‘Here come the girls...’ is the chant from the new Boots Christmas ad; it’s theme is to show how much better women are at organisation than men. And it looks like we’re back in the office again as we are shown a group of women in the advanced stages of ‘Secret Santa’; they’ve each pulled a colleague’s name out of a hat, and now they’re all stampeding, like a brightly coloured herd of cattle, to Boots to buy cheap and cheerful goodies for Christmas. One of the blokes in this ad is shown to be so incompetent and incapable that he is seen trying to wrap up his stapler as a gift. Part of me dislikes this ad because I think it encourages men to wallow in the myth that they are useless at choosing suitable gifts and therefore discourages them from putting any effort into doing any Christmas shopping. Basically women get lumbered with present finding. It’s not on. Being a man is not an excuse to be useless.
Anyhow, I like that this ad is set in an office, and I like the tune, but I think that Boots are missing out all the good bits that only happen at Christmas, so I suggest a ‘Here come the girls’ sequel. In the sequel, Boots join forces with the people who make the alcohol awareness information films, and together they show the true horrors that are unwrapped at the annual Christmas do.
Firstly there is always a weeping wailing woman who sobs into her soup for 3hrs, making horrible stains across the table cloth. In a drunken stupor she confesses, loudly, that she has been sleeping with the Group Operations Director for the last 3 months, but now he’s dumped her for the bright and shiny, brand new 18yr old receptionist . . .
Then there’s the couple who’ve been winding each other up into a sexual frenzy throughout the year with frustrated fumblings and seductive teasing. At the Christmas party they cross the line of no return resulting in ripped shirts, laddered tights and lost knickers. The next day he brags and she denies. It takes another 6 months of meaningful glances and breathy tension before they do the exact same thing at the company cheese and wine soiree. Eventually they get married. And buy a bungalow.
Finally there’s the drunken blonde floosey, whose party piece is to snog everyone under the mistletoe and declare undying love, forever and ever, to anyone who’ll listen. She then takes it upon herself to entertain her colleagues by scrambling, unassisted, onto the table to belt out a rousing chorus of ‘I Will Survive’, just before flashing her tits at her boss and throwing up into his lap . . .