Protector.
Defender.
Leader.
Enforcer.
Strength.
Courage.
Honour.
Guardian.
All words that pretty much sum up what a bunch of imposters men really are.
Of course we don’t want to admit it.
We talk a big, big game … but when we are called upon to step up to the plate, that’s when so many of us reveal [even though we do our best to hide it] we’re most definitely the weaker sex.
The reason I am saying this is because I recently saw a video that laid out the whole ugly truth in startlingly undeniable detail.
You better sit down, it’s going to be hard to watch …
Seriously, why Cindy Gallop isn’t all over this video?
All her arguments would be won in an nanosecond.
OK guys, I know I’ve broken the ‘male code’ by revealing this in public, but I have blog posts to write so it had to be done. And on the bright side, now we know why Marilyn Monroe said “Women who want to be like men lack ambition”.
Filed under: Attitude & Aptitude, Brand Suicide, Communication Strategy, Crap Campaigns In History, Crap Marketing Ideas From History!, Crap Products In History, Marketing, Marketing Fail
It’s been a few weeks since I last wrote about this so I guess it’s time for another post about another massive lie peddled from a kickstarteresque company.
Yes, I know I ranted about them earlier this week, but I can’t help myself.
Have a look at this …
Let’s move past the fact they have the audacity to claim a lens – held on with a bloody bulldog clip – gives you the equivalent standard of a US$4000 camera [unless they mean a US$4000 camera held onto a smart phone with a bulldog clip] and let’s instead focus on the image they are using to sell ‘said’ item.
Look at the screen of the smartphone.
Such incredible quality.
Such incredible clarity.
Such incredible focus.
Wow, maybe they weren’t joking when they said this simple attachment could make an expensive DSLR redundent.
But hang on, something isn’t right.
That super sharp image doesn’t seem to relate to the ‘live’ image going on in the picture.
Sure, they’ve blurred the shit out of it, but I’m pretty all the action is going on in the middle of the court, not by the net.
OK, I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt. After all, I do only have one good eye.
But there’s something else bothering me. Hmmmmn, what could it be?
Oh I know, it’s that perfect image on the phone.
Look, I have an iPhone and if I so much as zoom a bloody milimeter on it, everything looks like I’m trying to do an impression of a Tony Scott movie, so either the person holding the phone/lens in the photo has the steadiest hand ever created – especially as they are located on the other side of the court – OR THIS IS A PILE OF BULLSHIT.
I know I’m in adland so look at these things a bit more closely than the average punter, but that shouldn’t mean brands don’t care about this sort of thing.
Why would you supposedly go to all this effort to make a great product and then short-change the work that is designed to tell the World about it?
It’s like my issue with people who spend weeks working on a pitch but don’t rehearse it until the last 5 minutes.
All that effort, wasted.
Of course it’s because people still believe that ‘the quality of the product/work/idea’ will shine through.
In a perfect World – maybe – but in the real World, how you present something is often of equal importance to what you are presenting. Sometimes, even more important.
When I was at HHCL, one of their tenants was the quality of advertising had a commercial benefit on the brand.
In short, the better the work, the more people were interested in you.
Now I appreciate that some may challenge that view, but I passionately believe that what you do says more about who you are than what you say … so while the creators of this lens may claim it can single-handedly put Canon and Nikon out of business, the fact their communication is so obviously bullshit makes me think you’re more likely to find this attachment inside a cheap pack of Christmas Crackers than a high-end photographic store.
Which means if you actually end up buying it, then you have no one to blame but yourself.
And this is coming from someone who paid $100 for a remote control ball!!!
Have a great weekend, only 50 odd weeks till Christmas.
Filed under: Brilliant Marketing Ideas In History, Comment, Communication Strategy, Context, Creativity, Cunning, Insight, Long Copy, Marketing
This is one of those ads that is constantly referred to as being a perfect example of perfect advertising.
David Ogilvy was behind it – spending 3 weeks doing nothing but reading about the car – before producing that amazing headline.
OK, so there is some conjecture whether he came up with it or not, but regardless, it’s one hell of a headline.
But here’s the thing, when you read the rest of the ad, I’m not sure if its worthy of all the accolades bestowed upon it.
Sure it comes from a different time [as the $13,995 price tag highlights] … and yes, some of the ‘features’ they mention were probably cutting edge back then [power steering for example] … but after you get past that epic headline, what you actually have is an ad that is just a list of product features.
While there are still nods to the sense of craftsmanship and technology within that list – for example, you can have a telephone as an optional extra – I can’t help but feel that all the romance the headline conjures up in your mind disappears once you get to the details.
Maybe that’s because it appears the strategy was not actually to communicate the sophistication and craftsmanship of the car, but to change the perception of it being only for the super-elite … the one’s who are chauffeured around rather than drive themselves.
Hey, I could be wrong, but the fact they use that hilarious image of a ‘Dad’ picking up the kids from the local shop after school – not to mention they state in the copy that you don’t need a chauffeur to drive it – means I might have a point.
Now I get I have no right to criticise the wonderful Mr Ogilvy and the fact this ad is continually referred to implies it was hugely successful … but when I was reminded what the actual ad looked like – rather than just hearing that headline – I couldn’t help feeing that I find this scam ad for Bentley far more appealing.
[Though I accept that just might be my Nottingham heritage shining through]
Filed under: Insight
Yes, that’s all this post is today. Consider it a New Year gift from me.
But don’t get too comfortable, tomorrow is most definitely another day.
Filed under: Childhood, Comment, Dad, Death, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, Otis, Parents
Oh Dad, how can it be 18 years.
How is that possible?
I remember that phonecall like it was yesterday.
You had been in hospital since Christmas having taken a turn for the worse.
And then on the 27th December, Mum called to say it was very bad and the Doctors had told her that I should come back right away.
In a weird way, this did not worry me.
We had gone through the same situation twice in the last 3 months and both times, you had pulled through.
But then I realised Mum’s voice sounded a bit different … more scared … and that’s when I started to get worried.
As you know, after a rather traumatic flight from Sydney, I got to Nottingham and was by your side at the QMC.
You were very poorly, but you knew I was there and it seemed to help.
But the strange thing is I can’t really remember what happened between arriving by your side and the Doctor asking me if I wanted him to remove the suffering you were going through.
I know Mum and I spent every day – from the moment visiting hours started to when they ended – next to you.
I know I told you how much I loved you. How I tried to will you back to health.
But the actual conversations and considerations are a total blank.
I’d like to say it’s because 18 years is a long time, but it’s actually because my brain refused to let me deal with the realities of your situation until that conversation with the Doctor.
4 years of delusion and denial pricked by a single conversation with the Doctor.
4 years of ignoring Mum as she quietly and tenderly tried to prepare me for the inevitable.
I certainly hope I was better when Mum passed away.
Of course, it was less expected than your situation and yet, deep down, I feared it may happen – as, it seems, did Mum – which is why I was much more aware of what was happening or what may happen.
So I need to thank you yet again, for helping me learn.
For trying to ensure I didn’t face more pain than I absolutely needed to.
Oh Dad, I wish you were here.
I wish I could hear the questions you would have for me.
I wish I could look into your bright blue eyes as you heard what I’d been up to over the last 18 years.
The decisions I’ve made …
The situations I’ve encountered …
The life I have somehow managed to live …
I would give anything to hear the pride – mixed with incredulity – you’d express about the career I’ve managed to forge.
The places it’s let me live. The people it’s let me meet. The experiences it’s let me enjoy.
The family it has let me have.
The daughter-in-law you would absolutely adore.
And the grandson you would be totally obsessed with.
But you’re not here … not physically, anyway … but in a weird way, Mum passing has made me feel closer to you.
Not that you were ever far away, but 18 years meant I had got used to the memory of you rather than the presence of you.
However now Mum has joined you, I kind of feel you’re both near me again.
I know that’s mad and I can see you shaking your head at me … but it’s true.
Don’t worry, I’ve not become a religious fool – but the fact you’re together has helped me a lot because I never was happy that you were both apart from each other.
But now, my mind, you’re back together, as you should be.
As you always were throughout my childhood.
And I cannot tell you how special that was to me.
Even more so now.
So while today is a day of sadness, it is also a day of joy … because you will be happy to know I am no longer lost in the pain of your final few years and can now focus on the wonderful life you had and we shared, exemplified when I had the honour of discovering the card you wrote to Mum when I was born.
I never doubted how much you loved me, but finding this was the verbal equivalent of one of your warm, wonderful hugs.
Sure I cried my eyes out, but oh what a feeling that was.
I so hope Otis feels the same way when he finally stops trying to wriggle out of my arms everytime I give him a cuddle. Ha.
So now it is time to go and I want to leave you by saying that while it has been 18 years, the love I have for you has never faded – if anything, quite the opposite – and even though I wish with all my heart that you were still here to be involved in the daily rituals of my life, the fact you’re with Mum makes the sadness a bit more manageable.
Still miss you though.
Love you Dad.
Rx