Churchill the dog

Fame's gone to his nodding head

	He was everything we wanted from an incessant, repetitious car insurance ad.

Sitting on the back of that parcel shelf, he gazed out the back window, answering loads of boring questions about insurance in the same reassuring tones and being everything a dog should be - amusing, trustworthy and distinguished. 

He was everything we wanted from an incessant, repetitious car insurance ad.

He could save us money on our car insurance by us just calling 0800 200 300, couldn't you Churchill.
[Nods] 'Oh, yes!
He'd let us pay monthly, wouldn't you Churchill...
[Nods] 'Oh, yes!
We could get an instant quote, instant cover!
[Nods] 'Oh, yes!'
But we wouldn't have loads of 'orrible forms to fill in, would we?
[Camera zooms in, the fella rolls his eyes backward and shakes his ace little doggy head] 'Oh, no, no, no, no, no!'
But we'd still save loads of beer money though, right?
[Nods] 'Oh, yes!
He should be a hostage negotiator, Margaret - he's brilliant! Best give the dog a phone! Margaret, bung me the cordless, pronto! Christ, i hope it's him that answers!

Yes, on the basis of just some agreeable head movements, Churchill had won over a nation.

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Fast forward a few years and, most regrettably one must add, it appears our once-loved insurance dog is becoming a national laughing stock. 

A survey conducted (of one person) whilst researching this piece suggested the great British public actually now prefers Lenny Henry in those fuck-faced Premier Inn ads to Churchill in his increasingly nauseous insurance ads. A devastating blow for any ad star, we think you'll agree.

But how has the fella found himself at such a pitifully low ebb. Let's analyse the situation for a second:

1) He's moved off the parcel shelf and into outdoor Parisien restaurants and low-lit clubs;
2) His scripts are becoming more elaborate, yet stick-thin and self-indulgent;
3) He can't seem to function unless he's surrounded by either vacuous females with shitty smiles or money-grabbing celebrities with holes in their pockets.

It soon becomes obvious then. Yes, over the years it would appear that the pooch who we once held so dear has been through more dandruff than John McCririck's hairdresser.

Rather than being reassuringly dog-like in a jovially anthropormorphic manner, now he's having fucking curries and sharing shit jokes with Roy Walker, speaking foreign lingo whilst trying to shag Melanie Sykes in Paris, and even turning up on stage singing Karaoke in front of a bunch of no-marks for cheap laughs in Lanzarote.

In short: he's all washed up and he doesn't even know it.

Fame has convinced him he's better than the common man he is selling too. Script approval, binge parties and fame's shitbag hangers-on have conspired to destroy him. And this commentator at least, fears there is no coming back.

Someone please save what little pride he has left and take him off our screens immediately.

And someone at F.R.A.N.K give the dog a phone, before it's too late.