|Mr Kipling's Sex Life|
A new advert gives us a glimpse into Mr Kipling's bedroom prowess. Pixelsmith wishes it didn't.
MR KIPLING is bad in bed. This bombshell was dropped during a TV ad break last weekend and the sheer shock of it immediately smashed at least three distinct taboos in my head.
It is the fault of an advert for Mr Kipling's Oatibake cakes. You may have seen it. It marks the official debut of Mr Kipling's wife, Mrs Kipling, who reveals at the outset that she is not getting "enough oats". Hilarity ensues as Mr Kipling ignores the double entendre and, being a fictional construct who exists solely to promote cakes, responds by baking a cake. With oats in.
I was already feeling weird by this point. First up, I'm sure this is the first time I've ever seen Mr Kipling. You don't get to see his face, but we're shown little glances of his arms and feet as he holds the morning paper or stands at the baking table."Someone, somewhere, thought it would be appropriate to tell us all that the man whose apple pies, lemon slices and jam tarts we have probably been eating on and off since childhood is unable to satisfy his own wife"
It's an uncomfortable experience. I've never thought of Mr Kipling as a real man with a human head, more of an umbrella brand for a factory production line. I'm comfortable with my six-for-99p treats being made by robots; but the thought of some bloke who has devoted his life to bakery creating a special treat for his wife out of reconstituted egg white, potassium sorbate and hydrogenated vegetable fat is faintly depressing.
Yes, I did just Google the ingredients. What of it?Mrs Kipling herself is also a problem. I don't like her one bit, muscling in on her husband's turf and influencing his direction. She's the Yoko Ono of cakes.
If only the commercial stopped there. But there's more. We end our brief stay chez Kipling by peering in on the couple in bed. Mrs Kipling is sat up facing the camera, while her husband snores beside her. With a faint whiff of resigned disappointment, she says: "I wish he was as exceedingly good at everything else."
Really? We're going there? Someone, somewhere, thought it would be appropriate to tell us all that the man whose apple pies, lemon slices and jam tarts we have probably been eating on and off since childhood is unable to satisfy his own wife. What next? Uncle Ben in incontinence pants? Colonel Sanders beating his kids?
Perhaps the worst thing is that I had no idea that I was protective of Mr Kipling. He is, after all, a pretend man whose cakes I rarely eat and never buy. And yet evidently the brand managed to insert itself into my brain at some formative age, where it lurked for decades, triggering some deep-rooted neurological response that made me feel warmly affectionate whenever I saw a cherry bakewell.
They pulled me in. And now, thanks to Mrs Kipling's bedroom antics - or lack thereof - they have pushed me away.
It's not the first time this has happened. Birdseye made this mistake when they ditched Captain Birdseye, presumably realising that the concept of an elderly pirate on a ship entirely staffed by children is, on paper, quite dodgy. So they revamped their much loved mascot as a lantern-jawed action hero, and the world slapped its collective forehead and switched off its collective telly.
Mr Muscle's done it too. That was blessed with a memorable ad campaign in which a nerdy looking chap with arms like toothpicks consistently failed to operate a plunger, only to be rescued by a plastic bottle full of industrial chemicals. Now they've ditched the geek and introduced us to Mr Muscle himself, a digitally rendered superhero who battles stains around the home, apparently using the computer animation technology of 1997. It's particularly rubbish.
It could be worse. At least there isn't a Mrs Muscle yet, banging on about her husband's bedroom antics and stain removing abilities. Then again, I'm sure it's just a matter of time.
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