AdTurds readers have a few suggestions for what the EDF Energy parasite – apparently called a zingy – looks like. I’ve detailed my thoughts on it via the link above, but repeated keyword queries regarding the bloody thing led me to open it up to you lot.
Lots of people think it looks like a turd, others a sex toy. A clit; a tit, a cock, a sperm. And more think it’s like some sort of horrible grub or tic. Here’s a selection what AdTurds readers think – feel free to add your own suggestions on the poll.
edf energy turd – 40 queries
edf energy poo – 22 queries
what is the thing on the edf energy advert?
what is the creature in the edf energy advert
what is the animal on the edf energy advert
edf advert sperm
edf energy advert little man
edf energy advert rubber turd
what is the bouncing edf energy thing?
why are they using a dancing turd for edf energy campaign?
why is there a poo on the edf dog’s back?
edf advert dildo
edf adverts dancing blob shit
cute dancing blob edf energey advert
edf energy advert looks like a sex toy
edf energy advert looks like an advert for dildos
edf energy advert penis
edf energy advert weird poo
edf energy orange turd
edf energy peach turd
edf energy shit on a dogs back
edf energy why is there a poo in the advert
is the edf mascot a shit
is the thing in the edf advert a turd
obscene clit edf energy advert
that edf advert with that thing that looks like a cat turd
what is edf energy dancing tit
what is that brown thing in edf energy
what is the metaphor behind edf dog advert
what the fuck is that thing on the dog’s back edf twats
why does edf have a sperm in advetisment
why is edf using a dildo in its adverts
As ever with AdTurds readers, the bouncy quality of the Zingy isn’t the only thing on their minds:
edf advert girl breasts
edf energy advert actress bouncing breasts
advert edf actress with big boobs
bouncy tit girl in edf advert
edf bouning tits
edf commercial masturbate
edf energy advert actress bouncing
edf energy bouncing breasts
edf energy tits
In fairness to whoever is behind this ad, there are a few people who are interested in owning a real-life EDF Energy Zingy:
edf energy toy argos – 82 queries
can i buy edf energy dancing thing off advert
can i buy toy off edf advert
can u buy an edf energy toy from argos
can you buy an edf bouncy toy
can you buy that thing on the edf energy advert in argos?
can you buy the thing of the edf energy adverts
can you buy the toy in edf energy advert
can you buy the toy on the edf energy advert
can you get one of the things off the edf advert
where can i get a edf energy turd
where can i get an edf energy tit from – my personal favourite
My suggestion is that you don’t part with money – simply lie down in some bracken for a few hours – chances are you’ll find one attached to your neck.
Meanwhile, here’s what’s behind EDF’s cute toy. That and several aging Advanced Gas-Cooled Reactors anyway.
NB. Skip the next thousand words if you’re just here for the funny stuff
Four hours. That’s how long, if you’re an average Brit, you spend watching television every day. And, if you’re not watching the BBC, that means one whole hour of adverts every day.
There’s a popular misconception that you don’t pay anything when you’re watching ITV or one of the free satellite channels. This is bollocks since you pay what amounts to a television tax at the checkouts when you buy the products you see advertised on television. Of course, if you subscribe to Sky you’re not only creating the very adverts in the first place, you’re also paying for the privilege to watch adverts: a double whammy that seems to be strangely overlooked by licence-fee whingers.
So, an hour of advertising every single day that you’re paying for and also paying someone else to watch. Imagine allowing a door-to-door salesman into your home for an hour a day – and you pay him for the privilege. Or standing in front of a load of billboards for an hour every day – you bought them. Or switching on a television channel for the express purpose of being brainwashed by advertisers for an hour every single day – at a fiver per half hour. 365 hours a year. 16 days. Two weeks. Half a month. Every Sunday you might as well go to the cinema for seven hours just to watch adverts and pay for the privilege. Insane.
I wrote this after a walk through Hartlepool’s town centre – a north-east conurbation that has been shat on from a great height by government policy, town planning and profiteering private landlords grown fat on the benefits of the feckless, ill, terminally unemployable or luckless.
Shorn of any meaningful industry or trades much of the north-east produces virtually nothing of value these days. Jobs mainly exist to service people and in this environment the requirement to sell stuff – necessarily goods of little or no value bought by people with no money on tick – becomes even greater, because without even this meagre trade even the hellish shopping centres and retail parks would be turned into rubble-strewn £2.50-a-visit parking lots.
Pound shops, value marques, charity outlets and even food banks make up much of the town centre. A friend of a friend runs one of those shops that sells food supplements and herbs. Recently his main supplier told him that he couldn’t sell to him any more as he’d become an approved supplier to Holland & Barrett, a place whose clients are nothing if not eclectic, seemingly consisting solely of doormen seeking muscle protein and arthritic pensioners buying St John’s Wort. The whey-protein vendors told him that he would not be allowed to supply anyone else within a certain radius. So another independent retailer is crushed into the dirt, the town becomes a little more homogenous and what little money there is is concentrated in the pockets of multinationals and spirited out of the town.
A job for a job, you might think. But that really isn’t the case. Some jobs generate less value, per capita, than others and it’s the big beasts who create the least value. An indie might generate, say, £20,000 a year. A McJob might create only £15,000. So when one of these places boasts of creating 20 new jobs the chances are there’s a net loss in value to the region. Remember that, next time Tesco comes a-calling.
Why is this relevant? Because this system we live in relies on buying more and stuff. Stuff that we don’t need. Stuff created abroad by miserable people for buttons, of material that’s designed to become obsolete within months, requiring us to replace it with more shit. That the end of the line for these ‘goods’ is a place like Hartlepool, full of people with no money, is particularly perverse but it’s become one of the prime money generators in our utterly fucked economy. Buying shit. It’s a little like the last days of Rome, but with a TOWIE onesie instead of a Bacchanalian orgy.
The fuel for this ghastly engine is, of course, advertising. It’s become utterly imperative that we keep purchasing, well beyond our needs or even meaningful desires. Thusly television adverts take on a greater significance. They must make us buy things we neither want nor desire. Our out-of-control demand drives down prices, which means everyone along that chain earns a little less. In doing so we perpetuate a system that destroys jobs, money, value and choice. We’re all racing to the bottom; a fevered, insane dash to pay ourselves less, rob ourselves of hard-fought rights and salve our bruised personalities with holidays, cars and cheap shit – palliatives to block out the horror of it all.
Look around you the next time you’re in a shopping centre, a supermarket or fast food joint. If you’re particularly unlucky you might experience a chilling moment of clarity; a horrible insight into what lies beneath the facades. The Amazon warehouse, the Asian sweatshops, the palm oil plantations, the mines that provide the precious metals for electronics, the vast mechanised slaughterhouses. We’re all complicit in this; we’re born complicit. But we don’t have to like it.
Adverts are the devil on our shoulder, whispering that we deserve it, that it’s Christmas; a can of pop, a smartphone, a 12-month subscription to Netflix will complete us. Only adverts are done whispering. Adverts will mislead, pester, guilt-trip and annoy in their efforts to encourage us to cough up, barely stopping short of a metaphorical skull-fucking in terms of the aural assaults adverts increasingly lob at us. Adverts will inveigle and batter their way past your personal spam settings. They’re not simply unskippable on a DVD these days, they’re unskippable in your head. As a concept I find that objectively sinister.
Advertising doesn’t have to be bad. It’s just that advertisers have cottoned on to the fact that bad adverts frequently work better than good adverts. Remember that old maxim about a bad meal, and how you’ll tell ten times more people telling their friends about a negative experience than a good one? We’re wired to remember those details: the slap in the face, the finger in the door, the hair in the soup and that bloody awful tune that we can’t get out of our heads. To be in your heads in what advertisers want, cooing that you deserve a new satnav or imprinting their url on your mind like cattle being branded.
Advertising pretends to be your friend. It is not. I can’t tell anymore whether it is a symptom of our slavery to the worst excesses of the market or something more sinister: something that is leading us further down to the road to our own anaesthetic stupor; a wanton shoulder-shrug, idle channel-hop and a listless wank.
Ads may sometimes be a bit of fun, they might even be amusing and cheering occasionally. But they are not benign. They are precision-guided missiles aimed directly at your sense of guilt, unhappiness, esteem, self-image and alienation.
You choose to watch them for an hour a day while they try to fuck you up.
In that context, they’re all bad. But these are the worst. Merry Christmas.
A bank makes stalkers live with sportspeople. Most of them seem to have some sort of alarming crush on said sportspeople now; at the beginning it was the other way round. There’s some relationship dynamics right there. Expect Jessica Ennis’ head to be found in a bucket soon.
So try-hard you can imagine an ad exec wanking in the background while this got shot.
2013’s most annoying noise – another appearance for the ‘ordinary voice’ meme – has returned for Christmas to mop up any viewers who may have luckily escaped thus far, like a battlefield executioner dispatching wounded soldiers with a bullet to the head. Oo-wack-a-doo-what-a-loada-crap.
This carnivorous fish was vaulted a long time ago but watching these once-amusing adverts devolve into late-era Only-Fools-And-Horses drivel has been painful. The only sane response is to hope for a cobra attack on the whole troop followed by twitching deaths, like when Flower got offed in Meerkat Manor.
Enough to make one pray for the second coming just so Christ can twat the money-lenders again. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.
You might not think there’s much that’s particularly hateful about this, apart from its syrupy, sickly chicken-soup-for-the-soul bullshit and that awful kids’ choir. But look closer – this is the Irish version of the advert and it’s more notable for what it doesn’t include than what it does. Compare it with the UK version below, which features a happy – and gay – couple. Seems Coke can conquer anything – apart from homophobia. And tooth decay, obviously.