Well! Talk about riding the crest of the national wave! The first one featured about twelve vehicles crashing destructively into each other, ranging from quad bikes through family cars, via HGV artics and family coaches up to, as far as I can remember, space shuttles – at the end of which it turns out that nobody gets hurt, we all crawl out smiling from the wreckage and everyone gets to buy a cheap tacky little family saloon or something.
The next one was about a singing car insurance salesman who has belatedly realised that his best career move is to organise his own suicide, by rocket launcher, in order to protect the human race from any more adverts for the product he’s trying to sell. Which isn’t even car insurance, it turns out.
I can’t really remember the third one. I think it may have been to do with how to protect myself from vaginal thrush, or maybe where to buy a snotgreen sofa for half price, I forget. All I remember is plastic smiles from Stepford wives.
The weather forecast was pretty equivocal, once I got to it. It’s understandable. After all, we don’t want the economy collapsing around our ears because nobody believes predictions, or adverts, any more, do we?