Russell Jackson has penned his thoughts of ads from the sports betting industry for The Guardian.
Women laughing alone with salad. Gormless husbands attempting to cook dinner and instead burning down the family home. The advertising industry has inflicted upon us some strange and irritating tropes over the years but surely none is worse than the knuckle-dragging pillocks that dominate the sports betting landscape.
I’m assuming that if you’re reading this, like me, you probably watch a lot of sport on television. If so you’re also probably now well versed in the ways of this type of bloke – the slightly pudgy everyman to whom truly extraordinary and increasingly improbable events occur purely as a result of an inability to control his gambling impulses.
None are more effortlessly infuriating than the lads from Ladbrokes, the newly-arrived bookies from the Old Dart whose advertising brains trust – Brisbane-based‘The Really Quite Good Ideas Company’ (if the irony isn’t apparent yet, give me a minute) – decided that not only are a fool and his money easily parted, but that the average male sports fan would be hard-pressed attending a child’s christening without getting plastered, tackling the priest to the ground and then chundering into the holy water.
A disclaimer: women will be left out of this dissertation because if they’re not wearing a bikini, they’re left out of sports betting adverts. Despite the fact that women comprise half the supporter base of say, AFL football, the likes of Ladbrokes know the real score: most women aren’t stupid enough to parlay a narrow North Melbourne win into a Western Sydney Wanderers home draw into an Andrew Bogut technical foul.