Every marriage has it's bombshells. Some are nuclear ("It appears I'm your sister", "Ah... I've got one of those too", "Murder is such a strong word"); others are mere air pellets. Without becoming to0 personal, Mrs P and myself haven't had too many.
Or at least we hadn't.
The other evening I returned from my work day, everything looking tickety. My tea sitting on the table. Pipe and slippers poised next to my favourite chair. Oh yes, I could get used to having a housewife. The sun was making a rare appearence, so Mrs P had set up for al fresco dining on the balcony (or the roof of the old outdoor toilets as it is otherwise known).
Dabbing my top lip with my freshly starched napkin, I said, as I do every evening at 5:35pm "Let's adjourn to the television room and watch Neighbours".
"But it's nice out here." Came Mrs P's reply.
"But.." I stuttered, "..Neighbours."
"Let's eat our dessert out here."
"But..."
And then it came, the first major bombshell of our 4 and a bit years of marriage:
"I don't even like Neighbours."
Gobsmacked, I reeled. Fortunately my stunned stagger brought me to the sofa where I fell and lay for 25 mins. I never knew. I really never knew. Sure, I didn't expect Mrs P's appreciation of the highest level of Antipodian culture since... ever... to rank with mine, but still... I thought she liked it.
*Sigh*
As the days have past, I have stopped hurting - almost - and have begun a journey of self-reflection. Why do I like Neighbours? What is about a 25 min soap featuring numerous attractive young women that I find so appealing? I just don't know.
Maybe it's Karl Kennedy - my favorite male soap character ever (with Toady second). Who can forget him singing River of Dreams in slo-mo. How can one not admire his mastery of every aspect of medicine, from General Practitioner, to head surgeon, gynacologist and psychotherapist? And how much poorer would the world of comedy be without his farcical storylines worthy of Coward, Ayckbourn or Cleese? Much poorer is the answer.
Or maybe it is the Episode titles. How can someone not love a program that takes Bob Dylan tracks and puns 'em up good? You want examples of great episode names? How about "Tangled Up in Roo"? "Eye of the Steiger"? "For Whom Janelle Tolls"?
Perhaps it's because the show doesn't take itself too seriously. I mean, surely it can't what with some of its recent storylines. Take this little beauty.
Stingray (a young fun-lovin' chap) dies. Sky, his on/off parnter, really misses him. Up turns a charlatan Terrence who says he can channel Stingray. Sky believes him and Terrence begins to push his luck by saying he can allow Stingray control of his body. He starts saying things like "Stingray thinks you should kiss" and then puckering up. (Richard Dawkins should watch this to show how deconstruction of unfounded beleifs is really done). Sky finally cottons on and smacks him around the head with a sugar shaker.
Terrence's partner in crime Charlotte (pretending - really badly - to be a doctor) finds him k.o.'d and finishes him off. She's worried Erinsborough is getting too hot, so announces to a fellow character (dumbass Boyd) she is leaving town. Boyd goes next door to the lawyer's office where Toady says the police are watching the town to see if anyone tries to leave, because that's what they expect. Boyd returns to Charlotte (who overheard). She says "Hmm, actually I don't think I will leave.". "Ok" says Boyd, not suspecting a damn thing.
Genius.
Thus endeth the lesson on why I am right and Neighbours is not that bad. Storylines, Episode Titles and Karl. And girls in bikinis. But mainly the storylines.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Felix
I've been holding back for a week to post this blog because I was waiting. Waiting and watching. (Talking of which, I just realised I've missed the 3rd episode of Heroes. Oh well, there goes another slightly over hyped US show that I won't get into). Watchin'. Waitin'. Like the man who sits staring at the sky waiting for a shooting star or the paparazzi photographer who hangs around *INSERT GUN-TOTING/HEROIN-USING CELEBRITY HERE* waiting for a shooting star.
(I couldn't decide where to go with this joke - whether to use the obvious Doherty, the topical Phil Spector, or maybe the classic OJ Simpson - so I leave it up to you, the reader).
Just watchin' and waitin' and watchin'. Looking out for that glimpse of something special.
Alas, my wait has been in vain. At least I have the memory from last Tuesday night when I saw something just super.
I don't want to over egg my pudding here because maybe you saw this advert (for that is what we are going to be discussing) and you didn't think much of it. Maybe you saw it and thought "Hmm, another plain old cat food advert". Maybe you've seen it loads and it passes over you like a the gentle breeze through a slightly ajar window. (It's a bit chilly in here, but the paint is stinking). Maybe you saw it and was tickled by it. "That's a bit humerous" said your inner monologue, "But I have better things to do with my memory than storing it to a later date when I'll spend an hour or so writing about it". Probably you didn't see the advert and are going to read this with a slight but nagging worry for my unborn child.
For at this time last week, Mrs P came down stairs to find me literally in stitches. Yes I said literally. I was LOL, LMAO, RFOL, LSMTIACB, TRDMF and the rest. My sides were literally splitting. (I said literally again. And there is nothing that you can do about it).
I can't actually remember much of the Felix advert, but by the time of the tag line, the piece de resistence if you will, I was already chuckling uncontrollably. Then it was there, the killer line:
"Cats like Felix like Felix Roasted"
This sent me over the edge. I tried to explain to Mrs P, but I couldn't breathe. I gasped hopelessly for breath. I was a man drowning in quick sand. Helen started laughing too. We were both falling deeper into a pit of hysteria. I grabbed solid masonary to steady myself. My head was spinning. Slowly the laughter died, before raising again when I thought it had passed. Finally, through shear strength of will, I calmed myself.
I don't think there is too much to say about Felix Roasted, but I would like to take my proverbial hat off to the ad agency who convinced the men at Felix to run with this campaign. I mean, that must of been one helluva Powerpoint slideshow with hundreds of animations and flying text.
The brand representation of Felix, a cat called Felix, likes himself roasted. There is no other way of taking that tag line. He is cannablistic. He loves his own tasty flesh cooked at 200C (180C in a fan oven) and served up with a selection of condiments. That is what they are saying. And I found it freaking funny, okay?
(I couldn't decide where to go with this joke - whether to use the obvious Doherty, the topical Phil Spector, or maybe the classic OJ Simpson - so I leave it up to you, the reader).
Just watchin' and waitin' and watchin'. Looking out for that glimpse of something special.
Alas, my wait has been in vain. At least I have the memory from last Tuesday night when I saw something just super.
I don't want to over egg my pudding here because maybe you saw this advert (for that is what we are going to be discussing) and you didn't think much of it. Maybe you saw it and thought "Hmm, another plain old cat food advert". Maybe you've seen it loads and it passes over you like a the gentle breeze through a slightly ajar window. (It's a bit chilly in here, but the paint is stinking). Maybe you saw it and was tickled by it. "That's a bit humerous" said your inner monologue, "But I have better things to do with my memory than storing it to a later date when I'll spend an hour or so writing about it". Probably you didn't see the advert and are going to read this with a slight but nagging worry for my unborn child.
For at this time last week, Mrs P came down stairs to find me literally in stitches. Yes I said literally. I was LOL, LMAO, RFOL, LSMTIACB, TRDMF and the rest. My sides were literally splitting. (I said literally again. And there is nothing that you can do about it).
I can't actually remember much of the Felix advert, but by the time of the tag line, the piece de resistence if you will, I was already chuckling uncontrollably. Then it was there, the killer line:
"Cats like Felix like Felix Roasted"
This sent me over the edge. I tried to explain to Mrs P, but I couldn't breathe. I gasped hopelessly for breath. I was a man drowning in quick sand. Helen started laughing too. We were both falling deeper into a pit of hysteria. I grabbed solid masonary to steady myself. My head was spinning. Slowly the laughter died, before raising again when I thought it had passed. Finally, through shear strength of will, I calmed myself.
I don't think there is too much to say about Felix Roasted, but I would like to take my proverbial hat off to the ad agency who convinced the men at Felix to run with this campaign. I mean, that must of been one helluva Powerpoint slideshow with hundreds of animations and flying text.
The brand representation of Felix, a cat called Felix, likes himself roasted. There is no other way of taking that tag line. He is cannablistic. He loves his own tasty flesh cooked at 200C (180C in a fan oven) and served up with a selection of condiments. That is what they are saying. And I found it freaking funny, okay?
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
At Least They Were From A Northern Culture
People write letters to the Echo for a number of reasons. Some believe other people are interested in their views. They feel they are contributing to public opinion and that by getting their electonically scrawled ramblings into print they are somehow validating their skewed view of the micro-world they live in. Other people have greviances to vent and the Echo provides a service that allows them to rant about the latest "Stalinist" law change, 5 minute late bus or PC gone mad. This allows the police to keep tabs on local trouble makers (when was the last time Exeter had a revolution?).
Most people write in response to someone else's letter. This often ends up being either a war of attrition between two teams of ardent correspondents (see Bashing Gay Bashing, Hunting and the eternal Bible battles) or a good old fashioned stoning. These stonings are where one person stands up and airs a view that no doubt to them seems rational, but in the cold hard harshness of black ink aggrevates the entire E&E readership. The fool's letter then has to sustain a good weeks worth of pounding as people hurl letters deriding said fool's misinformed foray onto the letter page.
One recent example was the woman who complained when she had to pay 40p more to wash her 4x4 MPV. I think she genuinely thought she was going to get support behind her arguments that Tarquin needed the space afforded him by her 4mpg hummer.
For 10 days she was relentlessly hammered. It was like that bit in Spartacus when the guy says "I'm Spartacus", but noone else gets up and the criminal is dragged off to his grizzly and extended death. Great sport.
Tonight's featured letter is another dead cert for getting a good 3 columns of enraged bashing. Take it away, Mrs J E Oldroyd of The Cresent, Exmouth:
I AM DISAPPOINTED BY MY DEVON MOVE
(Uh-oh: you can already hear the tip-tap-tap of disgruntled letter writers)
I moved from Yorkshire to Exmouth last year, not really by choice, and I must say how very disappointed I am with the place.The seafront is dead, with just a few shops, swings for young ones and nothing for a child over six years old.
When you compare it to Yorkshire resorts, it beats me why anyone would want to come on holiday to a place like this.
I do not find the people very friendly at all.
They seem to look down on you as though you are something they have stepped on.
As for jobs, my friend has been unable to find work in Exmouth, although jobs have been applied for on an average of six a week, with no response coming from prospective employers.
At least in Yorkshire you do get a reply.
My friend is fit and able to work part-time or full-time. Why will employers not give a job now the season is in full swing?
Isn't there at least one sympathetic employer in Exmouth who will employ a hard-working man of 35 who likes gardening - or is it that they do not like Yorkshire people? I rest my case.
I fear that Mrs Oldroyd has made a basic error here of insulting the place where she lives and then giving both her name and a reasonable amout of her address. If they didn't like you before, they sure ain't going to now.
The "I rest my case" ending makes little, if any sense. Her case, I think, is that Exmouth makes a poor choice for holiday and place of residence. Her concluding argument to support this assertion is that employers in Devon maybe don't like people from Yorkshire.
Unfortunately for Mrs O, I have got my hands on her friend's CV and can assure her that it isn't the fact that he is from Yorkshire that he isn't being offered jobs. This was put in for a job at Alvin Palmer's Crazy Golf course.
Name: Stanley Thriplethwaite
DoB: 1972
Experience:
1974 - 1984. Workin' down't mine. 26 hours per day, living in't box in't middle o't road (continue ad nauseum)
1985 - 1996. Workin' up't mill. Dealin wit trouble at said mill.
1996 - Present. Extra in gritty British movies about young lads who are right ponces.
Likes:
Gardening.
Dislikes:
Devon.
Most people write in response to someone else's letter. This often ends up being either a war of attrition between two teams of ardent correspondents (see Bashing Gay Bashing, Hunting and the eternal Bible battles) or a good old fashioned stoning. These stonings are where one person stands up and airs a view that no doubt to them seems rational, but in the cold hard harshness of black ink aggrevates the entire E&E readership. The fool's letter then has to sustain a good weeks worth of pounding as people hurl letters deriding said fool's misinformed foray onto the letter page.
One recent example was the woman who complained when she had to pay 40p more to wash her 4x4 MPV. I think she genuinely thought she was going to get support behind her arguments that Tarquin needed the space afforded him by her 4mpg hummer.
For 10 days she was relentlessly hammered. It was like that bit in Spartacus when the guy says "I'm Spartacus", but noone else gets up and the criminal is dragged off to his grizzly and extended death. Great sport.
Tonight's featured letter is another dead cert for getting a good 3 columns of enraged bashing. Take it away, Mrs J E Oldroyd of The Cresent, Exmouth:
I AM DISAPPOINTED BY MY DEVON MOVE
(Uh-oh: you can already hear the tip-tap-tap of disgruntled letter writers)
I moved from Yorkshire to Exmouth last year, not really by choice, and I must say how very disappointed I am with the place.The seafront is dead, with just a few shops, swings for young ones and nothing for a child over six years old.
When you compare it to Yorkshire resorts, it beats me why anyone would want to come on holiday to a place like this.
I do not find the people very friendly at all.
They seem to look down on you as though you are something they have stepped on.
As for jobs, my friend has been unable to find work in Exmouth, although jobs have been applied for on an average of six a week, with no response coming from prospective employers.
At least in Yorkshire you do get a reply.
My friend is fit and able to work part-time or full-time. Why will employers not give a job now the season is in full swing?
Isn't there at least one sympathetic employer in Exmouth who will employ a hard-working man of 35 who likes gardening - or is it that they do not like Yorkshire people? I rest my case.
I fear that Mrs Oldroyd has made a basic error here of insulting the place where she lives and then giving both her name and a reasonable amout of her address. If they didn't like you before, they sure ain't going to now.
The "I rest my case" ending makes little, if any sense. Her case, I think, is that Exmouth makes a poor choice for holiday and place of residence. Her concluding argument to support this assertion is that employers in Devon maybe don't like people from Yorkshire.
Unfortunately for Mrs O, I have got my hands on her friend's CV and can assure her that it isn't the fact that he is from Yorkshire that he isn't being offered jobs. This was put in for a job at Alvin Palmer's Crazy Golf course.
Name: Stanley Thriplethwaite
DoB: 1972
Experience:
1974 - 1984. Workin' down't mine. 26 hours per day, living in't box in't middle o't road (continue ad nauseum)
1985 - 1996. Workin' up't mill. Dealin wit trouble at said mill.
1996 - Present. Extra in gritty British movies about young lads who are right ponces.
Likes:
Gardening.
Dislikes:
Devon.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
Crikey - It's a Posting!
Wow, 13th March. That was a long time ago. Doesn't bode well for post baby blogging, does it? Anyhow, I'm here now and that is what matters.
A few weeks ago we had our follow up scan, presenting us with our last sighting of the baby before it's arrival late September. It looks thus:
Tips for men and other people who can't make out scan pics: it's the head and upper torso.
Helen and I promised each other we wouldn't divulge the names we are considering for the baby, but I feel that I have let down my loyal reader with my long absence from blogging. So, as long as you don't tell Mrs P. I let you know, here are the fore-runners in the Name-A-Parsons Stakes.
Gary II "Son of Gary"
Uke
Ram-Man (I'm particularly keen on names featuring punctuation)
The horse group: Stallion, Mustang or Colt
Slack-jawed
Baron von
Another
Problem is there are sooo many great names, I don't know which to go for. It is tempting to give the child 4 names - one to be used for each season, or maybe a name for each month - I'll have to check up on the laws for that. Fear not though, I am taking the task of naming my firstborn very seriously...
And don't forget, all contributions welcome - each and everyone will enter the grand draw on September 22nd.
A few weeks ago we had our follow up scan, presenting us with our last sighting of the baby before it's arrival late September. It looks thus:
Tips for men and other people who can't make out scan pics: it's the head and upper torso.
Helen and I promised each other we wouldn't divulge the names we are considering for the baby, but I feel that I have let down my loyal reader with my long absence from blogging. So, as long as you don't tell Mrs P. I let you know, here are the fore-runners in the Name-A-Parsons Stakes.
Gary II "Son of Gary"
Uke
Ram-Man (I'm particularly keen on names featuring punctuation)
The horse group: Stallion, Mustang or Colt
Slack-jawed
Baron von
Another
Problem is there are sooo many great names, I don't know which to go for. It is tempting to give the child 4 names - one to be used for each season, or maybe a name for each month - I'll have to check up on the laws for that. Fear not though, I am taking the task of naming my firstborn very seriously...
And don't forget, all contributions welcome - each and everyone will enter the grand draw on September 22nd.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Sunday, March 04, 2007
At Least They Were From A Northern Culture
Phew. I've just finished ironing my shirts. Ironing is a reminder that man's advancements may have meant that he can travel to a big piece of rock thousands of kilometres away, develop communication technology that can bring friends on far off pieces of rock right into your bedroom or invent a hundred different ways to blow up big pieces of rock, but when it comes to getting creases out of cotton, we're only one step up from monkeys. Despite all of the patting of their humped backs that scientists do, the reason they can't sleep at night is that they know they have failed in man's ultimate quest. The making of iron-free fabric.
(Not iron-free as in not having to wear chain mail, as in not needing to be ironed. Oh you got that? Of course you did.)
I have shirts that say "Never Iron", "Ultimate Non-Iron", "Self-Ironing Super Fabric". All these signify is that it only takes me 20 minutes to iron them. If a shirt doesn't label itself as such, then it means that not only will it take me a Sunday morning to press the thing, but the moment I turn my back it will conspire to become more creased then an Origamist's napkin at a napkin folding contest. And having followed the recent NFC world championships, I can tell you that is freakin' creasy.
Anywho, tonight I return to the E&E and the strip club story. Wednesday night's paper was a bit of a classic, and I feel lucky to have picked it up considering how little time I have spent on it in recent months. Karma no doubt for my all round wholesome lifestyle and uncontrollable goodness and generosity. Aside from today's featured letter, page 3 held a gripping story worthy of Sherlock Holmes. Devon man Miles Hull allegedly stole a £10 note from his Aunt. "He spent up to two hours in her flat and during that time he went through the cupboards in the kitchen and found a £10 note." explained the prosecuting Mr Crabb. Miles was mean and unpleasant. The trial continues.
No wonder the police have to use toilets in MacDonald's to keep prisoners if this "crime" makes it to court. Why not stick Miles on a repayment scheme of 20p a week for a year and be done with it? I reckon there must be more to it - it sounds like one of those minor crimes that the police use to get a master criminal when they know none of the big stuff will stick. Perhaps Miles is really the kingpin in the big Exmouth halibut trafficking scene.
As I was saying the other evening, the main story that has drawn correspondents to the E&E letters page is the opening of a new strip club on the Quay. As to be expected, there is a load of people denouncing it as evil in its purest form. These people make Mary Whitehouse look like John Leslie's more debauched elder sister. People like Margaret Laing who "prays for the closure of the club." This will surely finally pin God down on how he feels about the whole stripping thing - let's give Him a year and if it's still going I think Margaret will have a sign that her Lord is with Peter Stringfellow. She also adds, insightfully:
"We are not dogs."
I can only assume she is thinking of lap dogs.
However, maybe surprisingly there is an equal number of people willing to defend the new establishment. These men unashamedly pronounce their feverant excitement about the coming club. It is also interesting that a more than usual number of these letters are posted, which would suggest these guys haven't discovered the internet where, I have been reliably informed, naked women can be found in not insignifcant numbers.
The toppermost of these letters was from Dave Robinson. The great orators have known how to pick a pertinent quote that cuts to the center of an argument, rendering their position stronger through the use of some past great's words. Dave knows this and brings to the table two lines that for me are the be-all and end-all of the strip club argument. So stand aside Churchill and M.L.K.:
Finally, I must object to the harsh criticism of the dancers themselves.
In the words of American rapper Wyclef Jean: "Just 'cuz she dances go-go, that don't make her a ho, no."
The girls are simply stunners, proud of their bodies and keeping fit in a profitable way.
I can't wait for the opening. I'll definitely be a regular.
Wyclef maybe gone - till November at least - but his words are still providing hope and strength to dirty young men everywhere.
(Not iron-free as in not having to wear chain mail, as in not needing to be ironed. Oh you got that? Of course you did.)
I have shirts that say "Never Iron", "Ultimate Non-Iron", "Self-Ironing Super Fabric". All these signify is that it only takes me 20 minutes to iron them. If a shirt doesn't label itself as such, then it means that not only will it take me a Sunday morning to press the thing, but the moment I turn my back it will conspire to become more creased then an Origamist's napkin at a napkin folding contest. And having followed the recent NFC world championships, I can tell you that is freakin' creasy.
Anywho, tonight I return to the E&E and the strip club story. Wednesday night's paper was a bit of a classic, and I feel lucky to have picked it up considering how little time I have spent on it in recent months. Karma no doubt for my all round wholesome lifestyle and uncontrollable goodness and generosity. Aside from today's featured letter, page 3 held a gripping story worthy of Sherlock Holmes. Devon man Miles Hull allegedly stole a £10 note from his Aunt. "He spent up to two hours in her flat and during that time he went through the cupboards in the kitchen and found a £10 note." explained the prosecuting Mr Crabb. Miles was mean and unpleasant. The trial continues.
No wonder the police have to use toilets in MacDonald's to keep prisoners if this "crime" makes it to court. Why not stick Miles on a repayment scheme of 20p a week for a year and be done with it? I reckon there must be more to it - it sounds like one of those minor crimes that the police use to get a master criminal when they know none of the big stuff will stick. Perhaps Miles is really the kingpin in the big Exmouth halibut trafficking scene.
As I was saying the other evening, the main story that has drawn correspondents to the E&E letters page is the opening of a new strip club on the Quay. As to be expected, there is a load of people denouncing it as evil in its purest form. These people make Mary Whitehouse look like John Leslie's more debauched elder sister. People like Margaret Laing who "prays for the closure of the club." This will surely finally pin God down on how he feels about the whole stripping thing - let's give Him a year and if it's still going I think Margaret will have a sign that her Lord is with Peter Stringfellow. She also adds, insightfully:
"We are not dogs."
I can only assume she is thinking of lap dogs.
However, maybe surprisingly there is an equal number of people willing to defend the new establishment. These men unashamedly pronounce their feverant excitement about the coming club. It is also interesting that a more than usual number of these letters are posted, which would suggest these guys haven't discovered the internet where, I have been reliably informed, naked women can be found in not insignifcant numbers.
The toppermost of these letters was from Dave Robinson. The great orators have known how to pick a pertinent quote that cuts to the center of an argument, rendering their position stronger through the use of some past great's words. Dave knows this and brings to the table two lines that for me are the be-all and end-all of the strip club argument. So stand aside Churchill and M.L.K.:
Finally, I must object to the harsh criticism of the dancers themselves.
In the words of American rapper Wyclef Jean: "Just 'cuz she dances go-go, that don't make her a ho, no."
The girls are simply stunners, proud of their bodies and keeping fit in a profitable way.
I can't wait for the opening. I'll definitely be a regular.
Wyclef maybe gone - till November at least - but his words are still providing hope and strength to dirty young men everywhere.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
At Least They Were From A Northern Culture
I haven't been reading the letters page of the E&E for a while, but there is no doubt on what the main topic of correspondence has been. Exeter is to get a new lap dancing club opening up on the Quay. Unsurprisingly there has been a feverant group of indignant moralists, bemoaning the fall in morals of society that allows the creation of such a place of debauchery within Exeter. It sounds like the city will be twinned with Sodom.
On the side of the anti-lap dance crew is the E&E itself, which ran a piece of slightly dodgy entrapment journalism. From what I could gather from the skim reading I did, the Echo sent a young female reporter to be interviewed as a dancer for the new club. She pretended to be a strapped for cash and desperate to earn some extra money. The Echo reported its shock that the girl was given tips on how to dodge tax and, horror of horrors, she was even told that the owners of the new nightclub could put her in touch with a massage parlour if she wanted to earn a bit more on the side.
The Echo was disgusted.
Thing is, if there was a girl looking for assistance getting into the world of massage, she might want to look in the classified pages of her local paper. Here - beside the ads for 18+ local flirts, bored divorced housewives and dark dusky ladies with adult interests and premium numbers - she will find Chinese Pink Girl, A1 Oriental and Platinum Massage, all of who might be able to offer advice on getting into the massage business. I wonder where a local paper willing to carry such ads could be found? Why in the outraged (but happy to take get money wherever they can) E&E, of course!
On the side of the anti-lap dance crew is the E&E itself, which ran a piece of slightly dodgy entrapment journalism. From what I could gather from the skim reading I did, the Echo sent a young female reporter to be interviewed as a dancer for the new club. She pretended to be a strapped for cash and desperate to earn some extra money. The Echo reported its shock that the girl was given tips on how to dodge tax and, horror of horrors, she was even told that the owners of the new nightclub could put her in touch with a massage parlour if she wanted to earn a bit more on the side.
The Echo was disgusted.
Thing is, if there was a girl looking for assistance getting into the world of massage, she might want to look in the classified pages of her local paper. Here - beside the ads for 18+ local flirts, bored divorced housewives and dark dusky ladies with adult interests and premium numbers - she will find Chinese Pink Girl, A1 Oriental and Platinum Massage, all of who might be able to offer advice on getting into the massage business. I wonder where a local paper willing to carry such ads could be found? Why in the outraged (but happy to take get money wherever they can) E&E, of course!
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Original Source
A wise rap artist once said “Television, the drug of the nation. Breeding ignorance and feeding radiation. Television.” I think it was John Barnes, but that’s not important. Television offers an alternative reality that is open to the Machiavellian and the propagandist, the devious and the Littlejohn. People who twist word and image into a funky flashing feast for the eyes, and we just sit and nod and accept. A recent statistic I made up shows that even with the intervention of the Super Mis-Information Highway, nearly 97.3% of our opinion is formed either directly or indirectly from the old gogglebox. Shocking, I think you’ll agree.
The main problem is that Television is just so damn authoritative. Sure, people spend a lot of time on the internet, but in terms of providing us with information that we believe in it is only one step up from the weird guy in Halwill pub with hair that looks like Einstein’s might of if it was more unkempt. Even when reading the most grounded, serious story from the most grounded, serious website, you still get the feeling that it probably stems from the mind of some IT employee with a strange sense of humour, a penchant for lying and time to fill between episodes of Columbo and Quincy, ME.
Television has no such problems. If television says something, we listen and accept. And the really clever thing is how T.V. uses context so that we don’t need to process the information at all. It is already bagged and tagged for us as good or bad. We don’t want programmes like Question Time that promote argument and various view points. Aarrgh. We want our opinions fully formed and edible in one easy bite, preferably dressed in a sultry voice.
TVs authoritative voice is why advertising works. If we were presented with a product in the form of a written document that gave it to us straight, we wouldn’t buy a tenth of the crap we do. KFC – over-farmed mutant chicken in fat. Cheese Strings – elastic non-dairy product with synthetic everything. HSBC – money grabbing morons who couldn’t even get my address right after 8 attempts of me literally s.p.e.l.l.i.n.g. it out for them. But if instead you give your product a load of flashing lights, some music or a half-baked ‘comedy’ script acted out by a stupid little girl in a stupid little frock, then the public are a million and two times more susceptible.
However, if you occasionally take a step back and actually listen to what you are being told, you say “W’aaaaAATT? aloud.
Example
Original Source shower gel advertises itself as using 9763 individual leaves of mint in every bottle of shower gel. Wow, the viewer’s unconscious says, Sounds good. I may pur-chase some on my next trip to Tesco. But if you stop and consider this selling statement, it really isn’t that great. It suggests wastefulness and inefficient material usage that no doubt requires the kind of intensive farming methods that that programme on BBC2 told me was a bad thing. Now I’m confused. Who do I trust: naked man in a field or Adrian Childs? And that is a question few of us want to consider.
The same thing was said by PG Tips in their ad for their tea. “We only use the top two leaves in our tea”, they smugly claimed. Excellent, said the viewer’s unconscious, And here I am drinking this shite like a muppet. But what about of the rest of the tea plant on PG Tips’ land? Burned and destroyed? Who cares, as long as only the top two leaves are making it into my mug, which I guess is what I always wanted, I just didn’t know it. It is basically the European’s rape of the buffalo happening all over again. Why can’t we be more like the Native American and use the whole of the beast, be it tea tree, shampoo bush or noodle coated sheep. (And if Pot Noodle steals this idea of a sheep with a coat of noodles - which they will - I will sue them for every last dehydrated penny they’ve got).
Yet despite these decidedly dodgy claims of productual greatness, the companies can work them into tools of selling, all thanks to television’s ability to dictate directly to our minds.
The main problem is that Television is just so damn authoritative. Sure, people spend a lot of time on the internet, but in terms of providing us with information that we believe in it is only one step up from the weird guy in Halwill pub with hair that looks like Einstein’s might of if it was more unkempt. Even when reading the most grounded, serious story from the most grounded, serious website, you still get the feeling that it probably stems from the mind of some IT employee with a strange sense of humour, a penchant for lying and time to fill between episodes of Columbo and Quincy, ME.
Television has no such problems. If television says something, we listen and accept. And the really clever thing is how T.V. uses context so that we don’t need to process the information at all. It is already bagged and tagged for us as good or bad. We don’t want programmes like Question Time that promote argument and various view points. Aarrgh. We want our opinions fully formed and edible in one easy bite, preferably dressed in a sultry voice.
TVs authoritative voice is why advertising works. If we were presented with a product in the form of a written document that gave it to us straight, we wouldn’t buy a tenth of the crap we do. KFC – over-farmed mutant chicken in fat. Cheese Strings – elastic non-dairy product with synthetic everything. HSBC – money grabbing morons who couldn’t even get my address right after 8 attempts of me literally s.p.e.l.l.i.n.g. it out for them. But if instead you give your product a load of flashing lights, some music or a half-baked ‘comedy’ script acted out by a stupid little girl in a stupid little frock, then the public are a million and two times more susceptible.
However, if you occasionally take a step back and actually listen to what you are being told, you say “W’aaaaAATT? aloud.
Example
Original Source shower gel advertises itself as using 9763 individual leaves of mint in every bottle of shower gel. Wow, the viewer’s unconscious says, Sounds good. I may pur-chase some on my next trip to Tesco. But if you stop and consider this selling statement, it really isn’t that great. It suggests wastefulness and inefficient material usage that no doubt requires the kind of intensive farming methods that that programme on BBC2 told me was a bad thing. Now I’m confused. Who do I trust: naked man in a field or Adrian Childs? And that is a question few of us want to consider.
The same thing was said by PG Tips in their ad for their tea. “We only use the top two leaves in our tea”, they smugly claimed. Excellent, said the viewer’s unconscious, And here I am drinking this shite like a muppet. But what about of the rest of the tea plant on PG Tips’ land? Burned and destroyed? Who cares, as long as only the top two leaves are making it into my mug, which I guess is what I always wanted, I just didn’t know it. It is basically the European’s rape of the buffalo happening all over again. Why can’t we be more like the Native American and use the whole of the beast, be it tea tree, shampoo bush or noodle coated sheep. (And if Pot Noodle steals this idea of a sheep with a coat of noodles - which they will - I will sue them for every last dehydrated penny they’ve got).
Yet despite these decidedly dodgy claims of productual greatness, the companies can work them into tools of selling, all thanks to television’s ability to dictate directly to our minds.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Pop Quiz
2 questions so that you can test how well you think you know me.
1. Who would I have to say is my favorite artist of all time? According to WMP I own 16 albums, 236 tracks or 17 hours, 8 minutes and 51 seconds of his/her/their music (Clue: It's not the Charlatans)
2. Who, apart from the delectable Mrs P., makes me say 'mmm' and nod gently?
Got your answers? Click here to find out if you're right!
1. Who would I have to say is my favorite artist of all time? According to WMP I own 16 albums, 236 tracks or 17 hours, 8 minutes and 51 seconds of his/her/their music (Clue: It's not the Charlatans)
2. Who, apart from the delectable Mrs P., makes me say 'mmm' and nod gently?
Got your answers? Click here to find out if you're right!
Monday, January 15, 2007
Tell Me Lies, Tell Me Sweet Little Lies
I like to lie. Not down, as in not telling the truth. I think it is both big and incredibly clever. Only this evening, I had much fun telling my good wife that I hadn’t purchased any chocolate covered confectionary for her down at the local food-store. Not only was it hi-larious, but it also made me look good when it turned out that in fact I had bought her some. I am a great husband.
(Product name change. Dime Bar = Daim Bar. WTF??)
Not everyone should be allowed to lie. I think it is reasonable to expect our doctors and teachers to retain a certain level of truth, at least when presenting the facts of their jobs. Other professions, such as mechanic or law academic*, have a much looser open relationship with the truth. Some occupations, such as being a punt tour guide on the river Cam, seem to have the telling of massive pork pies as a pre-requisite higher than the ability to use a big stick.
Advertising has a similar approach to the truth as that of politics. In an ideal world, the advertiser would freely lie about their product and there would be no comeback at all. A car company could say “Ah oui, this autocar changes into a big robot that can ice-skate, non?” Purveyors of disgusting foodstuffs could pretend that their dehydrated chemical mush was in fact mined by some ridiculous stereotypes. And pharmaceutical companies could pretend that through the use of sickly scented gas you can have any girl you like. Ahh chloroform, where would my love life have been without you?
Of course these are real, lying adverts. But the fact is they use advertising lies that no-one really believes are true. If an advert feels that there is a chance it might be accused of not telling the whole truth, then it resorts to using small print.
Small print is a method of saying something good loudly, whilst saying the truth quickly and quietly. Unfortunately it doesn’t work in conversation. If at the end of a first date you say something like “I had a great time tonight. We will really have to do this again. I will call you soon.” followed by the disclaimer “This is not a binding committal to us meeting or speaking again. ‘Great time’ is only relative to the last month of watching late night poker whilst eating citric flavoured pork scratchings and drinking Merrydown cider. Offer made on condition that my date with the captain of the local netball team goes badly and I am still desperately lonely. All subsequent meals must be paid for in accordance to personal consumption. Your first drink will be provided free, but all subsequent drinks must be purchased in a ‘rounds’ type system unless there is a clear chance of some sweet loving.” It just doesn’t work.
In written form, it obviously does work, and small print can often be found loitering around at the end of financial adverts or for things that are too good to be true. However, some adverts inexplicably seem to feel it is necessary to safeguard themselves against even the most dim-witted of persons. Like the Daily Mail, who felt its advert for a free Paul McKenna DVD needed the small type “This is not hypnotism” scrolling along the bottom. This leads me to believe that at some point the Mail was considering trying to hypnotise people through its advert and thus needed to reassure everyone, most of all itself.
Oral-B also uses ridiculous small print in the form of the word “Dramatisation” on their toothbrush ad. Does anyone really need to be told that the giant swinging bristles of the CGI brush that dislodges boulder-sized lumps of plaque, perhaps isn’t 100% how it happens? Maybe they are the same people who still need to be told that the camera behind the goal is showing the reverse angle. (Who are those fools? I know – Carlton Palmer).
Other small print is just amusing, like the warning for the Robert Altman film that it contains mild comic references to suicide. I’ve been trying to think how a reference to suicide can be both mild and comic, like a light-hearted anecdote told between the well-to-do, but it is beyond my capability.
Finally, I would like to turn my attention to the biggest liars of all. Gemini FM, Exeter tin-pot radio station. For the last few months they have been running an advert, or segue way between songs, where Idiot Man (for it is he), says things like:
“Gemini FM. The only place where you will hear Jamiriqui followed by Christina Aguillera.”
and
“Gemini FM. The only place where you will hear Razorlight followed by the Scissor Sisters.”
and
“Gemini FM. The only place where you will hear Eminem followed by the Chilli Peppers.”
It’s such a big lie, that it stoopifies me that they can say it. Every radio station that plays pop music plays those artists. Most of them have problem played them following each other. And this is where lying advertising goes too far. It is one thing to tell a small half-truth, or to use fanciful imagery to illustrate your point: it is another to take the truth, douse it in petrol, burn it with a blow torch before urinating on it and dancing on its sodden remains.
This advert needs small print. It needs big small print. It needs klaxons played before and after it, with 12 Gregorian monks chanting in two tone “Li - ar. Li - ar” throughout its duration. I sincerely hope all involved are damned for all eternity for their lies. Don't think I don't mean that**.
*Small Print: Some readers might take umbrage at this comment. Of course, I’m kidding. There are many fine mechanics who couldn’t lie if they’re favourite oily rag depended on it.
** Make that all eternity plus 1
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