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?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)