Partly I liked it because it featured a hot-looking girl in a bikini, so naturally it appealed to my inner caveman.
Partly I liked it because it annoyed so many of the right people ‐ everyone from London’s closet Islamist Mayor of London Sadiq Khan, to all the feminists who were outraged that in the 21st century men still want to stare at semi-naked hot chicks with slim bodies more than they want to stare at minging porkers with blue hair and PhDs in gender studies and multiple cat maintenance.
Mainly I liked it because it was a glorious throwback to a happier, better age when advertising did what it is supposed to do: appeal to our most basic instincts in order to seduce us into buying stuff.
These were the days when all aftershave ads gave the impression that if you slapped on the right product you’d get laid ‐ even, no, especially, if you were a spotty teenager and all you could afford was Old Spice or Brut.
When you learned that if you smoked the right brand of cigarettes you’d become cool and rugged like the Marlboro cowboy, or mysterious and chic like the Silk Cut ads, or fast and dangerous like the black and gold John Player Special racing car.
When you learned that if you drank spirits you’d magically enter a world like Duran Duran on a yacht full of beautiful, available women, and that if you drank lager you’d become one of the lads and get extra good at the banter.