Every now and then I get an email.
Well, actually I get lots of emails and they can keep their Viagra, their Russian brides and their Nigerian millions, but some mails are genuine and quite often they are looking for my expertise.
I get mails from publishers wanting me to write a book [well, OK – that only happened the once, but once was enough] and I get mails from people wanting to interview me.
For some reason that escapes me, they seem to think I am an ambassador for the Wrinkly Generation.
One of those mails plopped into my in-box this morning. It was from a scribe with whom I have done business before. Actually, I don’t ever get paid for this so maybe “business” is the wrong word? Doing freebies with someone doesn’t have quite the same ring about it though, and it does conjure up some rather disturbing images.
He posed a rather interesting question. He wanted my opinion on advertising that targets the over 50s market.
IF you know me at all, you will realise there is a problem here. I don’t have any truck with advertising so I haven’t a fucking clue whether I am being targeted or not.
There are only a few areas where I am aware that I am being stereotyped.
There are a few web sites here in Ireland which I won’t mention [no names – no pack drill] that make me squirm a bit. They are aimed squarely at us old folk to cast off that blanket over our knees and to try to get us away from our games of bowls and bridge. They invariably take the line that we should politely ask our grandchildren how to switch on a computer and to set us up with a blog so we can share our knitting patterns and tell tales of The Good Old Days. I don’t know why they always assume we know fuck all about computers and the Interweb? Who do they think invented the fucking things?
You may remember that I recently changed my mobile phone and one of the choices was a yoke that looked like a television remote control with very large buttons and fuck all else. This was advertised [though they didn’t quite put it into these words] that it was ideal for those of us with only two brain-cells left, with clumsy fingers and failing eye-sight and the ability to make a call with the absolute minimum of button pushing so that we couldn’t fuck up the act of making a simple phone call. Just to prove ‘em wrong I got one of those little glass ones with no keyboard and a couple of brilliant little programmes on it so that I can hack into other people’s wireless broadband and surf the Interweb wherever I am. Fuck them and their big buttons.
Saga Holidays are of course famous. They always appealed to me on one hand as they implied there would not be any kids on those holidays. Other people’s rug rats are not my idea of joy. On the other hand, they always seem to take place on cruise liners and that leaves me stone cold. The idea of being stuck in a steel box for a couple of weeks with a crowd I would probably not get on with gives me the shivers. It’s bad enough being stuck on the ferry to France for eighteen hours.
So help me out here.
Am I missing something?
Are they targeting us Old Folk to try to get our hard earned cash off us [Apart from that shower of bastards in the Gubmint that is]?
What’s your opinion?