Music is a visual metaphor of a sperm and ovum

Someone must have tiny hands or permanent hearing damage.

More stupid sex related creative here, here and here.

This angle's got me hooked. (Groan.)

Think this is some Leith stuff I netted from the Herald when I was trawling for some good print advertising. (Double groan. Note to self: do not give up day job.)

I've only seen one execution. I want this to be a campaign. Give me good lines over all that regurgitated Danny MacAskill viral stuff any day. Lovely, lovely.

The power of the written word...

...has been nicely encapsulated in this Amnesty leaflet insert I pulled from a magazine a couple of weeks ago. A great example of good, strong, bold writing.

Who needs a budget? Who needs photography? Who needs fancy paper stock? Who needs anything other than a strong message? Nobody. You just need the right words.


Have a neb here for some other effective advertising on a shoestring.

On another note, the scan is wrinkly due to my persistent water spilling habit. I can finally prove I don't have a hard on for Scarlett Johansson.

Spectacular headline fail

Some backstage passes

I just think these look great. I don't know if they're authentic, but I love them all regardless.

I hope Fred the Shred didn't write the lessons

Sorry about the creased nature of the ad. When I saw it I felt no need to treat it with respect, so it was scrunched up and stuffed into my back jean pocket. At least RBS was rubbed up against some ass cheek for a while.

Oh, there's a telly ad too.




It's a weird strategy choosing to brag about your company "helping" children with money management when you've spectacularly failed at the very same thing. And call me cynical, but RBS shoving their brand in the face of impressionable youngsters with little understanding of the financial crisis will probably translate to lots of new customers in the very near future.

I'm not going to bother to get on my pedestal, windmill my arms around in wild gesticulation and shower the immediate area in spittle from an overindulgent rant though. My bank account is still with those tosspots.

Bizarre celebrity endorsement of the day

I'm for Fife. Are you?

Spot the difference

Exhibit A: My student ad from 2007. It was for placement in a female lifestyle mag.

Exhibit B: Tetley Tea ad I pulled from a female lifestyle mag today.

If you don't fancy squinting like yer gran without her specs on, click on the images to read the copy. And yes, I know the Tetley ad is superior. It's waaaay better art directed and my original headline is terrible. Follow your biscuit trail? Jeez. But hey. I was a student. It's a scamp. It was three years ago. I'm better now. Honest.

Holibags

There’s going to be bare minimum posting over the next few weeks. I’ve got a handsome lad staying and I intend to show him all the amazing sights Edinburgh has on offer. I can’t wait to see his face when I show him such cultural gems like Beavertail, the world’s most pierced lady (she’s called Elaine) and Leith’s very own tribal warrior, the Spearman (no link but you Leithers will know who I mean). Tata!

I always thought an anus was a comfy place to take it easy

It's a deal. It's a steal.

Christmas is almost here, complete with depleted bank accounts and credit card statements bursting at the hilt. For those of you feeling a bit short until payday finally arrives, perhaps you could consider employing the services of wonga.com:



With a typical APR of 2689%, it appears that Ofcom, the FSA and the ASA have no problems with letting loan sharks advertise on the telly these days. Desperate times call for desperate measures, I suppose!

Another reason to love Glasgow

Christmas sniveling

Having managed to avoid sickness for most of the year, just as Christmas creeps up on us and the holidays doth approach I am struck down with snots and gobbers. Instead of lying in bed watching Jeremy Kyle, germ laden and miserable, I’m riding it out at work with my festive sneezes keeping colleagues at bay. Their faces are approaching the twisted sneers of the illustrated individuals in the swine flu leaflet I was given last week, so who knows, perhaps I’ve picked up a bit of bacon related illness.

Being ill at work doesn’t bring much in the way of benefits. I have shredded my nose with cheap bog roll from the bathroom in a vain attempt to stem the streaming flow of germs. I’d have probably been better off applying a cheese grater to my schnoz, as at least I’d have enjoyed the heady scent of cheddar whilst wrecking my sniffer. It’s like the mouth of the river Ganges, with my nose forming a silt lined delta of snotters. Staring at a PC screen for hours a day is doing nothing to alleviate a rather impressive headache. I feel like that gangster from Casino that had his head inserted in a vice, sans eye popping and grassing up a pal. The Christmas music playing consistently terrible tunes is doing nothing for my grumpy demeanour, except from when the Grinch comes on and I can sing along with my Christmas hating compatriot in a cackling, witchy tone that’s thick with the antiseptic funk of Stepsils. I’m not having fun.

Still, it’s the way it goes at this time of year. The bacterial infections, viral nasties and stomach upsets are doing the rounds without discriminating against anyone. The doctor’s surgery has been no help, as trying to get past the bitchtastic harpies that man the reception desk takes more energy than keeping yourself alive. They truly are the least helpful and most infuriating of all the people that are supposed to provide aid and support (beating BT call centre assistants hands down). When I walked into the surgery I swear I saw one woman’s eyes glow with a red hue and burn a hole in a haemorrhoid prevention poster behind me on the pinboard.

After standing in a gargantuan queue for about ten minutes I finally managed to try and book an appointment. Of course, I wasn’t able to negotiate the reception etiquette gauntlet in order to see a doctor, due to the fact that surgery staff members were fully booked, on a lunch break, having a team motivational meeting, drinking cups of tea or sitting with their heads inserted up their arses.

I have decided just to sweat, sneeze and snuffle it out. Anything’s better than trying to bargain with a receptionist to secure a visit with the doctor, just to be told that I have a virus and there’s nothing I can do anyway except be grumpy at work and moan about being under the weather on my blog.

Oh. One more thing in order for this post to have a tenuous link to advertising, I will be sure to CATCH IT, BIN IT, KILL IT.

Onlinefoliophobia

I don't like posting my creative work and ideas online much. Mostly, it’s a reaction thing. I like to show my book to people and watch their facial expressions and listen to their tone when they comment on the work. It reveals a lot. Seeing how others perceive work is enlightening, whether it’s a dismissive flick through a campaign or deep, furrowed brows and a hand resting on a chin in thought.

I like to listen to feedback and try to assimilate creative directors’ advice. I like to hear commentary and mumbles and laughter and groans. I like to gauge reactions from agency to agency. In short, I like to try and see what folk feel about my stuff.

You can’t do that with an online book.

It might be time to overturn this odd phobia of mine, though. I know how useful an online book is. I know it can be a great tool.

Watch this space. Maybe.