Okay, so I didn't write, I slept. In my defence, I was sick, and hallucinating my socks off.
Erica was on the living room carpet this morning (in book form) and glared at me.
Also, Jonathan Safran Foer's novel, 'Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close' has reached the screen. Foer is the male counterpart to my Erica (as if I haven't stated this enough). I grow misty eyed at the idea of the two ever collaborating. But I digress. My favourite book, EVER, is out here on Friday. I'm terrified it won't live up to expectations, and equally terrified it will, and I'll just sit there crying for two hours. If you spot a girl, body strung across two seats, enclosed in a tissue nest, sobbing, do say hello.
I'm a bit miffed at the idea of people discovering the book via the film. He's been my little secret for years. I've given him to friends for birthdays, eagerly accumulated his back catalogue, introduced him as an unheard-of-wonder. But now he's out there, set adrift. It's good for him, of course. But for me, it feels like theft. Have I always been this possessive? Yes. It's like cupping something brilliant in your hands. Maybe because once most things start attracting a majority crowd, they are spoilt. Not that I should imagine the situation as millions of bodies descending down on Foer, crushing him. So go see the film, but don't go see it. Or read the book, but remember that it's mine. I'm glad we have an understanding.
I'd like to tell you about life without curtains. You become an unpaid stripper. You dart behind white doors, clutching a towel to your chest. By week three, you stop caring. Let them look, and you undress facing the road. This is what they have turned me into. Ladies and Gentlemen, I am at war, albeit so far a very polite one. We can't get the landlord to set us up with curtains, but we're not allowed to modify the property, without an agreement. So, for the foreseeable future, if you want a show (male and female), park outside my flat between the hours of 6-7am, and 10-11pm.
Showing posts with label Media. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Media. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Spending time with the Beeb.
Hello my Open University readers. I've been analysing my blog traffic recently and you keep popping up, apparently from a forum. It's not like I obsessively track my stats. It's not like I've created an account on the site to try and find the source, but wasn't allowed access, and had a cry.
What is nice, is that according to google, some people are typing in incredibly pornographic things, and being directed to my blog. I hadn't really looked at my blog as porn. But maybe it is. Maybe it's pure, unadulterated filth.
I feel like I ought to start living up to this distasteful reputation. Is that what you want from me? Well, I'll tell you now, I'm pure middle class, doing everything I can to keep my bland Nottingham accent. I was raised in cotton wool, with a dishwasher, and my own bedroom. You'll only find observations on knitting here, and the occasional PC, beige, socially acceptable commentary. We're not all fucking uncivilised.
Someone's eaten all my grape and lychee tic tacs. Was it you? I realise that most people wouldn't eat them, but someone has. And it was a jumbo pack.
Has anyone else noticed that Bill and Sian (from BBC morning news) have incredible on screen chemistry? If you don't watch the news in the morning, you should. It's wonderfully patronising. Stories are covered with just the right amount of fake sorrow, and theatrical dramatics. Everything is the most tragic thing that's every happened. Every loss, is a great loss. All dead people were previously lovely. Thrown into the mix, Bill says inappropriate things, the stats guy talks about his wife drinking before the school run, and Sian desperately tries to make it all okay. It goes very well with breakfast, you should try it.
What is nice, is that according to google, some people are typing in incredibly pornographic things, and being directed to my blog. I hadn't really looked at my blog as porn. But maybe it is. Maybe it's pure, unadulterated filth.
I feel like I ought to start living up to this distasteful reputation. Is that what you want from me? Well, I'll tell you now, I'm pure middle class, doing everything I can to keep my bland Nottingham accent. I was raised in cotton wool, with a dishwasher, and my own bedroom. You'll only find observations on knitting here, and the occasional PC, beige, socially acceptable commentary. We're not all fucking uncivilised.
Someone's eaten all my grape and lychee tic tacs. Was it you? I realise that most people wouldn't eat them, but someone has. And it was a jumbo pack.
Has anyone else noticed that Bill and Sian (from BBC morning news) have incredible on screen chemistry? If you don't watch the news in the morning, you should. It's wonderfully patronising. Stories are covered with just the right amount of fake sorrow, and theatrical dramatics. Everything is the most tragic thing that's every happened. Every loss, is a great loss. All dead people were previously lovely. Thrown into the mix, Bill says inappropriate things, the stats guy talks about his wife drinking before the school run, and Sian desperately tries to make it all okay. It goes very well with breakfast, you should try it.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
You have mail
This morning I took a wander up to toilets, never previously encountered. And on the back of the door was this sign: 'Please do not keep putting unsuitable items in the sanitary bins, i.e. fruit peel, coffee cups, sandwiches.' I love that. I love the idea of someone sitting on the toilet eating a tangerine. How brilliantly random. An office worker with a mocha between their feet, a banana wedged in their mouth, and a three cheese sandwich. It's not like there aren't bins in the bathroom and througout the building. Are toilet cubicles the new place to dine? Are we that desperate for a little alone time?
Perhaps someone has a vendetta against the cleaner. 'I shall constantly perplex them. This week, I will choose lego bricks, a light bulb, and three grapes.'
I am very pleased to inform you that I've had a reply, thus, the war rages on:
Perhaps someone has a vendetta against the cleaner. 'I shall constantly perplex them. This week, I will choose lego bricks, a light bulb, and three grapes.'
I am very pleased to inform you that I've had a reply, thus, the war rages on:
From: Innes, Moira
Sent: 16 May 2011 12:28
To: 'theminorkey@hotmail.co.uk'
Subject: billboard
Sent: 16 May 2011 12:28
To: 'theminorkey@hotmail.co.uk'
Subject: billboard
hello Gemma
Thank you for your e-mail regarding Matt Darbyshire’s billboard. It is always interesting to get feedback.
Placing art in the public realm where it is chanced upon as opposed the deliberate act of visiting a gallery alters the context and viewers experience. As with any art work, the artist has a clear intention and concept but knows that the work will be received in a variety of different ways depending on the viewers’ individual experiences. Arguably this is more the case when the work is placed in such a public situation where for the majority, the viewing is incidental to their reason to be in the station.
Matt’s intentions are multi-fold and combine various interests and concerns including the design and look of the ‘ experience economy’ where the spheres of culture, health and retail all promise to enhance and transform our lives. What is presented is a composite image of his personal views on the hard-hitting public health campaigns and the fluffy advertising of the time and relates to a project he undertook at the MIro Foundation in Barcelona. The opportunity of presenting the work as a billboard returns the idea to the appropriate context of mass advertisements.
I feel it is valuable that everyone is at liberty to embrace or dismiss the work and for me the fact that you have thought about the image and content is what is important . I don’t expect everyone of the thousands that see it to spend time contemplating its merits but trust that many will have left asking questions.
best
moira
Moira Innes
Director
Leeds Met Gallery & Studio Theatre
G12 Northern Terrace
Leeds Metropolitan University
Leeds
LS2 8AG
I can't resist. It's not like I can read that, and go on living my life, doing nothing.
Hi Moira,
Thank you for taking the time to reply, it is much appreciated.
I completely agree with you that the idea of art we 'encounter' is a fantastic way to experience something different, and not confined to a gallery environment. I do however believe it's a shame that something a little more obvious/influential could not be in it's place, considering the volume and variety of commuters who see it everyday. Unfortunately the only question I have heard asked regarding this work is, 'What does it mean?' I feel that it is a real shame that the artist has set forth with such thought out principles, only to ultimately confuse the public. Have you had much response to this billboard, acknowledging, or lining up with the artists intentions? I am all for art which teaches me something, surprises me, alters or challenges my perspective, amongst many other effects, but have only felt frustrated thus far.
Do you happen to know the source of funding for this project? I only ask, because the station itself is unable to run remotely to schedule at the best of times, and I find myself wondering if the money could be a little more appropriately spent. I'm sure a lot of people's lives have been improved by looking at a playful puppy, but I'd just like to get home on time more often.
Thank you for taking the time to reply, it is much appreciated.
I completely agree with you that the idea of art we 'encounter' is a fantastic way to experience something different, and not confined to a gallery environment. I do however believe it's a shame that something a little more obvious/influential could not be in it's place, considering the volume and variety of commuters who see it everyday. Unfortunately the only question I have heard asked regarding this work is, 'What does it mean?' I feel that it is a real shame that the artist has set forth with such thought out principles, only to ultimately confuse the public. Have you had much response to this billboard, acknowledging, or lining up with the artists intentions? I am all for art which teaches me something, surprises me, alters or challenges my perspective, amongst many other effects, but have only felt frustrated thus far.
Do you happen to know the source of funding for this project? I only ask, because the station itself is unable to run remotely to schedule at the best of times, and I find myself wondering if the money could be a little more appropriately spent. I'm sure a lot of people's lives have been improved by looking at a playful puppy, but I'd just like to get home on time more often.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Or the puppy gets it!
I would like to apologise to the woman in the train station that I 'took out.' One minute I was happily walking along to the exit, and the next minute I was trying to run her over. This is all because someone shouted 'Free!' and held up something shiny. Normally I tut at people like me, who run over, salivating, palms together. But my inner Magpie, and greedy cake smeared little child, wanted it. I would have it! I didn't care how many people had to die, as I brashly ignored the unspoken code of giving way to oncoming traffic if turning right. It was worth it. The chicken cup-a-soup was mine.
And it was full of chickeny goodness.
People have killed for less than this.
Also, is there any legislation to protect toilets against what office workers are doing to them? I have beheld some horrific scenes recently, where the lavatory has been what I can only call 'destoyed.' Are there companies who will come in to lecture nine to fivers on their diet? Why aren't the culprits in A and E? What's happening in their bodies is vicious, it's monstrous. The poor cleaner lives in the ground floor toilets. She's always in there. It's a constant battle. This is exactly the kind of crime they had in mind when the electric chair was first out forward as an option.
Fry them, fry them all.
It's incredibly distressing. It makes me feel sick. And then I have to go throw up over a toilet.
I was considering letting the billboard situation go. But then I read this on the Leeds Metropolitan Website:
"The day-glo paint bombs work not only with the wording of the caption but as compulsory post-millennial icing, masking the drab 1980s corporate, colourless ad language of cutesy animals and black retro fonts with tokenistic, upbeat, candy-coloured social appeal. With an eye on the techniques employed by art/Aids activists of the 1980s such as Barbara Kruger and Group Material, Darbyshire combines slogans from the hard-hitting Eighties HIV public health campaign posters with the innocuous, familiar toilet tissue adverts also from that period. While these issue-based adverts created widespread fear at the time, Aids is still a global pandemic and alongside noting a worrying return to the politics of the Eighties here in the UK, Darbyshire asks whether we have in fact regressed in our fight against HIV/Aids too."
Who wrote this? And why are they still allowed to inhale oxygen?
And it was full of chickeny goodness.
People have killed for less than this.
Also, is there any legislation to protect toilets against what office workers are doing to them? I have beheld some horrific scenes recently, where the lavatory has been what I can only call 'destoyed.' Are there companies who will come in to lecture nine to fivers on their diet? Why aren't the culprits in A and E? What's happening in their bodies is vicious, it's monstrous. The poor cleaner lives in the ground floor toilets. She's always in there. It's a constant battle. This is exactly the kind of crime they had in mind when the electric chair was first out forward as an option.
Fry them, fry them all.
It's incredibly distressing. It makes me feel sick. And then I have to go throw up over a toilet.
I was considering letting the billboard situation go. But then I read this on the Leeds Metropolitan Website:
"The day-glo paint bombs work not only with the wording of the caption but as compulsory post-millennial icing, masking the drab 1980s corporate, colourless ad language of cutesy animals and black retro fonts with tokenistic, upbeat, candy-coloured social appeal. With an eye on the techniques employed by art/Aids activists of the 1980s such as Barbara Kruger and Group Material, Darbyshire combines slogans from the hard-hitting Eighties HIV public health campaign posters with the innocuous, familiar toilet tissue adverts also from that period. While these issue-based adverts created widespread fear at the time, Aids is still a global pandemic and alongside noting a worrying return to the politics of the Eighties here in the UK, Darbyshire asks whether we have in fact regressed in our fight against HIV/Aids too."
Who wrote this? And why are they still allowed to inhale oxygen?
Matthew Darbyshire | Untitled Billboard (Leeds Station)
To gallerytheatre@leedsmet.ac.uk
| From: | Gemma Rutter (theminorkey@hotmail.co.uk) |
| Sent: | 12 May 2011 12:41:19 |
Hello,
As a regular commuter through Leeds Train Station, I was very curious when I first spotted this billboard. I have recently discovered the reason for it, and the supposed political statement that the artist is making.
Could you please let me know if you believe that anyone, whether they be educated in the arts, a professional, or Joe Bloggs, would be able to interpret a puppy covered and surrounded by paint as a comment on Aids campaigns in the 80's and our current lax attitude?
I like to think of myself as having a rather average IQ, but am unable to draw anything from this billboard which remotely resembles the artists intention.
Any clarity you could provide would be much appreciated. Also if you could let me know the exact date that it would be removed, and the source of the funding for the project, that would be fantastic.
Kind Regards,
Gemma Rutter
The worlds smallest violin
I could never find anything in my bottomless handbag, so I decided to buy one with many, many sections. Now, I still can't find anything, there are just more possible places it could be.
The main activity of my weekend was purchasing a wooden contraption to sit all the herb jars in. They don't fit. Shall I kill myself now, or wait a bit?
In other, more pressing news, the BBC have drawn our attention to a few groundbreaking findings. Thank God, that someone has thought to ask the questions that need asking. 99% of policeman, in perhaps the most urgent survey ever to exist, believe that government cut backs will have a detrimental effect on crime, and even, public services. I'm just relieved that our dwindling funds are being pumped into the most deprived areas. Perhaps someone could ask the police about their opinions on Marmite, and whether or not they would describe the holocaust as 'regrettable.'
My life was also threatened today, when, as I was blowing my nose, Ginger Beard said, 'You know, doing that significantly increases your chances of having a stroke." So, for all those out there, noses happily buried in Kleenex, release them now. Drip, people, drip! And while you're at it, drink one glass of red wine a day, wait no, drinking is bad for your health, exercise, but not too much, save the animals, but don't fall behind on your iron intake, water the flowers, but don't contribute towards a hose pipe ban, look stunning, but be happy in your own, inadequate skin.
Alright, so I'm having a bad day. Luckily, as I rounded the corner of the station, that yappy, tail wagging son-of-a-bitch puppy was still very firmly there. And no, they haven't had the decency to reply to my reasonable email. Shall I send them another one? I want to send them another thirty-four, different emails in different colours, and different fonts. And then they'll reply. And then I'll say, 'Just wanted to share the joy of being pestered by something pointless camouflaged as something worth sharing, like the billboard' HA HA HA.
I'll sleep on it.
The main activity of my weekend was purchasing a wooden contraption to sit all the herb jars in. They don't fit. Shall I kill myself now, or wait a bit?
In other, more pressing news, the BBC have drawn our attention to a few groundbreaking findings. Thank God, that someone has thought to ask the questions that need asking. 99% of policeman, in perhaps the most urgent survey ever to exist, believe that government cut backs will have a detrimental effect on crime, and even, public services. I'm just relieved that our dwindling funds are being pumped into the most deprived areas. Perhaps someone could ask the police about their opinions on Marmite, and whether or not they would describe the holocaust as 'regrettable.'
My life was also threatened today, when, as I was blowing my nose, Ginger Beard said, 'You know, doing that significantly increases your chances of having a stroke." So, for all those out there, noses happily buried in Kleenex, release them now. Drip, people, drip! And while you're at it, drink one glass of red wine a day, wait no, drinking is bad for your health, exercise, but not too much, save the animals, but don't fall behind on your iron intake, water the flowers, but don't contribute towards a hose pipe ban, look stunning, but be happy in your own, inadequate skin.
Alright, so I'm having a bad day. Luckily, as I rounded the corner of the station, that yappy, tail wagging son-of-a-bitch puppy was still very firmly there. And no, they haven't had the decency to reply to my reasonable email. Shall I send them another one? I want to send them another thirty-four, different emails in different colours, and different fonts. And then they'll reply. And then I'll say, 'Just wanted to share the joy of being pestered by something pointless camouflaged as something worth sharing, like the billboard' HA HA HA.
I'll sleep on it.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
We took her breath away.
Hey, so, if you go for a drive with your left wing mirror pushed in, turns out, it's okay as long as you never turn left. It is odd however that I didn't notice, if we agree that you're supposed to use them, and they're not (as I like to think of them) the cars ears. In my defence, the wing mirror ended up in this state because, thanks to Ginger Beard's experimental, diagonal parking, it was necessary to save its life.
What do you get if you cross a packed train carriage, with a bitter National Rail employee, and a women with Claustrophobia? A really uncomfortable, yet somewhat entertaining journey. I am experiencing some wondrous sights on these good ol' reliable trains. The panicking lady in question did a bit of river dancing between the door and the platform, before deciding to face her fear. She then proceeded to turn white, squeeze her eyes shut and gulp oxygen, whilst at the same time unintentionally hugging a stranger's belly.
Luckily she had the background noise of the blue-shirted train man, who decided it was an apt moment to vent his frustration at those nameless bastards. Firstly, they'd provided him with a toy train this morning, instead of a real one, which explained our suffocating confinement. Then they were making him pay for his uniform because he kept splitting his trousers. He asked us if we knew what time we were supposed to arrive, and which platform. What else could he do, when faced, elbowed, and lovingly squashed by the enemy - forty pissed off, morning breath, would it hurt you to suck on a polo, commuters? He made the right decision. And it's the only reason he is still alive.
Does anyone know how to look after an Orchid? If I can keep this Orchid safe for six months, I'm allowed to have a pet. Unfortunately I have killed/neglected approximately seven other house plants. Any advice would be much appreciated, as I would like to get a dog like Lassie, that can alert friends and family when I have fallen down a well.
My wise colleague, Hayley Crinnion, has put forth the theory that the billboard (you know, that small, justifiable piece of modern art STILL living in Leeds Train Station) is actually a threat to the puppy itself. This is a feasible possibility, that while we sit and ponder the unlikely, arrogant public reason provided for the billboard, a puppy, somewhere, is totally fucked if he makes a mess with the paint again.
I will be composing an email to the artist/establishment in order to complain about its existence, and will keep you updated with my progress.
What do you get if you cross a packed train carriage, with a bitter National Rail employee, and a women with Claustrophobia? A really uncomfortable, yet somewhat entertaining journey. I am experiencing some wondrous sights on these good ol' reliable trains. The panicking lady in question did a bit of river dancing between the door and the platform, before deciding to face her fear. She then proceeded to turn white, squeeze her eyes shut and gulp oxygen, whilst at the same time unintentionally hugging a stranger's belly.
Luckily she had the background noise of the blue-shirted train man, who decided it was an apt moment to vent his frustration at those nameless bastards. Firstly, they'd provided him with a toy train this morning, instead of a real one, which explained our suffocating confinement. Then they were making him pay for his uniform because he kept splitting his trousers. He asked us if we knew what time we were supposed to arrive, and which platform. What else could he do, when faced, elbowed, and lovingly squashed by the enemy - forty pissed off, morning breath, would it hurt you to suck on a polo, commuters? He made the right decision. And it's the only reason he is still alive.
Does anyone know how to look after an Orchid? If I can keep this Orchid safe for six months, I'm allowed to have a pet. Unfortunately I have killed/neglected approximately seven other house plants. Any advice would be much appreciated, as I would like to get a dog like Lassie, that can alert friends and family when I have fallen down a well.
My wise colleague, Hayley Crinnion, has put forth the theory that the billboard (you know, that small, justifiable piece of modern art STILL living in Leeds Train Station) is actually a threat to the puppy itself. This is a feasible possibility, that while we sit and ponder the unlikely, arrogant public reason provided for the billboard, a puppy, somewhere, is totally fucked if he makes a mess with the paint again.
I will be composing an email to the artist/establishment in order to complain about its existence, and will keep you updated with my progress.
Thursday, May 05, 2011
Click Happy
Hey kids, how goes it?
I'm having a delightful time of life recently. The cream of the crop has to be yesterday's incident. I'm sat at my desk at work, suddenly overcome by a curiosity to see where all of my blog traffic is coming from. It turns out slagging off that puppy has drawn me much Google support. I also have a stronghold in Germany. I can only presume this is because of my German ancestry, which must be evident in my writing style.
There are also a few sources coming in from websites. I clicked on them. Someone's doing a research paper on colour. I'm flattered. It is true that my life is very colourful, mostly black, but black is very in right now. And then there's this one link. This one, inoffensive, innocent link. You know what fills my screen, at work, surrounded by colleagues, eating my tuna sandwich? Hmm? PORN. Lots and lots of animated porn, and women with their legs open, and their breasts bouncing. I said 'Shit!' loudly, alerting all to the issue at hand. And promptly shut the bitch down. I haven't spoken about it. No one has spoken about it.
I like to think that my blog is a kind of literotica for people, and listed on their site as an alternative to the visual. I guess the angst and frustration I channel here could be pleasuring the nation. Very likely. Go me. I am going to edit these posts, and sell the book to Ann Summers. Coming to a shop near you.
Also, notice the link, that puppy is still fricking there. I have written documentation that restricts the lifespan of that billboard to April. It's May now, why is it allowed to live? I have nothing against dogs per say, but it needs to be destroyed. Every time I look at it this happens, 'How does this represent aids in the 80's? It's so pretentious. I hate you. And I hate this commute. And I hate this sardine shuffle to the exit. Stupid dog. Stupid painted dog.' I don't think I can go through these emotions every morning for the next month.
I also don't think it's too dramatic of us to gel together in our outrage, and burn it. Would anyone like to help? Remember that even a few, small people, can change the world for the better. Also, let me know if you have the following items which I can borrow:
Flamethrower
Massive Ladder
Fire proof suit and headgear
Exemption from arrest
Keys to station
Thank you in advance.
I'm having a delightful time of life recently. The cream of the crop has to be yesterday's incident. I'm sat at my desk at work, suddenly overcome by a curiosity to see where all of my blog traffic is coming from. It turns out slagging off that puppy has drawn me much Google support. I also have a stronghold in Germany. I can only presume this is because of my German ancestry, which must be evident in my writing style.
There are also a few sources coming in from websites. I clicked on them. Someone's doing a research paper on colour. I'm flattered. It is true that my life is very colourful, mostly black, but black is very in right now. And then there's this one link. This one, inoffensive, innocent link. You know what fills my screen, at work, surrounded by colleagues, eating my tuna sandwich? Hmm? PORN. Lots and lots of animated porn, and women with their legs open, and their breasts bouncing. I said 'Shit!' loudly, alerting all to the issue at hand. And promptly shut the bitch down. I haven't spoken about it. No one has spoken about it.
I like to think that my blog is a kind of literotica for people, and listed on their site as an alternative to the visual. I guess the angst and frustration I channel here could be pleasuring the nation. Very likely. Go me. I am going to edit these posts, and sell the book to Ann Summers. Coming to a shop near you.
Also, notice the link, that puppy is still fricking there. I have written documentation that restricts the lifespan of that billboard to April. It's May now, why is it allowed to live? I have nothing against dogs per say, but it needs to be destroyed. Every time I look at it this happens, 'How does this represent aids in the 80's? It's so pretentious. I hate you. And I hate this commute. And I hate this sardine shuffle to the exit. Stupid dog. Stupid painted dog.' I don't think I can go through these emotions every morning for the next month.
I also don't think it's too dramatic of us to gel together in our outrage, and burn it. Would anyone like to help? Remember that even a few, small people, can change the world for the better. Also, let me know if you have the following items which I can borrow:
Flamethrower
Massive Ladder
Fire proof suit and headgear
Exemption from arrest
Keys to station
Thank you in advance.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
For Ian Nelson
Alas, I have discovered the reason for this mysterious train station advertising! Was it afterall trying to persuade us to have fun with Dulux? Was the little Andrex Puppy a victim at paintballing? What can we learn from this? Well, obviously it's about foolish innocence over HIV in the 80's. OBVIOUSLY. No, I mean it. That's actually it.
Matthew Darbyshire - Billboard Projects
"You might not have spotted The Billboard Project at Leeds Train Station, now on its fourth and final ‘ad’. It’s played host to a cycle of work by artists each granted access to its large scale presence and the collossal passing trade of commuters. Matthew Darbyshire has pasted up something emotionally evocative, involving the lovable Andrex puppy and a slogan harking back to the 80’s youth culture, evoking the style of HIV campaigns engineered to snap people out of foolish innocence. Darbyshire’s work also points to a concern that the politics of the 80’s is creeping back into the UK. The presentness of the billboard in Leeds Station in all its candy-coloured sweetness says the fight is not over."
It's so God damn emotionally evocative.
I hope that you discover this blog Ian, so that your mind can finally be at rest.
But I want to vandalise it even more.
Monday, March 21, 2011
As seen on screen
Okay, I was going to do some editing. I really was. But a dog ate my editing utensils. Who would've thought that the ridiculous lies which we generated as children would come to be so true and applicable in our adult lives. Those frigging dogs.
Also, because there is a natural link between the two, I can't stop yelling at adverts. I keep finding myself, fingers curls into fists, red in the face, swearing at the patronising, marketing ploys that they are. I'm sick of being accused as stupid by my own television. I think I'd be happy with a teleprompter which simply read 'product', 'price', 'possible reason for purchase.' So that you're happily munching away on your cereal as you read, 'Activia yoghurts, pretty extortionate considering how cheap they are to make/£2.57 for 6, For women who want to attempt more regular bowel movements.' Done. Dusted. Happy as that obscure reference of a man called Larry.
But what we do get, what the men and women in over tight jackets, inhaling coffee and bullshit do give us, is a series of simplistic analogies, which really have no bearing upon either the product itself, or its use in our lives, as Sarah from Liverpool jumps up and down on her bouncy castle/bank account with joy. Cue reality, us fuming outside Natwest, because like Royal Mail, they only exist at the most inconvenient of hours when no one really needs them.
Or the car that instantly means we can afford that luxurious mini break, and the elusive status we always wanted, and that model-esque girlfriend. From a Vauxhall Corsa hatchback. (All the more persuasive for the beautiful weather and the lyrics, 'What a nice day for a drive in the city.' Nothing better when the sun's out, stuck in traffic in a hot car.
Constantly force-fed make-believe, unattainable versions of life for morons, the equivalent of a man with a hovering fork of spaghetti making 'choo choo' noises as he zones in on your mouth. Well, you know where you can shove that spaghetti mate.
And don't even get me started on 'Icer, Icer baby.' I had to buy myself a present in order to get over the sheer horror of that advert, a 6 pack of Activia yoghurts.
Also, because there is a natural link between the two, I can't stop yelling at adverts. I keep finding myself, fingers curls into fists, red in the face, swearing at the patronising, marketing ploys that they are. I'm sick of being accused as stupid by my own television. I think I'd be happy with a teleprompter which simply read 'product', 'price', 'possible reason for purchase.' So that you're happily munching away on your cereal as you read, 'Activia yoghurts, pretty extortionate considering how cheap they are to make/£2.57 for 6, For women who want to attempt more regular bowel movements.' Done. Dusted. Happy as that obscure reference of a man called Larry.
But what we do get, what the men and women in over tight jackets, inhaling coffee and bullshit do give us, is a series of simplistic analogies, which really have no bearing upon either the product itself, or its use in our lives, as Sarah from Liverpool jumps up and down on her bouncy castle/bank account with joy. Cue reality, us fuming outside Natwest, because like Royal Mail, they only exist at the most inconvenient of hours when no one really needs them.
Or the car that instantly means we can afford that luxurious mini break, and the elusive status we always wanted, and that model-esque girlfriend. From a Vauxhall Corsa hatchback. (All the more persuasive for the beautiful weather and the lyrics, 'What a nice day for a drive in the city.' Nothing better when the sun's out, stuck in traffic in a hot car.
Constantly force-fed make-believe, unattainable versions of life for morons, the equivalent of a man with a hovering fork of spaghetti making 'choo choo' noises as he zones in on your mouth. Well, you know where you can shove that spaghetti mate.
And don't even get me started on 'Icer, Icer baby.' I had to buy myself a present in order to get over the sheer horror of that advert, a 6 pack of Activia yoghurts.
Tuesday, February 08, 2011
Sell yourself!
Glamour magazine will give you £500 if you can argue (more than the other desperate people) why you need the money. I do love an invitation to come across all pathetic. You have 50 words in which to instigate tears and a monetary pay off. If, like me, you find yourself on the very verge of poverty, eating kiwi fruit in place of meals, traipsing around in your battered converse, prying 2p coins off the pavement outside McDonalds, then drop them a line. To lie or not the lie? I guess the real questions is, is the truth tragic enough already? Well yes, indeed it is.
Dear Glamour people,
One of my friends is persistently hitting in me in the face. It's happy slapping with one victim. On Sunday, he hit me after we ate fish pie. The first time, he hit me and then gave me chocolate. Although I appreciate that these incidents are taking place either with the promise of food, or straight after the ingestion of it, I can't help but fear for my life. When, named attacker and Ginger Beard were crouched down looking at DVDs in blockbusters, my nice friend Sarah asked me if I liked dominoes. She then pushed one into the other and they toppled over. Then he hit me. I would like £500 for protective head gear, and possibly (should the amount stretch) to a chainsaw (it doesn't have to be a fantastic chainsaw, I only require it to work once.)
Or, you know, instead of the money, maybe A JOB. CAN YOU GIVE ME A JOB PLEASE? I CAN BE MILDLY FUNNY (IF PAID). I’M NOT BEGGING, IT’S JUST THAT I’LL TAKE MY OWN LIFE IF IGNORED.
Cheers,
WriterAtLunch
Dear Glamour people,
One of my friends is persistently hitting in me in the face. It's happy slapping with one victim. On Sunday, he hit me after we ate fish pie. The first time, he hit me and then gave me chocolate. Although I appreciate that these incidents are taking place either with the promise of food, or straight after the ingestion of it, I can't help but fear for my life. When, named attacker and Ginger Beard were crouched down looking at DVDs in blockbusters, my nice friend Sarah asked me if I liked dominoes. She then pushed one into the other and they toppled over. Then he hit me. I would like £500 for protective head gear, and possibly (should the amount stretch) to a chainsaw (it doesn't have to be a fantastic chainsaw, I only require it to work once.)
Or, you know, instead of the money, maybe A JOB. CAN YOU GIVE ME A JOB PLEASE? I CAN BE MILDLY FUNNY (IF PAID). I’M NOT BEGGING, IT’S JUST THAT I’LL TAKE MY OWN LIFE IF IGNORED.
Cheers,
WriterAtLunch
Thursday, December 23, 2010
It's the frickin, freakin, floopin, Christmas blog!!!!!
And here it is folks - the widely anticipated Christmas blog. I say widely, but even my parents don't read this. I say anticipated, but it's more like something uninvited which sneaks up on you, an eyelash on your cornea.
I realised today that Christmas was almost upon us, as I welcomed the familiar joys of returning home. First spotting someone I never wanted to see again in Morrisons, and towering behind a tower of Kleenex boxes, edging the trolley out like a semi-automatic. Hundreds of people with plastic buckets trying to wrestle the change from my pockets. My mother speaking to strangers about the contents of their baskets for no apparent reason. Running into your Uncle's, son's, friend's, grandmother's next door neighbour and having a long, awkward, sickly conversation about the weather:
"Isn't it cold?"
"It is cold."
"I was just thinking this morning, I don't believe I've ever been this cold."
"Exactly. I mean, can it actually get any colder?"
"No, I don't think it can. It's already too cold, impossibly cold."
"We're used to cold, but not this cold."
"It's like, my head is warm, but my face is always so cold."
"For me it's the feet. My toes are very cold."
"Anyway, I must dash. I'm getting cold standing here."
Well, yeah, thanks for that. Good to know. Just go inside, put on your central heating, and never leave your house again. No one will notice.
Also, all those films are on. Uncle Buck, Shrek, Narnia. I have to stop whatever important task I was about to launch myself upon, like making a sandwich, and watch them. From the beginning, to the end. Then I note it's on again tomorrow, and I think, yes, yes I shall watch it then as well. It's a vicious circle of pain.
Most importantly, my Samsung Galaxy S has arrived and is currently residing in an old ankle sock. Please stop whinging about the blank texts, and the repeated texts and the half finished texts. I no longer understand technology. I am old. Quite frankly the thing baffles me. I have decided to use it as a rather fetching doorstop and will buy a Nokia 3210.
Have a drunken Christmas all, and I will write to you, with equally fascinating stories in the New Year
WriterAtLunch xxxxxxx
I realised today that Christmas was almost upon us, as I welcomed the familiar joys of returning home. First spotting someone I never wanted to see again in Morrisons, and towering behind a tower of Kleenex boxes, edging the trolley out like a semi-automatic. Hundreds of people with plastic buckets trying to wrestle the change from my pockets. My mother speaking to strangers about the contents of their baskets for no apparent reason. Running into your Uncle's, son's, friend's, grandmother's next door neighbour and having a long, awkward, sickly conversation about the weather:
"Isn't it cold?"
"It is cold."
"I was just thinking this morning, I don't believe I've ever been this cold."
"Exactly. I mean, can it actually get any colder?"
"No, I don't think it can. It's already too cold, impossibly cold."
"We're used to cold, but not this cold."
"It's like, my head is warm, but my face is always so cold."
"For me it's the feet. My toes are very cold."
"Anyway, I must dash. I'm getting cold standing here."
Well, yeah, thanks for that. Good to know. Just go inside, put on your central heating, and never leave your house again. No one will notice.
Also, all those films are on. Uncle Buck, Shrek, Narnia. I have to stop whatever important task I was about to launch myself upon, like making a sandwich, and watch them. From the beginning, to the end. Then I note it's on again tomorrow, and I think, yes, yes I shall watch it then as well. It's a vicious circle of pain.
Most importantly, my Samsung Galaxy S has arrived and is currently residing in an old ankle sock. Please stop whinging about the blank texts, and the repeated texts and the half finished texts. I no longer understand technology. I am old. Quite frankly the thing baffles me. I have decided to use it as a rather fetching doorstop and will buy a Nokia 3210.
Have a drunken Christmas all, and I will write to you, with equally fascinating stories in the New Year
WriterAtLunch xxxxxxx
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