I can’t think for myself. My life has been invaded unseen by the ruthless marketeer, intent on poisoning my mind with ideas of how I should spend the meagre pittance that remains after the tax man has kicked me square in the fiscal ghoulies.
You can’t go into a hardware store without the “JML man” haranguing you about products, like the loud-mouth offspring of Barry Scott and the guy that announced the prizes on Bruce’s Price Is Right. No, I don’t want a blanket that you can wear like clothes. I already have a blanket. And clothes.
But it’s not the delivery of advertisements that bothers me. Nor the sometimes astronomical budgets involved. I even allow the opportunistic cynicism of some campaigns to wash over me. It’s the people around me and their frantic and willing adoption of the freshly minted catchphrases.
Menial tasks are punctuated with the inaccurately accented “Simples”. The only thing “priceless” concerning my Mastercard is that it could only ever be employed to purchase goods that are without price. Finally, the admission that one is “confused dot com” should be met with the same reaction more usually associated with a zombie attack, specifically the steady-handed application of shovel to skull.
I suppose technically, Ronseal does do exactly what it says on the tin, though with an appropriately monosyllabic Neanderthal quality, as if it does what it says on the tin, but only when used in an unventilated room. “Me. Stain. Wood. Wood stain.”
With marketing saturation levels exceeding that of a typical male teenager’s dirty washing basket, you can be forgiven for relying on the cliché for inspiration. I recently found myself wishing to publicly express my affection towards my girlfriend but without the prison sentence associated with public nudity. I wanted to do something nice. Everybody loves nice, or so I’m told.
I'm not going to take relationship advice from you, the faceless reader. I’m not even sure how you give advice without a face. I know the basics. Don’t let the sun go down on an unfinished crossword, or sudoku... or something. I’m useless at gifts though. When one wants to avoid clichéd gifts or over-sentimental pap, where does one go for inspiration?
I have great ideas for gifts at all times when I don’t immediately need to purchase one, but when the time arrives, my mushy, slushy grey matter only retains the slightest hint of the memory of the original idea. The idea becomes homeopathic.
I was forced to think on my feet. I bought flowers.
Clearly I, the faceful author, am in no place to give advice on thoughtful gifts. I need to liberate myself from the marketeer’s yoke. Ignore the adverts. Shun the billboards. Little by little, my thoughts will, once again, become my own. Because as we all know, every little helps.
