Listen up, Mudpuddlees, this is important. I have come to a shocking realisation over the weekend. I have realised that I have not fulfilled my destiny, my ultimate dream. I am not, yet, an Olympic gold medallist. Now, bear with me, I have good reasons for feeling this is my dream and destiny, I am just too shy to share them with you at this stage.
This begs the quesion, in which disciplines will I concentrate my efforts in order to secure Gold at the London Olympics in a mere 2 years from now? The obvious choice would have been cricket, the one sporting activity at which I have a degree of skill. Two problems exist with this choice however. I do not have quite enough skill (one would think) and cricket is not an Olympic sport. Hmmmmm, this is already proving a tiring quest.
With even my most optimistic hat on, I fancy I would struggle at running events, given that the last time I tried to race someone over 200 metres, I had to stop after about 40 with a pounding heart and dizzy spells. This does not sound like the sort of physique or condition that will pull off a shock over Usain Bolt or one of the other champions. For similar reasons of lack of conditioning I am ruling out endurance equipment events like rowing or cycling and their many derivatives.
I could look at swimming or diving as an option. Certainly it's a good excuse to go for that kinky silky smooth look, match the body to the head and all. Actually, my baldness might be the trick that gets me over the line - look at Duncan Goodhew. There is a minor problem with both of these though, I can't really swim well and I am afraid of going out of my depth in water. Diving in 5 foot of water is (I am led to believe) foolish in the extreme and I have checked and the Olympics committees will not allow water wings or a float in competition. Blast.
The same lack of buoyancy rules out the sailing events, not worth drowing in the Channel for a Gold after all. I am a wide-eyed dreamer, I never said I was brave. Horses? Can't really have two enormous beasts between my legs ;)! We are starting to run short of options here - I think we have to rule out anything involving water, physical exertion and the like as I will be 40 come the games and therefore not in the most prime condition of an admittedly fairly laid back (literally) history of non-exercise. We can therefore also discount badminton and tennis.
What I really require is a discipline that the older gentleman can compete in on equal terms which does not require excessive fitness. I believe, therefore, that it is my destiny to become Olympic gold medallist in Archery, or possible a gun shooting discipline - clay pigeon looks a whizzo laugh but the pistol is lighter and probably less tiring. Two of the items on this year's lists therefore are pne of those competition bows and a sporting pistol to allow me to start practising. I have even compensated for the only weakness I can think of which is my appallngly bad eyesight. Also on the list for this year is laser eye surgery!
So, there we have it - planning for my Olympic glory by asking for the right presents. What's that? The fourth item? Ah, yes, just in case there is a lucky contestant who damns me with a Silver, a set of bowls. They don't have those in the Olympics, but they do in the Commonwealth and they are way easier to strike gold in. Plus I can play that until I am extremely dessicated. Thanks in advance as ever for your generosity....
Sunday, 10 October 2010
Saturday, 9 October 2010
A Night Of A Thousand Daves
Dangerous as it is, I have spent a lot of my two weeks leave in contemplation. In other words, I have come down with a bad dose of the introspection infection. Fortunately, writing about it would appear to be the right antedote (as well as the right anecdote), so I guess that worked out fairly well. In particular, I have been giving some thought to which of the many Daves you might know. Yes, I realise the irony of someone who suffers from a mental illness writing about multiple personalities, but I mean which part of me it is that you know, or even better, which parts.
You may know quick-witted Dave. I admit to having a relatively sharp and quick mind, and the cheek to use it as a weapon of mass mirth. I like to make people laugh, laughter is comfortable, an audible acceptance of your presence, a confirmation of your value to the gathering. You may or may not know of course, that it is also a very effective shield, an outer shell, protection.
Perhaps you know windmill Dave, the lanky opening bowler with the strange action who week in and out would bowl 12 overs straight through and puff his way through 20 fags (not touched them for 4 years now!), half the time frustrated the batsman can't find the edge, and the rest of the time pretending the long hop that took the wicket was 'all part of the plan'. I'd hesitate to suggest you know his accomplice, slogger Dave. Sadly he usually spent too little time at the crease to make his mark, or indeed take guard.
You could be one of the fairer sex and have some intimate knowledge of Romeo Dave. If so, lucky you! In love, I am changed, aren't we all? Being part of a unique sort of team, a duo, it is a remarkable state to be in, and it is a place I have visited on occasion. It has always been to my benefit, although just afterwards it is sometimes too raw to realise that, but even I (everyDave) notice the difference in myself. If you know Romeo Dave, you have a rare advantage over other Dave collectors, and somewhere I carry a warmth that is the memory of those times when we were aflame.
Then there is irresponsible Dave. Why have one pint when you can have ten? Why go to lectures when you can lay in bed watching countdown on your black and white telly? Why listen to reason when it is far more fun to push the limits? I have a daft streak as long as you like and I find it very hard to resist the most ridiculous, unlikely, risky or silly option. I'm willing to bet a number of you know this part of me, but far fewer the sullen and regretful me, wishing he had just once taken the safe option.
There are so many others that I would not have a hope of naming them all here - from poet Dave who takes comfort in the beauty of language to political Dave with his set in stone views (none of which are as set in stone as he would have you believe). There is dreamer Dave, mind wandering into fantasies he'll never realise to the me that is always there and will always listen. My point is, if you are reading this, the likelihood is that you know one, some or many Daves, and the more of them you know, the less surprising each new addition you come across. I just hope you are happy with the collection you have, because I know them all and as EveryDave it really does matter to me that you are. You might even know a Dave that I had almost forgotten about, it's always nice to remember the Daves that were.
You may know quick-witted Dave. I admit to having a relatively sharp and quick mind, and the cheek to use it as a weapon of mass mirth. I like to make people laugh, laughter is comfortable, an audible acceptance of your presence, a confirmation of your value to the gathering. You may or may not know of course, that it is also a very effective shield, an outer shell, protection.
Perhaps you know windmill Dave, the lanky opening bowler with the strange action who week in and out would bowl 12 overs straight through and puff his way through 20 fags (not touched them for 4 years now!), half the time frustrated the batsman can't find the edge, and the rest of the time pretending the long hop that took the wicket was 'all part of the plan'. I'd hesitate to suggest you know his accomplice, slogger Dave. Sadly he usually spent too little time at the crease to make his mark, or indeed take guard.
You could be one of the fairer sex and have some intimate knowledge of Romeo Dave. If so, lucky you! In love, I am changed, aren't we all? Being part of a unique sort of team, a duo, it is a remarkable state to be in, and it is a place I have visited on occasion. It has always been to my benefit, although just afterwards it is sometimes too raw to realise that, but even I (everyDave) notice the difference in myself. If you know Romeo Dave, you have a rare advantage over other Dave collectors, and somewhere I carry a warmth that is the memory of those times when we were aflame.
Then there is irresponsible Dave. Why have one pint when you can have ten? Why go to lectures when you can lay in bed watching countdown on your black and white telly? Why listen to reason when it is far more fun to push the limits? I have a daft streak as long as you like and I find it very hard to resist the most ridiculous, unlikely, risky or silly option. I'm willing to bet a number of you know this part of me, but far fewer the sullen and regretful me, wishing he had just once taken the safe option.
There are so many others that I would not have a hope of naming them all here - from poet Dave who takes comfort in the beauty of language to political Dave with his set in stone views (none of which are as set in stone as he would have you believe). There is dreamer Dave, mind wandering into fantasies he'll never realise to the me that is always there and will always listen. My point is, if you are reading this, the likelihood is that you know one, some or many Daves, and the more of them you know, the less surprising each new addition you come across. I just hope you are happy with the collection you have, because I know them all and as EveryDave it really does matter to me that you are. You might even know a Dave that I had almost forgotten about, it's always nice to remember the Daves that were.
Thursday, 7 October 2010
I want a word with the chef
The other day I was busily preparing some supper for myself and I have to say I was having a whale of a time. It led me to think about when it was that cooking went from being a chore to something I truly love doing, a hobby as well as an essential part of life.
It was not always something I enjoyed, or indeed had the remotest skill in. During childhood I never really got into it as a fun thing to do, although I do recall 'helping' on occasion (generally only on times when some spoon and bowl-licking would be involved). Indeed, I think I was into my teens before I learned how to boil a kettle and make hot drinks (note to self - learned? or was given permission to use said dangerous item?), not as easy as it sounds as the kettle was a stove topper from memory. At university I survived on a diet of kit kats and ready salted crisps with occasional visits to the canteen between liquid intakes, so even here I did not really utilise much cuisinery. For anyone who knew me in those halcyon days, I dimly recall drunken misadventures with omelettes, Smash mashed potato and cubes of steak the Dog would have turned its nose up at. In my defence, I was and remain, a legend.
After University and twixt periods of pampering at the parental home, I rented/shared. Now, as any of my sharers will tell you (this means you, Tacon) I was not threatening to break into the world of TV cheffery then either - I had learned Cooking 101: basic vegetable boiling, and could do pasket pasta 'n sauce like a pro. Indeed, one such packet pasta and some washed and prepped Sainsbury salad alongside some leftover chicken from a Mum roast got me into the exes good books. Not exactly Delia-esque though. I did, however, become the 'go to' guy for a fry up the morning after the night before. This, I think, was where the love of cooking actually began. Around the same time I also picked up the interesting habit of sleeping in the communal kitchen of a friend I would visit still at Reading Uni (that's you, S Bear, if you read this :D) - bizarre, but seems tenuously relevant.
Fast forward to the purchase of the chateau and life chez moi is all about the cooking. From perfecting Moules recipes to cooking myself into curry heaven, baking soda bread, cakes, casseroles, roasting game, I want to do it all. It's not just the cooking, it's how I use what I have in the eternal quest to fill one belly and one belly alone that gets me excited. I am just not sure when it became such a wonderful way to spend my time. I think it may have been when I gave up on following recipes slavishly. Once you know how to 'do' things, you can work it all out for yourself. It's my supper, I should put what I want in it, after all! Living on my own probably helps too, if something doesn't work, I am the only one that suffers for it. I do cook for others, too, of course.
So, that's where I am, in love with cooking from nowhere, entirely self-taught and, I should add, a cuisine maverick. I really wish I had discovered it as a passion sooner, and done something with it, but, to be fair, I'll settle for a belly full of the good stuff when I want it.
It was not always something I enjoyed, or indeed had the remotest skill in. During childhood I never really got into it as a fun thing to do, although I do recall 'helping' on occasion (generally only on times when some spoon and bowl-licking would be involved). Indeed, I think I was into my teens before I learned how to boil a kettle and make hot drinks (note to self - learned? or was given permission to use said dangerous item?), not as easy as it sounds as the kettle was a stove topper from memory. At university I survived on a diet of kit kats and ready salted crisps with occasional visits to the canteen between liquid intakes, so even here I did not really utilise much cuisinery. For anyone who knew me in those halcyon days, I dimly recall drunken misadventures with omelettes, Smash mashed potato and cubes of steak the Dog would have turned its nose up at. In my defence, I was and remain, a legend.
After University and twixt periods of pampering at the parental home, I rented/shared. Now, as any of my sharers will tell you (this means you, Tacon) I was not threatening to break into the world of TV cheffery then either - I had learned Cooking 101: basic vegetable boiling, and could do pasket pasta 'n sauce like a pro. Indeed, one such packet pasta and some washed and prepped Sainsbury salad alongside some leftover chicken from a Mum roast got me into the exes good books. Not exactly Delia-esque though. I did, however, become the 'go to' guy for a fry up the morning after the night before. This, I think, was where the love of cooking actually began. Around the same time I also picked up the interesting habit of sleeping in the communal kitchen of a friend I would visit still at Reading Uni (that's you, S Bear, if you read this :D) - bizarre, but seems tenuously relevant.
Fast forward to the purchase of the chateau and life chez moi is all about the cooking. From perfecting Moules recipes to cooking myself into curry heaven, baking soda bread, cakes, casseroles, roasting game, I want to do it all. It's not just the cooking, it's how I use what I have in the eternal quest to fill one belly and one belly alone that gets me excited. I am just not sure when it became such a wonderful way to spend my time. I think it may have been when I gave up on following recipes slavishly. Once you know how to 'do' things, you can work it all out for yourself. It's my supper, I should put what I want in it, after all! Living on my own probably helps too, if something doesn't work, I am the only one that suffers for it. I do cook for others, too, of course.
So, that's where I am, in love with cooking from nowhere, entirely self-taught and, I should add, a cuisine maverick. I really wish I had discovered it as a passion sooner, and done something with it, but, to be fair, I'll settle for a belly full of the good stuff when I want it.
Tuesday, 5 October 2010
Familiarity
The past year has been a fair emotional roller-coaster for me and I found I have had periods of reflection on a rather lengthier and perhaps deeper basis than some of those helter-skelter, no-time-to-breathe years that have gone before it.
In particular, I think a lot about those people that have come into my life from outside, that is to say without the bonds of family, but have become inportant to me as friends, comrades or even as lovers. Why is it that from some people you crave more? More time, more meetings, more love, more moments - some people you simply have not had enough of in one chance meeting, whereas others will come and go, pleasant, but not memorable enough to you to imprint themselves onto you.
I have come to the conclusion that everyone who remains in your life does so because they have a hook which happens to latch on to you very readily and easily. There is at least one thing (and often many) about them that you instantly associate with them on thinking of them which you identify with them alone and as a comfort to want 'more'. Now this is hardly earth-shattering insight into the nature of human relationships, but that is not the point. The point is, I have had time to think about the people in my life and understand a little better why they are there.
For example, I recently met up with some friends from University whom I haven't seen in a decade and a half. It was a very pleasant evening, and I particularly thought to myself how there was no real awkwardness or 'estrangement' there. Of course, our respective lives have gone off in very different directions and with different goals and priorities, but at the heart of it all, all those little indicators that kept these people as friends all that time ago were still there - from the bizarre like the way a pool cue is held to the way words and phrases are spoken. I like the way these guys do those things, it feels comfortable and familiar and brings to mind misadventures of long ago. Enjoyable misadventures.
People who do not remain leave no imprint. There is nothing about the way they do things that gels with you. It is neither their, nor your fault, they just can't latch on to you, and so you will never be close to them. When I have fallen in love, it was never about the way someone looks - that just means you want to sweet talk them in the first place. No, the things that make you fall in love are a whole suite of familiarities and comforts. I like the way you breathe when you sleep, I like how you brush toast crumbs from your chin. I like how you flash with anger.
Why am I posting about this today? Because I am feeling reflective, because I love my friends very much and I don't tell them that enough and because I feel the need to tell people more often WHY I love them. So if you know me, and I happen to mention how I like the way you bob your head when you are talking, take it as it is meant, as a confirmation of why I love you.
In particular, I think a lot about those people that have come into my life from outside, that is to say without the bonds of family, but have become inportant to me as friends, comrades or even as lovers. Why is it that from some people you crave more? More time, more meetings, more love, more moments - some people you simply have not had enough of in one chance meeting, whereas others will come and go, pleasant, but not memorable enough to you to imprint themselves onto you.
I have come to the conclusion that everyone who remains in your life does so because they have a hook which happens to latch on to you very readily and easily. There is at least one thing (and often many) about them that you instantly associate with them on thinking of them which you identify with them alone and as a comfort to want 'more'. Now this is hardly earth-shattering insight into the nature of human relationships, but that is not the point. The point is, I have had time to think about the people in my life and understand a little better why they are there.
For example, I recently met up with some friends from University whom I haven't seen in a decade and a half. It was a very pleasant evening, and I particularly thought to myself how there was no real awkwardness or 'estrangement' there. Of course, our respective lives have gone off in very different directions and with different goals and priorities, but at the heart of it all, all those little indicators that kept these people as friends all that time ago were still there - from the bizarre like the way a pool cue is held to the way words and phrases are spoken. I like the way these guys do those things, it feels comfortable and familiar and brings to mind misadventures of long ago. Enjoyable misadventures.
People who do not remain leave no imprint. There is nothing about the way they do things that gels with you. It is neither their, nor your fault, they just can't latch on to you, and so you will never be close to them. When I have fallen in love, it was never about the way someone looks - that just means you want to sweet talk them in the first place. No, the things that make you fall in love are a whole suite of familiarities and comforts. I like the way you breathe when you sleep, I like how you brush toast crumbs from your chin. I like how you flash with anger.
Why am I posting about this today? Because I am feeling reflective, because I love my friends very much and I don't tell them that enough and because I feel the need to tell people more often WHY I love them. So if you know me, and I happen to mention how I like the way you bob your head when you are talking, take it as it is meant, as a confirmation of why I love you.
Saturday, 2 October 2010
Let down and hanging around
I have lived for nearly 39 years and, much as it may shock, not everything I have encountered in that time has impressed me. Indeed, truth be told, some things have left me downright cold. I don't know what possesses me to speak of failure this evening, perhaps the lacklustre European performace thus far in the Ryder Cup, or the pitiful remnants in my vegetable garden slowly rotting away into winter. Maybe I am just a grumpy wumpy (with thanks to Lulu Bear from Bananas in Pyjamas). It is of no matter, the decision is made and tonight I will showcase things which are not all that, the suckiest of the succubuses, the dross of the ages. A place in HTML eternity wherein the damned can find a home. The trashcan.... you get the idea.
The sound system of the Sinclair ZX Spectrum 48K - Now, to be fair, a command in BASIC called 'Beep' was never likely to set the world alight, but the Beep command was not even particularly basic, or user friendly. You had to specify two numbers, separated by a comma, one indicating pitch and the other duration. There was no standard muscial notation to number guide. On one occasion I spent half a day programming 'In The Bleak Midwinter' via trial and error only to be greeted by what amounted to a single cat with it's delicates caught in a Bulldog's teeth. If Sir Clive Sinclair's music be the food of love, play off!
The Ghost Train - As a child I was terrified of the whole concept of the ghost train and refused to be taken on to such a fearful thing. I was convinced that real ghosts and demons were hidden in that netherworld behind the doors - the frightening face painted on indicated that it was so. When I was finally convinced that I would be quite safe and that my father would accompany me so nothing bad could poissibly happen, I plucked up the courage to ride into Hell itself. Within two minutes, an easily frightened, slightly deluded young boy found the whole concept of fear risible. Thanks a lot Ghost Train, you numbed me to fear of the exquisite horrors of this world.
Reality TV - Every single bit of it is drivel. There are no exceptions to this rule. If reality is a series of faded celebrities slightly out of their comfort zone, members of the public who can sing in tune or juggle a bit and the lining on Simon Cowell's pockets as he dehumanises us all further and creates a vacuum where once went talent then I look forward to the remainder of my days in boggle-eyed escapism locked in the prism of my own mind. Reality TV, get a grip people, get a damn grip!
Costa Del Sol - There are simply no words to describe the awfulness of the Costa Del Sol. There is no expression grim enough to capture the hollow banality of holidaying in this accursed place. It is hot and crowded and you can get egg and chips there, or all day fried breakfasts. It is a motorway service station with sunshine and an excess of violent drunks, syphillic lotharios and shaggamuffins. If we bring back Transportation, I would have criminals sent there. Well, the ones that didn't flee there in the 70s anyway. Ugh, just ugh.
Telling people your degree is in Philosophy - No, this does not mean I can tell you 'what's life all about then hey?'. I am also aware, painfully, of the limitations it has for employment purposes. I do not need you to observe that it's not much use in the real world. I do not point out that your partner would be of no use in a beauty contest or that your children are a quite a bit thicker than other children their age, I expect the same respect for my life. I worked hard for that degree. OK, that is not strictly true, I did very little work and got drunk using the taxpayer funded student grant available at the time rather a lot. This isn't about that, though, it's about YOU and your shoddy attitude to my degree. So there!
Hangovers - Possibly the most convincing evidence not only of God, but of one who loves to rip the piss. I mean, OK, drinking leads you into mischief a lot of the time, but does the punishment really meet the crime? And what's the deal with them getting worse the older I get and on much less alcohol?! I am much more reserved and sensible these days and yet I suffer on what appears to be an exponential curve of hangoverage. It is most unfair.
The sound system of the Sinclair ZX Spectrum 48K - Now, to be fair, a command in BASIC called 'Beep' was never likely to set the world alight, but the Beep command was not even particularly basic, or user friendly. You had to specify two numbers, separated by a comma, one indicating pitch and the other duration. There was no standard muscial notation to number guide. On one occasion I spent half a day programming 'In The Bleak Midwinter' via trial and error only to be greeted by what amounted to a single cat with it's delicates caught in a Bulldog's teeth. If Sir Clive Sinclair's music be the food of love, play off!
The Ghost Train - As a child I was terrified of the whole concept of the ghost train and refused to be taken on to such a fearful thing. I was convinced that real ghosts and demons were hidden in that netherworld behind the doors - the frightening face painted on indicated that it was so. When I was finally convinced that I would be quite safe and that my father would accompany me so nothing bad could poissibly happen, I plucked up the courage to ride into Hell itself. Within two minutes, an easily frightened, slightly deluded young boy found the whole concept of fear risible. Thanks a lot Ghost Train, you numbed me to fear of the exquisite horrors of this world.
Reality TV - Every single bit of it is drivel. There are no exceptions to this rule. If reality is a series of faded celebrities slightly out of their comfort zone, members of the public who can sing in tune or juggle a bit and the lining on Simon Cowell's pockets as he dehumanises us all further and creates a vacuum where once went talent then I look forward to the remainder of my days in boggle-eyed escapism locked in the prism of my own mind. Reality TV, get a grip people, get a damn grip!
Costa Del Sol - There are simply no words to describe the awfulness of the Costa Del Sol. There is no expression grim enough to capture the hollow banality of holidaying in this accursed place. It is hot and crowded and you can get egg and chips there, or all day fried breakfasts. It is a motorway service station with sunshine and an excess of violent drunks, syphillic lotharios and shaggamuffins. If we bring back Transportation, I would have criminals sent there. Well, the ones that didn't flee there in the 70s anyway. Ugh, just ugh.
Telling people your degree is in Philosophy - No, this does not mean I can tell you 'what's life all about then hey?'. I am also aware, painfully, of the limitations it has for employment purposes. I do not need you to observe that it's not much use in the real world. I do not point out that your partner would be of no use in a beauty contest or that your children are a quite a bit thicker than other children their age, I expect the same respect for my life. I worked hard for that degree. OK, that is not strictly true, I did very little work and got drunk using the taxpayer funded student grant available at the time rather a lot. This isn't about that, though, it's about YOU and your shoddy attitude to my degree. So there!
Hangovers - Possibly the most convincing evidence not only of God, but of one who loves to rip the piss. I mean, OK, drinking leads you into mischief a lot of the time, but does the punishment really meet the crime? And what's the deal with them getting worse the older I get and on much less alcohol?! I am much more reserved and sensible these days and yet I suffer on what appears to be an exponential curve of hangoverage. It is most unfair.
Thursday, 30 September 2010
The world's most inappropriate ad agency.
Welcome to the dynamic world of Out Of Order Adverts. Our aim is to increase your profit margin by appealing to the lowest common denominator and basest instincts of your proto-human client bases. To achieve this, we propose to find new, exciting and offensive ways of poking your product directly into the eyes of the audience, possibly coated in salt or a harsh abrasive. Below are a selection of innovative ideas that our crack team of crack heads advertising gurus have come up with, and if you are interested in our services, we will send a man in a gorilla suit to discuss this further at your convenience. Do not feed him. Seriously.
Danny Baker and the washing powder challenge - Danny Baker goes to the doorstep of random housewives and punches them in the face, repeatedly then chases them around the garden for an hour throwing a variety of breakfast and dinner dishes at them. Danny will then prove your powder really can tackle blood, sweat, gravy and eggs.
Alcocopops campaign - We propose to plagiarise the concept of Coco the monkey (he lives in the jungle, not in a zoo you know) and have him inform young adolescents of the joys of alcopops - this will be a slightly more grown up Coco (complete with wicked trainers and a generally crap attitude) who will probably still appeal to younger children, however we don't really care, and nor does Coco, you gotta start boozin' some time.
Gordon Brown advertises Twiglets - Former PM and all round idiot Gordon Brown will march along a line up of sweet old ladies and declare before each one 'You're a bigot' - at the end of the line he will come across a a Twiglet and do that rictus grin thing before declaring 'and you're a Twiglet!' Tagline - know your Twiglets from your bigots.
John Terry's The Smell of Cuckolds - John Terry launches a new fragrance for men called the Smell of Cuckolds and is shown in the bedroom of a man spraying himself with the Eau De Cologne doing his wife from behind whilst she wears his Chelsea shirt.
The inverse coffee campaign - A new take on the will they won't they coffee ads of the past. Our unattractive couple will refuse to drink your brand and over a number of months and years the campaign will show how their lives disintegrate in graphic and sometimes frightening detail. Tagline 'Losers don't drink xxxxxx'
Danny Baker and the washing powder challenge - Danny Baker goes to the doorstep of random housewives and punches them in the face, repeatedly then chases them around the garden for an hour throwing a variety of breakfast and dinner dishes at them. Danny will then prove your powder really can tackle blood, sweat, gravy and eggs.
Alcocopops campaign - We propose to plagiarise the concept of Coco the monkey (he lives in the jungle, not in a zoo you know) and have him inform young adolescents of the joys of alcopops - this will be a slightly more grown up Coco (complete with wicked trainers and a generally crap attitude) who will probably still appeal to younger children, however we don't really care, and nor does Coco, you gotta start boozin' some time.
Gordon Brown advertises Twiglets - Former PM and all round idiot Gordon Brown will march along a line up of sweet old ladies and declare before each one 'You're a bigot' - at the end of the line he will come across a a Twiglet and do that rictus grin thing before declaring 'and you're a Twiglet!' Tagline - know your Twiglets from your bigots.
John Terry's The Smell of Cuckolds - John Terry launches a new fragrance for men called the Smell of Cuckolds and is shown in the bedroom of a man spraying himself with the Eau De Cologne doing his wife from behind whilst she wears his Chelsea shirt.
The inverse coffee campaign - A new take on the will they won't they coffee ads of the past. Our unattractive couple will refuse to drink your brand and over a number of months and years the campaign will show how their lives disintegrate in graphic and sometimes frightening detail. Tagline 'Losers don't drink xxxxxx'
Monday, 27 September 2010
Management Speak
Having spent some time in the Blue Sky world of management, I feel it my solemn duty to impart what knowledge I can of the curious language which has embedded itself into the lexicon of man management. I see this as an organic task, to which individualised generics can be added. That said, this potato is burning my fingers, so I must proceed, with dispatch, to the glossary of terms and their true meaning which I hope you find of use.
Put that on the back burner - your idea is crap, it will die and be forgotten and you can forget any thoughts of a pay rise or promotion whilst I am your boss.
More bang for your buck - the only thing that matters is profit. Trample on who you need to, destroy hopes, lives and loves in the interest of ££££££££ gain.
Firstly let me say thank you for your interest in this position - yeah, you haven't got the job.
Let's retrofit that solution to our existing portfoilo - For God's sake help me cover my arse.
Let me worry about approval, you concentrate on the mechanics - Let me take all the credit, you concentrate on doing all the work.
It's been a challenging year - I am getting a bonus, none of you are. Some of you are getting P45s though.
I have to think of our client base - This idea does not appear to further my career or line my pocket in any way.
I've carefully considered everything you have had to say on this - And ignored it.
Our customers want one stop service - Keep the unwashed masses out of my hair or you're for it.
Work smarter - I am going to lay a few people off.
Go back to what we do best - I am going to lay a lot of people off.
You had a tough start to the year - I decided you were not getting a bonus this year in February.
Use the secrets wisely my friends.
Put that on the back burner - your idea is crap, it will die and be forgotten and you can forget any thoughts of a pay rise or promotion whilst I am your boss.
More bang for your buck - the only thing that matters is profit. Trample on who you need to, destroy hopes, lives and loves in the interest of ££££££££ gain.
Firstly let me say thank you for your interest in this position - yeah, you haven't got the job.
Let's retrofit that solution to our existing portfoilo - For God's sake help me cover my arse.
Let me worry about approval, you concentrate on the mechanics - Let me take all the credit, you concentrate on doing all the work.
It's been a challenging year - I am getting a bonus, none of you are. Some of you are getting P45s though.
I have to think of our client base - This idea does not appear to further my career or line my pocket in any way.
I've carefully considered everything you have had to say on this - And ignored it.
Our customers want one stop service - Keep the unwashed masses out of my hair or you're for it.
Work smarter - I am going to lay a few people off.
Go back to what we do best - I am going to lay a lot of people off.
You had a tough start to the year - I decided you were not getting a bonus this year in February.
Use the secrets wisely my friends.
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