Stuck between a jock and a hard place

Let's see, a high street financial institution needs a new TV advertising campaign but, perhaps being well aware of the low esteem that banks are now held in, decides to associate its brand with something more popular. Lightbulb moment: how about a radio station? Yes, why not pretend that this bank has its own studio that broadcasts its offers to listeners?

Unfortunately the resulting commercials feature a cast of characters so gormless and unappealing that they might just have the effect of putting viewers off ever visiting a bank or listening to the radio for the rest of their days.

The first one that I was unlucky enough to see (so many, many times) showed a ghastly breakfast show posse explaining about giving savers a fiver. In the non-fictional radio world this would be the equivalent of still expecting listeners to get worked up about the prospect of receiving a free windscreen sticker. Nowadays, of course, radio ballyhoo is more about huge cash prizes (although in the banking sector it only seems to be the bosses who 'win' those).

Then there's the ad where a young chap is trying to broadcast details of tax-free Individual Savings Accounts (yeah, that should keep those RAJARs rising!) Sitting next to him is one of those women who manages to be attractive but also rather scary at the same time. The moment he mentions ISAs, she has a lightbulb moment of her own, presses a button and Vanilla Ice's only memorable hit begins playing.

It's hard to decide what was the most amusing thing about Vanilla. Was it the fact that his real name was actually Robert Van Winkle? Or how about the story that he had ended up working not in hip hop but a bike shop? There was also that bit in the dreadful reality show The Farm where he got into a row about the Iraq war and had a finger wagged in his face by a furious, er, Paul Daniels. He's recorded with Jedward, too; now that's sad. No, I think his greatest unintentionally funny moment was the clips programme where he attempted to demonstrate that the bassline of Ice Ice Baby is different from that of Queen and David Bowie's Under Pressure but only succeeded in making them sound even more identical than everyone except him already thought. I'm sure he'll find the royalties from this ad useful, though; perhaps he'll invest them in a tax-free savings scheme.

The commercial is in full flow by now. The annoying woman moves her head towards her radio colleague in time with the music. It's difficult to tell if she's flirting or simply trying to drive him to suicide. Whichever it is, she's also loudly whispering 'Isa Isa baby'. I want scream at the telly:

'LOOK, THE RECORD PLAINLY SAYS ICE, NOT ISA, YOU RIDICULOUS BINT! THAT DOESN'T EVEN SCAN LIKE THE ORIGINAL! HOW THE HELL DID YOU LAND A JOB IN RADIO?'

But I have neighbours so I don't.

The follow-up commercial to this one featured a multi-tasking presenter who played her own jingles on an organ (as you do) and tried to read off an idiot board held upside down by an idiot colleague. And this is supposed to give you faith in these people to manage your hard-earned money?

Look, I'm all for using humour in adverts but when it comes to making radio presenters look ridiculous, well, that's best left to Programme Directors.

There's another recent ad I wanted to mention, not for its visuals which feature some animated characters doing all manner of exciting things, but for the accompanying song: '118 24/7, it's Directory Heaven'.

Eh? Do what? Where's that place then?

Over the years, I must have successfully looked up thousands of businesses and private individuals in the Phone Book, Yellow Pages, Thomson's, etc, but I can't say I have ever found myself thinking afterwards 'You know what? I'm in Directory Heaven!' I suppose, in fairness, I should acknowledge that, although it's not quite in the same league as the word 'orange', poets and lyricists have always found that 'seven' doesn't offer a huge number of rhyming opportunities other than 'heaven'. Why, even a certain great white rapper might struggle.

It was actually a directory that led me to the Radio Magazine, for which this piece was originally written. Back in the mid-90s, when my technophobia meant that I avoided any type of computer, let alone that new internet-thing, I visited my local library to find out if there was a radio journal that I could advertise my writing services in. I was handed a set of massive volumes called Willings Press Guide which listed thousands of specialist newspapers and magazines (including, I seem to remember, an organ called The Monk which apparently enjoyed a three-figure circulation in the UK's monasteries) and eventually I discovered what I had been looking for: the Radio Magazine.

But even if I had known back then that one day I would actually write for it, I still don't think that I would have considered myself to have arrived in You-Know-Where because I just can't imagine such a location.

Having said that, if I was forced to choose between inane fictitious settings then I would sooner find myself in Directory Heaven than in that Hell-ifax radio studio any day.

(Originally published in the Radio Magazine, 28 April 2010)