A shaven-headed, half-naked, heavily-tattooed footy thug urinating skillfully into a delicate china tea-cup. Not your conventional billboard advert. But this is precisely the image chosen by Brussels to front its new Eurostar advertising campaign and promote tourism to our great capital.
The set of publicity images coincides with the launch of the new high-speed train service which now takes travellers from the Belgian capital to the centre of London in only 1 hour and 51 minutes.
The slogan alongside the stereotypical English football hooligan reads “Attention, London is just around the corner.” And apparently, according to variations of the campaign, so is Hitchcock with a knife, John Cleese doing a silly walk and a Teletubby standing in a Royal Sentry box.
The advert, aimed solely at the Belgian tourism market, apparently sets out to be “humorous” and depict the British nation as eccentric, cosmopolitan and cutting-edge, according to Lesley Retallack, Head of Press and Events at Eurostar. Translation – this is what Good ‘Ol England is full of, enter at your peril.
Well. You can imagine the reaction as soon as the images hit British soil. Even though this particularly abhorrent specimen of mankind can indeed be found across the country, I'm sure many an Englishman would like to think that we have a little more on offer.
The Belgians are trying to cover their backs against this inevitable tirade of eye-watering insults by pointing out the rather tenuous cultural parallel between the pot-bellied, brute-faced thug and the little bronze Belgian hero, the Manneken Pis. Ok, so the posture may be almost identical. But one is a cheeky little scamp, the other a fully-grown adult.
Arguably, this rather hard-hitting portrayal of England is far more accurate and insightful than the sickly, saccharine-sweet images we are forced to swallow in films such as Notting Hill, Wimbledon and Love Actually. According to these totally warped, suagr-coated portrayals of life in the capital, London Town is fit to bursting with cloned copies of the dreamy eyed, sensitive, near-on perfect man. And what is more, you can make him fall head over heels in love with you, and say things like oopsie-daisy, by simply standing in the way and making sure he spills an orange juice (freshly squeezed) all over you.
The new ad, in contrast, has not so much as a glimpse of gallantry in sight. Crude it may be. Bad taste perhaps. But tongue in cheek most definitely.
I can’t help but feel that our European friends are secretly chuckling away in their lace cushioned homes and munching on their chocolate waffles. And good on them. Funny isn’t it. It used to be that the Belgians were the boring ones and the Brits were the ones with the sense of humour. Now who’s got the last laugh?
Showing posts with label London Fashion Week. Show all posts
Showing posts with label London Fashion Week. Show all posts
Tuesday, 20 November 2007
Tuesday, 16 October 2007
Uniform Rules.
One of my dad’s favourite photographs of me as a child is me standing on the front door step on my first day of school. With a rucksack double my size, blazer sleeves trailing along the ground and soon-to-be scuffed shiny new shoes on my little feet, I was ready for anything.
When I stood in the playground lost and bewildered amid a screeching mass of havoc-wreaking school kids, I remember being approached by a terrifying-looking ten year old. In the blink of a teary eye, she brutally and brashly “christened” my brand new beret by twisting and yanking off the little bobble on the top. I cried. My mother sighed. And then last week, the nation was confronted with images of little Welsh school-goers burning their blazers in defiance against stricter uniform regulations, as reported by The Daily Mail. My, these schooling rituals are getting out of hand, I tut.
Despite a nation-wide move to smarten up our school kids, the Government has now decided to set a cap on the price of their uniforms. This is in order to enable families. What ever their financial status to be able to send their kids to their chosen establishment. It should prevent discrimination and exclusion. Great. But, as our continental cohorts curiously ask, what actually is the point of a school uniform?
Strolling around Eton College this summer I was totally taken aback and then tickled pink at the sight of what can only be described as hundreds of “mini men” running to morning prayer, their tail coats billowing out behind them. “They just need a miniature top hat!” I squeaked in delight. I was promptly told that these were only abolished during the Second World War when the youngsters had to carry their gas masks. The full school uniform at Eton costs around £1000. This may be a little on the steep side for a garb which will inevitably have holes torn in the knee by break-time and be far too small by Christmas. Nevertheless, the principle remains the same.
Despite many pupils’ misgivings and teenagers criticizing the creativity-stifling attire, a school uniform is there ultimately to promote a sense of unity, identity and cohesion. David Cameron has pledged that bringing the blazer back will improve classroom discipline and behaviour. The school uniform aims to inspire a sense of belonging, of community and of collective spirit and foster a school image. Without getting too poet, the kids simply look smart.
As a Sixth Former suddenly given free reign over my wardrobe, I used to wake up each morning in a cold sweat, panicking about wearing the same outfit twice. I would run down stairs to find that my top didn’t go with my bag, or that my trousers were too short for my shoes, or that my jacket just looked all wrong. Total nightmare. I tried and tried to get a uniform introduced. Not only for the hassle-free knowledge of knowing exactly what to wear each day. Not only because it would work out far cheaper in the long run. But also more importantly to stop girls turning up in their bikinis and Ugg boots.
But what has to be the most hailed and perhaps least praised advantage of the school uniform is that is wipes out any sort of economic divide between one pupil and the next. When everyone is dressed the same there is no knowing if it is Jacob or Jamelia’s mother who is a botox-injected, silicone-implanted, diamond-encrusted yummy-mummy in a 4x4. There is no way of knowing if it is Raj or Rebecca’s father who works solid twelve hour days to feed his family of 5.
Every child is immediately reduced to the same level, regardless of their background. Kids cannot tease another about their trainers which are, like, sooooooooo uncool. Teenagers cannot thoughtlessly destroy another’s confidence by slagging off their last-season’s strip if they are all in a school uniform which blithely ignores London Fashion Week.
School is for learning. Not for parading Prada’s latest Autumn/Winter Collection. Stripped of their individual outer shell when within the school gates, perhaps our mini-me’s would grow up unscarred by the utterly image-conscious outlook obsessing the rest of society. Instead, the nation’s youngsters would be forced to focus on their textiles, trigonometry and T.S Elliot and save their trackie bums, taunting and trend-setting for home-time.
When I stood in the playground lost and bewildered amid a screeching mass of havoc-wreaking school kids, I remember being approached by a terrifying-looking ten year old. In the blink of a teary eye, she brutally and brashly “christened” my brand new beret by twisting and yanking off the little bobble on the top. I cried. My mother sighed. And then last week, the nation was confronted with images of little Welsh school-goers burning their blazers in defiance against stricter uniform regulations, as reported by The Daily Mail. My, these schooling rituals are getting out of hand, I tut.
Despite a nation-wide move to smarten up our school kids, the Government has now decided to set a cap on the price of their uniforms. This is in order to enable families. What ever their financial status to be able to send their kids to their chosen establishment. It should prevent discrimination and exclusion. Great. But, as our continental cohorts curiously ask, what actually is the point of a school uniform?
Strolling around Eton College this summer I was totally taken aback and then tickled pink at the sight of what can only be described as hundreds of “mini men” running to morning prayer, their tail coats billowing out behind them. “They just need a miniature top hat!” I squeaked in delight. I was promptly told that these were only abolished during the Second World War when the youngsters had to carry their gas masks. The full school uniform at Eton costs around £1000. This may be a little on the steep side for a garb which will inevitably have holes torn in the knee by break-time and be far too small by Christmas. Nevertheless, the principle remains the same.
Despite many pupils’ misgivings and teenagers criticizing the creativity-stifling attire, a school uniform is there ultimately to promote a sense of unity, identity and cohesion. David Cameron has pledged that bringing the blazer back will improve classroom discipline and behaviour. The school uniform aims to inspire a sense of belonging, of community and of collective spirit and foster a school image. Without getting too poet, the kids simply look smart.
As a Sixth Former suddenly given free reign over my wardrobe, I used to wake up each morning in a cold sweat, panicking about wearing the same outfit twice. I would run down stairs to find that my top didn’t go with my bag, or that my trousers were too short for my shoes, or that my jacket just looked all wrong. Total nightmare. I tried and tried to get a uniform introduced. Not only for the hassle-free knowledge of knowing exactly what to wear each day. Not only because it would work out far cheaper in the long run. But also more importantly to stop girls turning up in their bikinis and Ugg boots.
But what has to be the most hailed and perhaps least praised advantage of the school uniform is that is wipes out any sort of economic divide between one pupil and the next. When everyone is dressed the same there is no knowing if it is Jacob or Jamelia’s mother who is a botox-injected, silicone-implanted, diamond-encrusted yummy-mummy in a 4x4. There is no way of knowing if it is Raj or Rebecca’s father who works solid twelve hour days to feed his family of 5.
Every child is immediately reduced to the same level, regardless of their background. Kids cannot tease another about their trainers which are, like, sooooooooo uncool. Teenagers cannot thoughtlessly destroy another’s confidence by slagging off their last-season’s strip if they are all in a school uniform which blithely ignores London Fashion Week.
School is for learning. Not for parading Prada’s latest Autumn/Winter Collection. Stripped of their individual outer shell when within the school gates, perhaps our mini-me’s would grow up unscarred by the utterly image-conscious outlook obsessing the rest of society. Instead, the nation’s youngsters would be forced to focus on their textiles, trigonometry and T.S Elliot and save their trackie bums, taunting and trend-setting for home-time.
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