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But what of Barry Scott's legacy? For all of us, he will hold some special place in our advertisement consuming hearts. We try and be above it, but we can't: we're all fond of the Tango Man, of Flat Eric, Sylvester Stallone pretending to like bread, John Lewis' moon paedo. Consider this: there are people who legitimately like the Compare the Market meerkats. Advertising is washed over us all day every day, and certain lumps in the water float to the top, become beloved. Barry Scott was one of them. A shouting anti-hero, obsessed with limescale and grime.Scott came from a place from before advertising got too wry, too self aware, too scan-this-QR-code-to-download-the-app, too hashtag, too we-know-what-we're-doing-when-we-go-viral-for-being-bad. Scott is the quintessential 'dad who's been left alone in the house for a weekend and doesn't know how to clean a tap'. He's your uncle who always cheerily shouts "CHECK OUT THE TITS ON THAT" when you're at a garden party. Barry Scott. Barry Scott is for the stoners, the up until 4am-ers, the unemployed, the waiting for the afternoon shift-ers, everyone who's been up all night but has an appointment that afternoon and somehow needs to stay awake. Barry Scott stands astride daytime TV, telling everyone how much bleach they need. Barry Scott. Imagine you are a burgeoning drum and bass DJ who two weeks ago torrented a half-corrupt copy of Ableton and you're looking to make a 30-second remix to make six of your friends and nobody else alive laugh: you're going to sample Barry Scott saying "I'M BARRY SCOTT". Barry Scott, Barry Scott, Barry Scott. In a world of clean and glossy advertising hunks he was a thick haired throwback. Barry Scott. Barry Scott, living inside the fractured body of Neil Burgess, alone in their two-bed dwelling in Dewsbury, on the rum at 8am. Barry Scott. Barry Scott's complimentary case of golden handshake bleach glints at him from the shiny kitchen surface. No, Barry. Barry Scott. No, Neil. Barry Scott, alone in a world slowly growing grimier, unable to tell us where limescale lurks, unable to tell us how best to clean a window, unable to demonstrate with a fine chamois just how filthy your tiles are. Barry Scott in a cagoule on the top of a windy moor, shouting "BANG AND THE DIRT IS GONE" into the cold grey air, his wisdom scattered to the wind. Barry Scott. He deserves a bronze and immaculately clean statue. He deserves to be remembered. Instead he was replaced by a dancer. In 2005 he screamed his way onto our screens, lungs bursting with stilted enthusiasm. Today Cillit Bang fold him away forever, tucking him under the kitchen sink to be forgotten. Goodbye, saviour of our screens, guardian of our grouting. Bye, Barry Scott.
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