nunoncastors

I’m one of those people who have no sense of brand loyalty. I use the supermarket that is closest to my house; I buy clothes that I like and I only make large purchases after much deliberation and research. I fail to see what’s so revolutionary about a razor with six blades and I believe all marketing to be legitimised begging.

It irks me that I can’t watch television, use the internet, read a paper or walk through town without being bombarded with messages telling me that I need things, that my life can only be improved by having an iPod, that I could defy ageing by smearing my face in some pseudo-scientific goo, that if I were cool, really cool, I’d go here, do this, wear that and buy, buy, buy.

Marketing intrudes on every aspect of our lives in some of the most pervasive, insidious, ways imaginable and, frankly, I’d rather the people who come up with this shite would fuck off and die.

What’s prompted this? Well, innate cynicism aside, I bought a carton of orange juice this morning and scrawled on the side was the following

for the love of
food…
Rounded sweetness and a burst of citrus aroma distinguish this special orange juice, made from ripe Latin American oranges.

This prompted the thought that it’s just orange juice. It’s made from concentrate, in a factory, and it’s pasteurised. It tastes like every other brand of orange juice, there’s nothing exotic about it and connoisseurs aren’t going to moisten their pants over the subtleties of its nose. It’s. Just. Orange. Juice.

Besides, who actually falls for the drivel that’s spoon-fed to us on a daily basis? Have you ever been swayed to buy something because it’s ‘extreme’, ‘max’ or ‘fusion’. When was the last time that the idea of ‘protensium’ made you think, “Hey, I really need to defy the ageing process, I’d like my face to travel backwards in time.”

Carling lager wants you to ‘Belong’, belong to what? They may as well desire that we ‘Rotate’ or ‘Huddle’, it’s gibberish.

Have I had my Weetabix? No I fucking haven’t.