Despite being responsible for one of the worst ads of 2008 (which still sometimes crops up on the telly), some of Specsavers' more recent ones have been weirdly good. 30-second TV ads are a good format for cheap visual gags if married to the right product. This one earned a belly laugh from that most critical viewer, Mrs Chimps.
8 a.m. and I’m at the GP’s. You can only book for appointments on the day you need to see the doctor. My usual tactic is to arrive as the surgery opens and grab an 8.05 appointment before the hordes of desperadoes ringing the surgery claim the early slots.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes. I’d like the earliest possible appointment with any doctor, please.”
“I’m afraid we’re only accepting telephone appointments sir.”
“But I’m right here.”
“Sorry, but we can only make an appointment if you phone us.”
I take five steps back, take out my mobile and ring the surgery.
The receptionist right in front of me picks up the phone.
“Titsup Surgery. How can I help you?”
“Hello. I’d like the earliest possible appointment with any doctor, please.”
“Can you be here by 8.10?”
“Definitely.”
“And what’s your name sir?”
“Mister F N Chimps.”
“And the nature of the appointment?”
“Illness, with a variable probability of death, dependent upon my current blood pressure.”
“Oh, er, OK. So you’ll be here at 8.10?”
“Yes, hold on a minute while I get a pen and write that down.”
I step forward to the receptionist and whisper to her (because she has the phone handset to her ear). “Can I borrow your pen please?” She mouths “OK” and hands me a biro.
“Hello, I have a pen. What time am I supposed to be there again?”
“8.10 Mister Chimps, but you only have a few minutes to get here now.”
“I’ll be there. I’m just writing the time down on my hand so I don’t forget. See you in a minute. Oh, and by the way – thanks for the pen.”
I return the pen.
On the grounds that LBC is a commercial radio station that depends on advertising revenues, and on the even more tenuous grounds of this blog being about media monitoring, I present an example of a radio presenter firing off a rant that can physically harm or even kill children. And just in case there is any doubt about where I'm coming from, I am bloody furious.
The benefits of child vaccines are attacked from two sides. One argument is that they can cause autism, a dangerous delusion which has thankfully been blown out of the water. The other argument is that innoculations like MMR are pointless because kids need to be exposed to these illnesses to make them stronger.
The media flurry exists on both sides of the pond. In the USA, Jenny McCarthy campaigns against innoculations. In the UK, we had apparently put this argument to bed and are trying to tidy the mess of the MMR scare ("Health watchdog reports sharp increase in childhood measles").
When my chimplets were due their innoculations my GP explained that the diseases were potentially more dangerous than the unproven risk of the innoculations. With the medical evidence that measles can kill on one hand, and no evidence that MMR causes harm (note: the plural of "anecdote" is not "evidence") on the other, I was under no illusions that the jabs were absolutely necessary.
Jeni Barnett owns one of those daytime TV faces that's bolted to a "personality" of which I had no opinion, until now. This broadcasting drone has seen fit to fire off her anecdote-based opinions against vaccination. What's unexpectedly amusing is that Dr Ben Goldacre (author of one of the best science books I've read in years) decided to post Ms Barnett's rant on his website, and is being hit with legal threats for shining a light on her daft outburst.
There's a strange wind blowing through British celeb media at the moment, with lynch mobs after Jonathan Ross, Russell Brand, Carol Thatcher and Jeremy Clarkson for referring or talking to people in an insulting manner. What Barnett has said is far, far worse because of its potential to encourage gullible or ill-informed parents to make a decision that they may well regret later.
Here's a copy of Dr Goldacre's post which has been removed, with the "illegal" sound file. Here's Jeni Barnett's woeful reaction on her blog. And here's #1 science blogger Prof. PZ Myers' take on the stupidfest.
**Edit** Dr Goldacre sets the record straight
Them glass trinkets - you know, the ones in our old shop in Blackpool - can't shift the buggers. Five artfully arranged glass cats in the store window. The old ladies love 'em, but the credit crunch means their biggest luxury now is cheap toffee from Aldi. Thing is, there's eight more boxes of them round the back.
Brainwave! Call them "crystal". Give the collection a fancy name. Old ladies like card games. No, not Whist, you idiot. Something classy.
And if you squint, really hard, the cats look like big glass willies. Holy shit, the ad writes itself! Find a hot chick! Legs akimbo. A visual Playing With Pussy joke. Dildos are posh now, upper middle-class and the like. I bet that Keira bird has one.
Sorted!
See also:
Old ladies’ stuff - part 9
Old ladies’ stuff - part 8
Old ladies’ stuff - part 7
Old ladies’ stuff - part 6
Old ladies’ stuff - part 5
Old ladies’ stuff - part 4
Old ladies’ stuff - part 3
Old ladies’ stuff - part 2
Old ladies’ stuff - part 1
Clients, eh? Always doing stuff that bodges up all that hard work invested in their advertising.
In this case, one of Britain’s favourite institutions, the granny magnet otherwise known as the Post Office, is falling victim to market forces that are causing the closure of even more branches.
POs are seen as vital hubs of town life. Rural areas are hardest hit because their branches are costlier to run.
Sadly, the PO’s incumbent agency is running a cosy campaign showing twee 1970s-style sitcom characters running just the sort of cute little branch that’s getting the chop. Fading celebs drop in, Harold drops his cup of tea onto his fundamentals and Mavis’ little dog does a whoopsy on the carpet. OK, I made the last two bits up but you get the picture.
Forget the market-winning geegaws that the PO is pushing through the ads. You can sell gold-plated, gem-encrusted broadband modems at 20p a pop and insurance policies that guarantee your late aunt’s resurrection. But all of that will be ignored because, as the PO seems to have forgotten, it’s service that people want, not products.
This is slightly not safe for work, mainly because of a dodgy url. It's a mundane online video ad for an unfeasible-looking sex toy, earning mank points for the thought of granny getting it on with her big cone.
The worst bit? The peculiar object costs a hefty £50.
I just hope it's worth it.
Mods were around in the 1950s, followed by a minor revival in the 1970s. So there's no value in buying this bear on a scooter for a kid, because the ungrateful little rugrat won't know what the hell it's supposed to be.
Perhaps Granny lost all the memorabilia of her teen years when her grasping kids packed her off to a home and flogged her Who records and brass ornaments on eBay, in which case this little bear is specifically targeted at those whose distant memories include that romantic shag in an alleyway by a hairy parka-wearing scrote from the council estate. In those days, being Picked Up By The Fuzz meant a naughty policeman would cop a feel before letting you go, eh Ethel?, but now, in unkinder times, it's a euphemism for the questionable level of care you receive at the hands of the underpaid male nurses who want to shift you out of your morning bed.
And just what did your evil kids buy with that ill-gotten money? Why, the next generation of heirlooms for your grandchildren, of course. Knowing the price of everything but the value of nothing, their eyes are drawn to the latest bargain on eBay. Yes, they'll pay over £100 for a genuine stuffed squirrel on a Dune Runner, because it's damn cool. And I want one too.
See also:
Old ladies’ stuff - part 8
Old ladies’ stuff - part 7
Old ladies’ stuff - part 6
Old ladies’ stuff - part 5
Old ladies’ stuff - part 4
Old ladies’ stuff - part 3
Old ladies’ stuff - part 2
Old ladies’ stuff - part 1
Squirrel picture found on my favourite website. Mod bear picture found in a shitty Sunday tabloid.
To the uninitiated, DrGMcKwack is a diminutive Scots-American best known for bullying fatties on the TV. Her method of attack in her TV show You Are What You Eat is extremely distasteful. It involves the ritualised humiliation of obese people - first by confronting them with a table-load of their favourite food and demanding repentance, and then by examining the product of their bowel movements. The message is simple: you look like shit, you eat like shit and even your shit's shit. One notable episode saw her make a fat woman cry by presenting her with a tombstone made out of chocolate.
Her gurning visage looms from sales promo cutouts at Holland & Barrett health food shops and from dubious-looking food supplements.
Any justification for her aggressive manner may be excusable if she were a blunt but benign doctor, except a doctor she most certainly isn't.
The ASA has at last said she must stop referring to herself as a doctor in her advertising (although at time of writing her website continues to plaster the undeserved title across the page) and, last week, Guardian reporter Ben Goldacre, who has long targeted this fraudulent woman, wrote his most devastating expose of McKeith. Goldacre managed to get his cat the same PhD qualification as McKeith, from the same "University".
For fuck's sake people, stop watching her wretched programme, stop buying her books and products. Let's all pray she disappears up her own arse, never to return.
"I think it is obvious she hasn't a clue about nutrition" - Amanda Wynne, senior dietician of the British Dietetics Association.
"In my view Dr Gillian McKeith is a charlatan" - John Garrow, professor emeritus in human nutrition at London University
"McKeith is a menace to the public understanding of science. She seems to misunderstand not nuances, but the most basic aspects of biology" - Ben Goldacre, author of The Guardian's Bad Science column.
The great b3ta site has run a Gillian McKeith image challenge.
There are only a small number of things that make me feel clammy, spine-chilling horror: clowns, assembly instructions from IKEA, evil kittens, the sky falling on my head, and lifelike baby dolls.
You never know when you’re going to encounter the first four in the newspapers, but on Sundays, the latter terror is a near-certainty.
These things are the granny equivalent of the pickled Ripleys in Alien Resurrection. She may wear fluffy slippers and a housecoat, but if that old dear invites you in, watch what she puts in your cup of tea. And never, ever, accept a piece of Battenberg cake.
Observe Hannah’s fixed stare and floppy mouth. Yes, this girl became special after years of being secretly fed granny’s secret medicine.
And evil kittens too!
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Click to enlargeIsn't this specimen just gorgeous? Just the sort of cute decoration granny would like in her doll cabinet.
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More examples of this stuff can be found here.
Dave's getting on in bear years - I'm always tripping over the rubbish he's ordering from the Sunday supplements. He'll be after the rotary nasal clippers next. Here's a little World Cup special that's caught his eye.
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More beautiful works of art can be seen here.
Bloody hell, just look at the crap they sell in the Sunday supplements these days.
The world's first official Christian was Emperor Constantine the Great. He held off baptism until it was time for his topless sex nuns to start warming up his deathbed. The principle was sound: the Lord loveth a sinner, so why not sin your life away and save repentance until the end?
Which is why I find this figurine so macabre. If you were long-term religious then your taste in iconography should be somewhat more refined. This looks like some old coffin-dodger's attempt to get friendly with The Man while waiting for the Grim Reaper to call.
For your own brush with divinity, email your credit card details to FishNChimps@Yahoo.co.uk and I'll send you a deluxe celebration paper chimp mask, signed by myself. Only £749.99
One of the most viciously competitive environments known to mankind is the public library on the day a new romantic fiction title hits the shelves. It's an addiction that can hit women at any age, the younger of whom would be astonished at the aggressive determination of even the sweetest-looking octogenarian with Catherine Cookson in her sights.
We're familiar with the dirty old man stereotype, but that's just the tip of the iceberg. Recent surveys have revealed how active the elderly are between the sheets. For those sadly without a partner, well, they have their fantasies.
The mind of the cardigan-wearing old biddie is tough to fathom. Did you enjoy those plain Brazil nuts old Elsie offered you? Good – they were probably easier to chew since she sucked the chocolate off them. You look around her room, trying not to think about that slight chocolate taste in your mouth and see something. What, in the name of all that is holy, is THAT?!?
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