Dear The Tango,
How are you guys? I haven’t seen you or your drink for what feels like an eternity. My local supermarket is bereft of your fizzy good and I don’t think I’ve seen any of your adverts on the telly since they all got banned. Despite this I have found myself in a situation where I need to complain about your company.
As odd as it sounds I was always a bigger fan of your marketing campaigns than the drink itself. Most of my childhood memories have been, for reasons unknown to me, repressed. Mentally it’s pretty much tabula rasa from the age of 13.
Only a couple of recollections survive from before that period. One being all of your adverts (St George is still the greatest TV advert ever made), the other is a hazy flashback of a Bichon Frise savagely barreling at me; drool slathered teeth gnashing down in my vision as bloodlust sparkled in the beasts eyes like a lightning storm in a mirror factory.
Anyway; recently I became self-employed, working from my tiny study at home as I bash out horrific and cruel muzak for elevators and shopping centres. As you can imagine it’s not a job that requires a lot of effort and as such I have a lot of spare time to waste.
Most of this free time is spent in my local coffee shop; oversized headphones plugged into an Apple laptop as I sip on lattes and wipe milk out of my oversized beard and plaid shirt, all whilst pretending to write a screenplay.
That’s when I saw her. A beauty whose immaculate perfection could only be justified by masters of the English language like Shakespeare, Hemmingway or Clarkson, not some overly caffeinated hipster hanging out in a chain coffee shop. The best way I could describe her is, she was bang tidy.
I saw her most days as she passed by the bean store, can of Tango casually cradled in a hand as she strolled along the road without a care in the world. Her eyes were alight, intense and educated. She saw the world for what it truly was, and wasn’t too fussed about it.
I became infatuated with this siren. On multiple occasions I tried to spark up a conversation with her, to varying degrees of awfulness. I’d stand outside the coffee shop, leaning against a bus stop sign pole, anxiously waiting for her to approach.
The problem was that as soon as I saw her my knees would turn to jelly as my tongue crawled into the back of my throat and attempt to asphyxiate me. She probably thinks I’ve got a speech impediment and a balance problem by this point.
Realising that the casual chat approach wasn’t going to work and that fiendish deception was the key I devised an alternative plan. I knew nothing of this woman except one thing; her and me both liked Tango. Using this information to it’s full potential I devised a fortuitous meeting that was sure to go down in the annals of history as ruddy resourceful and rather romantic.
I found some orange grease paint, stacked a couple of pallets up near the coffee store as a make shift hiding place and prepared myself.
The next day as the delightful creature approached her usual spot I leapt out from the pallets, painted and dressed like Peter Geeves from your original advert. I grinned, wobbled my limbs about a bit and waddled cheerily towards her.
This was when everything went a bit, well, wrong. Before I could take more than a couple of steps somebody tackled me from behind, smacking my freshly shaved head into a bus stop sign pole. Although at this point it was a moot…point, the unseen assailant wailed mercilessly on my unconscious form.
It wasn’t until after the court hearing that the full story came out. It transpired that the can of Tango was for her boyfriend (he’s called Ralph), a romantic gesture she (Toni) exercised on a daily basis. Ralph was as much in love with Tango as he was with Toni; just like me. However, he was also an expert in both your drinks and telly adverts.
Upon seeing me tarted up to the nines as Orange Man, Ralph was worried I was about to double face slap Toni a la your very first banned advert. He had also heard from his girlfriend that some drunk homeless person kept bothering her near the bus stop and he had come down the road to check on her.
Thus he took, what he believed although I seriously disagreed, appropriate steps to stop me.
When I explained I would never dream of doing the double slap and was instead going to perform the alternative kiss version the police in the court room had to restrain Ralph as he leapt at me, thundering through the air like a murderous bichon frise.
So, I think you can see my issue with you.