I don't know about you, but I think I've had just about enough of Old Mister Brennan. You know who I mean. The old codger who turns up on the radio 26 times a day telling humorous yarns about bread, with punchlines like ". . . the Slice Girls," followed by bouts of wheezy guffawing in which you can almost smell the stale porter on his breath.
No offence to his bread, but I think Old Mr B is several slices short of a full loaf. And you know what's worse? It isn't even Mr Brennan who does the ads. It's a pal of his, an unnamed sidekick (probably called "Joxer") who find's Mr B's conversation so witty he insists on sharing it with us and then guffawing about it all over the radio.
Mr Brennan never actually makes an appearance in the ads, but he still annoys the hell out of me. He clearly has a svengali-like hold over his friend, who is more to be pitied that condemned, I believe.
By his own admission, Joxer is not the brightest. He keeps falling for the most obvious of conversational gambits ("What's that?" says I, walkin' straight into it . . ."). And he's never up early enough to get the better of Mr B, although he's regularly up early enough to spoil my breakfast.
Maybe I'm getting a bit crabby, but some ads are just so deep-down-under-the-skin irritating that I find myself wanting to throw missiles at the radio when they come on. This is even more true when I'm driving, and it is my honest belief that annoying radio ads are now a major cause of danger on our roads.
You know the situation. You're driving along in heavy traffic, concentrating on lane position and the movement of other motorists around you; watching out for pedestrians and hidden dangers and taking careful note of that new billboard poster for the Wonderbra when . . . bang!
Yes, it's that liver-fluke ad on the radio, the one with the madman shouting: "A haon, a do, a tri, and you're fluke free". You realise instantly you are in the middle of an annoying ad emergency situation, and your reflexes take over. You know you simply have to turn the radio off before he says "A h-aon, a do, a tri and you're fluke-free" again, even if it means taking both hands off the steering wheel on a sharp bend.
I don't know about you, but the liver-fluke man causes me to hit the radio dial so hard I know it's only a matter of time before I inadvertently activate the airbag in the process.
I just hope when it happens, the bag will muffle the sound of the rest of the ad, considering I won't be able to reach the dial any longer.
Another pet hate of mine right now is the mobile phone man who chirps in mock-Italian: "I luva my phone". This is a doubly offensive ad because of its stereotypical representation of Italians who, as everybody knows, only get that excited about football and pizza.
And then there's that Centra woman ("Hi, it's yer mother!") who keeps leaving< Wsmessages son's answering machine (He never picks up - I wonder why!) incorporating a demented, cackling laugh somewhere along the way. We don't know as much about this woman as we do about old Mister Brennan, for instance, but I like to think her obsession with the local supermarket began after her husband ran away to join a Trappist monastery.
Annoying ads are not confined to radio, of course, but the development of the zapper has eased the suffering inflicted by television advertising for shampoo and washing powder and chewing gum that instantly confers charisma and shiny teeth on young people.
Still, the endless TV beer ads have a way of creeping into your subconscious, especially the stupid ones. Like that one that pokes fun at arts festivals. You know how it goes: two regular lads at the bar ask a mime artist what he does and, sounding as limp as fried lettuce, the latter replies: "I'm a mime artist - do you know what mime is?" This is the cue for one of the lads to nudge the other and reply: "Yeah. Mime is the silent expression of the inner voice, the attempt to sublimate human joy and sorrow in pure physical gesture."
No, of course he doesn't say this. He says "Mime's a pint," with a snigger. And then (this is the bit you don't see in the ad) the two of them take out their banjos and perform the duelling banjo scene from Deliverance, before indecently assaulting the mime artist to cries of "squeal like a piggie".
Now don't get me wrong. I realise we've all got to make a living, and I'm not knocking advertising as such - especially the work of those fine commercial artists and copywriters who choose the medium of newspapers for their work. Long may they prosper.
Furthermore, I realise I may have been a little hard back there on Old Mister Brennan. I suspect Mr B, as created by the advertising experts, is a bachelor who has devoted his life to the pursuit of excellence in bread-making and bravely hides the inevitable moments of loneliness behind a twinkly-eyed facade, cracking jokes to brighten the life of his faithful pal, Joxer.
Which is why I think Old Mister Brennan should get hitched up with the Centra woman. They both like a laugh and I bet she knows a thing or two about bread too. And if they'd like to take a long holiday together, somewhere very far away, I'd be happy to contribute to the cost.