We all have our favourite TV commercials, and we all have those that we hate. The kind of TV commercials that have you diving for the remote or running out of the room screaming. These companies should not be allowed to get away with it, so in the interests of humanity I’m listing a few of my pet hate TV adverts here. Add your own to the list using the comments feature below.

So without further ado, here are the contenders:

Go Compare
I HATE these adverts. The tune is so annoying it has me rushing for the knife drawer in the kitchen so that I can hack my ears off and cease the appalling pain. No doubt the geniuses in the marketing department at Go Compare believe that a tune that stays in your head all day is the same as a “catchy tune”. No, it’s not. They have no right to invade my headspace with their mindless drivel and I will now go out of my way to never use their insurance comparison service.

We Buy Any Car
Another advert with a ridiculously annoying tune. Frankly though, I find the advert just as insulting as all those “send us your mobile and we’ll send you a cheque” adverts. I am not fooled. I do not believe for one second that I would ever get anything approaching a reasonable price for my car by selling it to this lot. Frankly their advert hardly inspires confidence in their professionalism.

Any of the plethora of commercials featuring the song “Here Come the Girls”
Possibly the most overused piece of feminist drivel in commercial TV history. It annoys the hell out of me and it annoys the hell out of my wife. The current offender is Boots, who have jumped upon the bandwagon of spewing out “female solidarity” instead of actually bothering to properly market their products. Are women really that stupid? I don’t think so. Change the tune.

Marks & Spencer Food
This is not just bread, it’s traditional farmhouse bread made from the finest flour milled by Polynesian nurse maids and filtered through the digestive tracts of endangered sloths… No. It’s bread with a ludicrous price tag.

Not making enough profit from your food? Film it in slow motion, get out your thesaurus and make sure the voiceover artist is in some sort of orgasmic climax. I’d rather chew off my own testicles than shop for pretentious, overpriced food at Marks and Spencer. The one occasion I bought Marks and Spencer food (because it was late and I was at a motorway services and it was the only place open), it was a sandwich and I couldn’t finish it. It was so dry and tasteless. If they can’t even get a sandwich right, there’s probably little chance of them doing anything else. Hence the adverts I suppose.

So, there’s four of my TV commercial pet hates. What are yours?

I have been sacked twice in my life. Both times, I didn’t deserve it but I did nothing about it on either occasion and have let it fester in my mind ever since. Today was one of those days when I remembered how I had been mistreated and this time I decided I would do something about it – blog it. Whether this post has any use for anybody I don’t know, but feel free to comment your own experiences below. We can all have a grumble together. How very British!

The first time I got sacked was when I was 14 and the job in question was a paper round. Hardly something I could take to an employment tribunal I know, but it still stung nonetheless.

I quite enjoyed my round, the money was OK and the Christmas tips were excellent because most of my round was council estates. I had previously done a round of much more expensive dwellings in the countryside and received almost no tips. Certainly it’s true that the working class share what little they have whereas the upper class hold on tight to what they’ve got. I digress. The problem came when I broke my leg. It was quite a bad break and I spent a few days in hospital and had a minor operation as a result. This was followed by about 10 weeks in plaster. Obviously, this injury precluded me from being able to do my round, so I phoned the paper shop I worked for to tell them. I was wished a speedy recovery and thought nothing more of it.

When my leg healed and I was ready to resume my morning round, I phoned the shop again to let them know I could restart and was told to come in the following Monday. Now that I look back, there was probably some surprise in the voice of the lady in the shop, but being young and innocent at the time it didn’t really register. The shop was owned by a chap and his daughter and prior to this experience they had always been pleasant enough. When I went back to start the paper round again she was definitely off with me and I put it down to me leaving them in the lurch by being off for so long.

After about a week back on the job, I was introduced to another boy one morning who I was to take on my round and show him the ropes. I was told that he would be a cover boy for the days when any of the regular boys and girls were ill, so he was learning all the rounds. He was with me for a few mornings, during which time I ascertained that he was related to the owners of the shop. Then, one day after completing the round as usual the lady (I use the term loosely) in the shop phoned me to “let me go”. I asked why, and she responded that there had been lots of complaints of papers not being received. I knew this to be a complete falicy. I was conscientious in my work and did my round efficiently, quickly and accurately. But what do you do? I was 14. I didn’t have a clue what to say and I was already panicking about what to tell my parents. Sure enough, they weren’t happy at all, and Dad was so unhappy with the feable explanation given that he phoned the owner of the shop, who proceeded to tell him that I looked “half asleep” when I came in the shop in the morning and that because of this he had concluded that I was “on drugs”. My Dad then proceeded to grill me on where my “stash” was. I had to start work at 6am, of course I was tired! But drugs? What a horrible thing to say!

Of course it’s completely obvious what happened. The boy I had to show round was none other than the boy that my round had been given to, because they never expected me to return to work. When I did, they simply engineered a way out of it, slandering me in the process and ruining my relationship with my father. I think the word we are looking for here is “arseholes”.

After I left school, and more by accident than choice, I ended up working for a double glazing company as a canvasser. I worked there with two of my friends, Andy and Chris, and we spent many happy days walking the streets of Somerset having a laugh and getting paid for it. The money wasn’t great. £50 per week plus 2% commission on any sales that resulted from our leads. This equated to about £12k per annum, which back in 1995 was a reasonable wage for a 16 year old. We all wanted to be proper salesmen though and actually sell the product rather than get the leads. Salesmen were self-employed and paid commission only at 10% of the sale. We could see how much the other guys were earning and we wanted a slice of the action. So, when we turned 17 we all started driving lessons. Chris took his test and failed. I passed. I was given the opportunity to step up and I took it.

I sold the first 4 leads I went on, which included one order for about £12,000. I think that I was being indulged up until this point, but when I started consistently selling better than 1 in 3, the company took notice. I was the blue eyed boy. It wasn’t to last though. Good salesmen get given increasingly crap leads in the hope that they will be able to turn them around. I wasn’t happy working so hard for very low returns, when others were being given real opportunities that they failed to close. I was also fed up with the canvassing side of things. Whereas previously the three of us canvassers were ferried about by the owner’s son (also a salesman) and one of his friends who had come to work for the company, as soon as I could drive, I became the canvassers’ taxi service. And whereas the other salesmen’s reward had been the leads we canvassers obtained for them, I was expected to canvass and get my own leads, whilst Chris and Andy’s were given to the other salesmen. Remember that I was self employed, therefore I had to buy all my own petrol. Further, I then found that the factory manager (a brother of the owner) was visiting my leads to survey them for window fabrication, and was selling extra stuff (i.e. fascia boards) without giving me any of the commission.

Clearly this could not continue, so I went for an interview with a rival Bridgwater based double glazing firm that our sales manager had moved to previously. I was foolish enough to discuss this one day with Andy, along with airing my general grievances, and he went straight to tell the owner’s son.

The following day I was called into the boardroom along with Chris, Andy and the other salesman. The owner’s son then proceeded to repeat some of the things I had said in confidence to Andy to embarras me. He questioned me about my going to see the other company, then made some comment about confidentiality (I had certainly not breached any confidentiality, and it is everyone’s right to attend a job interview) and sacked me in front of everyone. Of course, the reality is that my contract of employment to which he referred had been made when I was actually an employee and not a self-employed contractor.

He told me to empty my “company car”. This wasn’t a company car, because I paid for 100% of it at £50 per week. This for a Nissan Micra that had 70,000 miles on the clock. I was being ripped off but I was too naive to know it.

He refused to let me use the office phone to arrange a lift. My mobile wasn’t working properly, and he didn’t believe me obviously. I walked 3 miles down the road to find a telephone box. When I got back, my stuff had been thrown out of the car and was blowing around the compound – this included my suit jacket which was ruined as a result. Later, I discovered that my mobile phone had been vandalised.

The number of laws that were broken in this whole episode beggars belief. My rights were trampled all over. I just saw it as a huge relief. The family are Italian and frankly it felt a lot like some sort of mafia outfit. I was glad to leave and get on with my life without being kneecapped.

I finally pursued my career as a programmer, something I had always wanted to do, and never looked back. I don’t regret doing a sales job, because that has been hugely beneficial to my business efforts over the years, but I do regret ever getting involved with that particular company.

Being dismissed from a company sucks, but when it’s totally unfair or even illegal it sucks even more. Don’t just take it like I did whatever you do.

I don’t usually watch Question Time because I don’t see the attraction of watching grown men and women squabbling like kids. Last night was an exception. The BBC had decided to allow Nick Griffin of the British National Party (BNP) on the show, and I was curious to see what sort of reception he might get. No doubt many other people tuned in for the exact same reason.

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I was listening to the Five Live phone in yesterday afternoon and the topic of discussion was the 75 complaints received by the BBC in relation to comments made about Olympic gold medalist Rebecca Adlington on the Mock the Week programme. The comments were made by comedian Frankie Boyle, who basically re-hashed an old joke to make fun of the way she looks. I don’t watch Mock the Week, mainly because I can’t stand Frankie Boyle, so I didn’t see the show in question, but of those that did, 75 chose to complain to the BBC. Would those same people have made a complaint if the joke was directed at Prince Charles or Cherie Blair? I suspect not, because I constantly hear disgraceful and disrespecful jibes, directed at the royal family and others, aired on national TV. This should come as no surprise in today’s hypocrisy ridden society though. Rebecca Adlington is currently loved by the nation for her swimming prowess, so it’s understandable that complaints should surface.

Frankly, I agree with the people that complained. It’s one thing to ridicule some sort of celebrity figure for a job they’ve done or some sort of media bungle, but it’s quite another to be just plain rude about another person’s appearance. We wouldn’t accept it in our workplaces. We wouldn’t accept it on the street. We certainly wouldn’t tolerate it from our children at school. So, why does it become acceptable to abuse somebody if it’s done on TV and in the name of comedy?

A number of people called the Five Live phone in and made the point that the programme is called “Mock the Week” and as Rebecca Adlington was in the news that week, she was fair game for Frankie Boyle. I’m sorry, but I just don’t understand that. “Mock the Week” is not the same as “Mock the Way Somebody Looks”. Her achievements and press coverage would certainly have been “fair game” for the show, but why do we need to cross the line into personal abuse in the name of a cheap laugh?

Other callers expressed the view that people can choose to not watch the programme and therefore have no right to get upset. Well, I don’t watch the programme, but I have every right to get upset, because I am forced to pay towards the production of the programme in my TV license fee. As a small portion of my money is invested in every show the BBC produces, I and every other license fee payer has the right to object.

Just as in the Ross/Brand incident, the comments were allowed through by the editing team, and one could argue that it is them that have really failed us. People say stupid and offensive things all the time (especially true of Mr Boyle), and the editing team should be working to ensure that lines are not crossed.

I enjoy a good joke, but this just isn’t funny. Just because an individual is famous does not preclude them from feeling hurt when they are personally abused. Of course, the daft thing in all of this is that the media coverage has expanded the unpleasantness way beyond the comparatively small demographic that actually watch the show, and Rebecca herself would never have known about it had the media not jumped on an opportunity to revel in the degradation of decent society.

Welcome to modern Britain.