Chocolate. Or, to put it in terms our unencumbered ladybrains will understand, choglid.
I love it. You love it. We all love choglid, of course we do, we’re women! Oh, if only boyfriends and babies and shoes and equality were made of choglid we could - at last - have it all!
Anyway. Despite the fact that choglid is cheap and tastes nice, half of us are addicted to it anyway and something something antioxidants, choglid manufacturers can’t just dump some Mars Bars in a skip and shout “OI WOMEN”.
Some advertising law somewhere states that they must sell us choglid using little stories like this:
It’s evening, and a modern young woman is chilling out as we all do these days - wearing a lurex sarong and reading a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey wrapped in a copy of Time Out.
Presently, spurred on by Christian Grey’s irresistibly predatory, darkly sensual bon mots (“have I bound your wrists too tightly, Anastasia? Please never leave me”), the young woman finds herself padding guiltily towards her fridge.
But oh no! Her flatmates have used up all her special “personal massage” butter*, so she pulls her Box of Regrets from under the sofa, flicks disconsolately through the contents (that blonde weave; those nipple tassles), finds that giant block of precious choglid, and chows down.
Their strapline: Think hiding it. Think Galaxy.
My strapline: Waitafuckingminute. Think hiding it? Really? I don’t mean to get all Erin Brockovitch up in here, advertising, but isn’t encouraging people to hide food, y’know, a bit bad? A bit bingey and purgey? Let’s ask Google:
Genuinely the first Google result
Yep. Yep. Looks pretty bad to me. But if that’s how we’re doing things now - if we’re actually selling Galaxy bars by listing the symptoms of psychological disorders, then I can get on board with that. In fact I have a few suggestions of my own:
Paranoid schizophrenia choglid is catchy and tasty!
Think the government has formed a coalition with lizard-like aliens to harvest your brain matter for space weaponry and is using chocolate to spy on you and members of your family to ascertain whether you are “ripe”. Think Galaxy.
Alien hand syndrome: this hand is my hand, this hand is your haadkjfh`dfngkxxks
Think that one of your hands has taken on a mind of its own, is evil, and most likely has plans to strangle you in your sleep. Think Galaxy.
Doppelgänger syndrome: does this mean I get twice the chocolate?
Think that you have been cloned, and the world is populated by versions of you all living separate lives, and/or that you yourself have been replaced by a clone. Think Galaxy.
Saatchi and Saatchi, I am available for the 2013 Galaxy campaign. In case you were wondering.
*I am so sorry. I couldn’t help writing that. It’s almost as if I had AN ALIEN HAND.