by Tom Goulding

Hey bros! Here’s how to be xenophobic, homophobic and sexist in thirty seconds make an advert!

1. Pick your home nation, where your product is from, and then pick your target nation. Home nation - Australia. Lager, dyed blonde hair, surfer dudes. Banter. Target nation - Kiwis? Pommies? Too obvious. Go for France. Blonde girls, gay men, weird breath - easy pickings. This is going great.

2. Remember, you cannot make too many generalizations in thirty seconds. Aussies are top blokez. Foreigners are gay. Gays are bad. Lager is good. Did I mention foreigners are gay? But Aussies aren’t. I’m not either. I’m not, I’m not, I’m not. I promise. Those stories you’ve heard aren’t true. I never went to that sauna. 

3. Right, time is up and we haven’t had any girls. Leave them out all together? Good idea, but remember, they have boobs and can wear bikinis. Throw one of them in what is a man’s role (playing chess, an intellectual pursuit), suggesting that girls can win too! Which is what we call IRONY.

Lovely stuff. Drink anybody? No, no, don’t touch that stuff. It’s awful.

McDonald’s: Coffee and Conversations

by Tom Goulding

"We need to talk – my son’s still shitting himself in doorways and throwing bricks at children that walk past our house.  He taped himself to the dog. We can’t afford the medication he needs. Let’s get a Big Mac to discuss."

"Would you mind doing me a massive favour? Could you give these letters to my ex and my parents? I’m doing it tonight – the rope was delivered and I’ve finally worked out how to do the knot. Let’s share a Happy Meal so I can hand them over?"

"Spent an hour today talking about staplers. I’ve done this job for 16 years and the only thing that got me through it was furiously wanking over the receptionist during lunch, but she got made redundant. Who am I going to pleasure myself to now? Let’s go for a Filet-O-Fish."

"I just feel differently about you now….and if you want us to end I may cut myself. McFlurry at six to discuss why you don’t want to be with me?"

“‘Smashing you in behind the bike sheds was glorious, you’re so much better than your sister. See you later.’ See you later? What does that even mean? Assemble girlies for McNuggets!”

"How would you feel about us being more than friends? I know we enjoy the theatre and discussing different things we hate about our lives, but why not add in me sexually disappointing you as well? Let’s talk about this over a Chicken Legend."

"You’re gonna be an auntie - I tried to break up with Shannon but she told me I’d knocked her up. Both condoms must have split. Her dad won’t let her get an abortion, and he said he’ll cut my cock off if I don’t marry her. Anyway let’s avoid places that specialise in coffee and go to McDonalds to get a full bean cup of shit."

Google Chrome: Coffee

by Alexander Netherton

As the old, romantic saying goes, ‘If you want to win a woman’s heart, stalk her online.’ If Minority Report was seen through the prism of delusional, thwarted male virility, you would end up with the advert for Google’s own Skynet, Chrome. The advert takes us through various Chrome services used by our Man Hopeful, attempting to win his proposed beau’s heart.

The digitally creepy hero utilises all the tools of the data-hungry internet behemoth to win back the woman. We’re led to believe he’s an ex-boyfriend, but is clearly a man with a dark dream and an aptitude for computer hacking. The man reels off his argument with intent:

He emails: ‘Hey Jen, I know this is out of the blue, but I hate the way things ended. Can we meet for a coffee?’ How things ended? He means a restraining order and two years of intensive psychotherapy. She clicks the link to the Google Doc. ‘Even though I messed up on our first date.’ A picture of the taco restaurant where he sweatily watched her through the windows. Then a YouTube clip. ‘Our second date was perfect.’ A video of a roller coaster, the day he followed her to Alton Towers and snipped a lock of her hair. ‘Because I miss my travel buddy,’ charmingly Google Translated from the original Italian. The ad cuts to her Google Earth location for the Roman holiday with her real boyfriend - the one he assaulted - as the stalking becomes continental. ‘Everywhere I go I think of you.’ A Google map, studded everywhere with her tracked comings and goings. ‘Because I should have spent more time here.’ We see cloud-stored stolen photos and videos he copied and from her Google+ page. ‘So, how about that coffee?’

The psychiatrist hasn’t helped at all, Jen. You know what you have to do. Calmly log off, call the police and delete any online presence you have.


By John Reid

Ah, Euro 2012. A feast of football. And crap adverts loosely to do with football. The worst being the continuing adventures of Ray Winstone’s floating head in the Bet365 adverts. 

These masterpieces, which began with Ray standing in a crumbling football stadium quite literally shouting the odds, quickly changed tack to feature Ray’s floating head giving betting tips to some LADS in a PUB, obviously to show that the ‘blokes’ who use Bet365 are tough, manly types of blokes.  And now the series has reached it’s nadir with ‘The Adventures of Ray and his horse’.

The advert involves Ray, dressed as a soldier, holding a glass of cognac in one hand a horse by it’s reigns in the other hand. Shouting the word “HOORAH”. We then hear a director shouting ‘cut’, Ray sits on a chair and has a conversation with his floating head.  This has thrown up a list of BIG questions:

1. Why is Ray dressed as a soldier?

2. Why is he holding a glass of cognac? 

3. Why is holding a horse by it’s reigns?

4. Why is he shouting “Hoorah”?

5. Why did this advert get made?

After some serious investigative journalism, I Won’t Be Buying is able to exclusively reveal that Ray was realising the personal dream of seeing a film he wants to make into reality, or into an advert at least.  We reproduce a transcript of the ideas meeting:

Dickhead: Ray baby, you know those sensational Bet365 ads you do?

Ray: (shouting) WHAT ABOUT ‘EM, YOU CUNT?

Dickhead: I was thinking that if instead of being in a dirty old pub, we could make it on a film set.

RAY: (thinks for a nanosecond) I LIKE IT.

Dickhead: Now, we were thinking you are dressed as a gangster…


Dickhead: … I suppose. Why do you want to do that?


Dickhead: Well … ok. As long as you agree with our idea for the next advert.


Dickhead: It’s you and Harry Redknapp as football managers. He’s a big customer of ours and he’s at a loose end at the moment.

RAY: (speechless)

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— Professor Niall Ferguson stands in front of a blackboard. He has written “Yes, but if it weren’t for us, you wouldn’t have ______”. Members of the class are shouting suggestions: “industry”, “railroads”, “a modern economy”, “civilisation”.

— Danny Dyer stands in the gym, addressing a group of men in vests and pants. “… approach from behind, and aim for the pressure points we talked about. Eyes, testicles, small joint manipulation.”
"What about if there’s furniture, sir?"
"Good question. If you’re throwing into a crowd, you need a 45-degree angle for maximum range. Furniture with legs is best, as the pressure transfers through onto soft tissue more effectively."

— A man is undergoing a verbal exam:
"The PLO"
"No. Try again."
"The UDF."
"NO. Look, do the tune, it’ll help. ‘No surrender, no surrender …’"

— A man is having his hair cut. “Number one or number two?” Behind him, another man weeps as his long, shiny hair is shorn from his pinking scalp. The barber slaps him.

— George Osborne: “Look, the financial industry needs to stay at the heart of the economy, otherwise we’ll never win the thing. It’s basic economics.”

— A doctor from the FA is giving a presentation on dietary health. He divides a large sheet of white paper in two, placing a tick one the left hand side and a cross on the right. Under the cross he writes ‘tap water’, ‘fresh fruit’, ‘cheese and pickle sandwich’. Under the tick he writes ‘Carlsberg’, ‘Mars bars’, ‘Big Mac’.

— Carol Vorderman: “And if the RAF from England, the RAF from England, the RAF from England shot one down, then there were … ?”
Class: “Nine German bombers in the air!”

Ten questions.

1. Is this mystery man part of the medical staff? A steward? Is he registered to play?

2. What shirt is that, on the “Dutch” players? Not like Nike to be so modest.

3. Why does Van Persie begin his run-up before our mystery man is in position? Not very sporting.

4. Why do we only see three England players, plus the stricken goalkeeper, and whoever’s stood on Glen Johnson’s right? That’s four outfield players. You need at least five for a shoot-out, and at least seven in total to avoid the game being abandoned.

5. How, exactly, can we “work, rest, play our part for England”? By eating Mars Bars? How will that help? Because if we charged onto the pitch at the sharp end of an international, we’d be Tasered by security before we could shout “AND ST. GEORGE!”

6. Why is there a general presumption on the part of advertising agencies and their creative minds that throwing together an embarrassing, slapdash, incoherent mishmash of footballing components, with scant regard for production values or logic, or without a shred of respect for the intelligence of their intended target market, will help them sell their product?

7. Why are they right?

8. Why, given the brutal assault on all that is good and holy that this advert represents, would you release not one but two ‘making of’ mini-features?

9. What does Walcott say to Parker? Does it contain the words “dignity”, or “self-respect”, or “a new low for the human race”?

10. Why oh why doesn’t he finish his fucking Mars Bar?

Both awesome and terrifying.

"Oi! Fat fuck! Want some crisps? Course you do."

By @jakegoretzki.

A tip for any #LADZ reading. Chemicals that make women zombie-eyed, insensible, quiescent and powerless need to be used in the right way. If you put it in her drink, that’s frowned upon. If you put it under your armpits, that’s fine.

A brief directive on class as demonstrated by a Pepsi Max television advertisement, by Callum Hamilton of Surreal Football

From our sceptr’d isles, it’s easy to imagine even from within that we, the British, invented class. Not the ‘class’ that people use to describe old footballers who can go five minutes without hitting, raping, or criticising anyone, but the good old class system.

As the only nation that imagines even itself in caricature, we’ve always seen it as an integral part of who we are. Britain tends to conjure up two particular caricatures to its natives — the old one, stood in colonial red, with Michael Caine’s own personal accent, where the nation was made up entirely of P.G. Wodehouse characters at the top, officers who died noble death fighting hopelessly against hordes of ethnics in some dusty corner of the empire in the middle, and chimney sweeps at the bottom. And that was that.

Then, you have the newer version, as imagined by Matthew Wright or whoever does the cartoons for the Daily Mail, or That Uncle You Have. You know the type. The Broken Britain caricature. Most importantly, though, it’s still based on class. Except at the top, you now have Polly Toynbee and her liberal champagne Thatcher-hating left-wing cronies, organising our ruin. In the middle, you have all the immigrants and gays, and then at the bottom, the good old downtrodden indigenous, pure (some or all or part of Saxon, Pictish, Roman, Angle, Welsh, Irish, Scottish, Norse, and Norman) British working-class man, who should rise up and do away with the others, but, er, quickly pop off back down when he’s done that. After all, he doesn’t have to sweep chimneys anymore, at least.

So, no matter what lens we view ourselves through, class is always present. And yet, the most chilling example of the class system made into an institution that could actually go out and conquer, like the Empire did, comes from that supposed classless society, America. I don’t mean conquer literally, of course. There’d have been some serious tsk-tsking and dear-mes if the architects of the Raj saw the mess the American military were making of things (say what you like about Britain, but we know how to oppress natives. Best concentration camps in the world).

No, the forces of conquest here are good old commercialism - for class comes to us today demonstrated with remarkable candour in the form of a Pepsi Max advertisement.

Our heroes, the aspiring petty bourgeoisie, are the supposed-to-be-handsome trio who instigate the plan against their hated figure, The Boss. A golden archetype of American Culture, his baldy wee head informs us we can feel comfortable in his mistreatment from the off. Note the uniforms - class in America is organised by a strict uniform which has become a part of the language. The working-class cleaner is wearing a blue collar. The middle-class office drones are wearing white collar. By this, the class members are able to identify and interact with one another. The boss also wears a white collar, but he is only representative of the upper-classes - I don’t know if they have their own collars or not. Maybe they wear those shirts where the collar is a different colour to the shirt - that would make a lot of sense, if America was run by people who ever thought that looked good.

Our protagonists proceed to carry out a clever plan against their employer, making use of a parrot, two masks, and assistance from their blue-collar underling to convince the tiny-headed man that he is going off his tiny head. Personally, I don’t know why anyone would go to such extraordinary lengths and carry out such a risky plan when the same effects could be had by spiking his Starbucks with LSD or dusting his doughnuts in ketamine, but then I’m not OFCOM, or whatever their equivalent is.

The boss deposed, our class warriors proceed around reordering their office, their society in microcosm, as the manner that best befits the workers. Various revolutionaries have tended to turn towards industrialisation or agrarian reform depending on the resources available to them. Thus, here, the new rulers opt to crack open some fizzy pop, put the telly on, and cheer — and I really can’t emphasise the effects of that particular cheer, so watch it again — some advertising-hoardings-with-engines going round a circular track. The revolution is complete.

Yet there is a sad note. As so often in post-revolutionary euphoria, the little man is forgotten. The blue-collar worker, having performed the most difficult part of the operation (suspending himself from the ceiling, as opposed to putting on a rubber mask), is not permitted to join the inner sanctum and enjoy the benefits of the revolution. There is no Pepsi Max for him, no racing cars, and most importantly, no body-popping.

I like to think that celebratory body-popping is viewed from the perspective of the blue-collar worker* who has been cruelly shunned, as he presses his nose up against the glass, unnoticed. I am moved to think of Orwell: “The creature outside looked from cunt to cunt, and from cunt to cunt, and from cunt to cunt again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.”

* Please don’t complicate the issue by bringing up the fact that he happens to be black whereas everybody else is white. That wasn’t the point of this article at all! America doesn’t want to hear about that!