If you think you live somewhere a bit shit because the drunk man outside your window didn’t stop shouting ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaah!’ until three in the morning, take heart. It could be far worse. You could have an infestation of idiots instead. Worse still, they could be idiots with free money.
‘This week in the Betfair front room…’
Oh God. What always surprises me about this statement is that after a week of these guys sitting around dishing out their rapid fire real-life sports banter [sic], the final cut is only about 20 seconds long. And rubbish.
The thing that really rankles about ‘Betfair Brother’ is its incessantly formulaic approach to their concept. Five clueless idiots sit in a room and debate their equally and increasingly idiotic views. The basic script seems to be:
Fan 1 pipes up with basic currently-pertinent football topic as if previous conversation has been based around hours of insightful analysis.
Fan 2 disagrees immediately.
‘Oh, let’s bet on it!’
Banterbanterbanterbanter (all join in) banterbanter (let’s all start talking over each other) banterbanterBANTERBANTERBANTER (as the whole thing descends into shouting and finger-pointing)
Banter means laughter! HAHAHAHAHA! WE ARE LAUGHING! But we are unaware of the cameras! We’re always like this! Don’t you wish you were as funny-yet-knowledgeable-but-argumentative about football as us?
I am not a huge fan of the Betfair Petting Zoo. I don’t want ‘banter’ forced on me by men who clearly don’t have any and who laugh like it’s a competition to find out which can most loudly impersonate a cackling feckless wanker. I also refuse to have my reference point for matey banter issued by a group whose limited imaginations can only come up with ‘Scouse’ as a nickname for a Liverpool fan. Who is from Northern Ireland.
I’d like to see a ‘Tonight in the Betfair front room’, when the football’s finished and they’re all sat there, £60 down and arguing over whose eggs are left in the fridge and who drank all the Vimto.
I really want a ‘This summer in the Betfair front room’ where they’re all contractually obliged NOT to film that WKD advert and are forced instead to bet on Wimbledon and the Hay Book Festival.
Or a chip pan fire.
I think I might be most annoyed because, like everyone else, I am perfectly capable of spraffing my money away all by myself, thanks very much. I do not need to be reminded each week that somewhere, grown men are getting paid to do exactly that in a series of adverts that make me want to eat my own head.