Wednesday 4 February 2009

Lust for insurance

No, no, no, no, no.

Like everyone else, I have long suspected that television commercials are simply the moron’s wet-nurse – a load of half-invented, half-remembered horse shit set to a jaunty musical backing in order to trick us into filling our lives with stuff we don’t need or want.


But now, thanks to some charlatans called Swiftcover, I know for a FACT that all adverts are completely and totally made up.

Put simply, Iggy Pop doesn’t have fucking insurance. Iggy Pop doesn’t even know what insurance is, for shitting crikey’s sake.

Iggy Pop does not sit in his drawing room of an evening filling in a form (online or otherwise) to indicate how much his personal possessions are worth. Iggy Pop does not engage in lengthy and detailed internal dialogue before deciding how much excess he should go for. Iggy Pop does not weigh up his options and then take a rational view as to whether to go for the accidental damage option. No, no, no.

Mr Pop throws his stuff out of windows. Or sets fire to it. Or gives it away whilst ripped-to-the-tits on woozy drug chemicals and water butts full of Jack Daniels. Or he simply forgets where he lives entirely and has to buy a new house.

And if Mr Pop has a car, then he drives it very fast whilst drunk and high (and un-insured) before spectacularly crashing into a river, escaping by smashing the passenger side window as his Mustang sinks into the icy waters.

In any case, let’s be honest, even if we were to believe that Mr Pop did indeed feel the need to take out comprehensive personal cover, what kind of thicket-doo-doo maths retard of an insurer would give it to him? Surely there’s no premium high enough.

No, Iggy Pop does not have insurance and therefore cannot possibly be fronting a television campaign which promotes the benefits of having adequate cover in case of lost keys, damage caused by faulty pipes or unemployment due to long-term illness.

I simply refuse to believe it. It never happened. What next? Alice Cooper as an advocate for Norwich Union, for fuck’s sake? Or Johnny Rotten flogging I-couldn't-give-a-shit-whe
ther-it's-butter-or-not? Impossible...

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