Picture This...

There’s an advert running on the commercial TV channels in the UK at the moment for a loans company called Picture. The scenario goes a little like this: average-looking wholesome Dad has got himself into a spot of bother financially (too many nights down at the dogs, and then a visit to the local lap-dancing club) and wants to consolidate his finances.

Boisterous, rosy-cheeked children interrupt him at various intervals during the commercial, and there’s a beautifully kept show-home in the background. He ends up quite matey with the customer service advisor by the end of the advert, and I think they may be organising a mutual appreciation society or something.

But do you know what is weird about this whole thing, apart from the obvious in that he doesn’t crack his kids around the ear for rudely nagging him when he is on the phone?

His wife is seen videoing him right the way through it!


This would have alarm bells going off in my head if I were he. For what purpose, other than evidence, would she be filming her husband applying for a massive loan? In the not too distant future, he is going to find a hefty manila envelope on his doormat containing an application for divorce citing unreasonable behaviour including meditated bankruptcy and infidelity with Juicy Lucy at Dirty Harry’s Strip Joint. Instead of chatting up the loan shark, I’d be chatting up a decent lawyer.

This excruciating advert must run for well over a minute and it is so cheesy it makes Stilton look like fromage frais (which everybody knows is just slightly off yoghurt pretending to be cheese).

I’d want to divorce that bloke if I was married to him – not only because he is a toothy, happy-chappy who probably knows how to bake a soufflé, changed the kids’ nappies AND is in touch with his feminine side – but also because he is so incredibly unfunny. He cracks jokes to his new pal on the other end of the phone, who is obviously ROFLing at him sycophantically, and they are as humorous as an infestation of ringworm on your face.

I’m not too sure about the rest of the UK’s female population, but I couldn’t bear to be shackled to a bloke who is more gurlie than me, and who has such a banal sense of humour. I’d always be checking my wardrobe to see if any of my clothes had been tampered with, living with him.


It is quite ironic that in another advert released by Picture, the wholesome Dad is constantly agitating a rugby ball while wearing a rugby shirt, which has obviously been bought from Man at Oxfam as I have never seen it on Rugby Special in all of my born days. Is this a case of ‘methinks he doth protest too much’? I won’t go into any ball-handling innuendoes, as that is too predictable and tedious, but you probably get where I am coming from.

The ultimate insult in this advert is the background music. For anybody over the age of 30, we all remember it as Tony Hart’s Gallery Music, which is actually called ‘Leftbank 2’ by the Lance Gambit Trio.

This is such an evocative piece of music for us 30-somethings that it could, in severe cases, whilst enduring this tripe, instil indignation and high dudgeon in those of us who used to sit with bated breath to see if our picture of ‘Ralph Our Dog’ got into Tony’s gallery this week, hoping we’d won a Take Hart Art Kit.


So, not only am I subjected to utter tosh when the actual programmes are on telly, the adverts are equally as mind-numbing now. Yes, I know, I have the ‘Off Button’, but considering I was extorted into purchasing a TV license even before I had an aerial installed in my new home, I feel I have the right to watch it and complain bitterly.

Complaining is what put the Great into Great Britain.

Flex My Pex

I guess, if I was into Blog name abuse, I could refer to this post as Flex My Pex. Actually, that’s not a bad title, abuse or not, so in it goes…

Once upon a time, before I saw the light and decided that I couldn’t care less about having arms like Madonna, legs like Catherine Zeta Jones and a backside like Jennifer Lopez, I used to attend the gym on a very regular basis.

By regular, I mean every day, even when on holiday – the hotel’s facilities must include a gym, I used to bleat to the (then) husband. He didn’t care. As long as he could sit by the pool watching the top totty slathering sun cream on themselves (A Hex On Thee!).

One particular morning, having dropped the wee babes at school, I tootled off to the gym to commence my thigh-jittering work-out. It was a jolly good one, I can tell you and I went ‘for the burn’ as they say…Although, I must confess, it never burned me, it just reduced me to tears on the odd occasion and made me shout curses which should never be repeated in a public place or whilst sober.

As I staggered out of the gym and hauled myself into my Jeep, I flopped like a lump of lard on the seat and lit up a cigarette as quickly as my shaking fingers would allow…yes, yes, I know that defeated the whole object, but I do enjoy my smokes!

Without due care or consideration, I swung the Jeep from the parking bay and heard an almighty can opener ripping into its side. Concomitantly, the Jeep’s bonnet went upwards, as did my eyebrows and I took my foot off the accelerator, pretty damned quick!

Being a bit of a muppet where cars are concerned, I decided that the best thing to do would be to reverse and attempt to rectify the initial manoeuvre. The can-opening sound intensified, but at least the car came back to level ground.

I hauled myself out, and stared at the side of the car. The Municipality, in all its infinite wisdom, had decided to leave a concrete lamp-post base, sans lamp, in the middle of the parking area, and my car had decided to have a fight with it…Indeed, I was not the first, judging by the veritable rainbow of stripes across this lump of sadistic tendencies. The poor Jeep looked like it had gone in for open heart surgery and the surgeon had nipped off for a coffee and a fag…

As I stood there, askance, wearing clothes which were illegal in a Middle Eastern country, a local chap pulled up and asked if I wanted some help. He kindly called the police for me…called them again…then again…and finally, an officer pitched up, rattled something off to me and told me to get out of the way. The young chap told me his name was A.D…or at least, that is what I thought he said, but he was actually saying Eddie. As he looked like Eddie Murphy…ahem…Well, if that’s the case, then I look like Nicole Kidman, despite being less than stick-thin, dark and definitely under 6 feet tall…He did invite me for dinner at his mother’s, though, as they were slaughtering a goat for National Day…I politely declined.

I got very little help from the insurers. Their main concern was if the concrete base was OK, which left my mouth somewhat slack in gob-smackedness.

I did get my lovely car repaired…eventually…and then the (then) husband decided we should sell it and get a new one…

Well, I did – I bought a Jeep Grand Cherokee, which was just bloody marvellous, even though it was automatic, which I don’t particularly like, and even though the (then) husband used to commandeer it whenever possible, even causing a veritable bash on the bonce one day as I leaned into the rear seats to sort out the ensuing WW3 between the children and he took off when the lights went green so I was flung at the windscreen much to the other drivers’ amusements.

I sold the Grand just before I left Oman to return to a life of strife, corruption, world famous psychiatry and crime in the UK. I still miss it to this day.

I now drive a Toyota Yaris…It has only one wheel trim; the bumper hangs off it; every single cup holder has crap in it: from coins to earrings, to fag-packet wrappers…But it goes…and it will do…

But at least, whilst getting rid of the Grand, I also got rid of the husband! HexMyEx!