"Engineered for men": the rise of "Yorkie" advertising

The ADgenda: this week's most offensive advert.

IWC’s new advertising campaign has been released in cinemas, currently thundering over the big screen in all its majestic manly glory. I first saw it played before the new Bond film, so naturally I was already on edge for flippant sexism. However, the bulk of the advert has no problems (other than a failure to mention time-telling at any point). For the most part we are just enjoying fighter pilots swooping around and ships crashing through waves while IWC journey through their various partnerships. On the big screen, this drama makes us feel like we are all part of these journeys. But at the very end, we realise that we are not. The punchline is the final phrase “engineered for men”.

After watching soul-lightening accomplishments and adventures through seas and skies, this tagline really stings. There is a noticeable emphasis from the narrator on the “for men”, as if I have been slapped on the wrist for showing interest in something that isn’t compatible for my gender. I am reminded of the Yorkie bar’s advertising campaign “it’s not for girls!”, but that slogan only feels like a “no girls allowed” sign hung on the blanket fort built by your little brother (and anyway, serves more as reverse psychology than divisive marketing). This, however, feels like Grown-Up Sexism. They sell men’s watches, so they must be defined to be as masculine as possible, not just in their bulky style but in the images conveying male brawn so bold you can smell the sweating: fighter planes, boats in storms, diving barefoot with sharks – it all builds up to this brazen slogan “engineered for men”.

IWC know their market. You’re male? Good, you’ll be shooting guns through the sky and wrestling wild animals, you’ll need to tell time on something engineered. You’re female? Honey, you don’t need engineering. Here, have something decorated or fashioned. Have fun shopping, and stay away from Yorkie bars.

IWC’s new advertising campaign. Photograph: youtube.com
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Is there such a thing as responsible betting?

Punters are encouraged to bet responsibly. What a laugh that is. It’s like encouraging drunks to get drunk responsibly, to crash our cars responsibly, murder each other responsibly.

I try not to watch the commercials between matches, or the studio discussions, or anything really, before or after, except for the match itself. And yet there is one person I never manage to escape properly – Ray Winstone. His cracked face, his mesmerising voice, his endlessly repeated spiel follow me across the room as I escape for the lav, the kitchen, the drinks cupboard.

I’m not sure which betting company he is shouting about, there are just so many of them, offering incredible odds and supposedly free bets. In the past six years, since the laws changed, TV betting adverts have increased by 600 per cent, all offering amazingly simple ways to lose money with just one tap on a smartphone.

The one I hate is the ad for BetVictor. The man who has been fronting it, appearing at windows or on roofs, who I assume is Victor, is just so slimy and horrible.

Betting firms are the ultimate football parasites, second in wealth only to kit manufacturers. They have perfected the capitalist’s art of using OPM (Other People’s Money). They’re not directly involved in football – say, in training or managing – yet they make millions off the back of its popularity. Many of the firms are based offshore in Gibraltar.

Football betting is not new. In the Fifties, my job every week at five o’clock was to sit beside my father’s bed, where he lay paralysed with MS, and write down the football results as they were read out on Sports Report. I had not to breathe, make silly remarks or guess the score. By the inflection in the announcer’s voice you could tell if it was an away win.

Earlier in the week I had filled in his Treble Chance on the Littlewoods pools. The “treble” part was because you had three chances: three points if the game you picked was a score draw, two for a goalless draw and one point for a home or away win. You chose eight games and had to reach 24 points, or as near as possible, then you were in the money.

“Not a damn sausage,” my father would say every week, once I’d marked and handed him back his predictions. He never did win a sausage.

Football pools began in the 1920s, the main ones being Littlewoods and Vernons, both based in Liverpool. They gave employment to thousands of bright young women who checked the results and sang in company choirs in their spare time. Each firm spent millions on advertising. In 1935, Littlewoods flew an aeroplane over London with a banner saying: Littlewoods Above All!

Postwar, they blossomed again, taking in £50m a year. The nation stopped at five on a Saturday to hear the scores, whether they were interested in football or not, hoping to get rich. BBC Sports Report began in 1948 with John Webster reading the results. James Alexander Gordon took over in 1974 – a voice soon familiar throughout the land.

These past few decades, football pools have been left behind, old-fashioned, low-tech, replaced by online betting using smartphones. The betting industry has totally rebooted itself. You can bet while the match is still on, trying to predict who will get the next goal, the next corner, the next throw-in. I made the last one up, but in theory you can bet instantly, on anything, at any time.

The soft sell is interesting. With the old football pools, we knew it was a remote flutter, hoping to make some money. Today the ads imply that betting on football somehow enhances the experience, adds to the enjoyment, involves you in the game itself, hence they show lads all together, drinking and laughing and putting on bets.

At the same time, punters are encouraged to do it responsibly. What a laugh that is. It’s like encouraging drunks to get drunk responsibly, to crash our cars responsibly, murder each other responsibly. Responsibly and respect are now two of the most meaningless words in the football language. People have been gambling, in some form, since the beginning, watching two raindrops drip down inside the cave, lying around in Roman bathhouses playing games. All they’ve done is to change the technology. You have to respect that.

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war