Why on earth did the Katona pay-day loan ad get banned?

"Fast cash for fast lives" comes under ASA's watchful gaze.

Ex Atomic Kitten star Kerry Katona recently made headlines once again for being a minor celebrity without much cash. This time, the Advertising Standards Agency (ASA) has banned payday loan company Cash Lady’s advert starring Katona, as it could be seen as "irresponsible".

Payday loan companies, such as Cash Lady or Wonga, offer high interest loans intended to be paid back on the day of your next pay check. Cash Lady offers loans of up to £300 a month with an annual percentage rate of 2,760. For example, if you borrow £200 from Cash Lady for 28 days you will pay back £258 on payday.

It’s no secret that payday loans are often seen as a slippery slope; borrowing £200 and paying back over 125 per cent of that can’t exactly be seen as responsible money management. However, it is also true that sometimes payday loans may be, to those who use them, the only way out of a sticky situation.

Why did the ASA ban the advert, I hear you cry. Everyone knows the sky high nature of payday loan interest rates and that Kerry Katona has herself had money problems (she was declared bankrupt in 2008 for failing to pay her tax bill). Cash Lady claimed they chose Katona because the public could relate to her, making her a face a beacon of hope.

However, the problem the ASA had with the advertisement featuring Katona wasn’t so much a problem with the “star” but with the branding of Cash Lady. The advert stated that the payday loan company provides "fast cash for fast lives", which may purport to the public that the payday loan option isn’t only for emergencies but also can be used to fund a "fast life," like that of Katona’s.

Advertising is often sexy, it’s often weird and quirky, and it needs to be eye catching but most of all it needs to appeal to the audience. "Fast cash for fast lives" certainly appeals to those who need money to quickly sort out their problems – however, with the face of a celebrity one can see how the ASA could see it as problematic to allow an advert that showed a short term solution to what is sometimes a more long term problem with celebrity endorsement.

I doubt it will be long until payday loan companies are asked to attach a warning to their adverts akin to those on alcohol adverts. After all, payday loans can become an addiction. 

Kerry Katona. Photograph: Getty Images

Katy Maydon is a journalist for Retail Banker International

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The dog at the end of the lead may be small, but in fact what I’m walking is a hound of love

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel.

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel. I seem to have become a temporary co-owner of an enthusiastic Chorkie. A Chorkie, in case you’re not quite up to speed with your canine crossbreeds, is a mixture of a chihuahua and a Yorkshire Terrier, and while my friend K— busies herself elsewhere I am looking after this hound.

This falls squarely into the category of Things I Never Thought I’d Do. I’m a cat person, taking my cue from their idleness, cruelty and beauty. Dogs, with their loyalty, their enthusiasm and their barking, are all a little too much for me, even after the first drink of the day. But the dog is here, and I am in loco parentis, and it is up to me to make sure that she is looked after and entertained, and that there is no repetition of the unfortunate accident that occurred outside my housemate’s room, and which needed several tissues and a little poo baggie to make good.

As it is, the dog thinks I am the bee’s knees. To give you an idea of how beeskneesian it finds me, it is licking my feet as I write. “All right,” I feel like saying to her, “you don’t have to go that far.”

But it’s quite nice to be worshipped like this, I have decided. She has also fallen in love with the Hovel, and literally writhes with delight at the stinky cushions on the sofa. Named after Trude Fleischmann, the lesbian erotic photographer of the Twenties, Thirties and Forties, she has decided, with admirable open-mindedness, that I am the Leader of the Pack. When I take the lead, K— gets a little vexed.

“She’s walking on a loose lead, with you,” K— says. “She never does that when I’m walking her.” I don’t even know what that means, until I have a think and work it out.

“She’s also walking to heel with you,” K— adds, and once again I have to join a couple of mental dots before the mists part. It would appear that when it comes to dogs, I have a natural competence and authority, qualities I had never, not even in my most deranged flights of self-love, considered myself to possess in any measurable quantity at all.

And golly, does having a dog change the relationship the British urban flâneur has with the rest of society. The British, especially those living south of Watford, and above all those in London, do not recognise other people’s existence unless they want to buy something off them or stop them standing on the left of the sodding escalator, you idiot. This all changes when you have a dog with you. You are now fair game for any dog-fancier to come up to you and ask the most personal questions about the dog’s history and genealogy. They don’t even have to have a dog of their own; but if you do, you are obliged by law to stop and exchange dog facts.

My knowledge of dog facts is scant, extending not much further beyond them having a leg at each corner and chasing squirrels, so I leave the talking to K—, who, being a friendly sort who could probably talk dog all day long if pressed, is quite happy to do that. I look meanwhile in a kind of blank wonder at whichever brand of dog we’ve just encountered, and marvel not only at the incredible diversity of dog that abounds in the world, but at a realisation that had hitherto escaped me: almost half of London seems to have one.

And here’s the really interesting thing. When I have the leash, the city looks at me another way. And, specifically, the young women of the city. Having reached the age when one ceases to be visible to any member of the opposite sex under 30, I find, all of a sudden, that I exist again. Women of improbable beauty look at Trude, who looks far more Yorkie than chihuahua, apart from when she does that thing with the ears, and then look at me, and smile unguardedly and unironically, signalling to me that they have decided I am a Good Thing and would, were their schedules not preventing them, like to chat and get to know me and the dog a bit better.

I wonder at first if I am imagining this. I mention it to K—.

“Oh yes,” she says, “it’s a thing. My friend P-J regularly borrows her when he wants to get laid. He reckons he’s had about 12 shags thanks to her in the last six months. The problems only arise when they come back again and notice the dog isn’t there.”

I do the maths. Twelve in six months! That’s one a fortnight. An idea begins to form in my mind. I suppose you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out what it is. But no. I couldn’t. Could I?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism