Lads' mags and cheap lager: the Fosters ad belongs in the 90s

The ADgenda: This week's most offensive ad.

You'd think by now that tired old sexist stereotypes would have died a well overdue death. After all, no one benefitted from them - the well worn route of wife/girlfriend as ball and chain was offensive to women and patronising to any self-respecting male with a modicum of intelligence. In the 90s (the era of lads' mags and cheap lager) the marketing ideal seemed to be geared towards some sort of loveless existence where the very sight of your other half had you reaching for the cyanide. Women were inadequate versions of men, and the only appropriate response was to mock or have sex with them. But apparently this neanderthal view still has life in it if the new Fosters ad is anything to go by.

There are some ads that make you wish you could erase the memory from your brain the moment you've finished watching. This one falls squarely into that category as a whiney girlfriend rings the Fosters lad helpline to complain that her boyfriend never listens to her, bang on cue the "lads" give her some vague platitudes and leave her to gripe on the other side of the telephone as they continue with the important task of chugging down can after can of the brown watery stuff - necessary because this lager is so weak it would take a gallon and multiple trips to the bathroom before you started to feel even mildly woozy. She is satisfied with this diluted advice, because she is a silly woman, and ends the  call sighing something along the lines of: "I wish my boyfriend was as good a listener as you boys". Bam, fooled her, stupid women!

In the world this ad has created no one is a winner. Woman is stupid and neglected, man is bored and boorish. And both will sit at the dinner table dissatisfied and frustrated - in ad world, the battle of the sexes is raging.

Good call! Photograph: Getty Images
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For the first time in my life I have a sworn enemy – and I don’t even know her name

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

Last month, I made an enemy. I do not say this lightly, and I certainly don’t say it with pride, as a more aggressive male might. Throughout my life I have avoided confrontation with a scrupulousness that an unkind observer would call out-and-out cowardice. A waiter could bring the wrong order, cold and crawling with maggots, and in response to “How is everything?” I’d still manage a grin and a “lovely, thanks”.

On the Underground, I’m so wary of being a bad citizen that I often give up my seat to people who aren’t pregnant, aren’t significantly older than me, and in some cases are far better equipped to stand than I am. If there’s one thing I am not, it’s any sort of provocateur. And yet now this: a feud.

And I don’t even know my enemy’s name.

She was on a bike when I accidentally entered her life. I was pushing a buggy and I wandered – rashly, in her view – into her path. There’s little doubt that I was to blame: walking on the road while in charge of a minor is not something encouraged by the Highway Code. In my defence, it was a quiet, suburban street; the cyclist was the only vehicle of any kind; and I was half a street’s length away from physically colliding with her. It was the misjudgment of a sleep-deprived parent rather than an act of malice.

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

I was stung by what someone on The Apprentice might refer to as her negative feedback, and walked on with a redoubled sense of the parental inadequacy that is my default state even at the best of times.

A sad little incident, but a one-off, you would think. Only a week later, though, I was walking in a different part of town, this time without the toddler and engrossed in my phone. Again, I accept my culpability in crossing the road without paying due attention; again, I have to point out that it was only a “close shave” in the sense that meteorites are sometimes reported to have “narrowly missed crashing into the Earth” by 50,000 miles. It might have merited, at worst, a reproving ting of the bell. Instead came a familiar voice. “IT’S YOU AGAIN!” she yelled, wrathfully.

This time the shock brought a retort out of me, probably the harshest thing I have ever shouted at a stranger: “WHY ARE YOU SO UNPLEASANT?”

None of this is X-rated stuff, but it adds up to what I can only call a vendetta – something I never expected to pick up on the way to Waitrose. So I am writing this, as much as anything, in the spirit of rapprochement. I really believe that our third meeting, whenever it comes, can be a much happier affair. People can change. Who knows: maybe I’ll even be walking on the pavement

Mark Watson is a stand-up comedian and novelist. His most recent book, Crap at the Environment, follows his own efforts to halve his carbon footprint over one year.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood