For all of you unfamiliar with European geography we in England live in the Northern Hemisphere. Consequently we are closer to the Arctic Circle which by definition means our climate is characterised by cold winters and temperate summers. Whilst stating the obvious I would also like to remind you that we are currently in the month of February, which is in the middle of .......yes, you guessed it...winter! Irrespective of these fairly simple facts the English seemed shocked and stunned when the weather does exactly what it's meant to do.
Last Monday most of the country was bought to a standstill by very heavy but nevertheless fairly unusual snowfall. Buses were taken off the roads, schools and offices were shut and hundreds and hundreds of people fell flat on their arses. All well and good, all terribly inconvenient and for hundreds and hundreds all fairly sore but believe it or not it was not the end of civilization as we know it.
A couple of days off work won't make a ha'pporth of difference to the devastated economy, kids throughout the country will not fail GCSEs or A levels and most of the bruised bums are now healed and no doubt forgotten (unless of course you enjoy having a painful backside in which case that will be a subject for a later blog).
This week, of course, we have another weather anomaly...heavy rainfall! Yes indeedy folks, here in "lil'" olde England we are having deluges. All that's missing is a nice old fashioned "pea souper" fog and the bods at the Met Office can start cashing in their win treble bets with William Hill.
Let us, if you will, fast forward to the month of August. This is, as you are no doubt aware, in the middle of Summer. With absolutely no training whatsoever I can predict the following: There will be a spate of the temperature reaching close to 30 degrees, the Government will issue a warning that there may be a hosepipe ban, the evening news and daily papers will have headlines stating "Sun worshippers shunning the work spaces for the open spaces", pictures of bikini clad girls will be everywhere, office workers will threaten to strike if air conditioning is not installed and there will be ten mile tailbacks on every road leading to the coast on Bank Holiday weekend. I wonder what odds I'll get from the bookies on that little lot in an accumulator.
The way I look at it is we have it pretty darn easy. No monsoons, no typhoons, no tornadoes, no months of the midnight sun, no sandstorms, no real droughts so for pities sake no more drama, it's only soddin' weather.
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
Sunday, 1 February 2009
About Face
I first became aware of Internet "social networking" when the "the teenager" started rambling on about it, firstly it was Bebo and a little later it was MySpace. To be frank I showed little or no interest to whines of "Daaaaaaaaaaaaad, that Emma is such a biatch she just slagged me off to Jessica" or boasts of "Yay, I've now got 14,023 friends, which is 3 more that Alfie!". Didn't understand it, didn't care.
About eighteen months ago, I started to pay a little more interest when "adult child" started to regale me with anecdotes regarding useful contacts he had made and various "hotties" he had hooked up with, all courtesy of Facebook. Nevertheless, I was still convinced that I'd stick with me "little black book" and leave all that new fangled technology to the young'uns.
It wasn't until my son came up with his own take on the concept (launching in a couple of months...watch this space) and asked me for various bits of advice that I decided to take the plunge.
So, I loaded up my profile and piccy. Contacted a few people that I knew were already members and added them as "friends" and there I was a fully fledged participant in the organic growth of the Facebook community.
For the first few weeks I kinda got involved. People from work started to add me, I searched out a few "old flames" and piggy-backed a few contacts and sent the odd "friend" request but then I got bored. I got fed up with people I'd seen all day messaging me with "whassup Mo?" or finding out that Jenny "was pissed off with Jason!". So with my typical bolshy attitude I decided that it was just silly and I didn't see the point of finding out what people I didn't give a rat's arse about were doing. I didn't log-in, I didn't miss it and I never gave it another thought.
Then one day I got an email. It was an alert from Facebook. One of my oldest friends had found me on there and sent a message and friend request. Of course I accepted and was chuffed to catch up with someone I really liked and hadn't seen in years. And then the flood-gates opened!
I couldn't get enough of it. One old friend's list meant that I could find other old friends. Magically, I became absorbed in finding out what people were up to. Efforts have been made to make interesting and amusing status-comments. Groups were joined and, as you probably know if you're reading this, I started my own little clique. Furthermore, it became very apparent how useful FB is as business tool. Not only can you post whatever it is you need and someone will help you find it but with a bit of effort it can also be used as an incredible aid to marketing or public opinion. Yes, I am now unashamedly a fan.
However, the other day I got a message inviting me to join Twitter. With my newly found enthusiasm for all thinks networky I decided to check it out. Apparently, by using your mobile phone you can let all your "followers" know exactly what you are doing at any time day or night. Not only that but you can comment on what you are doing and your contacts can comment on your comments.
As of now I really don't see the point, I can't be bothered and it feels a wee bit too much like "Big Brother" for me. Having said that give me another month or so and no doubt you'll be able to comment on whether my choice of kippers for breakfast was a good or bad idea.
About eighteen months ago, I started to pay a little more interest when "adult child" started to regale me with anecdotes regarding useful contacts he had made and various "hotties" he had hooked up with, all courtesy of Facebook. Nevertheless, I was still convinced that I'd stick with me "little black book" and leave all that new fangled technology to the young'uns.
It wasn't until my son came up with his own take on the concept (launching in a couple of months...watch this space) and asked me for various bits of advice that I decided to take the plunge.
So, I loaded up my profile and piccy. Contacted a few people that I knew were already members and added them as "friends" and there I was a fully fledged participant in the organic growth of the Facebook community.
For the first few weeks I kinda got involved. People from work started to add me, I searched out a few "old flames" and piggy-backed a few contacts and sent the odd "friend" request but then I got bored. I got fed up with people I'd seen all day messaging me with "whassup Mo?" or finding out that Jenny "was pissed off with Jason!". So with my typical bolshy attitude I decided that it was just silly and I didn't see the point of finding out what people I didn't give a rat's arse about were doing. I didn't log-in, I didn't miss it and I never gave it another thought.
Then one day I got an email. It was an alert from Facebook. One of my oldest friends had found me on there and sent a message and friend request. Of course I accepted and was chuffed to catch up with someone I really liked and hadn't seen in years. And then the flood-gates opened!
I couldn't get enough of it. One old friend's list meant that I could find other old friends. Magically, I became absorbed in finding out what people were up to. Efforts have been made to make interesting and amusing status-comments. Groups were joined and, as you probably know if you're reading this, I started my own little clique. Furthermore, it became very apparent how useful FB is as business tool. Not only can you post whatever it is you need and someone will help you find it but with a bit of effort it can also be used as an incredible aid to marketing or public opinion. Yes, I am now unashamedly a fan.
However, the other day I got a message inviting me to join Twitter. With my newly found enthusiasm for all thinks networky I decided to check it out. Apparently, by using your mobile phone you can let all your "followers" know exactly what you are doing at any time day or night. Not only that but you can comment on what you are doing and your contacts can comment on your comments.
As of now I really don't see the point, I can't be bothered and it feels a wee bit too much like "Big Brother" for me. Having said that give me another month or so and no doubt you'll be able to comment on whether my choice of kippers for breakfast was a good or bad idea.
Wednesday, 28 January 2009
Golden Globs
I can't help it but I do get caught up in the whole movie awards season. Like a punter studying form I like to use my enormous expertise to work out the winners, the each way bets and the complete no-hopers. Consequently, when La Belle Winslet won her two Golden Globes for movies that hadn't yet been released in the UK I was almost salivating at the prospect of checking them out.
And check them out I did! Before going any further I would like to issue a public warning, if you are in any way slightly depressed avoid "The Reader" and "Revolutionary Road" like the plague, after approximately four hours of these two you'll be positively suicidal.
In the event that you wish to ignore my well meaning advice and still can't wait to see them for yourself, I'll try desperately not to give too much away but, but, but I just gotta have a rant!
Let me start with "The Reader". Now I know there's is nothing more appealing than "worthy" subject matter to get the award judges attention but trying to put a sympathetic spin on a convicted Nazi, illiterate or not, is pushing my emotional buttons one notch too far. Moreover as the plot is clearly centered around her it should have been called "The Readee". And the reason why the young law student couldn't reveal her secret to the court must have escaped me...maybe I nodded off.
To be fair to "our" Kate, she still looks good with her kit off and she does effect a creditable German accent. However, towards the end of the film when she is supposedly an elderly woman, the make-up is so unconvincing, she looks more like a volunteer for an end of term exam in the first year at drama school. Oh yes! I also guessed the denouement about twenty minutes before the reveal.
Moving on to "Revolutionary Road" why oh why have the critics heaped praise on this pile of tripe? Nothing "bleeding" happens, I repeat NOTHING! Two young people disregard their dreams and aspirations, get married, live a comfortable middle-class lifestyle, resent each other and argue a lot. That's it...no really, that's it.
Kate and Leo act well enough but the script is stilted and feels contrived and even though he is actually one of my favourite actors he never seems to fit comfortably in the role. There are a couple of cameo roles to add a bit of light and shade but do absolutely nothing to alleviate the tedium. Two hours of misery...yay!
It's not all doom and gloom though, I absolutely loved "Slumdog Millionaire". Oops! Kate's not in that one.
And check them out I did! Before going any further I would like to issue a public warning, if you are in any way slightly depressed avoid "The Reader" and "Revolutionary Road" like the plague, after approximately four hours of these two you'll be positively suicidal.
In the event that you wish to ignore my well meaning advice and still can't wait to see them for yourself, I'll try desperately not to give too much away but, but, but I just gotta have a rant!
Let me start with "The Reader". Now I know there's is nothing more appealing than "worthy" subject matter to get the award judges attention but trying to put a sympathetic spin on a convicted Nazi, illiterate or not, is pushing my emotional buttons one notch too far. Moreover as the plot is clearly centered around her it should have been called "The Readee". And the reason why the young law student couldn't reveal her secret to the court must have escaped me...maybe I nodded off.
To be fair to "our" Kate, she still looks good with her kit off and she does effect a creditable German accent. However, towards the end of the film when she is supposedly an elderly woman, the make-up is so unconvincing, she looks more like a volunteer for an end of term exam in the first year at drama school. Oh yes! I also guessed the denouement about twenty minutes before the reveal.
Moving on to "Revolutionary Road" why oh why have the critics heaped praise on this pile of tripe? Nothing "bleeding" happens, I repeat NOTHING! Two young people disregard their dreams and aspirations, get married, live a comfortable middle-class lifestyle, resent each other and argue a lot. That's it...no really, that's it.
Kate and Leo act well enough but the script is stilted and feels contrived and even though he is actually one of my favourite actors he never seems to fit comfortably in the role. There are a couple of cameo roles to add a bit of light and shade but do absolutely nothing to alleviate the tedium. Two hours of misery...yay!
It's not all doom and gloom though, I absolutely loved "Slumdog Millionaire". Oops! Kate's not in that one.
Tuesday, 20 January 2009
YES - Chef!
At the risk of being accused of being obsessed with TV (I'm not by the way), it's hard not to be aware of the proliferation of foodie programmes. Hardly a day goes by without Gordon (Mr Shouty) Ramsay, Raymond (Mr Smoothie) Blanc, Jamie (Mr Matey) Oliver or Nigella (Little Miss Phwoar) Lawson showing us how easy it is to prepare a three course gourmet banquet.
Let's be honest how difficult can it possibly be to prepare a Smoked Salmon and Caviar Souffle, Cote de Boeuf en Croute and a Frais du Bois Pavlova on a budget of £10. Unless of course you are Heston ( Mr Wacky) Blumenthal and you need a nuclear reactor to cook with.
What is puzzling me is the "Master Chef" or " The Restaurant" concept. Supposedly "ordinary" people with a penchant for posh nosh compete for the privilege of either owning or working in a top class eatery.
First and foremost don't any of these wannabees realise that they will be facing eighteen hour days, burnt fingers, stab wounds, a complete lack of social life and a potential nervous breakdown. Moreover, the catering industry has one of the highest rate of bankruptcies of any business sector.
Secondly, and this is the bit I really don't get, where on Earth do the contestants get their "chops" (pun intended) from? It's fairly safe to assume that, when we are introduced to:- "27 yr old, single London based PR girl Jinty Penwiggle-Ffolkes" she was brought up on Sunday lunch at Simpsons, birthday dinners at La Gavroche and now dines regularly at Scotts and Locanda Locatelli. But what about :- "39 yr old, married father of four, coach driver Bill Biggins from Preston"?
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not being snobby or elitist but you can't actually prepare and cook restaurant style cuisine unless you've actually eaten it........and it don't come cheap. I suppose its possible that, instead of taking the kids out on the weekend, buying them clothes and actually paying the mortgage, Mr and Mrs Biggins disappear once a week to the nearest Michelin starred destination and actually blow £150 on dinner (I know there are a lot of "actuallys" they just seemed to fit).
And then there's the practicing, you can almost hear the conversations: "Oh No Dad! Not pan seared sea bass on a bed of caramelised samphire again! Can't we just have fish fingers and chips?"
Or
"Dad can you take us to the park to play footie?"
"Nope! Sorry kids but Daddy's havin' a reet bugger getting the crackling perfect on this here pork belly and the white truffle sauce is doin' me head in.....ask your Mam".
Still, each to his own but I can't help having a little sadistic gloat when they are eliminated and their dreams of becoming a Mr Man or Little Miss crumble like the biscuit base on their kumquat, quava and passion fruit cheesecake.
Anyone wanna share a bargain bucket of KFC?
Let's be honest how difficult can it possibly be to prepare a Smoked Salmon and Caviar Souffle, Cote de Boeuf en Croute and a Frais du Bois Pavlova on a budget of £10. Unless of course you are Heston ( Mr Wacky) Blumenthal and you need a nuclear reactor to cook with.
What is puzzling me is the "Master Chef" or " The Restaurant" concept. Supposedly "ordinary" people with a penchant for posh nosh compete for the privilege of either owning or working in a top class eatery.
First and foremost don't any of these wannabees realise that they will be facing eighteen hour days, burnt fingers, stab wounds, a complete lack of social life and a potential nervous breakdown. Moreover, the catering industry has one of the highest rate of bankruptcies of any business sector.
Secondly, and this is the bit I really don't get, where on Earth do the contestants get their "chops" (pun intended) from? It's fairly safe to assume that, when we are introduced to:- "27 yr old, single London based PR girl Jinty Penwiggle-Ffolkes" she was brought up on Sunday lunch at Simpsons, birthday dinners at La Gavroche and now dines regularly at Scotts and Locanda Locatelli. But what about :- "39 yr old, married father of four, coach driver Bill Biggins from Preston"?
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not being snobby or elitist but you can't actually prepare and cook restaurant style cuisine unless you've actually eaten it........and it don't come cheap. I suppose its possible that, instead of taking the kids out on the weekend, buying them clothes and actually paying the mortgage, Mr and Mrs Biggins disappear once a week to the nearest Michelin starred destination and actually blow £150 on dinner (I know there are a lot of "actuallys" they just seemed to fit).
And then there's the practicing, you can almost hear the conversations: "Oh No Dad! Not pan seared sea bass on a bed of caramelised samphire again! Can't we just have fish fingers and chips?"
Or
"Dad can you take us to the park to play footie?"
"Nope! Sorry kids but Daddy's havin' a reet bugger getting the crackling perfect on this here pork belly and the white truffle sauce is doin' me head in.....ask your Mam".
Still, each to his own but I can't help having a little sadistic gloat when they are eliminated and their dreams of becoming a Mr Man or Little Miss crumble like the biscuit base on their kumquat, quava and passion fruit cheesecake.
Anyone wanna share a bargain bucket of KFC?
Saturday, 17 January 2009
Traveller checks
I used to fly a lot. Obviously I'd use a plane 'cos my arms just don't flap fast enough but nevertheless I really did my best to justify my "jet set" credentials.
One of the things I prided myself on was my ability to arrive at the airport, toss the car keys to the guy from the parking company, throw a suit-bag over my shoulder and make the flight with minutes to spare. Admittedly, there were a few close shaves but the only time I ever missed a flight was courtesy of Easyjet at Luton airport and that little episode was well documented on the TV programme "Airline" (don't ask).
My point being that air travel used to be the quickest and easiest option to get almost anywhere in the world and the very idea of using an alternate method would have been met, almost certainly by me, with derision.
I recall in the early days of Eurostar deciding to use the train to Paris for a change. I ended up ranting how I thought it was an awful experience. Lousy parking at Waterloo, horrible station facilities, "naf" on board refreshments and it took longer than hopping on a plane that would have cost about the same.
Today, however, post "9/11" and other atrocities it is quite a different story. Whilst I totally appreciate and agree with all the modern restrictions, by the time you arrive two hours before take-off, go through security checks that would have made Mother Theresa question her innocence, I reckon it's probably quicker and easier to cycle to Paris.
Back to Eurostar. Well, following a recent weekend break to Brussels, I can confirm that not only has the service improved beyond compare but the St Pancras terminal is so darn gorgeous I could quite happily have spent the entire weekend there!
Now this is all well and good if one is planning on travelling "close to home" but what about the long haul stuff. I'm with Sir Alan ( I know I'm a miserable bugger but I'm so much richer than you that I don't give a stuff) Sugar on this one. He stated in a recent interview that the main indulgence from his enormous wealth are private jets. No queueing, take off when you fancy, gourmet dining, go where you want and a great way of shoving it to your not quite as rich mates.
There's no argument then. I have to make enough dosh to buy my own plane. What's even better? I've already chosen the pilot. I want the guy that landed that bloody great lump of metal on the Hudson River. Happy landings indeed!
One of the things I prided myself on was my ability to arrive at the airport, toss the car keys to the guy from the parking company, throw a suit-bag over my shoulder and make the flight with minutes to spare. Admittedly, there were a few close shaves but the only time I ever missed a flight was courtesy of Easyjet at Luton airport and that little episode was well documented on the TV programme "Airline" (don't ask).
My point being that air travel used to be the quickest and easiest option to get almost anywhere in the world and the very idea of using an alternate method would have been met, almost certainly by me, with derision.
I recall in the early days of Eurostar deciding to use the train to Paris for a change. I ended up ranting how I thought it was an awful experience. Lousy parking at Waterloo, horrible station facilities, "naf" on board refreshments and it took longer than hopping on a plane that would have cost about the same.
Today, however, post "9/11" and other atrocities it is quite a different story. Whilst I totally appreciate and agree with all the modern restrictions, by the time you arrive two hours before take-off, go through security checks that would have made Mother Theresa question her innocence, I reckon it's probably quicker and easier to cycle to Paris.
Back to Eurostar. Well, following a recent weekend break to Brussels, I can confirm that not only has the service improved beyond compare but the St Pancras terminal is so darn gorgeous I could quite happily have spent the entire weekend there!
Now this is all well and good if one is planning on travelling "close to home" but what about the long haul stuff. I'm with Sir Alan ( I know I'm a miserable bugger but I'm so much richer than you that I don't give a stuff) Sugar on this one. He stated in a recent interview that the main indulgence from his enormous wealth are private jets. No queueing, take off when you fancy, gourmet dining, go where you want and a great way of shoving it to your not quite as rich mates.
There's no argument then. I have to make enough dosh to buy my own plane. What's even better? I've already chosen the pilot. I want the guy that landed that bloody great lump of metal on the Hudson River. Happy landings indeed!
Monday, 12 January 2009
Beddy bys!
This post is on a very serious matter! Sleeping together. No, missus, not the grungy, sweaty, grindy, slippy, slidey, giggly, grunty euphemism. Nope, simply sleeping together. After all the good (or hopefully bad bits) most of us roll over for some shut eye. I accept, that if your from the younger generation you just wait ten minutes and start again. But, trust me even you'll get tired eventually.
Mind you having said that I do think it's different for the young. We can all remember the times unravaged by too much alcohol, cigarettes, sedentary working conditions, indulgent dinners and stress that we put in our entries for the Olympic shagging qualifiers then rolled over blissfully spent. No snoring, snuffling, bad breath or frequent bathroom visits.
Those of you that know me or that have been following my little efforts at literary immortality are aware that I am currently single. You will also then know, that even at my slightly pre-geriatric age, I do like the "ladeez". Consequently, even this ageing Lothario gets lucky sometimes!
The thing is, it's not my way less than perfect body or my abilities that concern me when that fateful first night together beckons it's the actual sleeping bit. After years of spending every night with the same person and then being on your own again the whole bedroom dynamic changes drastically. For starters if I snore when I'm alone who gives a damn (actually "the teenager" has said she can hear me from her room...oops). If I cocoon myself in the duvet nobody suffers and if I really do have to "let rip" it's only me that has to cope with the aftermath.
Take this weekend. I had met an absolutely charming woman (I know you're reading this so please enjoy the compliment) and the time had come. I refuse to get smutty but suffice to say I actually fell asleep very quickly and slept soundly... for a while.
After about three hours, as a probable result of too much red wine, I awoke with a throat as dry as the driest thing you can think of. Acutely aware of not wanting to disturb I made my best efforts at creeping to the kitchen to get a bottle of water. Once I was up and about it would have been a folly not to use the "facilities" as well. Of course, by the time I was ready to return to the "Land of Nod", I was far more awake than I really should've been.
Then I truly had a problem. I needed to get comfy again. As we all know this involves a variety of tactics. The plumping of the pillows, the "which position do I really prefer sleeping in" and the "how the hell do I achieve all this without waking her!". Needless to say, I did what all proper gentlemen would do, I did nothing but crawl in quietly and plonked myself on my side and waited to drift...and waited and waited.
After what seemed to be about two weeks I must have started to doze off. Unfortunately, at exactly the same time I noticed myself making a particularly unattractive "whistling" noise from my nose. I found this so unappealing, even to myself, that I then started to fight sleep rather than face the embarrassment of trying to explain it. Eventually I lost the fight and succumbed only to wake up screaming (or so I thought) from a particularly horrific nightmare that peculiarly featured "adult child's" ex-girlfriend as the main protagonist.
That was it, I gave up. If Maggie Thatcher could cope with four hours a night there was no reason I couldn't deal with the odd Saturday here and there.
Of course, there is a clincher. About two hours after I'd got up, the lady finally arose. Having related my equivalent of a "somnambulistic assault course" she responded prettily..."Oh Me, I could sleep on a clothesline"... WOMEN GRRR!
Mind you having said that I do think it's different for the young. We can all remember the times unravaged by too much alcohol, cigarettes, sedentary working conditions, indulgent dinners and stress that we put in our entries for the Olympic shagging qualifiers then rolled over blissfully spent. No snoring, snuffling, bad breath or frequent bathroom visits.
Those of you that know me or that have been following my little efforts at literary immortality are aware that I am currently single. You will also then know, that even at my slightly pre-geriatric age, I do like the "ladeez". Consequently, even this ageing Lothario gets lucky sometimes!
The thing is, it's not my way less than perfect body or my abilities that concern me when that fateful first night together beckons it's the actual sleeping bit. After years of spending every night with the same person and then being on your own again the whole bedroom dynamic changes drastically. For starters if I snore when I'm alone who gives a damn (actually "the teenager" has said she can hear me from her room...oops). If I cocoon myself in the duvet nobody suffers and if I really do have to "let rip" it's only me that has to cope with the aftermath.
Take this weekend. I had met an absolutely charming woman (I know you're reading this so please enjoy the compliment) and the time had come. I refuse to get smutty but suffice to say I actually fell asleep very quickly and slept soundly... for a while.
After about three hours, as a probable result of too much red wine, I awoke with a throat as dry as the driest thing you can think of. Acutely aware of not wanting to disturb I made my best efforts at creeping to the kitchen to get a bottle of water. Once I was up and about it would have been a folly not to use the "facilities" as well. Of course, by the time I was ready to return to the "Land of Nod", I was far more awake than I really should've been.
Then I truly had a problem. I needed to get comfy again. As we all know this involves a variety of tactics. The plumping of the pillows, the "which position do I really prefer sleeping in" and the "how the hell do I achieve all this without waking her!". Needless to say, I did what all proper gentlemen would do, I did nothing but crawl in quietly and plonked myself on my side and waited to drift...and waited and waited.
After what seemed to be about two weeks I must have started to doze off. Unfortunately, at exactly the same time I noticed myself making a particularly unattractive "whistling" noise from my nose. I found this so unappealing, even to myself, that I then started to fight sleep rather than face the embarrassment of trying to explain it. Eventually I lost the fight and succumbed only to wake up screaming (or so I thought) from a particularly horrific nightmare that peculiarly featured "adult child's" ex-girlfriend as the main protagonist.
That was it, I gave up. If Maggie Thatcher could cope with four hours a night there was no reason I couldn't deal with the odd Saturday here and there.
Of course, there is a clincher. About two hours after I'd got up, the lady finally arose. Having related my equivalent of a "somnambulistic assault course" she responded prettily..."Oh Me, I could sleep on a clothesline"... WOMEN GRRR!
Friday, 9 January 2009
Ad-ission
For the first time since I started this lark I got half way through writing something and decided I hated it. The problem was that although I actually felt I had something to say about the subject matter I didn't really give a toss about it! Consequently it is now in the cyber dustbin and I've started over.
However it didn't take long to find my latest target, it's been staring me in the face...literally. T.V advertising! Now, I don't know whether it's just the time of year or I've been OD'ing on the goggle box but as the renown cartoonist Scott Adams (Dilbert) said "You can never underestimate the stupidity of the general public ."
For starters, have you or anybody you know, or anybody than anybody you know knows ever paid full price for a sofa from DFS. No they haven't. After all these years I'd be a darn sight more impressed if they just said "we do bloody good sofas at a really cheap price with interest free credit" End of.
My newest fave hated ad is the one where Ringo Starr looks back on his "sparkling career" and newsreel footage of adoring fans and asks "Would all this have happened if I was still plain old Richard Starkey?". Well, actually Ringo me old mucker yes it would. You were the drummer in The Beatles you lucky bugger. Not one of the lead singers, not one of the song writers not even the ethereal interesting one. You could have been called Sigmund Schnussel for all it mattered! I find it even more distressing that even poor old Iggy Pop is flogging insurance too but at least he has the decency not to remind us that his real name is James Newell Osterberg Jr!
And what is it with all the car insurance ads? Surely if they all offered exactly the same thing with exactly the same criteria then we could all pay exactly the same rate and everybody wins. Then we wouldn't have to see that obnoxious Churchillian puppet dog or the daft sod dressed up as an Admiral. Mind you I do have a soft spot for Michael Winner so maybe he could become UK motor insurance front man. "Calm down dear its just an advert I'm doing to please Chairman Mo".
I couldn't finish this without a mention for those dietary staples Special K and Shredded Wheat. Do you know that you can add any combination of fruit, yoghurt or nuts along with some semi-skimmed milk and they will still taste like puke saturated cardboard. Even better if you substitute either of them for two ordinary meals every day for two weeks you will lose weight...oh yes and the will to live.
Of course, this is a way bigger subject than I could ever cover here, I haven't even touched on indecipherable car ads, supermarket price comparisons and gastro-porn but you know what? I feel like a man on a diet of Bran Flakes ... a lot less clogged-up than I was yesterday.
However it didn't take long to find my latest target, it's been staring me in the face...literally. T.V advertising! Now, I don't know whether it's just the time of year or I've been OD'ing on the goggle box but as the renown cartoonist Scott Adams (Dilbert) said "You can never underestimate the stupidity of the general public ."
For starters, have you or anybody you know, or anybody than anybody you know knows ever paid full price for a sofa from DFS. No they haven't. After all these years I'd be a darn sight more impressed if they just said "we do bloody good sofas at a really cheap price with interest free credit" End of.
My newest fave hated ad is the one where Ringo Starr looks back on his "sparkling career" and newsreel footage of adoring fans and asks "Would all this have happened if I was still plain old Richard Starkey?". Well, actually Ringo me old mucker yes it would. You were the drummer in The Beatles you lucky bugger. Not one of the lead singers, not one of the song writers not even the ethereal interesting one. You could have been called Sigmund Schnussel for all it mattered! I find it even more distressing that even poor old Iggy Pop is flogging insurance too but at least he has the decency not to remind us that his real name is James Newell Osterberg Jr!
And what is it with all the car insurance ads? Surely if they all offered exactly the same thing with exactly the same criteria then we could all pay exactly the same rate and everybody wins. Then we wouldn't have to see that obnoxious Churchillian puppet dog or the daft sod dressed up as an Admiral. Mind you I do have a soft spot for Michael Winner so maybe he could become UK motor insurance front man. "Calm down dear its just an advert I'm doing to please Chairman Mo".
I couldn't finish this without a mention for those dietary staples Special K and Shredded Wheat. Do you know that you can add any combination of fruit, yoghurt or nuts along with some semi-skimmed milk and they will still taste like puke saturated cardboard. Even better if you substitute either of them for two ordinary meals every day for two weeks you will lose weight...oh yes and the will to live.
Of course, this is a way bigger subject than I could ever cover here, I haven't even touched on indecipherable car ads, supermarket price comparisons and gastro-porn but you know what? I feel like a man on a diet of Bran Flakes ... a lot less clogged-up than I was yesterday.
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