Welcome to the world of the working classes, as the late, lamented Hector Riva might say. A place where the skies are grey and it’s usually raining. A place where its desperate inhabitants hide behind net curtains (which are slowly going brown from all the roll-ups they smoke) in cheaply decorated, firetrap, pebble-dashed council houses. Where the echo of dogs barking rings across the grim estate at all hours. Where graft (if you’re lucky to find any, that is) is hard and relentless and dangerous and poorly paid. But you have to do it just to get cheap (and probably unhealthy) food into the mouths of your badly behaved kids, whose future looks bleaker than those clouds on the horizon.
It’s unrelentingly shit, isn’t it? But if you spend what little is left of your disposable income (after the baccy and the booze and the Sky TV that help you just about get by, of course) on a lottery ticket, you might – just might – escape this hell on Earth. That’s if a chip-pan fire, an industrial accident, depression or poverty doesn’t get there first.
That is what whole swathes of the advertising industry apparently think of you and your miserable, shitty, worthless lives.
Brand The National Lottery
Client Hayley Stringfellow, head of brand marketing
Agency Adam & Eve/DDB