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2003-11-17 - 2:45 p.m.

Among the strangest adverts doing the rounds at the moment, outside the belief-defying glut of Amelie rip-offs (advertising in a nutshell: 1. Take successful film. 2. Copy. 3. Wait 18 months, then broadcast. 4. Collect awards and up monthly expenditure with coke dealer.) is the ad for combating impotency for men in the downstairs arena.

It stars, and I hope those who have seen it are as frankly astonished as I am, Pele. For those who don�t know, he is a 60-odd year old Brazilian largely held to be the greatest footballing genius of all time. So far, so wood. Now, Pele doesn�t SUFFER from impotency, of course. Oh no. And you�d be a fool and a communist to think otherwise. He�s the world�s greatest living football genius, well known for his offensive penetration, and therefore it�s unthinkable that he would suffer from such an embarrassing problem. But he�s been bought on board to tell the poor unfortunates that IF he DID suffer from loser�s droop, then he would use whatever pill they�re trying to push.

And tell them he does.

The camera cuts to him, resplendent in a gleaming stadium, fresh (probably) from stuffing the Pfizer millions he�s being paid down his crotch to emphasise the message. He launches into his pitying monologue, all the while his eyes betraying the message, �Don�t you think for a second that I�m talking about myself here, since I am the greatest footballer in history and therefore emit more testosterone blowing my nose than you could if you were surrounded by a hundred bikini-clad nymphettes, you whining, limp-trousered excuse for a male.� Like I said, his one concession is to say that IF he did suffer from penile droopage (Eyes: �And that �if� is bigger than any skyscraper you could envisage, you flaccid loon. And that skyscraper is only just bigger than the stiffies that I can consistently achieve without the help of chemicals, you deflated wreck of latent femininity.�) then this is the treatment he would use.

He then goes on to talk about how you can �reanimate your sex life�, which is about as erotically persuasive as your dad giving you tips on cunnilingus. I can�t imagine that if I was having a hard time hoisting the mainsail, a grizzled old curmudgeon patronising me on behalf of a petrochemical giant would really do it for me, and every time I took that pill, all I would be able to think about would be Pele�s dollar-bill stuffed crotch, like some geriatric lapdancer at a pharmaceutical peepshow. And not in a good way.

That�s what I�D think if I needed a pill. I don�t, of course. Not ME.

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