Last night, on my way home from work, I alighted prematurely from my Central Line train to take a look at the Liverpool Street screens. Perfect, I'd stepped off immediately underneath one of the two huge clunky overhead projectors, currently switched off while the train was in the platform. But as the last carriage sped out of the station, the lens whirred into action and an instant advert appeared on the opposite side of the track. A giant-sized grinning moron stared out from the curved wall, and moved. He juggled berries, he pointed to bottles of fruit smoothie and he attempted to appeal to all the lowest common denominator passengers on the platform. There was nothing else to watch (all the other posters had been removed) so we watched him.
Next up an advert for Sky Plus. Thankfully we didn't get Ross Kemp extolling the system's simplicity in his posh voice - these adverts are silent. What we got instead was a floating set-top box accompanied by a semi-audible announcement about severe delays. Next up a plug for a popular West End Show - very careful targeting of passing tourists, this. And then the smoothie idiot again. Same product, different 20 seconds of gurning. And then Sky again (same advert) and then another West End Show. You'd not notice the repetition if you were only waiting for a minute or two, but I'd hit a five minute gap between trains. Everything twice, at least. OK, bored now.
As the platform slowly filled with would-be travellers, I watched to see what their reaction would be. It was striking. The moving images on the opposite wall drew people's attention inexorably, completely, utterly. No human eye could resist the flickering hard sell, not when the alternative was staring at the platform. But there was one way to escape. Everybody holding a newspaper appeared to be immune. As each mini marketing masterpiece played out before them, they ignored it and continued to read their freesheet. It's official, Amy Winehouse gossip is more interesting than an animated Avenue Q advert. But hey, be it movie or newsprint, the advertisers had us either way.
At last, as the next train rumbled into the platform, the adverts switched off and previous reality was restored. Newly arriving passengers exiting from their carriages knew nothing of the drama that had been playing out on the wall behind them, they just rushed towards the escalators and home. I stayed to watch the next episode, even though I'd seen it all before. This time there was only the opportunity for a single plug for Spamalot before the following train intervened. These days, it seems, no moment of dwell time is too short to be exploited.
Two stations further down the line I had to wait in a crowd for a further five minutes on a bog-standard unmodernised platform. No dynamic commercials here, just people to watch and the occasional mouse scuttling around on the tracks. We coped with the ad-free nothingness, with ease. Sometimes it's good to be alone with your thoughts, and not burdened with someone else's. One day, I fear, all deep level tube stations may become sponsored cinemas. I just pray they find something more interesting to show us.
Last night, on my way home from work, I alighted prematurely from my Central Line train to take a look at the Liverpool Street screens. Perfect, I'd stepped off immediately underneath one of the two huge clunky overhead projectors, currently switched off while the train was in the platform. But as the last carriage sped out of the station, the lens whirred into action and an instant advert appeared on the opposite side of the track. A giant-sized grinning moron stared out from the curved wall, and moved. He juggled berries, he pointed to bottles of fruit smoothie and he attempted to appeal to all the lowest common denominator passengers on the platform. There was nothing else to watch (all the other posters had been removed) so we watched him.
As the platform slowly filled with would-be travellers, I watched to see what their reaction would be. It was striking. The moving images on the opposite wall drew people's attention inexorably, completely, utterly. No human eye could resist the flickering hard sell, not when the alternative was staring at the platform. But there was one way to escape. Everybody holding a newspaper appeared to be immune. As each mini marketing masterpiece played out before them, they ignored it and continued to read their freesheet. It's official, Amy Winehouse gossip is more interesting than an animated Avenue Q advert. But hey, be it movie or newsprint, the advertisers had us either way.
