Open Writing

Yes, I know I said I wouldn’t, but I can’t resist. Naff adverts, that is. There were so many to be seen and enjoyed on the never-ending moving wallpaper that was my TV childhood. (Mum said TV was her only pleasure. Oh dear.) Remember, this was the Sixties, well before the days of Women’s Lib as it was quaintly called a little later. So there was plenty of ludicrous misogyny on the part of the ads producers to laugh at – and be infuriated by.

One I recall with grinding teeth was for a new brand of scouring powder. Its gimmick was that it turned green on contact with water. And there was your standard issue pudding-faced housewife stereotype, sprinkling away madly then cocking her head from one side to the other to admire the green effect, dopey expression on her face the while. This one drove me to inchoate fury that a member of my sex could be so idiotic. These days I can imagine the ad’s producer exhorting the actress to be a little more vacuous and to tilt her head a little more. The music was pretty awful too.

Another one that seemed to crop up too often went like this:

“FIVE POUNDS THINNER! Yes, you can look FIVE POUNDS THINNER in a Strait-o-rex girdle. FIVE POUNDS….” yeah OK, we got the message. The Dolly Day Dream demonstrating this wonder garment kept talking about Midriff Bulge, pronouncing the word bulge with a soft G. Repeatedly. Someone should have led her off quietly, mid riff, for a nice lie down, a cuppa tea and an elocution lesson.

I’ve changed the product name of this and subsequent ads to avoid being sued.

Girdle. Now there’s a funny word. I imagined a girdle to be a sort of belt thing, hand-woven as worn by Lady Guinevere over her kirtle (another funny word), whatever that was. Apparently not. An euphemism for corsets was nearer the mark. I certainly recall Mum struggling into hers – much huffing, puffing and sotto voce swearing. I vowed never to wear them.

These days we have yet another euphemism for corset. Magic Drawers. I could say something quite filthy about these, but I’ll refrain. As I was feeling a little tubby last Christmas, I bought some to wear to my Christmas gigs. Much huffing and puffing ensued as I wrestled them on, but there was nothing sotto about the swearing. I still managed to sing, but felt as if my midriff bulge were encased in concrete.

Staying with undies, another advert introduced us to the joys of the Cross Your Heart Bra. It kind of met in the middle before heading off in the straps direction. Another idiotic woman demonstrating and enthusing about this essentially unexciting garment, and what made me want to immerse her head in a bucket of water was the way she made sweeping cross motions of her hand to demonstrate Cross Your Heart for those viewers who were bears of little brain. Grrrr! (I didn’t realise then that deaf viewers would have found this useful – always supposing they wanted to buy the miserable thing in the first place.)

Even worse were the modern dance style adverts for corsets and bust bodices (or something), involving lissom girls prancing about in said garments – with black leotards and tights underneath. Bizarre, and predated Madonna’s Brunnhilde in swimming cozzy incarnation by decades.

OK, you can all come out now – I’m off the subject of stays and other underpinnings.

Dusty Springfield and pappy steam-baked bread are not two images that should belong together, surely? It’s sad but true, that Dusty lent her voice to advertise a “bread” that was excellent for gluing your teeth together, but not much else. Equipped with a strange pole thing, with a platform on top to hold the (no doubt leaden) sandwiches, she had this gem to sing as she knocked on a series of windows:

“I’m a happy knocker-upper, I’m popular, a shoo-in
Cause I wake ‘em with a cuppa – and tasty Mother’s Ruin”

A case for Trading Standards, methinks. Mother’s Ruin was, of course a temperance term for gin. Makes me wonder if they called beer Father’s Ruin. If not, why not?

The Rolling Stones covered themselves in something the reverse of glory when they sold out and did an ad for – Rice Clunkies (snap crackle and pap).

Cue Jagger snarling: “Ya wake up in the morning to a taste that’s really great…” Come off it. I simply can’t imagine mean dudes like Keith Richard and Bill Wyman eating that kids’ stuff. Bloody Marys all round, heavy on the Bloody more like.

One ad I liked was for another brand of sliced bread. It began by announcing “It’s 1966”. I was twelve, too young to enjoy the vibrant life that was unfolding for those just a little older than me. It showed a number of images of swinging London (yes, I really am that old), culminating in the slogan “Ain’t Life Wonderloaf”. Not bad, really as puns go, and the music was whizzy and dynamic.

Anyone remember John Bloom and his Rolls Razor brand of white goods? (Nods from those over fifty…). In the early Sixties, I recall he was offering a “free” holiday in Spain with every fridge or washing machine. “He’ll go bankrupt,” I announced sagely to the family. I was about eight at the time; perspicacious beyond my years, obviously as not long after he did.

Well, that’s just a few of the ads I can’t dislodge from my brain. Not to mention “Hot chocolate, hot chocolate, drinking chocolate, drinking chocolate”, “Tick-a-tick timex” and all the others we love to loathe – and send up.

I think I’ll have a nice lie-down now, and then practice the correct pronunciation of “bulge” in front of a mirror. (I’ll make sure nobody catches me at it, of course.)