About the worst news in television
at the moment is the ruling by the Advertising Standards Authority that the
Kronenbourg 1664 advert, the one starring Eric Cantona, is misleading.
I do hope this doesn't mean we have
seen the last of the ad, which admittedly gives the impression that the beer is
the product of the labours of the hop farmers of Alsace when - shock, horror -
the stuff's mostly made in Britain.
Yes, it's misleading, but only to
the kind of meatheads who believe the marketing of largely interchangeable
fizzy yellow alcohol has anything to do with truth.
I believe it's the solemn duty of a great thriving economy
like ours to mislead these people.
In fact, the consumer-led booms we enjoy from time to time are
predicated on a plentiful supply of meatheads to mislead.
I, for one, cheered at the return
of the Kronenbourg commercial a month or so ago - where Eric pretends to be a
hop farmer to win the admiration of a smart young woman - after its first run
in 2013.
I can only assume Eric was
such a success the beer folk decided to stick with him for this year's
campaign, rather than try something new.
It was on fairly heavy rotation
during sport on ITV and Sky, so I must have seen the ad scores of times, but it
never failed to make me smile.
Eric does two brilliant looks to camera, first a puzzled look when a
statue to a hop farmer is unveiled, and then, when he lies to a potential
conquest about being a farmer, a look which seems to say "oh, come on, you
would, wouldn't you?" It's probably unwise to make a judgement based on 30
seconds of TV, but in my view Eric bears comparison with masters like Eric
Morecambe and Oliver Hardy in the art of the comic stare down the barrel of the
unforgiving lens.
What the ad did not do was persuade
me either that the lager was produced by master craftsmen in time-honoured
fashion in Eastern France, or that being a corpulent, ruddy-complexioned hop
farmer was the route to sexual nirvana in that part of the world.
I just thought it was funny, and for
that reason preferable to, for the sake of argument, the current Guinness campaign.
I have nothing against Guinness,
you understand.
It was my alcohol
of choice, as a young journo back in the dark ages.
My theory is that we all go through a Guinness phase.
It's like The Smiths.
For a while we think it's just the
ticket, lending a veneer of sophistication, without being exactly pretentious,
but then we grow up, form relationships, acquire wisdom, and realise it's just
beer - or Morrissey whinging.
I don't see that the Guinness
commercial featuring the Society of Elegant Persons of the Congo, where these
sharply dressed chaps put on their finery and go out to tap dance and drink
Guinness, is any less misleading than Eric and the Kronenbourg hop farmers.
The famous dark stout is after all, as
exclusively revealed in this column, just beer; in which context the slogan,
"In life you cannot always choose what you do, but you can always choose
who you are," sounds not just irrelevant but suspiciously like what we
doctors call bollocks.
Maybe I have become jaundiced
through watching too many adverts, having added ITV's new breakfast show to my
daytime TV habit, in the interests of research.
Unlike
Conservative politicians, TV folk believe you
can solve a problem by throwing money at it, and so, as has been
widely advertised, they sent a skip full of the stuff round to Susanna Reid's
house to lure the nation's favourite from the BBC, and lavished further
resources on reporters to give the show a "newsier" feel.
News, schmews, I say.
What breakfast telly is really about is
patent medicines.
A friend who
worked for TV-AM twenty-odd years ago when it was going through one of its
periodic financial crises tells me the station was pulled from the brink by
drugs firms heavily advertising cystitis remedies to its predominantly female
audience, and the new show is similarly cashing in on the disease dollar.