The Worst Adverts Of 2014

Is it that time again? It scarcely seems five minutes since I was last wading through the dreck of another year’s worst adverts. Already it’s time to list the worst adverts of 2014. So, what’s changed over the last year?

For me there have been two noticeable trends. Firstly we’re seeing the bar being lowered ever further, as TV advertising becomes more affordable to smaller businesses. This has inevitably resulted in adverts that are truly abysmal, usually relying on a cover of a popular song with the brand name sung over the top of it – or merely inept, ill-conceived adverts acted badly and boasting some of the worst production values since Eldorado was last on television.

Secondly, we’ve seen something of a decline in the mind-drilling, dog-whistling exercises in simply being memorable – at least by the likes of gambling and price-comparison companies: Go Compare has retired Welsh tenor Gio Compario; has ditched its hapless and rather pitiful in-house Cara Confused nonsense; Paddy Power seems to have reined in its openly dog-whistling adverts; Ladbrokes seems to have distanced itself from its Lad Banter idiom of the last few years. Once again, it’s reasonably safe to switch over to the commercial channels without hovering over the Mute button.

We’ve also seen the complete disappearance of my long-time bete noir,, which has retreated from television advertising like a celebrity tit-feeler seeking asylum in a home-counties pile, ensconced behind big iron gates and stewing in resentment at being caught out.

Worst adverts of 2014

All of which might leave material thin on the ground, you might think. Not a bit of it. 2014 has given us bad adverts in a range of colours and textures. Some are inept, some badly misjudged, some insulting, some tired, some simply annoying – others are actively offensive.

Getting angry at the television is among life’s most futile pursuits. But there’s so much to get angry about, whether it’s impotent fury at an annoying jingle, distaste at using war to shift stock or the terrible sense of doom one gets when watching people fight over discounted tablets.

The turbo capitalism that now dictates how we live forces us to reassess the role of marketing and advertising in encouraging us to spend, consume and fundamentally to live beyond our means. And the way we consume and the way we live is, if you dwell on it for any amount of time, terrifying. Whether adverts are a cause, a symptom or somewhere in-between is up for debate, but in such a world it so often feels as if going mad is the only way of staying sane.

• NB. Should you wish to do something less hateful than buying a box-set of DVDs for a secret Santa, why not make a charitable donation instead, like John Lewis didn’t

The Worst Adverts Of 2014


A horrible appropriation of death, mayhem and suffering in search of increased market share.

I’m still waiting for someone to explain why using 9/11 as a backdrop to an advert would be worse than this. Why? Because it wouldn’t.


So earnest it makes Black Narcissus look like Hollyoaks, starring a man who appears to be a South African Bond villain.

Bullets. Ink. What? Inexplicable.

Wilkinson Sword

Not annoying, not offensive, not even particularly bad. Just puzzling. How does depilation make you more successful, carefree, stressless – fundamentally more complete as a human being? Answer it doesn’t. But Wilkinson Sword is keen to have you believe it does. Just as everyone who works in advertising seems to be keen that we all see the Redknapp clan on our commercial breaks as often as is feasible.

I have a theory that Harry Redknapp isn’t Jamie’s Dad; he’s a Dorian-esque attic portrait who’s gone rogue and developed a life of his own. It’s the only possible explanation, when you think about it. As for Louise, a robot I should imagine. A man who’s done a deal with the devil, his animated, droopy alter ego and his robot wife. I digress, but that’s literally what the Redknapps are.

Compare The Market

A lesson in how even the most imaginative, engaging and amusing campaign can become an exercise in diminished returns. These days the meerkat adverts – now numbering over 40 – appear with the tedious inevitability of an unloved season. If only they could all get bitten by cobras. Yes, even Baby Oleg.

Gladstone Brookes

If ever an advert came close to bullying it’s this egregious and ubiquitous effort from modern-day ambulance-chasers Gladstone Brookes. It’s not simply the insistence, it’s the way it actively berates you. Like a child demanding you buy it a tillside Wispa – and looking you in the eye and telling you you’re a failure as a parent.

Well fuck you, Gladstone Brookes, from every last person in the country.


The thing is, I can understand this and, in a way, I applaud this effort by Apple, which normally sticks to being as insufferably smug as possible. I like adverts that mash up a load of unlikely sources, dig out some obscure stuff from the archives and create something new and brilliant. Hell, my favourite advert ever – one of my favourite things ever – does exactly this.

Volkswagen’s Night Driving advert from a few years ago combines Richard Burton’s growling narration of Under Milk Wood, adds Cliff Martinez’s ethereal soundtrack from Soderbergh’s Solaris and lays them over some beautiful visuals. It’s almost enough to make me interested in a Volkswagen Golf.

In the same way that curation isn’t simply hanging a load of pictures on a wall, creating something new out of old ingredients is a serious skill. And it nearly works here – it really does. That song is intriguing and unforgettable and kinda glorious. But, at the last minute, it splits like a sauce; separates like oil and water.

Close, but no cigar. And after a few viewings the Chicken Fat advert simply became aggravating. Such a fine line between startling success and ignoble failure. Sadly, after a fortnight of seeing this ad the only running I was doing was out of the room whenever I heard the opening bars. Truth be told I probably creaked slowly to my feet, exhaled for a few seconds then hobbled towards the door at 1mph, but you get the picture.

Andrex Ariel Free

This repeated attempt by Andrex to make us buy their ridiculous wet wipes has already seen Dawn Porter basically harrassing members of the public in their workplace shitters – now it’s time for Ariel Free to make actors talk about faeces while eating chocolate cake in a cafe. In the meantime, something interesting has happened.

Suddenly I’ve noticed a carpet-bombing campaign by the private companies who run our water utilities pleading with us not to flush Andrex’s ‘flushable’ wet wipes down the toilets as they, er, collapse sewers. So, ironically, these Andrex Washlets adverts aren’t just really shit, they’re actively responsible for human waste bubbling up through the drains, across your garden and in through your back door. Thanks Andrex.


An advert so purely infuriating it genuinely made me fear for the safety of the actors involved. This seemed to be on televisions constantly – and then not at all. Probably for the best – as I noted at the time no-one wanted to see they guy in this ad thrashed to within an inch of his life while some yobs yelled “Anything for you, cupcake!” at him in a Brummie accent, all the time raining down blows of ad-inspired fury.


Hive represents a growing trend in adverts over the last year or so – the fey, affected ‘look-at-me-I’m-normal’ style of ad narration that wants to be your best friend. The thing is, I can scarcely think of anything more annoying than this try-hard form of delivery with its kooky, faux-naturalistic lyrics that try to make us believe that controlling your heating via mobile phone app is a paradigm shift.

The only way I can get through this ad is by imagining each verse ending with an agonised “Owwwwwwwww!” as someone kicks the gas-loving songsmith in the nuts.

Sky Sports

I don’t know how to say this, but… football doesn’t matter. It actually doesn’t matter at all. It’s not important. And if you think it is you’ve basically been brainwashed.

Carpets are more important than football. Woodlice are more important than football. Black holes are more important that football. Cochineal is more important than football. Suplhur is more important than football. The A19 is more important that football. Gamma waves are more important that football. K9, the robot dog from Doctor Who, is more important than football. Holly Willoughby is more important than football. Cheese is more important than football. Ealing comedies are more important than football. Eating with your mouth closed is more important than football. Cosmology is more important that football. Lollipops are more important than football. Narwhals are important than football.

Football doesn’t matter. It just doesn’t matter.

Cheese strings

This is the only way I want to see this cheddary twat portrayed on my tellybox from now on.


I hate beards. I’ve worn a beard – on and off – since I was about 19, in strict defiance of prevailing trends and the express desires of Wilkinson Sword. It’s not really a statement of any sort, more of an unwillingness to drag sharp metal across my face every day, or have a shaver nip hairs out of my unprotected neck every 24 hours. But I’m seriously considering shaving off my beard. Why? Because of twats like the Cuprinol man.

We’re at peak beard. Beards are being culturally appropriated by idiots – this miniaturised, airborn paintophilic being a case in point. Whenever a big-bootied Jamaican dancehall queen looks at Miley Cyrus, I bet she feels like this.

I liked it better when beards were a sign that you were, unashamedly, A Man. Either that or a signal that you Couldn’t Be Arsed. No grooming, no beard oil, no stupid moustaches or silly hats in wanky bars. Just a load of hair on your face. Not a sign that you thought Ed Fucking Sheeran was the last word in cool music.

Shoot this face-hair traitor out of the sky already.


I honestly feel as if I beat Wonga. I feel like I drove them into the sea with the power of my rhetoric and it was as if everyone suddenly realised I was right along – even Wonga – and I was (metaphorically) paraded through the streets on the shoulders of the Financial Conduct Authority while Martin Lewis from MoneySavingExpert gave me a massage and Matt Alright from Rogue Traders gave me a thumbs-up.

I beat Wonga. It was all me. Like Christ twatting the money lenders. Like Moriarty going over the Reichenbach Falls. I was right all along and now it’s all down to me that Wonga has been comprehensively fucked up.


• Want more? Read the lists from previous years…

Worst adverts of 2013

Worst adverts of 2012

Worst adverts of 2011

Worst adverts of 2010

Worst adverts of 2009

AdWorms: February’s Most Annoying Advert


I’m finding myself watching less television – I’d be something of a hypocrite if I didn’t after all, given my increasingly anguished entreaties for people to switch off the idiot box – and inevitably I’m exposed to less and less adverts. This is, arguably, something of a problem for someone who relies on crap adverts to fuel their blog but it does mean that the ones that really get my goat stand out from the crowd.

These AdWorms aren’t simply the ones I think are really bad – the omnipresent and decreasing-returns shtick of the Meerkats and Go Compare would be present every month if so – but the ones that really get on my aural tits; the ones that may as well be a toddler screaming on a bus or a car alarm keeping you awake at night.

These adverts – the adworms if you will – are shoe-ins because I find myself being annoyed at them hours after they’re broadcast. I find myself thinking of them when I’m sat on the train, walking home or lying in bath considering my very mortality. I find these adverts interesting because they’re designed to be annoying – and because I genuinely wonder where this ends.

The current Hotels4U advert strikes me as the latest in a long line of such adverts, but perhaps the most naked attempt to infuriate innocent members of the public (incidentally I recently booked a hotel and flicked through my mental list of brand names – LateRooms, LastMinute and Trivago – Hotels4U didn’t get a look in probably because they’ve failed to include their brand name or URL in their catchphrase, which is the whole point of these ads when you think about it).

I honestly think that, should the man who says ‘Anything for you, cupcake” be identified in a bar on a Saturday night someone might go for him, in a grisly recreation of the way the Ow My Balls! guy from Idiocracy is routinely blasted in the nads. I would decry this behaviour as rank thuggery – as I hope anyone who read AdTurds would – but a tiny part of me would understand how it might happen.

If someone repeatedly flicks my ear or jabs me in the chest with an index finger for no reason it’s quite possible that, eventually, on a bad day, I’d return the favour with interest. And while this sort of provocation doesn’t justify a physical response in any sane world, the part of us that learned how to cope with life in the playground might find a certain empathy with a desire to repay a deliberately annoying act in turn.

I hope the guy from the Hotels4U advert goes through life unmolested – it’s not his fault after all – but I’d like to think that the people responsible for these intentionally angering adverts find some sort of ironic just desserts, like the way that a philatelist would be crushed to death by a giant stamp or the cruel boss of an underpants factory would turn into a pair of Y-fronts in Tales of the Unexpected.

In the meantime here are this month’s choices. I’ve included Hotels4U again because, y’know.

Royal Navy Life Without Limits advert

The ‘you x, you y’ meme has long been tired and aggravating so I don’t know why they persist with it here. Even more obnoxious is how the line between honest representation and grotesque war porn fantasy has been long abandoned. The message in this ad is fairly clear – join the navy if you want to blow people away and get to play with cool toys.

Perhaps we shouldn’t be surprised: armed forces around the world have long recognised that there’s a similarity between gaming and actually killing people – and played to those audiences. The vicarious thrill of warfare is frequently referenced in this ad but, fundamentally, it’s the maddening rhythm of the whole thing that makes it so fucking infuriating.

Cheese Strings

I can’t find the one that’s currently on, but it ends with the Cheese Thing repeating “Cheese! Cheese!” in an irritating voice. Ads like this always make me think of the voicoever artists. Did the actor in question, who once dreamed of playing The Dane, ever think he’s end up voicing animated dairy products with an idiom that would be be deemed a bit much at a child’s party? Did the rapper, inspired by the seminal work of KRS-ONE or Slick Rick, truly foresee lending his voice, honed on the streets of south London in brutally witty flow battles, to a smeggy twat riding around in a car made of cheese spaghetti?

I can never understand why anyone – even really stupid people – could find stuff like this funny and the idea that there are people who do depresses me enormously. I’d say that the thought of him melting might cheer me up, but whatever cheese spaghetti strings are made of I doubt they melt. Burst into flames, perhaps. Either way, get stuffed you cheddary bastard.


With reference to what I said above, every now and then there’s a report that a celebrity gets beaten up while the attackers gleefully repeat the catchphrase with which they’re associated (see What’s The Frequency Kenneth? for more on this). Though I do hope not, it’s not inconceivable that this guy joins those ranks, such is the inexorable twattiness of this advert.