and the beer pumps. Infact, the man gobbling the crisps from a teared packet looks very feminine to me.
Basically, it is a crisp advert. A very poor one.
imtheotherdave - your spelling is fucking awful.
Firstly, it is “imtheotherdave, your speling is fucking awful.” Secondly, please do not confuse typos with spelling errors. I mispelt subconscious, shoot me.
I see the irony in my speling of spelling, please don’t hesitate to shoot me.
What I wouldn’t do for a spod-seeking firearm…
But you like Weird Science, which is a masterpiece, so I refuse to battle with you. Begone, four eyes!
You pick Weird Science out of all the seminal films I have reviewed, write over-long blogs about the most inane and pedantic aspects of an otherwise frivolous medium and review ‘masterpieces’ such as POTC3. Despite all this and your gross delusion of intellectual grandeur, I like you. Do not test me, dear friend, my rapport can extend much further than mere playground tactics.
Oh Christ, now I’m terrified.
imtheotherdave, you write as Stephen Hawkings speaks
SH what the fuck were you doing up at 9.04 on a sunday
Piqued, Big Brother is on…
I write in monotone? Care to ellaborate on yet another hollow insult? Can you write full sentences?…………………………….
You can’t spell, think we’ve established that much.
Piqued, the clocks are about two hour out (late) on this bloody thing.
hours*
(Yes I see my fatal error).
I probably wouldn’t have picked that up but thanks for your honesty. I thank you for your constructive criticism and bid you good day. Two idiosyncratic non-entities dueling it out is amusing but all good things must end. I love you.
imtheotherdave, who said it was an insult?
You’re very sensitive aren’t you
I’m an insecure chap. To me, either you meant that I’m Hawking’s personal transcriber or a clumbsy writer. It cut me deep.
I meant you write polysyllabic phrases very matter of factly
But SH is right, you can’t spell.
For Christ’s sake…
I have my flaws, I admit, but a quick scan of your blog suggests you have yours too. I’m quite certain you are well read and speak with relative authority but your grammar and fluidity leaves much to be desired, i’m afraid. I guess that blogging will eventually iron all that out.
I admit that my sentencing is superflous and my spelling eratic, if it is brought to my attention I can only improve.
I maintain that the analysis of the McCoy’s advert was simplistic and, above all, content takes presidence over form.
He didn’t write the article, I did.
And you misread it on two counts, go back and see if you can figure them out, dullard.
Or better still, fuck off for good.
imtheotherdave, my blog is chatty and colloquial, it’s not a fucking dissertation
I’mtheotherdave, superfluous is spelt just so, as is erratic. As a visitor to this blog I can see you shouldn’t be critiquing anything!!!
Sudsy - Ignore Dave, he’s a racist.
Imtheotherdave - You’re a cunt!