Peugeot Smug Bastard McSmug

Oh joy. As if my petty, shitty little existence isn’t petty and shitty enough, the smug bastards at Peugeot go and release what I think may be the smuggest advert ever made just to rub my nose in the steaming turd of my own crapness.

Now I know bugger all about cars and that, frankly, is more than I ever wish to know about them. They are little more than moving wardrobes to me so the concept of looking at one and feeling my body diverting blood to my penis without my say so or a picture of Kate Garraway near by is just ludicrous. What sort of man gets wood over a car? They are expensive, noisy and smelly – like boozed up posh people who, incidentally, are the target audience for this advert.

It kicks off a moody shot of the car driving along a snaking lakeside road through the encroaching gloom of late evening past the edge of a hillside forest. At this point I looked out of my window at the rows of semi-detached clone-holes streaked and pissed wet with rain I immediately felt my life was seventeen times less valuable than whoever was driving that car. Wonderful. The camera then shows the driver himself and I suddenly knew my life would become worthless by the end of this advert – a smirking berk of a male model was driving, his collar open and tie gone, presumably because he’d left it on the mahogany boardroom table where he’d been rogering the CEO’s impossibly gorgeous PA* only an hour before. I was dressed in stuff I had bought from Matalan or found on a dead gardener.

There is a brief establishing shot of the car, but by now I hate it more than the runs because I know a) it’s about a car, and b) I’ve not been nailing a beautiful PA on a mahfuckinghogany boardroom table in the last hour. All I’ve been doing is liquefying in front of the gogglebox watching other people who hide their love poker inside beautiful PAs.

Once the establishing shot has gone we get to the meat of the advert. Not only has this cunt been screwing my girlfriend the PA, but he is obviously driving to dip his bloody pleasure skewer into another jaw-dropper. We know this because there follows several shots of lady number two relaxing in a candle lit bath**, getting out of the bath***, walking past a four-poster bed in a tiny silk gown (how it got in a gown, I’ll never know – wa wa wa waaa, etc.) and pulling back the sheets in a gesture that clearly means he’s getting some, the shit. He’s already had some lovin’! You’ll only be getting whatever his mean little seed sacks have had chance to build up on the journey over – he’s short changing you!

Speaking of the smug little jizz-sharer, where on earth is he? We’ve been with this poor deluded sexy momma for too long – come in number cunt! Look – here he is, pulling up to his house. His direct from Grand Designs, approved by Kevin McCloud, modernist masterpiece of a house. His mood-lit glass and beech honey pot in the mountains. By a lake. In a forest. My screams of pure boiling hatred could be heard for streets around.

He pulls up. He gets out. She is there to meet him with a passionate kiss before languidly leading him by the hand into his nookie shack (there is even a candle-lit meal set out for him – fucked AND fed, the total total total shaft). And what does he do? What does this quim magnet with what appears to me to be a very run of the mill car (squat, black, four wheels, no sign of jet engines – it’s a fucking car, you bum dribbles) do? When presented with the opportunity of spending the night licking the taste of his own smug sweat from this goddess’ tits, what does our smirking little wee stain do?

He looks back at his car and resists the hand dragging him in ever so slightly in a fashion that is meant to imply that driving this car is better than being ridden three ways to Thursday by a naked lithe (and shaved, I like to think shaved) east European underwear model.

The utter utter cum drop.

By the time the advert ended and the company’s twaty strapline came up (“The ride of your life” would that be the car or the nubile model, eh Peugoet?) came up, I was swearing and shouting so much that the man next door with severe tourettes came round to ask me to stop as I was upsetting his kids.

So thank you Peugeot. Thank you for making the most wank awful smag basterd advert my eyes have been abused by in a long time. Worse even than that aborted pig foetus of a Channel advert where Nicole Stickman (see what I did there) fails to fall off a roof and do the world a favour. Peugeot, you pricks.

If you want to see this smug wankfest, click here: http://www.peugeot.co.uk/about-peugeot/web-tv-video/

==========

* All power dressing and amazing heels. Her, not him. Lucky sod. Him, not her.

** I can’t have a fucking bath any more. I love baths but when do I get time for a bath? One that is not full of plastic boats and floating, squirting sea creatures? Never, that’s when. Thanks for asking. Jesus.

*** No tit shots I notice, even though this clearly is a foreign advert. What is the fucking use of being in the bastard EU if we can’t show tits in adverts like they have been doing in France since 1794? And I bet she was having a quick ham shank in there too – why can’t we have watched that, eh? Eh? EH?