Let's get this out the way: I don't much care for Queen. Radio Ga-Ga, Somebody To Love and Under Pressure can go toe-to-toe with any tune out there, but for my money Queen yo-yos between novelty band and embarrassing Dadrock.
But that doesn't mean I approve of the ongoing pillaging of the Queen back catalogue by whoever waves a big enough cheque at whoever holds the rights to what's probably one of the most lucrative bodies of work in Western music. A body of work crammed full of catchy hooks, memorable choruses and quotable lyrics, just waiting for some vast mechanised system to come along and greedily hoover them up and spit them out covered in shit.
In fact - and I'm looking at you Dacia and Flash - it's one of the most egregious things I can think of. Whenever I see these adverts all I can think of is someone gleefully pissing straight in the faces of the people who love this music: the sort of casual disrespect of someone knocking the heads off your daffodils for shits and giggles.
Just image your favourite band's music being forcefully taken up the bum without so much as a smear of vaseline, just so some crap car or chemically pap manages to get a single clawhold in your head in the very unlikely chance that you might vaguely considering buying one (or some).
Those songs that make you smile, make you cry. They might remind you of your cherished childhood, of your first (or lost) love. Schooldays, holidays. Maybe a departed friend or relative. Music is a constant companion and the power of a favoured song by a much-loved band can transcend most other experiences in the right place and right time. We celebrate to it; weep to it. It unites us and allows us to tune into a shred empathy more than perhaps any other experience in life. Music is brilliant and it is beautiful.
And then an advertiser comes along, takes that thing that you love and treasure and turns it against you. Not only is that music roughly wrestled from your grasp, it's perverted and transformed into something awful by advertising. And it's no mistake. Making you hate these adverts isn't some unintentional by-product: it's purely, coldly and cruelly deliberate.
Let's say you open the door to me. I introduce myself and then hand you a tenner, make my farewell and head off into the night. You'd remember that.
Now image that you open the door to me, I introduce myself to you then slap you in the face. Guess which one you'd find more memorable.
Now - and here's what the likes of Flash and Dacia are doing in this metaphor - image I introduce myself to you then explain that I've tattooed Donald Trump's horrible hate-contorted visage on the face of your partner. Imagine when you ask why I would do such a thing I shrug a and say this: "So you'll never gorget the moment when I ruined something you loved forever, just so you'd remember it".
That's what Procter & Gamble did when it Oked this Flash advert. And it's what Renault did when it OKed this Dacia advert. Not because they hate they you, not because they want to ruin music for you.
Because anything and everything that can be used against you - love, hate, fear, insecurity, hope and nostalgia - will be used against you if someone thinks it can be used to sell you something.
I don't have the words for how utterly abysmal both of these adverts are. They're so bad I'm sure it can only be deliberate, because the worse they are the more impactful they are. In this way advertising ensures that, sooner or later, all of our treasured music, films, actors and stories will be chewed up and spat out in the hope of ring-fencing a minute speck of your brain so that, the next time you're in Tesco, some unknown impulse makes you pick up a bottle of chemical detergent and put it into your trolley.
• Hate the Flash Advert? Then strike back on Twitter by using the Flash-designated hashtag and tweeting something insulting, scatalogical or plain foul-mouthed alongside it, such as:
I hate the #Flashdog Flash adverts that use the Queen song and I will never buy any @ProcterGamble products while it's on television
The more swearwords the better, I'd imagine. Good luck.
You know what the least punk thing in the world is? McDonald's. You know what the second least punk thing in the world is? This McDonald's punk advert.
Food isn't very punk fundamentally, despite the best effort of Gary Rhodes' hair. Piercing your skin with unsterilised needles is punk. Spitting at your favourite band is punk. Starting a band in a garage, even though you can't really play is punk. Fighting is punk. Al fresco blowjobs behind youth clubs are a bit punk. Underage smoking, abusing drugs, flirting with extreme political views and vomiting on old ladies - all punk.
It's hard to think of anything that chimes less with punk's rebellious, alt, DIY ethic than a global multinational repurposing animals into the kind of sugary, salty discs fast-food joints laughingly refer to as food. When I look at the cover of Never Mind The Bollocks... I don't instinctively think "I'd like to eat a Big Mac". Likewise, when I see a McFlurry I don't go and sniff glue on a double-decker bus.
When I listen to the Buzzcocks I don't equate that music with visiting a drivethru alongside the sort of people who bundle up all the plastics and cardboard containing their high-calorie gak and throw it out the window. Although McDonalds' awe-inspiring contribution to the amount of filth on British streets does have a vague ring of 1977 about it.
I have visited McDonald's restaurants on about ten occasions in my entire life and I don't intend to add to that tally. Never have I seen a member of staff resemble anything like a model from Suicide Girls, although the co-opting of punk, grunge and goth by massive online brands pretending they give a fuck about tattoos, burlesque, beards and loud music seems to be what passes for rebellion amongst today's youth, irrespective of the fact that covering yourself in tattoos and making your ears look like well-chewed gum is just about the most conformist thing you can do in 2016.
Even culture's most alarming, atavistic, nihilistic movements get repackaged by rich white people and sold back to an unsuspecting generation of youngsters, flushed with hormones and keen to fit in. Today's teens, despite displaying the same outward fashions as their 1977 forbears, are much more likely to obediently spend their cash at a Maccies while Instagramming a pic of their slurry-in-a-bap rather than brick it, more's the pity.
McDonald's punk advert
Anyway, the advert itself. Why is the British teen equivalent of Ralph Malph sat in a Capri with his Dad visiting McDonald's. Would you be seen dead visiting a drive-thru with your Dad? And why a blingy Ford Capri? It's not in any way punk. Give me a clapped-out purple Austin Allegro and we'll talk. Why can't he speak? Why would anyone in their right minds eat pepperjack cheese - a material closer to plastic-coated vomit than food? What does punk have to do with a mass-market product called The Peri-Peri Chicken One, like it's an episode out of Friends. And why shit all over The Buzzcocks?
So many questions are posed by this McDonald's punk advert. The lingering one in my head - as ever - is what on earth people are thinking when they choose to actually hand over money for this shite in McDonald's.
What do you get? Diabetes with an impacted bowel thrown into the bargain.