This is the modern word

Oh right, so THAT'S what you do

2008-04-24T22:01:00.008+01:00

Well, thank fuck for that.

There I was, going into pubs and bars without the slightest clue about how to behave inside. I used to drift around aimlessly, wondering why everyone else seemed to be having such a good time.

But luckily the owner of one of the pubs near my office has had the good sense to make life much simpler for the likes of me, and I daresay, millions of other hapless souls.

Why can't other pubs and bars follow this eminently sensible lead?

I especially like 'relax'.

It almost sounds like an order.

"RELAX!!!!!"

Maybe they should write appropriate words on every building so there's no doubt as to what to do inside.

For instance, an office block could have... WORK.
A gym... SWEAT
A swimming pool... FLOAT
A library... SHHHH!

No, no, that would be really stupid.

Asterisk/Asterix

2008-03-19T22:50:00.009Z

*
This is an asterisk.

ASTER-ISK

It's used to indicate a qualifying statement that must be attached to some word or sentence.

For some reason, people seem to confuse it with this person.

This is Asterix.

He's a French cartoon character who knocks about in ancient Gaul (as France used to be called a while back).

He fights a constant series of battles against the Romans along with his various friends. And, because he's got access to a magic potion, he and his mates always win.

It's supposed to be funny but, having read one of the stories, I disagree.

As you can see, there's a world of difference between the two.

So, to recap:

Asterisk - a little star-like thing that sits above a word or statement that needs some form of later qualification.

Asterix - an ancient Gaul in cartoon form who is constantly engaged in less-than-funny capers with Roman soldiers.

It's obvious when you spot it.

Very nearly

2008-03-05T13:17:00.014Z

One of the most famous scenes in British television comedy. Ever.

Which means it's up against a lot of competition.

To the uninitiated (it is nearly 50 years old) I'll briefly explain. Ok, here goes.

Tony Hancock, (bloke in hat) is donating blood. He feels it's his patriotic duty to help the nation. And he rather hopes he'll get some kind of reward as a result: some token of appreciation, like a badge saying 'he helped others so that others may live'. As he puts it.

So he enters the surgery (after having pratted around the waiting room like a pompous arse for ten minutes) and the doctor takes a small sample of blood via a pin prick on the end of Hancock's thumb to determine the blood group.

Which of course Hancock thinks is all the blood he needs to give and so prepares to leave for the recovery room and the tea and biscuits he's heard about. (And hopefully, that badge.)

Not so says the doc, we need to take a pint of your blood. To which Hancock replies, using words which have since been carved in stone:

"A pint? That's very nearly an armful!"

It's beautiful. The comedic equivalent of a Mozart concerto or a Johnny Marr chord change. The writers, Galton and Simpson, could easily have left it at 'armful' or 'nearly an armful'. But they didn't.

They wrote 'very nearly'.

Like all acts of genius it walks the tightrope of soaring success across the deep, rocky valley of utter failure. One word less, one word more, and the whole gag dissolves into a mild titter. But it's become the most famous rejoinder ever uttered on telly.

Why is it so good?

Because, by saying it the way he says it, Hancock sounds like he knows what he's talking about. Even though he's never given blood before he's claiming to know the exact blood capacity of every individual part of the human body. It's as though he's been thinking about it for ages prior to visiting the surgery and has worked himself into a right old state worrying. It's also the first proof of what we have long suspected, namely that in spite of his bravado he's a complete coward. Proved conclusively when he later faints at the size of the needle.

And it also fixes the amount of blood so deeply in the audience's mind that they'll never forget it. They will quote back the line in all its precision for they know, even at the moment of first hearing, that it's so utterly perfect a mis-quote would destroy the sense of how funny is it.

So there we go. Two little words that prove to be the foundation for an entire half-hour comedy episode. And stand as a challenge to every comedy writer who has come after. Beat that.

Very nearly.

Very actually great.

Special pills

2008-02-29T00:18:00.012Z

Calling all men.

There's a shop in London's Chinatown you might like.

It sells a certain type of medication that can enable your 'member' to achieve greatness.

The effects are illustrated through the medium of a tank. Just toss (ahem) a pill into the turret and the barrel goes vertical.

So, assuming the effect is the same for a gent as it is for a tank, he's likely to end up squirting off into his own face.

Not really a plus I would have thought.

There's some copy too.

I like it, straight and to the point.

Which, fingers crossed, is also the effect of the pills.

Tosser alert

2008-02-13T22:02:00.006Z

It's axiomatic these days that most posters are shite. Why businesses feel the need to spend good money telling the general public very little in the dullest way imaginable is a question that continues to defeat me.

But here's one that really takes the proverbial biscuit.

My goodness, it's bad.

And having, alas, had the time to read the words printed on it, I can only assume they were written by the smug hero of the ad itself.

Or, his twin brother.

Unfortunately, because the picture's too blurred I'll have to quote the copy here. Apologies.

It begins: "Chris had a long face. The wife wanted a new family car and..."

Hang on, "the wife"? We seem to be back in the 1970s.

"...this had the potential to blow a huge hole in his finances, not to mention the other plans he had for the money."

Oooh, what 'other plans' Chris? Do tell.

"A little bird told him..."

'A little bird'? What, like a Robin?

"...to get down to Cargiant where he bought a quality used car that kept the wife..."

Whoops, back to the '70s again... Minder, The Sweeney et al. Laaarvly!

"...more than happy and saved himself a tidy little sum in the process."

Here comes the finale. Hold on, 'cos it's good.

"Just enough for a wicked weekend in Paris... with the girlfriend, tweet, tweet!"

Brilliant! Bravo! Bravo! Encore! Oh, I'm overcome with emotion... so moving!

Yes, moving. In a moving-right-down-to-the-other-end-of-the-platform-to-be-sick-into-my-bag sense.

Shhhhhh!

2008-01-30T23:01:00.001Z

Quiet please, you're looking at some art.

So behave properly. And no chewing.

Welcome to the first floor of London's National Portrait Gallery.

As you can see, it's not exactly crowded. As usual. That's because it's full of portraits and busts of lots of scary people. The sort of people who 'built the British Empire'. In other words, men with strange facial hair who went around the world shooting the local tribes for the crime of not having been at Eton.

Here's one of them...

Just look at those whiskers. I believe the correct anatomical term is 'bugger's grips'.

The type of man who was born to say things like:

"Some of these chaps actually live in mud huts."
OR
"Chaaaarrrge!!!!!!"

It is of course a history lesson, which may well be another reason why it's never busy: the history of stern-faced men not having much hope of attracting the masses when set against crowd-pullers like the recent Hockney exhibition or photographs of the late Princess of Wales.

But if peace and quiet is your bag and, let's face it there's precious little of that in London, then this place could be your thang.

So, up the steps, turn right and leave the tourists and parties of school children asking if Paul McCartney's still alive far behind. Now enter a world of military heroes, cannons to the right of them, zulus to the left of them; eccentric scientists posing with skulls; frowns, moustaches, side-whiskers... and the undying belief that Britain was jolly well the best place on earth, and if you disagree we'll come and ruddy conquer you.

So there.

Archaeology

2008-01-21T22:34:00.000Z

Very occasionally on the London Underground the advertising contractors will strip away the layers of posters all the way back to whatever it is they're pasted on to. I suppose they don't do it often because there's so much to get rid of but when they do it's like going back in time.

In this case, back to 1992. I suppose 16 years between bouts of cleaning isn't too bad by the standards of London's tube but I daresay they could manage it a little more regularly.

Anyway, at Piccadilly Circus station they've uncovered this romantic double-bill that was showing at the MGM cinema in Chelsea. Where the phone number began '071'.

I suppose that if the poster thus uncovered had not been advertising a cinema classic before it actually was one, it wouldn't be as interesting. Although, even if it was for something shit, it would at least give you the opportunity to wallow in nostalgia and think to yourself, "huh, I remember that shit".

Then again, what if they uncovered an old cigarette poster and didn't cover it for a while? Would London Underground be prosecuted for breaking the ban on tobacco advertising?

Sheesh, I guess anything's possible in this crazy world.

Has the year's best headline been written already?

2008-01-20T00:55:00.000Z

I realise the 'best of' accolades are dished out in December but may I humbly submit what I consider to be an early front-runner in the 'Copy' section.

The writer has evidently got to the nub of the issue. Namely, what it means to be a terrier with an itchy arse.

He (ok, or she) has interrogated the product and hasn't been afraid to get his (or her) hands dirty in the search for ultimate truth.

A place on the podium should also be reserved for the art director and photographer who have worked their collective magic with the visual. They've managed to pull off that most tricky of artistic feats: capturing the look of intense irritation on a small dog's face as his anus plays merry hell for the umpteenth time.

The 17th century philosopher Thomas Hobbes is famous for his notion that life is 'nasty, brutish and short.' Perhaps he could have added that it's also a bugger if you're a small dog with worms.

Freelance

2007-12-14T17:06:00.000Z

Blimey, I was rude in that last post.

Fancy writing 'cunts'.

Mind you I was fairly pissed off at the time. And pissed too.

And yet there is, it has to be said, something extremely cathartic about a foul-mouthed rant. A kind of colonic irrigation for the mind, a... purging... if you like.

And as I look at the date of that last post, the 8th of November, I'm aware of just how fast time has galloped on since then. Phone calls, meetings, interviews have passed by in a blur: my previous life receding in memory in the same way a station does when you look back at it from a train window.

So m'colleague and I are freelancing. And indeed have been for the past month. And working a darn sight harder than we had worked at our previous agency: the difference between a place on the skids and one on the up has never been so apparent.

Mates have been good. It's the reason we're freelancing now. And it's true that the small scale of London's advertising community means that sooner or later you will cross paths with someone you know. And, whether we stay freelance for a while or are lucky enough to find a permanent job in the near future, we'll always be grateful for people who have had the time for a chat, a pint or... whatever.

And a few, rather hard-boiled, words to anyone who finds themselves in a similar position:

Get legal advice. Talk to someone who knows something about this 'process'.
And be prepared to be difficult to get what you want (yes, money).
Remember that they want you to go away ASAP and will be prepared to pay a little extra to ensure this happens.
Don't be fobbed off and don't take 'no' for an answer.
Ask the questions that your agency may not want to hear. E.g. how did you arrive at this decision? Who else did you consider? etc.
Defend yourself and your abilities: they are taking away, however temporarily, your livelihood after all.
Don't shout. At least, not to begin with.

Oh, and even though it won't feel like it at the time, it's probably a good thing that's happening.

A bit of a 'splurge' there. Probably loads more to talk about but it can wait.

CUNTS

2007-11-08T22:14:00.000Z

No, it's not a nice word but at the moment it precisely sums up how I feel.

My art director and I were made redundant today.

Redundant. God that's hard to type.

What made it worse was opening a letter that had been biked to my house by the time I arrived home. Inside was the 'reasoning' why my job 'was being considered for redundancy'.

You see, it's all 'process' these days and part of this process is to have a system that allows candidates for redundancy to be selected 'fairly'. So they came up with a load of criteria and marked us out of five for each. Presumably they'd marked our entire department and then looked at the scores.

And I'm assuming our scores as a team were the poorest.

Even though we were given five out of five for 'concept creation'.

Which, funnily enough, is our job.

We were marked down for over-spending the budget on certain pieces of work.

In other words, going the extra mile to get things done properly.

Fuck.

We were also marked down because we didn't get on with planning. Apparently.

Of course this marking system makes it very easy for creative heads to turn personal likes and dislikes into cold figures. But it doesn't seem very fair to me. In fact it seems pathetically arbitary.

The net result of this 'fairness' is that because the company is seen to have attempted to deal with job losses in a 'proper' way, we get fuck-all money.

Which I realise sounds mercenary but... we all have to live in the real world.

I'm trying not to think about it too much because if I do, I get scared.

Now then, now then, goodness gracious!

2007-11-05T14:39:00.001Z

First this...

Then this...

Is nothing sacred?

Not one but TWO!!! different takes on the immortal "Jim'll Fix It". And the "shift it" fella has even nicked the ruddy logo as well.

I realise that Saville's name is somewhat tarnished these days following some frankly wierd TV appearances, not least that Louis Theroux documentary a few years back. But he's surely entitled to be slightly miffed that the name of his seminal 70s/80s TV show is being taken in vain merely to advance the claims of some guy who mixes concrete and another who's a dab hand at removals.

Seeing these logos my first thoughts in each case were not "oh, I bet he mixes concrete really well" or, "he'd be a good bloke to call if I needed something removing."

No. My first thoughts concerned a small boy who wanted to whistle with Roger Whittaker, a lady whose dream was to be a bus conductor, a boy who wanted to see how Hornby train sets were made and of course, the cub scouts who wanted to eat their lunch whilst going round the Revolution rollercoaster on Blackpool Pleasure Beach.

And then there was the bloke who wanted to play guitar with Status Quo...

"Play quitar with the Quo? Goodness gracious. Well, we 'ad a word with my mate Francis Rossi... and this is 'ow it 'appened."

Marvellous.

"Never such innocence again."

It's gone dark

2007-11-02T17:05:00.000Z

And I'm idly gazing out of my office window into a meeting room belonging to the company next door. In this meeting room a selection of bald heads are sitting around a table earnestly discussing something that's likely to be lot less interesting yet far more profitable than what I do for a living.

Oh, they've gone now.

Well it is 5.00pm on a Friday evening.

Not so long ago it would have been referred to as 'Friday afternoon' due to the fact that it would still be light.

But it no longer is. It's dark. And that means it's WINTER.

WINTER!!!!!!!

And WINTER means... ICE! SNOW! BLACK ICE! YELLOW SNOW! FOG! FREEZING FOG! HOWLING GALES! DRIVING RAIN! SLEET! WINTERY SHOWERS!

Unless you live in England where it's likely to be QUITE MILD FOR THE TIME OF YEAR... PERHAPS WITH THE RISK OF SOME DRIZZLY RAIN LATER IN THE DAY...

I hope the people in that meeting couldn't see me picking my nose.

sandwich

2007-10-26T14:54:00.000+01:00

grey day clouds that mirror the grey pavements but at least the pavements are full of people drifting pushing looking is it half-term why are there so many tourists or is that just always the case in london i ought to know 'cos i've been here thirteen years thirteen? is it really that long grey cold pavements that aren't paved with fucking gold who said that? but they're definitely better than stockport never go back there no way stockport stockport stockport no matter how many times you say it it never gets any better no tourists i suppose that is one small thing in its favour why the fuck are they taking a picture of that? i wish they wouldn't keep stopping in front of me with their brightly coloured rucksacks the northern line is the other way the other way for fuck's sake now where can i find some lunch not eat i went there yesterday and the day before mind you they do very good pork pies are they bad for you? are they? pork pies? surely not really there's far worse wow she's gorgeous italian or spanish no idea reminds me of that pa on that shoot we did in madrid a couple of years ago now she was wow she was... look where you're walking you fool you nearly knocked over that small child and now her dad's giving you a dirty look big bloke too but i could probably outrun him pizza hut no wonder this country is full of fatties mind you they look like tourists i daresay but what must they thinkof the food in britain not much doubtless maybe i should go to the library and try to write something no scratch that it's too much like hard work and that is something i'm not cut out for at the moment more like never have been actually the things that go through your head when all you're doing is looking for a lunchtime sandwich

A Booker Prize-winning lunch

2007-10-16T14:07:00.000+01:00

Well, not exactly.

Alright, not at all.

I was in Hatchards earlier. (Note: Hatchards is where the Royal Family buy books, it's probably the poshest bookshop in the world. So when her Royal Mummyness wants the new Jilly Cooper or when Prince Charles is desperate to get his hands on the latest Harry Potter they trip along to Hatchards. Obviously they don't trip along, someone else does. Or, more likely, Hatchards go to Buck House. Anyway, you get the general idea.)

Yes, it's posh, but Hatchards is great. Catering politely and discretely for a full spectrum of tastes, it's a thickly-carpeted, oak-panelled oasis of restraint.

Sounds like a high-class prostitute's.

Does it? Right.

Anyway it's a right royal pant-wetter for your average bibliophile. And today was even more pant-wettingly pleasant than usual because on the ground floor there was a photo-op involving the six shortlisted authors for the Booker Prize, prior to the announcement of the winner tonight. Flashbulbs blinded, photographers urged and staff fluttered around like delirious moths.

"Delirious moths"????? What ARE you on now?

Don't know sir.

Where's this thing going anyway? I thought it was a blog (a very intermitent blog) about "words". This is just waffle.

Waffle is words. No?

No, waffle is rambling nonsense that doesn't make any point and uses up valuable life. Waffle is what you get in dull meetings when the person with the least to say insists on saying it at interminable length while everyone else just nods quietly hoping they'll SHUT THE FUCK UP. To sum up, waffle is bollocks. Clear?

Er, yes.

Right. Carry on

So there I was in Hatchards: photographers, flashbulbs, delirious moths. And six Booker Prize-shortlisted authors. At least I assume there were six but I couldn't see over the top of the photgraphers so there may not have been. I think I recognised Ian McEwan and some tall bald bloke who may or may not have been a writer. And someone who looked a bit like Jimmy Saville. Which could be male or female. Or even, Jimmy Saville.

But it was a celebration of words. Or at least a celebration of the fact that words can make lots of money for the publishing industry.

Eventually I ambled away from the literary scrum and sauntered upstairs where I idly flicked through books by people who can write better than me. And, as usual, I came away wishing there was more time to read and learn and write.

And then I bought a pie.

Which was the 'lunch' of the title.

That last post

2007-10-07T22:18:00.000+01:00

Rambled.

And rambled.

And... well, you get the idea.

I shouldn't settle down at the keyboard when I've had a few ales late at night and expect the Lord of Wit to be at my elbow.

So apologies for that.

It was 'real' though.

And at least I thought it was Cyril Connelly who said that stuff about happiness writing white. He quite possibly did but he wasn't the only one.

Maybe that's why I can't write much at the moment: I'm too happy.

Blimey.

I just want to write

2007-10-07T01:09:00.000+01:00

So, fuck it, I will.

I'm not sure what I'll write about and it's quite likely that the results will resemble a load of self-indulgent horse shit, but, well, it's what I want to write, so there.

I think that's how it should work when you're a 'writer'.

I don't want 'to be a writer'. I just want to write. Stuff.

At any time, day or night.

Maybe people like us are crazy.

Well, as far as I can see we're no crazier than anyone else. And if we are a bit different, then all power to us I say.

Express your feelings, give vent to frustrations, exclaim happiness, love or disappointment.

But put it down in black and... well, black really.

'Happiness writes white'. So said Cyril Connolly, I'm told.

Is that why most writers are perceived as miserable bastards?

Or are we just always writing against the grain, with a point to make?

Woke up today, felt great, had a nice breakfast and the rest of the day was lovely too.

Not exactly the start of a riveting read is it?

But then, what is?

Still working on that one. Unfortunately.

Overheard words

2007-07-20T11:05:00.000+01:00

"We want to line them all up against a wall."

Ah, the delightful conversation one hears whilst perambulating through the charming streets of London of a summer's eve. Except of course, this being cockeyville it sounded more like:

"We wanna lahn 'em aw ap agensta warw."

The orator in this intellectual debate was one of a pair of newspaper sellers outside Charing Cross station. Unfortunately, as I was scurrying to catch my train I didn't have time to loiter and tune in to whatever urgent issue was up for discussion. Nor did I get to the bottom of why the only solution to the problem was the wholesale 'erasing' of certain obviously undesirable elements.

So I was left wondering who the mysterious 'them' were and what they had done to arouse the ire of the typical chirpy cockney population. Gawd bless 'em. But after a few moments fruitless pondering I thought "ah bollocks to it", since it could have been anyone.

Then I thought again. Perhaps these newspaper men were actors employed by the Mayor of London to recite 'cockney dialogue' within the earshot of passing tourists to impart an authentic olde worlde ambience to the capital's streets.

With the result that the tourists (we'll assume they're American for simplicity's sake) return home and tell all their friends just how 'swell' little ole London is and how the people there speak exactly like they do on the films and "you and Bobby really oughta go next year Mary-Lou, I'm telling ya."

So, assuming our glorious mayor is mad enough to give the green light to such a scheme (and yes, I honestly believe he is), what other phrases and sayings could our thespian newspaper men (or taxi drivers, tramps, street sweepers and fruit and veg sellers) be asked to recite to help make the streets of London sing with their native tongue?

"Eeza doyomand. Absolute doyomand." (Trans. "He's a diamond. An absolute diamond." ie. a jolly good chap.)
"Gidar davvit!" (Trans. "Get out of it!" ie. Shoo! Be along with you now. OR No, I don't believe what you're saying.)
"Eee 'ain't dahn naffink." (Trans. "He hasn't done anything." Usually followed by the word "officer".)

Hmm, this is hard. Maybe our Mayor isn't this stupid after all.

Pip, come here girl! Pip! PIP COME HERE! For fuck's sake Pip, come...!!!

2007-07-09T15:56:00.000+01:00

Oh dear. Another tale of dog-owning woe. One minute you're enjoying a healthy walk with man's best pavement-fouling friend, the next minute said 'friend' is 'spooked' by another hound and promptly legs it never to return.

But, what exactly does 'spooked' mean?

The only dog I've ever seen being 'spooked' by another dog is when Scooby Doo is walking around some supposedly haunted amusement arcade situated in the middle of a swamp that Shaggy has already observed to Fred, Daphne and Thelma, "... sure gives me the creeps" when his nephew Scrappy Doo (irritating and pointless) comes up behind Scooby and taps him lightly on the shoulder. Thus causing Scoob to spin round in terror and leap into Shaggy's arms.

But somehow I doubt this is what happened to 'Pip'.

What then? Surely, surely, shurely, shirley... she wasn't spooked just because she SAW ANOTHER DOG?????? Don't tell me our Pip is that stupid. After all, she isn't exactly a spring chicken in dog years, she's eight. (She isn't a spring chicken at all of course, she's a dog.) The point is, she's not young and naive.

So she MUST HAVE SEEN OTHER DOGS BEFORE. But what went wrong this time? Did she have some sort of flashback to an unpleasant incident in her puppy-hood that the sight of this other dog returned to her in appalling detail? Perhaps a memory of abuse by a strict father? Or the recollection of what happened the first time she shat on the living-room carpet?

Whatever it was must have hurt like hell on the inside and, in the manner of a Vietnam vet nursing serious mental scars from his time at Khe Sanh, dear old Pip cracked and ran off, barking.

And the only personal item on her is a green tarten (sic) collar. So not much to go on.

There is however a cash or '£cash' reward. Not sure how much '£' amounts to, might be better to put an exact number so at least potential rescuers can gauge the relative desperateness of the situation.

Of course all this conjecture may be academic since, as you can see from the date on the poster, Pip went missing a few months ago. So it's quite likely she's been found safe and well by now.

Unless of course she hasn't.

In which case, RIP PIP.

Beware confusion

2007-07-02T11:33:00.000+01:00

I suppose there are two types of readers who may be interested in buying, or at least glancing at, this book:

Reader 1.
A keen student of the Middle East who wishes to discover more about the country bordered by Syria to the north, Iraq to the northeast, Saudi Arabia to the east and south, and Israel to the west. Created after the break-up of the Ottoman Empire in the aftermath of the First World War, largely out of the British Mandate of Palestine and originally known as 'Transjordan'. (Note: this was empatically not a homeland for an ancient race of transexuals.)

Reader 2.
A keen student of female anatomy and particularly the breast region. This reader will be more than well aware that 'Jordan' is the alter ego of UK 'glamour' model Katie Price who is not averse to flaunting her surgically enhanced 'assets' in popular newspapers and a wide variety of men's magazines.

Alas for reader 2, 'Jordan Revealed' is set to leave them somewhat short-changed.

Although there is a strangely attractive camel on page 78.

Great pair of humps.

Dickshunhairy

2007-06-28T11:48:00.000+01:00

I was scrabbling through my copy of the Oxford Concise Dictionary the other day...

Christ mate, this sounds like a fascinating anecdote, do go on!

...anyway, sarcasm aside, I was looking through this dictionary checking the spelling of a word.

Wow, what a crayzeee life you lead.

Just fuck off. Alright? As I was saying, dictionary... checking spelling... you get the picture.

And as I was trawling through I happened upon this page, at the top of which is the phrase 'living death'. And what strikes me about this phrase is that, well... does it actually need defining? Surely the clue's in the title so even if you've never heard it before you'll sort of have an inkling.

For instance, you're hardly going to say, "Living death. Ooh, I wonder what that means... better look it up quickly. Maybe it's a type of breakfast cereal" You're just not. You're far more likely to say..."Living death. Oh-er, I don't like the sound of that, sounds pretty dodgy to me. I'd better avoid it."

And then you read the definition: "a state of hopeless misery." Yeah right, like you couldn't have guessed. In fact you'll probably go away feeling a bit cheated and saying to yourself, "Huh, bastards. I could've written that, I could."

In the next entry we'll define the phrase, "running fast"... the state of moving, no, not moving, perambulating. The state of perambulating quickly. No, not quickly, speedily... no, hang on that doesn't sound right...

Hmm, harder than it looks actually.

Ok Clare, you win

2007-06-26T14:07:00.000+01:00

Blimey, I'm so vain. Sooooooooooo fucking vain.

I was going to pack this blog in. Really I was.

Mainly due to sheer laziness.

Alright, totally and utterly due to sheer laziness.

And just when I'm about to turn off the lights, set the alarm and leave the building to the cleaners, I receive a lovely comment. Not the only one I've ever received but certainly the nicest.

And so, like the man of steel that I am, I change my mind.

Anyway, enough of this self-indulgent waffle. On with the 'show'.

This sounds like a fun kind of evening.

Not just a sing-a-long. A disco sing-a-long.

Presumably everyone dances and sings at the same time. Which I suppose could get pretty raucous. Drinks could get spilled, ashtrays and girlfriends upset. Fists and pint pots might fly.

And your compere for this evening of merriment?

Chris Rust.

With a name like that he could go far.

Most likely through the nearest window.

The end?

2007-06-14T11:02:00.000+01:00

Well, maybe.

Let's face it my recent productivity levels on this blog have been similar to those of a 14 year-old boy trying to do his homework in a bedroom equipped with a pc, a Playstation and a stack of porn under the bed.

If I do see something really brilliant then I'll blog it.

Just don't hold your breath waiting.

Not that you would, obviously.

Why write proper English?

2007-05-21T14:00:00.000+01:00

What 'word games'? What have they got to do with property?

They might as well have written 'Why bother with...

There will be a few moments of silence as Martin attempts to think of something suitably surreal.

... cabbages?'

Not surreal enough, try again.

Well, cabbages will have to do.

Anyway, the point is what is the link between 'word games' and 'property conundrums'? Apart from the fact that on the TV word game programme 'Countdown' the final round is called the 'conundrum'.

And then we come to 'a 57,000 sq ft work solution'.

A what?

Is it some sort of 'work liquid' that covers an area of 57,000 sqare feet?

Although I suppose we could be talking about offices here.

But I rather like the idea of a 'work liquid'. Something to drink before I arrive in the office which means I don't have to do too much thinking.

"A pint of Work Liquid please."

Oh, I know what it is.

It's beer.

THANKS FOR THE PIC ANNA

"I hereby declare this clock..."

2007-05-04T12:57:00.000+01:00

Great to see London Underground staff are still the masters at producing communications that cause customers to stop and stare in bemusement. Here's how they describe a clock that doesn't have any batteries.

Will they have a windy speech by some posh person's wife and then break a bottle of champagne over it like when a ship is launched?

"May God bless her and all who tell the time by her." (CRASH!)

And like when they describe a train delay due to somebody falling/jumping on the track as 'due to passenger action', this message leaves me none the wiser.

They used to use the words 'normal service' when referring to those rare periods of the day when there were no delays on any of the lines. But of course 'normal' for London Underground means times when they do have delays so they changed the wording.

Now, when everything's fine, they call it a 'good service'.

Sorry, but I'll be the judge of that.

Mysteriousness

2007-05-02T15:17:00.000+01:00

This graffiti (or, "graffito" for the language police) has been cropping up in various guises around London over the last few weeks. I've seen a couple, both as it happens on the side of different branches of HSBC. So, I assumed it was something to do with the letters H-S-B-C, as in some sort of 'alphabet'.

But apparently not as the other locations seem pretty random.

A viral campaign then? Could be, could be.

But what's it for? And will the 'reveal' be worth the wait?

My round!

2007-04-27T11:31:00.000+01:00

In an age when a pint in London can set you back three whole pounds, this is my kind of beer mat.

My kind of adverising in fact: a simple promise executed in precisely targeted media engaging consumers at the point of purchase.

Oh, hang on. There's a catch.

I suppose if you drink enough it would cancel out the cost of the flight.

Temporaryily... temporarillly... tempora... oh, fuck it

2007-04-20T12:52:00.000+01:00

Obviously a busy day down at the local authority signs department.

Perhaps the photocopier had imploded under the sheer weight of "TOILETS OUT OF ORDER SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE" signs required in the area, meaning that there was no time to spell-check all the other stuff.

And I daresay the dictionary was seeing service in the gents, where owing to 'funding cuts' toilet paper was in short supply.

"Just leave it as 'temporary' Alf, people will get it."

Well, sort of.

Fashion

2007-04-11T11:00:00.000+01:00

I wonder how many people read ads like this in magazines.

Yes, I suppose you could say that about any ad. But most don't offer the rewards of closer scrutiny that this one does.

To begin with, there's the dog.

Does this come free with the jacket? Or is it an optional extra?

Or is it just the most appropriate accessory when one is garbed thus?

Next, a few highlights from the copy:
... textured polyester basket weave material...

... three inside pockets - two with envelope closings for security...

... All this for under forty pounds and it's fully washable.

But do I want one in "Sand" or "Navy"?

Decisions, decisions.

It's all in the name

2007-03-28T18:01:00.000+01:00

What would YOU call one of these?

'Caravan'. Cunty.

Nooooooooooo, the model. To differentiate it from bigger/smaller models. Like they do with cars.

'Cos I've been driving about on the motorways of the good ol' U of K recently and no matter what time of year it is, you invariably see plenty of caravans. Why someone would choose to sit in a confined space without adequate toilet facilities miles from civilisation on a cold, wet day is perhaps a question for another time.

But, sit in them they do.

And what they sit in has a name.

Yes, caravan.

Quiet, fool.

Anyway, here's a few I spotted on my travels the other weekend.

Silouhette

Marauder

Clubman

Swift

Zodiac

Pageant

Lunar

A couple of them stand out for being quite obviously inappropriate. Which, for my money are...

'MARAUDER'

'SWIFT'

Let's take "Marauder' first. My Boy's Book of Big Words tells me a 'marauder' is someone who spends a good portion of his time plundering, pillaging and generally scaring normal people shitless. Like this bloke for instance...

Hard to imagine him using a chemical toilet or sitting in his caravan doing a jigsaw while it pisses with rain outside.

Next up, is 'Swift'. Now, is this an image of 'swiftness'?

Hmmm, no.

But someone must have thought it was a good name. Why?

HERE'S A MUCH BETTER LIST OF CARAVAN NAMES.

A really important call

2007-03-22T13:15:00.000Z

I heard this 'conversation' on the train into work.

HIP HOP RINGTONE (LOUD).

GIRL (EARLY 20s): Hello?... Oh, hiya... uh... uh... yeah... uh... uh-uh... uh... right... uh... yeah?... No, not really... uh... uh... right... right... right... yeah... see ya.

Girl puts mobile back in her bag and goes back to staring out of the window.

It got me pondering on the difference between dialogue written for a script, be it for a commercial/film/drama/comedy etc. where each word has to drive plot, sketch character or reveal motivation, and the banal reality of everyday conversations.

And dialogue that is praised for 'being realistic' is actually nothing of the sort, it's far more interesting because, obviously, it has to be. Otherwise, bye-bye viewer.

And yet there's something I really like about these everyday conversations that tail off into abstracted nothingness.

Here's another example, this time two old ladies in a supermarket looking for some 'tongue'. No, that's not a new sexual service that Tesco has recently introduced, it's a cooked meat similar to ham.

WOMAN 1: Where's the tongue?

WOMAN 2: It should be here somewhere. It usually is.

WOMAN 1: They always have tongue.

WOMAN 2: Yes... it's usually here.

WOMAN 1: They had it last time.

WOMAN 2: Yes... this is where it is.

WOMAN 1: Yes... it's always here isn't it.

WOMAN 2: Always.

WOMAN 1: Where is it?

THEY WALK OFF DOWN THE AISLE.

Aw, bless.

And now... 'The client doesn't get it'

2007-03-19T13:08:00.000Z

I'm trying.

Really, really trying hard. Not to rant.

Because, let's face it, a blog is the perfect vehicle for the disillusioned to sound off on all manner of bollocks and so it's mighty tempting.

But there are countless ranters out there in the 'blogosphere' who are much better at it than me.

THIS GENTLEMAN FOR INSTANCE.

However, I'm weakening. You see, apparently the client doesn't 'get it'.

Get what fella?

Oh, just the concept we presented to them a couple of weeks ago. That they loved and told m'colleague and I to get the party started on production, source a photgrapher, write the copy.

You get the picture.

Except they didn't. Or, no longer did. Or forgot they had.

Even though we'd written, in English words, a brief description of what they were seeing underneath the visual, they still managed to miss the point. And consequently have come up with various 'suggestions' as to how the concept can now be 'improved'.

All of which destroy it.

It makes me wonder if it might not be a bad idea to pay THIS LUNATIC a visit.

Can the client see the copy?

2007-03-14T17:17:00.000Z

I get this a lot.

The request often comes BEFORE the concept has even been approved by the client, ie. when it's still a black and white scamp.

Which naturally, I laugh off as a slip of the tongue and don't get cross about at all.

LIAR!

Yes, well.

"See the copy"?

Alright, how much? Being as I've no idea what needs covering off, I mean, you know, what do I put in?

I could make stuff up. Please, please, let me make stuff up.

Alas no.

So I'm given some hastily patched together 'brief' and I scribble down the first vaguely relevant words that enter my brain. Because that's how account handlers see the process - it's just 'blurb'.

This 'blurb' is then sent to the client. Who loves it and approves it with alacrity. And thus it becomes set in stone.

And when the finished work appears, which because it's crap is nationwide, I shed a small tear.

It's back to the poetry thing.

Time please. Time to refine. To lift something above the level of the commonplace. Just for a moment.

It's poetry mate, honest

2007-03-12T13:02:00.000Z

I've been giving this one some thought and have come to the conclusion that the act of writing copy definitely bears at least some resemblance to writing poetry. Now, maybe that's crediting my occupation with a level of literary respectability it may not deserve but...

You WHAT sunshine? Did I hear you correctly?

You reckon those childlike utterances you occasionally make on behalf of some overpriced 'product' are the equal of some of the finest literary minds the world has ever seen?

Eh? Do you?

You reckon semi-literate tosh like this...

"The muffled thunder of its engine is impressively addictive, as is the 237 bhp it delivers which leaves you gasping in admiration..."

... equates with this...

"...But if he stood and watched the frigid wind
Tousling the clouds, lay on the fusty bed
Telling himself that this was home, and grinned,
And shivered, without shaking off the dread

That how we live measures our own nature,
And at his age having no more to show
Than one hired box should make him pretty sure
He warranted no better, I don't know."

You think yours is better do you? Outside in the car park now!

Can I just make a couple of points before things become physically violent?

Be quick.

Well, firstly, the author of that stuff about the car wasn't me, I read it in a magazine.

You sure?

Quite sure.

Go on, point two.

Yes, er, and point two is that I was in no way suggesting that the end result of a copywriter's labours is the equal of great poetry. It's just that the PRINCIPLES ARE THE SAME. Namely, that it's all about distillation. Paring sentences, cutting words, forever reducing so that what remains has a power that comes from a concentration of the language. Copy, good copy that is, has to put over its message in as succinct yet memorable a way as possible without falling prey to cliches or lazy verbiage. And unless you're a genius, it's impossible to do in a first draft.

Likewise poetry.

And if poetry works, readers see something with new eyes. If copy works, consumers get their wallets out.

Anyway, I'm rambling now.

Here's part of The Guardian newspaper's site where they run a weekly Haiku competition. The rules are... well they're explained on the site. But basically a Haiku is a syllabic poem of three lines in 5,7,5 syllable order. Preferably topical.

HERE IT IS, HAVE A CRACK IF YOU FANCY

The 'point' being that it's a really neat way of polishing words.

Yes, it's a UK newspaper but global subjects are welcomed.

Oh, and there's a prize for the weekly winner. Not from me, from the newspaper.

Don't think this really needs a headline, so it's not getting one

2007-03-09T17:32:00.001Z

This delightful message is on a park bench near my house.

The bench had several prominent pieces of graffiti scrawled over it to which the author of this missive clearly objected.

Presumably they thought that words written on white stickers don't count as graffiti. Hence, "GRAFFITI WANKER".

At least it's spelled correctly.

Full marks sir.

Or madam.

Sum up a country in three words

2007-03-07T10:19:00.000Z

M'colleague and I work in a department that has a sizeable feminine presence. This is unusual since despite female emancipation, universal suffrage, the abolition of the so-called 'glass ceiling', blah, blah...most creative departments are still bastions of MANLINESS.

One side-effect of our oestrogen-rich environment is the proliferation of chocolate.

At any time of the day.

And God help anyone who goes on holiday and DOESN'T bring back some sort of chocolate-based comestible.

So when one of the girls went to Thailand recently, she brought back a box of Thai chocs. On which was this neat summary of Thailand itself. It can't have been referring to the chocolates since they were all the same. And of a very low quality.

So, if Thailand equals "Diversity and Refinement", which, since I've never been there, I'll have to take on trust, what about other countries?

Ok, in the style of the great Roy Walker of 'Catchphrase' fame... three words, here we go.

Oh, and the middle word must be 'and'.

And try to be nice.

BRITAIN:
Stoicism and rain. (Marks knocked off for mentioning the weather.)

FRANCE:
Panache and cheese. (Or, wine)

USA:
Overweight and loud. (Hm, that's not nice. Better try again, they may invade.)
Industrious and competitive. (More flattering, I think. Hopefully enough to stave off an all-out assault.)

MONGOLIA:
Rocky and cold. (Or is it hot?)

It isn't very easy this.

Que?

2007-03-06T16:21:00.000Z

Nooooooo, it's 'queue'.

Queue.

See?

Easy really.

Just add an extra U-E.

No more, no less.

Or... did they mean 'Cue'?

Like it was some sort of outdoor, urban pool tournament?

Oi, fuckface! Lighten up a touch, hey? It's a simple spelling mistake. A couple of letters for chrissakes! Maybe English isn't that person's first language. And anyway, it isn't as if we're all la-di-dah university-educated types like you is it? Hmm? You go and work in the Rainforest Cafe for a few weeks on two quid an hour and no tips and then see how your spelling looks. Smartarse.

Please, just don't hit my face. Not the face.

What would YOU do?

2007-03-05T12:39:00.000Z

You own a long stretch of railings that habitually get covered in posters, signs and what not, much to the detriment of the local area.

And it's making you cross. Your neighbours aren't best pleased either.

They tell you to act. NOW!

But there's this problem: how to inform people that their signs aren't welcome.

Without... er,... sticking up a... sign. On the railings.

So you grit your teeth and hope your sign deters all the other posters from putting up theirs.

Fingers crossed it'll win something at the UK Irony Awards too.

I'm confused

2007-03-02T14:51:00.000Z

In an office, somewhere in Britain (I'm guessing), someone put pen to paper and authorised the production of this ad.

But I've no idea why.

It was then paid for and placed in a national newspaper magazine.

What were all these people on?

And, can I have some please?

Selling copy!

2007-02-28T13:38:00.000Z

Some dude at estate agents Haart, of 'Haart... is where your home is' 'fame', clearly thinks it is a good idea to enliven the property descriptions in my local paper with a soupcon of 'wit'. At least I think that's what it's supposed to be.

Or possibly OF the art?

Only to someone who previously lived in a hole.

Nope, sorry. What?

Er...

Aha! Plain English. Welcome, do come in. We have missed you.

Overheard

2007-02-26T14:18:00.001Z

I was in "Scribbler", a greetings card shop, choosing, unsurprisingly, a greetings card. There was a woman nearby, dressed in a Soho approximation of a 'power suit'. Luckily she was also speaking loudly into her mobile so we could all hear her deliberations:

LOUD WOMAN: He's not really a cheeky person is he? I won't get him anything too cheeky... there's something here with a football team on it but... no I don't think so... well, he's not leaving to join a football team is he? He doesn't like football... well he doesn't look as though he likes football... those glasses... I'll just get him one that says 'sorry you're leaving' and we can all sign that. Yes?... Hello?

Art?

2007-02-23T12:04:00.000Z

Welcome to Intellectuals' Corner.

Someone has tippexed an 'F' in front of the word 'art' on this escalator poster on the London Underground.

And because my sense of humour can often be described as 'childish' I found this funny.

Now, I'm presuming whoever did it didn't have a bottle of tippex to hand when they first clapped eyes on the poster. And these darned tube escalators move pretty fast so to graffiti them requires real speed and dexterity.

The thought process may have gone something like this...

"Ooh look, 'Art'. If someone scrawled an 'F' in front of that, it would spell 'Fart'. Now, where's my bottle of tippex? Shit, it's at home. I'll bring it tomorrow."

Perhaps they made a few practice passes down the escalator as I had to (well, one), before taking the pic. But to do this you need to go through the exit barriers and come back in. A slightly tortuous process.

But whatever happened they've managed to plaster on the tippex nice and thick.

And it made me grin this morning.

So, to whoever is responsible, good job!

A thousand words says a picture

2007-02-15T15:26:00.000Z

M'colleague at work bats, shall we say, for the other side. Put simply, he's an art director. And as such he receives a regular deluge of mail from photographers eager to show off their latest picture of a scuffed training shoe.

Most of the work speaks for itself, you either like it and file it away or bin it. There is no middle ground, it's a ruthless world.

One such piece of mail came the other day.

And this one had words attached.

Long words. That had been cobbled together in some strange blasphemy of a sentence which failed to make any sense at all.

So I cut the words out and assembled them into a vague poem.

It still didn't make the pictures any better.

"We apologise for any inconvenience this may cause."

2007-02-12T10:17:00.000Z

I heard these words today.

In fact, I think I've heard them every day since moving to good ol' London Town. Which was, fact fans, 12.5 years ago.

And, being as there's 365 days a year (no, I'm not arsing about with Leap Years), I reckon that's...

...

er,...

...

4,562.5 days. Give or take.

Minus, let's say, 1300 days for weekends.

Subtract too, about 250 days for holiday. Fuck, 250 days holiday? Where did they all go?

So, we end up with...

... something like,...

...

3102.5 days, on which I've heard the above announcement. Or variations thereon.

And I've come to the, possibly not very earth-shattering, conclusion that it means ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

Fuck all.

It certainly doesn't mean they're sorry. If they were sorry I'm sure we'd all see the station staff rushing up to the delayed masses begging forgiveness, with eyes drowning in tears of genuine remorse. But we don't. Unless I was away that day.

Frankly, it just irritates. And even though those responsible may seem as stupid as Andrew Wilkinson, the divvy in my class at school, they're surely not so daft as to want to annoy us on purpose. After all, they have timetables to do that.

So here's my solution offered free of charge to any purveyor of public transport wishing to placate the downtrodden masses who suffer their 'service'.

Instead of pretending to be sorry, why not say things that would at least bring a smile to people's faces. For example:

1) Recite a list of British sporting heroes as a reminder of gallant deeds that lifted the nation... Bobby Charlton, Steve Redgrave, Sebastian Coe, Kelly Holmes, Ian Botham, Eddie the Eagle... well, you get the gist.

2) Play a recording of Tommy Cooper: "I backed a horse today, at twenty to one. It came in at half past four." Or Morecombe, Izzard... Dennis... taste varies, obviously.

3) Play snatches of famous sporting commentary: "And here comes Hurst, he's got... some people are on the pitch..." Or famous speeches: "We will fight them on the beaches...".

I'd better stop now, this is starting to make sense.

I had to follow this bloke all the way up Regent Street

2007-02-07T12:52:00.000Z

He may have passed me unseen if it hadn't been for his shouting. Nothing offensive, just a few very loud 'good mornings' to people on the opposite side of the road.

I was despairing of ever getting a half-decent picture such was his rate of progress along the pavement and my camera phone's dated 'technology'. Even litter bins merited only a cursory glance. That is, until he caught sight of an umbrella protruding from a bin near Hamley's.

He's cut the sleeves off this shirt, presumably to allow him to wear it over all his other clothes.

Hey, no shit Sherlock!

His name appears to be Thomas Something-or-Other. He's claiming that MI5 tried to murder him on 5th July 2006. (It could have been the 15th or 25th I suppose but I couldn't see round his armpit.) Anyway, as with many 'intelligence' operations, it was clearly a botched job as it left Thomas nursing a broken shoulder, bruising on the brain, a lasting sense of injustice and the need to acquire a white shirt and black marker pen.

He speculates on who gave the order for this roughing-up: Home Secretary John Reid, or the Godfather himself, T. Blair.

Finally he signs off by claiming he is a prisoner of the state who has been rendered 'inncommunicado' to prevent him from speaking out.

He did smell though.

Not a brothel. Got that?

2007-02-05T14:18:00.000Z

So there you are, living in an enviable Queen Anne-style house on one of Soho's more salubrious side streets when there's a knock at your door. You open it to a strange man.

MAN: "Mistress Domina?"

YOU: "You what mate?"

MAN: "Er, Mistress... it's not is it?"

YOU: "No it ruddy isn't."

Several hundred similar knocks on the door later... a sturdy sign to let all and sundry know.

Don't suppose it helps the house price much.

UPDATE 23.02.07.:
I see comedian Dave Gorman has beaten me to this one.
And he's got loads of comments too.

Look out! Swallows!

2007-02-01T12:49:00.000Z

I'm no great churchgoer, in fact the last time I went was... no, it's gone. But I couldn't resist this plaintive note pinned to a church door in Wales.

For a moment I thought 'Swallows' referred to a particularly unpleasant family who had been barred by the vicar for causing trouble during the service. Perhaps defacing hymn books; carving their initials in the back of the pews; overly aggressive praying. Or, and this was a particular bugbear of the headmaster at my school... spitting.

But hey dumbass, I thought, these are birds. You know, feathers and shit, innit.

So it looks as though squadrons of them had been bombarding our helpless rev as per Tippi Hedren in "The Birds". Perhaps even during his sermon.

REV: So therefore, following the example of St Paul, we must look deeply at ourselves, into ourselves and... who let those fucking swallows in? They're shitting in the font! Bastard cunts!"

I felt the least I could do was go inside and have a look round, maybe drop a quid in the organ fund box.

Don't recall shutting the door on my way out though.

"Look at the hands"

2007-01-31T15:05:00.000Z

A couple of Silver-Haired Old Ladies in the National Portrait Gallery (Tudor section):

SHOL 1: Look at the hands, they're very important. They're the most detailed part, can you see?

SHOL 2: Yes they're... aren't they big.

SHOL 1: Hands were very important then. Can you see the detail?

SHOL 2: Look at that ring.

SHOL 1: His seal, that's his seal. I love the way he clasps his together.

SHOL 2: Thin fingers.

SHOL 1: They intertwine don't they? Yes. As though he's praying.

SHOL 2: Why is he praying?

SHOL 1: He isn't.

SHOL 2: He could be.

SHOL 1: Yes. But he isn't. One wouldn't pray whilst having one's portrait painted.

SHOL 2: He could be pretending.

SHOL 1: Let's move on. Oh, now this is Henry VII. (PAUSE) Look at the hands...

That's the best thing about art galleries: sod the paintings, look at the people.

Or the hands.

Tabloid-eeze

2007-01-30T14:27:00.000Z

Britain's tabloids have long been contorting the language so that it accords with their column widths. Here's a representative sample I culled from yesterday's super soaraway Sun.

What's interesting is that you can glean a good idea of the story from some of the headlines but with others a little extra reading is required.

So, for example, in "Torture Army recruit AWOL" we can hazard a guess that some poor teenage squaddie had his genitals singed by a sadistic Sergeant and has therefore decided that it's definitely not "a man's life in the army" and run away to hide in some woods hoping that no-one will miss him.

But with "DEAD TOT QUIZ" we're on shakier ground as on first glance this appears to be a game show for sickos about dead children. But on delving deeper into the story we learn it's another case of domestic violence as a couple help police with the investigation into the death of a five month-old baby.

Which leads us onto the synonyms or more likely, code words, that tabloids always use. Firstly for reasons of space and secondly because their readers aren't likely to enjoy an especially intimate relationship with the nuances of the English language.

"TOT" Baby. But in reality, any child under the age of ten.
"QUIZ" Interrogation. Someone is helping the police with their inquiries.
"HELL" Any unpleasant experience of hugely variable severity, preferably undergone by a 'celebrity'. So, in the two examples above we learn (on reading the whole story) that Kelly Osbourne's 'HELL' is her less-than-traumatic time in Japan where she had to use the local toilets. And Natasha Kaplinsky's version of Hades was that she discovered on the TV programme, "Who do you think you are?" that some of her distant family were murdered by the Nazis. Now, certainly, for those distant family members, the word 'HELL' is apt. But for Natasha? Well, it's hardly the same is it?
"STORM" A protest. Apparently. A big row over an issue which may or may not be of national importance. The origin of the storm frequently being a newspaper headquarters in the Wapping area of London. In our example, the "Corrie Wife" seems to have outrun a hurricane. She didn't. She got battered.

And finally...

No, it's nothing to do with G.W. Bush and his escapades in Iraq. It's actually a tale of mild-mannered Man City manager, Stuart Pearce who 'rejoices' in the nickname 'psycho' and who has apparently offered to be the manager of England's U21 football team. But his club, City, aren't too happy. Hence the outbreak of hostilities. Or a couple of grumpy 'phone calls anyway.

Today's word is... 'oxymoron'

2007-01-26T13:02:00.000Z

Another entry in what is probably, due to excessive lack of imagination, the most irregular series ever 'devised'.

oxymoron n. Rhet. a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction.

I wonder how many emails they actually get?

More baldness

2007-01-23T11:34:00.000Z

Ads for those of us with slightly less on top never seem to show actual baldies anymore. Just young blokes with loads of hair.

And I'm busy wondering why.

Are they afraid that images of middle-aged men with thinning pates just don't project the kind of young, thrusting vibe that gets people hard in this day and age?

A vibe like this virile, hirsuite young buck is projecting for instance.

Whatever happens, it's all come a bit too late for 'Reg'.

Would you ring the bell?

2007-01-22T10:23:00.000Z

There's more than a hint of desperation about this little notice.

Maybe that's why I love it.

I wonder how many times our nocturnal wage slave stumbled down from his (yes, I'm assuming it's a 'he' for reasons of simplicity, apologies if not) midday slumbers and struggled bleary-eyed with the lock on the door to confront, and quite probably swear at, a Jehovah's Witness, electoral canvasser, schoolchild seeking sponsorship etc.

At what point was he driven to write his note?

For extra emphasis he's gone over the 'DO NOT DISTURB' letters twice which lends an air of menace to the communication, doubtless intentional.

But what about the underlining? Three rather wavy lines, almost artistically produced and done without a ruler. If he'd been angry they would have been shorter and straighter, but these seem sad.

And this is why I think our writer was crying when he wrote it. Tears of frustration were coursing down his cheeks as, for the umpteenth time, he'd been awoken by someone at the door.

No, I don't believe those wet splodges are rain-related. I reckon they come from the eyes of a desperate man who realises that if he doesn't get his alloted kip today then, come three o'clock in the morning, he's highly likely to lose an arm in that whirling machine he operates at the factory.

You don't see one of these very often

2007-01-18T13:09:00.000Z

A well-written, well-acted, lovingly-shot commercial that actually tells a story into the bargain.

What's more, it goes on for two whole minutes. Which, in this mad bish-bash-bosh era must be some sort of achievement.

I could sit and watch it for ages.

Or a couple of minutes at least.

Hell hath no fury...

2007-01-18T11:00:00.000Z

... like a man with crabs.

Spotted in Devon during the Christmas break.

We have real anger here. Ms Pedrick's shortcomings in the vaginal cleanliness department are ruthlessly exposed by a man who, not content with merely telling his mates about her in the pub, has gone to the considerable trouble of creating some sort of stencil with which to warn this scarlet lady's prospective bedfellows.

By creating his stencil, our itchy lothario clearly means business. I saw two other locations where his dire warning was displayed, so he was obviously intent on spreading his message and leaving the local townsfolk in no doubt as to the potential consequences of a dalliance with the newly-infamous Ms P.

Who is happily spreading a little something of her own by the look of things.

Hey you get offa my stoop

2007-01-17T18:05:00.000Z

They could have said 'porch' instead I suppose, or steps, but I'm so glad they didn't 'cos I just love 'stoop'.

It's so wilfully obscure, so completely undumbed-down. It challenges you to understand it and then, since some people clearly won't, gives the owners carte blanche to bollock the uncomprehending hoodie squatting outside.

This is a sign that you need an English degree to understand. Alright, maybe not. But think of the possibilities... signs that were so highbrow that no-one understood them and consequently no-one obeyed.

Imagine the anarchy.

There's such a sign on the side of a house near me. It says,

"Please don't kick balls against this wall."

Is it obeyed?

Is it fuck.

I have an announcement to make

2007-01-16T11:06:00.000Z

Those running our public 'transport system' never seem to tire of deluging passengers with messages.

Here's a sample from my varied modes of transport this morning...

"Owing to the late running of the service in front, this tram will be terminating at the next stop." Oh, thanks.

"Please stand well back from the yellow line when the train enters the platform."

"This is your guard speaking. If you see anything suspicious please tell me or a member of the on-board staff. If you require my assistance, I can be found at the centre of this eight-car train."

"On alighting from this service, please take care to mind the gap between the train and the platform."

"Please ensure you have all your belongings with you when you leave the train."

"Passengers using Oyster Pre-Pay please ensure you touch in and touch out or you will be charged the full price fare for your journey."

"Oyster Pre-Pay is not valid on this service."

"Please do not give money to beggers operating at this station. South West Trains gives a donation to various charities on your behalf."

"Due to signal failure, severe delays are occuring on the Uxbridge branch of the Metropolitan Line."

"Any unattended articles will be removed and could be destroyed."

"For reasons of safety, bicycles are not allowed on this service."

"Please move right down inside the carriage."

"Flash photography is not permitted on the Underground."

"Thank you for travelling with South West Trains."

Wind

2007-01-12T12:35:00.000Z

Today's first edition of Metro carried this story about yesterday's gusts.

But in the second edition...

Leaving aside the increase in the number of people killed (although what exactly does 'up to nine' mean? Over two? er...), why the change in the wind speed? Is it that we still don't understand kph in this country?

"Kilo... what? Kilo metres? What the dickens are they, some kind of French joke? We have miles in Britain. The Queen's Own British miles!"

Or does 90mph simply sound windier to us?

Fancy a pint with Jesus?

2007-01-10T17:17:00.000Z

A man gave me this in a street in Soho.

Now you can pick up almost anything in a Soho street. But an invitation to a pint with the Lord?

It's a new one to me.

I don't have to know anything about the Bible apparently, nor will I have to sing. Although if the christians ever did make me sing they'd never ask again.

Nice choice of pub name too. Mind you, I doubt they'd have picked Filthy McNasty's.

Another belter

2006-12-18T11:52:00.000Z

This 'message' has been appearing with depressing regularity in the free newspapers that carpet the insides of our public transport each morning.

In it npower, for it is they, liken the drop you'll receive in your energy bill if you switch from British Gas, to jumping (presumably screaming) out of an aeroplane.

Look, they say, this man is having a wonderful time as he plummets to earth at several hundred miles an hour. And the experience is exactly the same when you switch to npower.

However the faces of the yellow and blue balls falling with our new npower customer tell a rather different story.

They're shitting bricks.

Great ad!

2006-12-15T11:47:00.000Z

Serious big-time hats off to the creative genius behind this festive ad from 3V.

No, I've never heard of them either but it's always good to welcome a new player onto the scene, especially one who can call upon such creative wizardry that clearly lies behind this piece of 'work'.

There you are, sweating away at your desk, desperately trying to communicate safe, pre-paid online vouchers (hey, we've all been there) in a simple, easy-to-understand way, when suddenly, in a blinding flash of inspiration, the solution presents itself.

Meercats.

Dressed up as though they've been Christmas shopping. Because that is what Meercats do, don't you see? And as they're responsible for the vast majority of online consumer spending these days it makes perfect sense.

And they're popular too. Remember that programme about them on the telly, narrated by the nice Mr Attenborough? How cool was that!

This ad is gonna be a sure-fire hit. And you can damn well quote me on that too!

Read all about it

2006-12-13T15:15:00.000Z

Hang on.

'Ripper'?

I thought that word was only used to describe a certain method of murder (Peter Sutcliffe, Jack the Ripper) characterised by a high level of butchery.

At the time of writing however, one of the chief distinguishing characteristics of each victim has been the absence of any hint of violence.

So why not write 'Ipswich killer' or 'serial killer'?

Because 'ripper' is the best way of sensationalising this crime and flogging more newspapers?

Of course, why let facts stand in the way of a good headline.

Silly me.

Fruit?

2006-12-11T13:00:00.000Z

Poorly-designed labels for kids' drinks are hardly the place to look for linguistic logic but here's a corker nevertheless from Minute Maid (who? - no idea).

Whoa what are you saying man, do you see how they've spelled 'fruit'? That's not logic, it's madness.

Point taken, but don't you think it's actually far more logical to spell the word 'f-r-o-o-t' than 'f-r-u-i-t'? Yes, I know 'Froot' is only a name conjured up by some marketing loon, and let's face it, a couple of hours in a strip-lit meeting room surrounded by other 'marketeers' is likely to make even the sanest spout bollocks.

But 'fruit'. Or, 'frewit' as it conceivably might be pronounced. I mean, why? What's wrong with spelling words as they are sounded?

Steady on you fool, do you know what you're saying?

What vocab snobs in Britain deride as poor American English spelling could also be termed common sense. Why does 'colour' need a 'u'? Color. There, see. And with the constant seepage of US culture into all parts of the globe, will 'English' eventually be identified by American spelling? And called 'American'?

What rot! I shall be writing a very stiff letter to the Daily Mail about this!

After all we have 'Kwik Save' and 'Kwik Fit'. Yes, I know, brand names. But surely a more sensible way to spell the word than 'q-u-i-c-k'. And it's not dissimilar to 'cwic', an olde englishe word that meant 'alive'. Probably because in those days running fast improved one's life expectancy.

So, could spelling be going back to its roots?

Then of course, we have text speak. Or should that be 'txt spk'?

Aaaaaarrrrrggggghhhhh!!!!!

It's Cliff!

2006-12-08T09:48:00.000Z

Don't know if Cliff's releasing a Christmas single this year but, even if he was, I doubt the author of this comment will be buying it.

Whoever it was clearly loathes the 'Peter Pan of Pop' (copyright, every tabloid in Britain) a great deal.

Not content with merely daubing 'I'm a cunt' across the face of Sue Barker's Ex, the anonymous scribbler has gone further by adding the word 'right' into the abusive mix. Thus informing us that, in the opinion of said wordsmith, Cliff's levels of cuntness have reached a peak that everyday run-of-the-mill cunts can only dream of.

In the words of Cliff himself at the 1968 Eurovision Song Contest... 'Congratulations!'

Ho, ho, ho

2006-12-05T18:23:00.000Z

Nice to see a bit of 'bah humbug' amid the schmaltz.

So full marks to the expensive jewellery department at Selfridges who don't give a bugger for price reductions just because it happens to be the 'festive' season.

Let's face it, they'd be pretty meaningless anyway when the trinket you've got your eye on is upwards of ten grand, and no amount of fifty-quid-off stickers is going to change that.

Lovey stuff

2006-12-01T10:09:00.000Z

Cheery messages written on free newspapers and left for other people to pick up on public transport?

Fuck, yeah!

Despite the shaky writing and piss-poor spelling, the generosity of spirit shines out in a cynical old world.

Nice smiley face too.

Shame about the haircut.

Builders, piss your mate off by writing uncomplimentary things about him in wet concrete

2006-11-30T17:04:00.000Z

Don't know how old this is but it's been there a while.

Maybe Phil took the not-so-subtle hint and went on a diet and isn't fat any more. Perhaps he's thinking of visiting the site and amending 'is' to 'was' with a chisel or something.

Then again, he could have been so upset by what he took to be bullying at the workplace that he started comfort eating and got fatter and fatter until he became morbidly obese and had to be taken to hospital by firemen who needed to pull the side of his house down to gain access.

Yeah, that sounds right.

Phil, if you're reading, get well soon.

And hey, join a gym big fella.

Graffiti rules ok

2006-11-29T17:51:00.000Z

A lovely message scrawled on the back of a toilet door in the gents at Frankley service station on the M5:

"David Williams, keep up the good work on the nightshift, your wife is a great shag."

It's signed "Gibbo".

Hair and golf. Naturally

2006-11-29T12:43:00.000Z

ROBIN: Holy cumshots Batman! Look at this fantastic new hair treatment.

BATMAN: It appears to be a remarkable advance for medical science Boy Wonder.

ROBIN: It sure does. Check out the thickness of his re-growth.

BATMAN: Notice too my youthful partner in crime, how his sideburns have also extended.

ROBIN: Zowie! And hey, what's that on his upper lip?

BATMAN: Yes, most curious.

ROBIN: Suffering anuses! It's a moustache!

BATMAN: Extraordinary. The beginnings of upper lip growth can clearly be seen.

ROBIN: But Batman, why in satan's name is he playing golf?

BATMAN: That is a mystery that even my great powers cannot solve, boy... friend... wonder. Boy Wonder.

ROBIN: Cocks alive!

We can sleep safe in our beds

2006-11-28T18:02:00.000Z

Good news for residents on Anglesey in North Wales. It looks like the local cops are cracking down on lavatorial naughtiness in a big way.

Figures just in show that assaults on hand dryers are down 47%, toilet roll stuffed down the bog has been reduced by a third and the average depth of piss on the floor is now less than two inches.

Great work guys!

Tabloid lingo

2006-11-27T18:14:00.000Z

Loving the way our newspapers condense and combine words for reasons of space. This beauty was the result of a story in which some lunatic stabbed a young woman at a museum then threw himself off a high balcony.

But they didn't call it a 'stab-fall' which is actually shorter. That's because nobody falls to their death these days, they 'plunge'. Presumably screaming. And so 'stab-plunge' was born.

One day we'll think it's all so normal.

Crime doesn't pay

2006-11-23T10:58:00.000Z

Maybe the police should advertise too:

"Filmed some crime? Mind if we have a look first? Sorry to be a pain. Love, the Police. (Not the band)."

Then again, if I was a bored security guard looking to supplement my shitty pay, what would I do?

"Hello, is that Sky...?"

Dear traffic warden... part 1

2006-11-22T13:41:00.000Z

As you can see from the tax disc, this is a few years old. Yet age doth not wither it one jot. To read, click on the pic.

The writer, one 'Mr Poole', here challenges the traffic wardens to ticket his car for he has the power of the Lord on his side who verily will smite down with great anger and furious vengence... etc. whoever is impudent enough to slap a ticket on his Nissan Micra.

Calling up divine authority in the shape of 'Sister Theresa', Mr Poole can park wherever he ruddy well likes safe in the knowledge that he has the backing of the Church, and its own special brand of firepower.

"Being as this is a .44 lightning bolt, the most powerful lightning bolt in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself a question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, traffic warden?"

Dear traffic warden... part 2

2006-11-22T13:15:00.000Z

Next, a short essay which I think gives a little insight into the joys of car ownership in the capital. There's a lot of reflection on the windscreen, including me, so I'll transcribe what it says, (to read, click on the image as before):

CAR PARKED HERE LEGALLY FOR MONTHS. BROKEN INTO AND WRITTEN OFF AWAITING REMOVAL. THEY HAVE STOLEN THE PARKING PERMIT & TAX DISC. PLEASE DO NOT BOTHER TICKET THIS CAR: THERE IS A VALID PERMIT FOR IT SO TICKETS WILL BE REVOKED. Thank you

A clear tale of misery and woe that would surely bring a lump to the throat of even the most iron-hearted warden. I particularly like the encicling of the word 'stolen', there's some real anger and frustration here. And in their rage the anonymous scribbler has even missed off the '-ing' from 'ticketing'. Then we have the mysterious 'they' to consider: like some extra-governmental agency is going around nicking London's cars - quite probably with the Mayor's blessing.

A couple of days later there was a ticket under the wiper. Brilliant.

Hands up if...

2006-11-21T15:04:00.000Z

A gem from Metro's small ads.

"How often did you visit the lady?'

"What was the nature of her service?'

"And did she always defecate on your face?"

Today's word is... 'camp'

2006-11-20T12:29:00.001Z

I was pondering this for a bit. And the following word associations bobbed up:

Hmm, it all seemed so innocent to begin with too.

This may become a regular series, then again it may not.

Does exactly what it says on the tin

2006-11-17T12:09:00.000Z

Farmers know all about communication and this bloke is no different.

He's got a pile of shit to get rid of and boy, does he get the message across. He's even written it on a stone tablet for pete's sake.

Whether it's "get off my land!" Or, "I'll set my fucking dogs on you!", farmers tell it like it is.

We should have more of them in advertising.

Why bother with the doctor?

2006-11-16T14:10:00.000Z

From just one issue of 'Metro' yesterday. More than a newspaper, it's now the place to go to diagnose all your ailments.

But notice the use of inverted commas: someone else said it, we didn't, don't sue. 'Linked' is a good word too. A great way to increase public paranoia without going through the tedious rigmarole of backing the statement up with proof.

Tense headache? Well, there's bound to be something about it in Metro soon. Probably saying that it is caused by drinking cans of fizzy pop.

Or eating sausages.

Greetings from Earth

2006-11-15T19:08:00.000Z

This image is visible from space.

Presumably we're hoping that any passing aliens who happen to have the munchies stop by for a Bargain Bucket of the Colonel's finest.

Surely there must be better places in the Universe to eat.

Isn't there a Pizza Express on Saturn?

Oh dear

2006-11-15T13:38:00.000Z

This is telly in 2006. On 'Living TV' apparently.

As you can see I've circled it to ensure I don't forget.

Ceci n'est pas une pipe

2006-11-15T13:19:00.000Z

Love this message. How could anyone mistake it for a toy? It's not brightly coloured, doesn't have wheels etc. And frankly any child, under the age of three or not, would have sure grounds for legal action if they opened their Christmas stocking and found this inside.

T-shirts that people wear long after they have any relevance

2006-11-13T18:36:00.000Z

Why would a grown man choose to wear a t-shirt with the words

'Keele University Men's Badminton Team'

on the back?

Apart from when playing badminton at Keele University for the men's team?

Perhaps he wanted to show shoppers in Sainsbury's, for that is where I saw it, that once upon a time he was an athletic god who could smash a shuttlecock over quite a high net for someone else to smash back at him whereupon he would smash it back again, as would his opponant, until the shuttlecock (or 'cock' for short), hit the floor.

Maybe he felt we needed to know that.

Now that's more like it

2006-11-13T18:30:00.000Z

Hitting the nail on the head here.

But, but, but... wait a minute. If smoking kills then we mustn't forget that it also does a great many other things. Stuff like making you look older when you're trying to get into pubs; impressing girls with your sophisticated yet devil-may-care attitude (see also 'swearing'); and giving your voice a throaty rasp adding to your sex appeal (particularly important when you're fifteen).

Cough, splutter!

2006-11-10T18:03:00.000Z

I thought health warnings on fag packets were supposed to say stuff like 'this will harm you, do not smoke unless you want to die in agony with your lungs full of shit'.
But it seems that these days Marlboro only want to speak to people with a BSc in Chemistry as I doubt very much whether your average 14 year-old on a council estate knows their hydrogen cyanide from their elbow.
Ah, unless this is some sort of vile Darwinistic ploy to kill off the thickies by using big words that they don't understand thus removing their genes from the gene pool and furthering the development of the 'ubermenschen'.

Hmm, cunning.

Toilet humour, or piss-poor education?

2006-11-09T18:16:00.000Z

"Cleaning closed in wet floor progress"????

Er, what? Looks like the standards of bog maintenance in the fair city of York are higher than the educational ones in the local schools. But as I walked away I felt a nagging feeling in my loins (no, not that feeling)... could it be genius?