Professor Richard Dawkins is a prominent supporter and promoter of the atheist bus campaign currently running in London. I was reminded of this hysterical clip snipped from a short TV series broadcast on UK telly last year. In it, the good Prof. reads some of his hate mail.
So the landlord had just poured me another pint to help me celebrate my 18th birthday when I felt a tap on my elbow. Here was this stunning woman with mischief in her eyes. "Hello," she said, "my friends call me Carmen. That's because I like cars and men."
I shook her hand and replied "Pleased to meet you. My name's Charlie Beercunt".
There’s a vicious, petty streak that runs through the DNA of a certain type of Brit, and never was this more apparent than over the last week. Considering the state of the world, the media became strangely obsessed over an obscene phone call. Stupid? Kind of.
What I saw was a superb example of a brand completely understanding its consumers and manipulating them with masterful dexterity. I speak, of course, about the Daily Mail (and its Sunday sister). The Mail is at its best when fostering outrage, in this example seizing the moment a week after the actual event.
The Mail knows its readers aren’t interested in the strife that afflicts the world. Instead it bypassed the immediate financial worries that dog its readership and went straight for the heaviest hit: scapegoats.
Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand aren’t murderers, terrorists, US Republicans, paedophiles, or even worse, bankers. And yet over 10,000 complainants, none of whom listened to the show (which earned two complaints for swearing, not for the prank), stood up from their comfy sofas and, still in their glass houses, elected to throw stones.
I don't care what anyone else says, this piece of work previewed on b3ta is the best thing to come from those goddamn presidential debates.
My new routine: bike (1 mile) – train (40 minutes) – bike (4 miles).
I’ve been leaving home earlier to cycle through London as the city wakes up. At this point, you’d expect a cue for a romantic description of God's favourite town, maybe something like: making my way through the chill London fog, I pass through Smithfield meat market as the cockney butchers set up their stalls with a cheery whistle and an “Oi oi guvnor, apples an’ pears chim chimminy me old mucker!”.
The reality ain’t so quaint.
Apart from the fact that I ride the most uncomfortable bike ever created – a folding piece of scrap with baby-small clown wheels – the mental exhaustion trumps the physical every time. I've noticed cute young women smiling at me, which is either because of a) awesome bloke bettering himself and the environment without a hint of vain self-consciousness, or b) trying not to laugh. There's a punchline which goes "Tony Soprano on a diddy bike". The joke that precedes it... it's most probably me.
And then there's the maniac van drivers, buses, and trying to indicate without falling off – they all contribute towards a long panic that only ends with a hot shower at the office.
There’s one tiny, perverse fragment of excitement: the grumpy old bastard that I always seem to encounter around Bloomsbury.
It all started when I jumped the lights.
It’s that split second between one set of lights going red, and your red light turning green. That’s when, if you’re on a bike, you try and sprint off before the taxi behind you tries to make babies with your rear tyre.
Several yards ahead, I braked as a chap in his 60s, with one of those red faces that always looks angry, was crossing the road with his raggety white terrier thing.
“Nuisance those red lights, aren’t they?” he said, almost cheerfully as I politely gave way.
“Er… yes?” was all I could manage, rather pathetically. Setting off, I heard him turn round and shout: “Prat!”. Even more pathetically, I sped off, wondering what his problem was.
Two days later, almost exactly the same scenario. Aha.
Stopping to let him cross, his response: “Wanker!”
Oh for fuck’s sake. Here’s me stopping to let this old fucker and his manky terrier cross, and I’m getting the verbals.
Gentle reader, you are aware that ignoring such remarks and taking them on the chin is the mature, correct means of dealing with this.
Unfortunately, this is me.
“You know your dog’s limping,” I said.
He turned. Yes, actually turned to check.
“Probably cos you’ve just fucked him up the arse!” I shouted as, pedalling off, his distant “Fucking wanker!” made me chuckle.
A day later. I don’t fucking believe it. Old fucker with dog. This time I’m waiting at the lights as he sees me. “Oi, you, you fat wanker on the bike! Why don’t you just fuck off!” Beside me, the driver of a black cab laughs and says to me: “Not letting him get away with that, are you?”
I’m genuinely pissed off now. “Know why I’m so fat?” I shout to the old fucker. “It’s cos every time I fuck your granddaughter she gives me a doughnut!”
Oh shit. Even though taxi driver is cracking up, the old fucker is screaming. “You cunt! You fucker! I’m going to make you eat a shit sandwich!”.
Lights change, I sprint off, relieved.
That was this morning.
Christ knows what tomorrow will bring.
A slightly off-topic Big Up to a blog that reminds us that advertising talk is not about navel-gazing from within the industry. I stumbled across the Token Feminist by accident.
I was pleased to see someone fighting against the patronising and demoralising way that men talk to women. I did think awww, that's sweet, but it is worth checking out for the blog owner's opinions and her links to similar sites that occasionally rail against female stereotyping in ads.
The best video on the hot issue of product placement in movies, ever. This is the great David Lynch delivering a masterclass. Students of marketing: study his words, ponder them, never forget them.
In the last year Gordon Ramsay has appeared in TV ads for BT and the Blood Donor Service, and had his grumpy face on a press campaign for Gordon’s Gin (Gordon’s… geddit? Yes, I laughed so hard my spleen ripped). His Kitchen Nightmares and F-Word series are on perpetual loops on satellite telly, and his Hell’s Kitchen format is being flogged mercilessly in the USA.
He has also lost his top spot in the Good Food Guide, has been sued for non-payment of bills, has had his New York restaurant panned by the food critics, and has seen the end of his tenancy at the Mayfair Connaught.
His sweary aggression has been great fun to watch, but the Gordon Ramsay brand is starting to look a bit thin. A rumbustious public profile is telegenic only for so long… too much of it and you just start to look like a rude, self-parodying dick. Where will it end? Coming later this year: Gordon F-ing Ramsay in Panto.
It’s time to lay off the media and just concentrate on the bloody restaurants.
The last word goes to this brilliant piss-take from twobob:
More mischief from b3ta. These fellows are indulging in a touch of unsolicited rebranding. The company's real name is "Wacker". Explanation here.
Both spotted on the same day, and posted for no other reason than its accidental use amuses me. Why is it widely recognised as the worst swear word in the English language?
Did you know...? The "c" word was once in common use in England. A small street near Cheapside, in central London, used to be called Gropecunt Lane.
via boingboing
From Private Eye magazine
One of the first things that hit me when I first exploded into the advertising world (I was suffering from food poisoning at the time), was the fruity language. I seldom swore but now, nearly a decade later, the real effort comes in trying not to let rip.
At company meetings in the banking and consulting trades I had become accustomed to chief executives declaiming like Caesar, or firing off the latest business jargon before the most complex presentation slides imaginable.
Upon arriving here at Giraffe Towers, the MD at the time asked me to help him with a speech, using Derek and Clive as a template. A key quote involved picking lobsters out of Jayne Mansfield's arse. I knew I was going to enjoy this place.
I'm still enjoying the characters, including some of those I come across on ad blogs. One of the best is my pin-up, George Parker, whose sweary blog has long been a guilty joy (unlike my low-brow rants against individual ads and numpties, Mr Parker is a player in the ad game and knows the big people he targets). This awfully nice chap also has displayed the good taste of giving this blog a hefty mention on AdScam.
Apologies for this very late posting. It’s been a hectic, elongated weekend which involved one small, work-related episode where I happened upon a client’s representative in a London pub.
This fellow, in all probability named Rupert, was being a bit of an arse. In circumstances too tedious to account here, I found myself the victim of a class attack.
I may have provoked him by disparaging the current Tory leader (an acquaintance of this chap).
The argument progressed to discourse over the value of natural intelligence versus a well-developed network of contacts. Rupert was proud to admit being mentally-challenged but, despite this, was a millionaire with posh women beating down his door; measures of success that he attributed to the place he went to school: Eton.
“I am Eton through and through,” he said. “My old school tie will gain me admission anywhere. I play for the Eton Old Boys rugger club and even have the name of the school tattooed on my cock.”
Gads, his crowd were an ugly mob of upper-class twits. They were murmuring contentedly at Rupert’s smug put-down of this chimpish bitter-drinking oik.
“That’s a coincidence,” I replied, looking at the horse-like faces of his rowdy retinue, “I have the name of my old school tattooed on my cock too.” In reply to his greasy, quizzical look I revealed: “Haberdashers’ Aske’s Hatcham Boys’ School. Including apostrophes.”
I was about to add that I had the phone number down there too, but it's not polite to brag.
Holy shit, I've lost two stones in three weeks. Aaaah fuck, but if I stand like this on the scales, I've put on a stone. Poxy scales. How do I know where I stand with this weight loss malarkey? Yes, my coat is a little looser and the jeans a little baggier but I still feel like a fat bastard.
I don't mind admitting it, although I reserve the right to twat you one on the nose if you said it to my face. Nowadays, such behaviour would be acceptable.
You can tell I'm a bit annoyed this weekend. Last week one the neighbours' 20-odd cats pissed on my sons' football boots, which were left out overnight after both boys completed a weekend of training and matches. The younger of the two spent ten minutes running away from a basset hound that invaded the training pitch yesterday, unaware that the half-blind mutt thought that it was chasing a fucking moggie.
I've never hidden my utter detestation for people who adopt hordes of these feline parasites as pets.
In my grandfather's day I'd have gotten away with lynching the little buggers, but that's now bloody taboo. Too cruel. Yet it's OK to mass produce farm animals, pump them full of drugs and obesity enhancers so we can feed like fucking pigs and raise a generation of kids who'll die before their parents.
So, with the country going to the dogs, what has obsessed the nation this week?
Answer: three chav girls bullying an Indian housemate on Celebrity Big Brother.
To non-Brits, a brief explanation. Assuming you know the BB format, you may be aware that there is a celebrity version. This year, the house included Germaine Jackson and Dirk Benedict. But the talking point was Bollywood actress Shilpa Shetty and three young women who proceeded to bully her.
The loudmouth is Jade Goody, famous for forging a career based on the stupidity displayed in her performance in a (non-celeb) Big Brother four years ago. Her two disciples are brunette Danielle Nobody (famous for being sacked from a beauty competition and for being the girlfriend of footballer Teddy Sheringham) and "blonde" Jo Uglyfuck (who used to be in a band).
Consider these two snippets:
After a week's worth of having the media gorge on the bullying and racism displayed by the gang of three, Jade was evicted on Friday to face the music:
(This one's 16 minutes long)
That clip'll give you a flavour of the media baying we've had to put up with. The noise got so loud that Carphone Warehouse pulled out of its BB sponsorship. So far, at least nine other companies have joined the queue to replace Carphone Warehouse.
Every Tom, Dickhead and Harry is condemning the bullying, racism etc.
At times like this, I seriously despise the numpty fuckwits around me. I'm talking about the fuckers who ring radio talkshows, the wankers who write letters to the papers, the columnists and media commentators. There were questions in Parliament, and even Gordon Brown (watch out America, here's the guy who'll be tickling Dubya's bollocks in the summer when Blair resigns) weighed in despite never watching the show.
Behind the words of every one of them, you can hear their breathlessness at having claimed the high moral ground and the telltale squeak as their buttocks tighten in liberal sanctimony.
So what's my problem? Am I sticking up for racism?
The answer's no.
My problem's with the way the public are scapegoating Jade Goody in what looks increasingly like a big media set-up. She's almost certainly ruined her "career". Jo is a has-been and has had her day anyway. Danielle is thick pramface Scouser who's going to lose the most. Apparently her boyfriend has already dumped her (Sheringham fronts an anti-racism campaign in football, and a third of his team-mates are black), and she'll never work again unless it's in porn flicks or serving fries.
As for their victim Shilpa, she's got it made. Her Bollywood career was waning, and last month nobody outside the Indian community knew of her. Now she's a household name. As well as being gorgeous, she took the abuse with the sort of dignity that's becoming difficult to find in Britain, and declared she held no grudges against Jade or the others.
Just watch. Jo and Danielle will be ripped apart when they're evicted. When it's Shilpa's turn, everyone will be gushing over their new darling.
The contestants will get what they deserve, but the hot-headed mob that watch this shit will be diminished. Meanwhile, Channel Four and Endemol (BB's makers) will be counting their stacks.
Incidentally, there's still a war on in Iraq.
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