Sanjeev Kohli: Bathtime chocolate is only for the flakiest thinkers

« Previous « PreviousNext » Next »View GalleryPublished Date: 14 December 2008
By Sanjeev Kohli
Christmas is upon us. We know this for two reasons. Firstly, DFS is no longer claiming we can get our cream corner unit by the 25th.
And secondly, every other advert on TV is for chocolate. It’s still unclear why, but the life of Christ seems to be bookended by enormous slabs of chocolate. We celebrate his death with chocolate eggs, we celebrate his birth with selection boxes. WhyADVERTISEMENTis the middle part of his life so bereft of chocolate? Why don’t the Lindt people get their fabled chocolatiers to fashion a New Testament made entirely of Swiss chocolate? It’s only taking advent calendars to their logical conclusion.

What strikes me, though, as we wade waist-deep through chocolate, is how skewed the advertising is towards women. Remember the Aero campaign of a few months ago? Him out of Sex And The City cutting about in the scud, telling us that “chocolate melts at body temperature”? This annoyed me for many reasons; why exclude men from the chocolate market? I for one am not averse to a finger of fudge (and no, that’s not a euphemism). Also, if chocolate does melt at body temperature, would it not be a good idea to put some clothes on before consuming it, you manky article? I don’t claim to be Anthea Turner on any level, but it doesn’t strike me as very hygienic. Put your plums away and your Aero on a side plate.

Think also of the more celebrated chocolate ad campaigns down the years. Flake. A career woman luxuriates in the bath, all sexy and sensual with the bubbles and the candles and, yes, a lizard on a phone, before settling down to her lovely, lovely Flake. Yeah. Good choice. The crumbliest, flakiest milk chocolate in the world. IN THE BATH. All this says about the career woman is that she is an idiot. Anyone with any sense does not take food into the bath. Least of all chocolate. And if she were going to take chocolate into the bath, she would choose one with more physical integrity, like a Double Decker or a Topic. Hell, even a Ripple, which more or less gives you the Flake experience – but you wouldn’t have to pick bits of Ripple out of the plug hole. (Please tell me you didn’t pick bits of Flake out of the plug hole? What else was down there caught in the hair? Kebab lettuce?)

You could see the marketing strategy though. They were trying to appeal to the ultimate female dream. To be pampered, to be stimulated, to indulge the senses. Now consider the only chocolate ever marketed to men. Yorkie. What was that campaign? A guy in a bunnet in a lorry wiring into a Yorkie. Because that is the ultimate dream of a man. To sleep in a lay-by and eat full English breakfasts three times a day. Apparently. Well, we’re more complex than that, oh arbiters of confectionery. And even if you want to stay within the constrictions of gender stereotyping and sell screeds of chocolate to the alpha males, it’s possible. Easy in fact. You ready for this? Okay. Here it is. Chocolate tools. No, no, no – not the miniature ones. Oh no. I’m talking 1:1 scale. I’m talking saws, claw hammers, spirit levels, actual size, composed entirely of chocolate. Tell me that’s not a winner. Obviously it’s too late for this seismic marketing shift to impact on the impending Yuletide, but next Christmas? Fully expect the man in your life to be wiring into the business end of a chocolate multi-spanner. Out of the bath. With his clothes on.

All we want for Christmas is a secret plan to save the country

Can I ask you all to do your little bit for the economy? Join me in contributing to what I’m calling the Secret Santa Spike. It’s simple but effective. At 1pm on Wednesday I want everyone reading this, whether they’re going to an office works do or not, to buy a Secret Santa item. Could be anything. A nodding Jesus, those nuns you fire out of a gun, a swearing Hasselhoff keyring – it doesn’t matter. At about 9pm on Wednesday they’ll be going straight into the bin anyway. But if we all spend (up to and including) £5 at exactly the same time, it’ll give the economy a major shot in the arm to tide us over into January. By which time we can worry about Scotland’s rivers being clogged up by Executive Ball Scratchers.

Sexy Santas are enough to make me see red

Enough with the red Christmas trees. Stop it. White Christmas trees? Fine. Tacky but acceptable. A fair summary of the entire festival in fact. Black Christmas trees? Also fine. Christmas is after all a family occasion, and if you have any nephews/nieces/cousins in the teenage range, then there’s a high chance you’ll have a goth/mosher/emo in your house. A black Christmas tree will speak to them. You could also put excessive eyeliner on the angel and sever its head a bit.

But red Christmas trees? No. They are simply too sexy . Even if you plan to spend Christmas in a brothel, I’m putting my foot down. Even if one of the presents looks like it might be a torch and is vibrating a bit, the answer is still no. Because I’m officially calling an end to the sexualisation of Christmas. It all started with that horrible “Santa baby” song where a tipsy sexual desperado tries to fox onto Father Christmas. For pity’s sake. There’s a reason Santa considers himself the surrogate father of all the children in the world ever. It’s because he has no kids of his own. Which is because he is the least sexy man ever to have drawn breath.

Am I wrong ladies? Is Santa a chick magnet? Does a beard that could trap an entire fried egg get you in a sexual lather? Is a body shape approximating a Maris Piper with four toothpicks poked into it currently rocking the world of womankind? I don’t think so. And the very thought that you could seduce and achieve satisfactory coitus with the big guy in the time slot he could afford you is more than faintly ludicrous anyway. I’m telling you now: if my weans don’t get their gifts because you were sexually pestering Santa Claus, trust me – you’ll soon know about it. So stop it. Say no to Sexy Christmas. No red Christmas trees. No dressing as ’sexy Santa’ in thigh-high red leather patent boots, you shower of goofballs – you know who you are. And if I spot one turkey trussed up in a boob tube…

It can’t be true…oh yes it is!

As my parting shot to you all, may I offer the following three truisms that everyone believes but no one has ever acted upon?