Seven Fragrance Adverts you Didn't See this Holiday Season

Seriously, fuck perfume ads. Few things fill me quite as much misanthropy. No matter which advert it is, I invariably end up drowning in my own vitriol (a rare phenomenon, the only outward sign of which is a sarcastic remark). If I were Hitler, fragrance adverts would be my teachers in art school. And fragrance marketing executives would be my Jews, travellers, blacks, gays, non-Aryans, people who looked at me funny etc. I’d like to say I won’t do any more genocide jokes, but I’m not going to lie to you. It doesn’t get any better. Not even a little bit.

Anyway, after I’d awoken from a rage-induced coma to find that my pancreas had developed its own sub-pancreas in order to produce twice the bile, I decided that the best way to bring down the perfume advertising industry was to attack from within.

To this end, I created seven new pilot ads for fragrances yet to be created. I hope you enjoy them. At least they can’t be more disturbing or grossly misogynistic than a Lynx/Axe commercial.


1) Gucci Jihad. Interior, night. A boudoir-style apartment, curtains, drapes etc. A woman strikes a ‘come-hither’ pose on a silk-sheeted bed. A man approaches. Close up of their faces about to kiss.
Crash zoom out. The man explodes, killing the woman and taking out a large chunk of the building.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Jihad. The devastating new fragrance from Gucci.’

2) Republican by Diesel. Interior, night. A well-dressed man acting out of place at a party full of well-dressed people. He moves through a lot of glamorous people, to an antique telephone. He dials a number, and announces in an Irish accent; ‘There will be an explosion on Park Lane at midnight.’
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Republican by Diesel. For independent spirits.’

Bigot, by Nick Griffin. Interior, whatever time. Montage of white dudes applying fragrance. Finally, an Asian dude applies same fragrance and melts, screaming.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘For Aryans only. Bigot, the debut fragrance from Nick Griffin.
Proud sponsors of the BNP.'

Entitlement Complex by Paris Hilton. Everywhere, last Thursday. Close up of a mouth gobbling luxuriant foods and chugging champagne. Strobe-montage of sexualised imagery. Zoom out to Paris Hilton stuffing the planet Earth into her vagina.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Entitlement Complex. The last-ditch attempt at saving Paris Hilton’s career in fragrance form.’

Melanoma by Calvin Klein. Interior, time is a human concept and has nothing to do with the cold, impersonal drones in the fashion business. A lone woman stands in a spotlight in a dimly lit room. She’s nude, but her modesty is preserved by bits of silk blown around by off-screen fans.
Camera pans around her body.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Beauty. The final truth. Overcoming time. Breaking the barriers between sight, sound and scent. With it comes conviction. Hope. The promise of a better future.’
Camera stops on an asymmetrical mole.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Even in the face of the worst thing that can happen. Melanoma, by Calvin Klein.’

Futility by Davidoff. Interior, night. An average-looking young man applies fragrance and leaves a bathroom, entering a fashionable bar. He enters an animated conversation with an attractive young woman. After a short time, a handsome young man joins the conversation, then leaves the bar with the young woman in short order, leaving our hero on his own.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Futility by Davidoff. Because no matter how nice you smell, she’d rather get ploughed by the cute guy.’


Chloroform by Gary Glitter. Your house, October 1991. A well-dressed man walks through a high class party. People faint in his wake. He climbs some stairs, as people collapse (some plummeting over the side). The man continues, as if drawn by something. He reaches the door to a child’s bedroom. A nanny rushes at him, but collapses when she gets within a yard of him. The man continues towards the child’s bed.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Chloroform. The incapacitating new fragrance from Gary Glitter.’


So, I hope you enjoyed my take on fragrance marketing. It may be offensive, but I'll come smelling of roses anyway. Or at least of Futility by Davidoff.

Laters,
Nick