Hell-ifax!

There's not much that sends my other half running for cover. Other than me clutching a carving knife around about the 3rd of each month. But one thing sure to have him move quicker than when the bar maid calls closing time is an ad for Halifax.

We've both been bothering the advertising industry for the best part of 25 years and can probably lay claim to the odd growler that's been aired for all to ridicule, but the latest slew of Halifax ads, using a selection of over-weight employees in some mock radio station, has really hit new lows.

A quick whizz round the interweb elicits more venom for these ads than for Hitler! There's a I Hate Halifax ads facebook page, unprintable comments on youtube.com and forums a-plenty. In fact, I don't ever think I've seen such hatred for a piece of advertising since - well never actually. In fact I'm genuinely beginning to think they come up with this drivel just to piss people off! I've even unearthed stories of folk transferring their savings and mortgages out of Halifax and into some other beleagured institution on the strength of their terrible ads.

At the moment, I can't decide which of it's 2 current airings are more offensive - comparing a measly £5 to 'Gold' (cue Spandau Ballet) or the women co-presenter who links the acronym ISA with the Hip-Hop song, ‘Ice, Ice, baby’ by Vanilla Ice (cue one-hit wonder uncool 80's rapper).

But more importantly, it's our hard earned cash paying for this drivel. A 37billion pound chunk of tax payers money was handed to the bunch of boardroom chumps who single-handly managed to drive the banking industry to it's knees. So it's hardly suprising that this lot wouldn't know a decent idea if it wandered in and gave them a blow-job!

So, to quote and credit the wonderful folk at Adturds as I couldn't have put it better myself, I think the government should enforce new legislation forcing the banks they have a significant stake in (a 43 per cent stake in Lloyds, which owns HBOS, which is essentially Halifax) to make a series of adverts in their current style where they have to be honest about their underhand attempts to fleece their customers to pay off their horrendous debts.

It could go like this:

FAT BLOKE: We've got a caller on Line One!

CALLER: Why are you trying to bum me over overdraft fees?

DJ: Haha! Because we've got a carte blanche to brutally hammer every single one of you! Can I just ask if you were conned into banking with us through this risible 'fiver a month' deal?

CALLER: Yeah, but with all these overdraft charges it's a drop in the ocean!

DJ: Of course, that's the whole point! And how else are we supposed to pay off all those toxic debts we accrued by backing these never-never sub-prime mortgages? By the way, thanks for the 17 billion!

And on that note, here's The O'Jays, with For the Love of Money! Fuck you all!

Hell-ifax!

There's not much that sends my other half running for cover. Other than me clutching a carving knife around about the 3rd of each month. But one thing sure to have him move quicker than when the bar maid calls closing time is an ad for Halifax.

We've both been bothering the advertising industry for the best part of 25 years and can probably lay claim to the odd growler that's been aired for all to ridicule, but the latest slew of Halifax ads, using a selection of over-weight employees in some mock radio station, has really hit new lows.

A quick whizz round the interweb elicits more venom for these ads than for Hitler! There's a I Hate Halifax ads facebook page, unprintable comments on youtube.com and forums a-plenty. In fact, I don't ever think I've seen such hatred for a piece of advertising since - well never actually. In fact I'm genuinely beginning to think they come up with this drivel just to piss people off! I've even unearthed stories of folk transferring their savings and mortgages out of Halifax and into some other beleagured institution on the strength of their terrible ads.

At the moment, I can't decide which of it's 2 current airings are more offensive - comparing a measly £5 to 'Gold' (cue Spandau Ballet) or the women co-presenter who links the acronym ISA with the Hip-Hop song, ‘Ice, Ice, baby’ by Vanilla Ice (cue one-hit wonder uncool 80's rapper).

But more importantly, it's our hard earned cash paying for this drivel. A 37billion pound chunk of tax payers money was handed to the bunch of boardroom chumps who single-handly managed to drive the banking industry to it's knees. So it's hardly suprising that this lot wouldn't know a decent idea if it wandered in and gave them a blow-job!

So, to quote and credit the wonderful folk at Adturds as I couldn't have put it better myself, I think the government should enforce new legislation forcing the banks they have a significant stake in (a 43 per cent stake in Lloyds, which owns HBOS, which is essentially Halifax) to make a series of adverts in their current style where they have to be honest about their underhand attempts to fleece their customers to pay off their horrendous debts.

It could go like this:

FAT BLOKE: We've got a caller on Line One!

CALLER: Why are you trying to bum me over overdraft fees?

DJ: Haha! Because we've got a carte blanche to brutally hammer every single one of you! Can I just ask if you were conned into banking with us through this risible 'fiver a month' deal?

CALLER: Yeah, but with all these overdraft charges it's a drop in the ocean!

DJ: Of course, that's the whole point! And how else are we supposed to pay off all those toxic debts we accrued by backing these never-never sub-prime mortgages? By the way, thanks for the 17 billion!

And on that note, here's The O'Jays, with For the Love of Money! Fuck you all!

Death by Snoring!

If anyone ever invents an effective cure for snoring, I shall be first in the queue to fall at their feet, weeping with joy and relief. You see, I have been sharing a bed with England's Worst Snorer (I crowned him myself - with a cricket bat!!) for the last 18 years. And it's not just after a few pints of Raddled Old Git. It's pretty constant. Oh rest assured we've been through everything on the shelves - nasal strips, sprays, I've tied tennis balls to his ankles, sewn ping pong balls into his pjs, bought special pillows, even sent him for tests but nothing, I repeat ABSOLUTELY NOTHING works.

I've lost count of the times I've found myself standing over him clutching a pillow in sleep-deprived, deluded and misguided thoughts that 30 years in Holloway might at least give me a decent 8 hours. But my irrational fear of getting up before 7.30am snaps me back to reality. Spare room you say? Nope, still hear it. Ear plugs? Useless. Sound-reducing headphones? Not terribly suitable for a good night's kip and anyway, I'd still hear it.

"It's the soft palate",

the specialist said.

"It's too low. And restricts breathing. Resulting in short periods where the person is unable to breathe. Usually they start to breathe again after 10 seconds but a sharp intake through a small hole results in excessive noise".

Only 10 seconds? 8 hours would be better.

You can have surgery, apparently. They use a laser to burn away the soft palate. But it's not guaranteed to work so it seems rather cruel to put the poor bugger through all that. So I just live in hope that one day someone will find a cure before I do. Especially mine all seem to be wood or feather-based!

Death by Snoring!

If anyone ever invents an effective cure for snoring, I shall be first in the queue to fall at their feet, weeping with joy and relief. You see, I have been sharing a bed with England's Worst Snorer (I crowned him myself - with a cricket bat!!) for the last 18 years. And it's not just after a few pints of Raddled Old Git. It's pretty constant. Oh rest assured we've been through everything on the shelves - nasal strips, sprays, I've tied tennis balls to his ankles, sewn ping pong balls into his pjs, bought special pillows, even sent him for tests but nothing, I repeat ABSOLUTELY NOTHING works.

I've lost count of the times I've found myself standing over him clutching a pillow in sleep-deprived, deluded and misguided thoughts that 30 years in Holloway might at least give me a decent 8 hours. But my irrational fear of getting up before 7.30am snaps me back to reality. Spare room you say? Nope, still hear it. Ear plugs? Useless. Sound-reducing headphones? Not terribly suitable for a good night's kip and anyway, I'd still hear it.

"It's the soft palate",

the specialist said.

"It's too low. And restricts breathing. Resulting in short periods where the person is unable to breathe. Usually they start to breathe again after 10 seconds but a sharp intake through a small hole results in excessive noise".

Only 10 seconds? 8 hours would be better.

You can have surgery, apparently. They use a laser to burn away the soft palate. But it's not guaranteed to work so it seems rather cruel to put the poor bugger through all that. So I just live in hope that one day someone will find a cure before I do. Especially mine all seem to be wood or feather-based!

Mutton?

This morning, my "I'll be 16 next year" daughter flounced out of the house to meet some friends. It wasn't until she walked down the path that I noticed, from my 'just out of view spot' in the kitchen, that she was dressed from head to toe in my clothes - right down to the bag and the boots! Now, the fact that no permission was asked isn't the issue (although I will be bringing this up on her return). It's more the fact that I've just had this awful realisation that I may be dressing as a 14 year old girl!

It's fortunate we're similar sizes so she certainly didn't look like a bag lady. But for the life of me, I couldn't ever remember any desire whatsoever to rummage through my mother's wardrobe and throw on a pair of her slacks, or some sensible shoes. I've always thought of my mother as being well dressed, in an M&S kind of way, but her idea of style seems to consist of navy blue and comfort. Nothing wrong in that. But at 14 years old, I usually felt the need to wear as little as possible, despite potential arctic conditions coupled with the most ridiculous shoes.

I suppose working in an industry where most people are 12 doesn't help. I'm conscious that if I turn up in a twin-set and pearls, I might be forcibly marched of the premises but in turn, I'm mortified by the fact that I might have overstepped the mark with the leggings/baggy jumper combo that I donned yesterday.

So for the time being, I think I'll err on the side of optimism and assume that my daughter clearly sees me as a fashion icon with an eye for style. I, meanwhile, am currently without a pair of boots, leggings, a shirt, jacket and bag so am about to head off shopping wearing my son's sweatshirt and my husband's jeans. I also have clear instructions from my daughter to steer clear of the park. Well, dressed like this, I'm just an embarrassment.

Aren't I!

Mutton?

This morning, my "I'll be 16 next year" daughter flounced out of the house to meet some friends. It wasn't until she walked down the path that I noticed, from my 'just out of view spot' in the kitchen, that she was dressed from head to toe in my clothes - right down to the bag and the boots! Now, the fact that no permission was asked isn't the issue (although I will be bringing this up on her return). It's more the fact that I've just had this awful realisation that I may be dressing as a 14 year old girl!

It's fortunate we're similar sizes so she certainly didn't look like a bag lady. But for the life of me, I couldn't ever remember any desire whatsoever to rummage through my mother's wardrobe and throw on a pair of her slacks, or some sensible shoes. I've always thought of my mother as being well dressed, in an M&S kind of way, but her idea of style seems to consist of navy blue and comfort. Nothing wrong in that. But at 14 years old, I usually felt the need to wear as little as possible, despite potential arctic conditions coupled with the most ridiculous shoes.

I suppose working in an industry where most people are 12 doesn't help. I'm conscious that if I turn up in a twin-set and pearls, I might be forcibly marched of the premises but in turn, I'm mortified by the fact that I might have overstepped the mark with the leggings/baggy jumper combo that I donned yesterday.

So for the time being, I think I'll err on the side of optimism and assume that my daughter clearly sees me as a fashion icon with an eye for style. I, meanwhile, am currently without a pair of boots, leggings, a shirt, jacket and bag so am about to head off shopping wearing my son's sweatshirt and my husband's jeans. I also have clear instructions from my daughter to steer clear of the park. Well, dressed like this, I'm just an embarrassment.

Aren't I!