In Which I Have an Unhealthy Fixation with Sanitary Ads

I want to delve back into the world of advertising if I may, with one particular product in mind- Libresse Tampons. The adverts essentially say "Hey! We want you to buy our tampons. As a sanitary product they're good enough at their job for you to carry on using them if you start- they're easy to twist open too, which is nice ." That's fine. However, in these adverts you see women who aren't quite content with this and feeling that they have to show solidarity with the tampons by being twisted. I see what you did there, advertisers, very clever. This twisted behaviour manifests itself in all kinds of unpleasant manners, from the ladies being very unpleasant to show that menstruating doesn't mean they can't behave like dicks, to the downright criminal. Essentially when you are using Libresse Tampons you have to be very nasty, but to do it with a smile on your face to convince people that it's nothing to do with your hormonal level. This is the perfect example (and if you don't watch it then the rest of this post won't really make sense)...
 
I've done some delicate cake icing in my time, and whilst there were no loud noises in the background, I'm sure if there were they wouldn't distract me because I'M NOT UNSTABLE. And if you think noises from a television could distract you from making your absolutely pristine cakes that literally everyone in the world will judge you on and you'll be shot if the icing is even slightly out of place, if you think the noises could distract you, then you could politely ask the person causing them to turn the volume down. I am not in favour of capital punishment, BUT... This is going to be one of those sentences like "I'm not a racist, BUT... I think every person who doesn't have exactly the same amount of melanin as my skin should be put in a work camp." So I'm not in favour of capital punishment, BUT... If my girlfriend had such a disgustingly disproportionate reaction to her being shit at icing a cake, I would probably have to boil her in Marmite. I'm sure the family of the person who the games console fell on would agree too. 

Actually, it's just occurred to me. She might not even be a girlfriend. She could be a friend, or just a housemate. I think we're agreed her chucking hundreds of pounds worth of property from a great height without checking to see if there's anyone below is an unstable act, especially as it's over one slightly spoiled cupcake that isn't even his fault. So it's possible that she sneaks into his flat, scours the cupboards for ingredients, bakes some cupcakes (come on, he might not have a sense of smell). She takes the cupcakes out of the oven and starts to ice them, and she jumps at the noise and messes up because she's nervy as she's trespassing in a stranger's home. He feels a hand on his shoulder that he assumes is his housemate, feels her tugging at the controller, still thinks it's his housemate, finally makes eye contact and sees that she's a crazy psycho bitch who is about to chuck his PS3 out of the window and he has no fucking clue why. This is a scary advert. It's also a morally reprehensible one. They are putting the message across that  whenever women menstruate, they are expected to go mental. This is patronisation of the highest order. I mean, come on,  we all know bitches be crazy but this is just sexist... 

Today's Tune 

In Which I Hate Robert Kilroy-Silk

Today I was going to write an article called "We owe Kilroy nothing- what has Robert Kilroy-Silk ever done for us?", but I think that too many people won't remember him- I'm not entirely sure that I do. Something to do with a hatred of the Arabs, having a spray tan that the cast of The Only Way is Essex (I refuse to use the acronym) would be proud of and a chat show that Jeremy Kyle would be embarrassed of. He is a man who I am ashamed to share a name with. And yet writing about him would be in effect the same as writing about the worrying rise in electronic pets such as the Tamagotchi- it's just not relevant anymore. Instead, I give you this lackadaisically diligently sourced quote from Wikipedia:

"A spokeswoman for Kilroy-Silk told The Observer, "He is not a racist at all - he employs a black driver.""

That ought to say enough about him. But in fact it doesn't. So to make you more familiar with his character, here is footage of his one appearance on Have I Got News for You.

Or there's this clip showing how packed to the rafters his tawdry tabloid talk show was.
They were paid an awful lot of money to be there as well. Nowhere enough, mind.

Or there's some ever so slightly UTTERLY NOT SAFE FOR WORK footage of him going mad in a shopping centre, which, as the internet community is so fond of saying, seems legitimate.

Or there's this quote where he blames every single Arab for one terrorist atrocity: "What do they think we feel about them ? "That we adore them for the way they murdered more than 3,000 civilians on September 11..." I thought that it was 15 Saudis, one Egyptian, one Lebanese and two from the United Arab Emirates myself, but then, what do I know? I don't have a failed chat show or a failed game show or a failed political party  under my belt. I also don't have a love-child who I abandoned before he was born who thinks I am, and I quote, "a dickhead."However, perhaps Mr Kilroy-Silk would like to extend his logic to what he would consider his own people. I'm afraid that if you're reading this and you're European then you shot suspected terrorist but innocent man Jean Charles de Menezes seven times in the head and once in the shoulder. What d'you mean, you didn't? Robert Kilroy-Silk said so, and he's an authority on everything.

Now you might think that it's very lazy to pad out the article with all of this stuff from the internet very noble of me to scour the internet for examples of how unpleasant Kilroy-Silk is, and you'd in fact be wrong, because the internet is overflowing with them. You'd have to go out of your way to find a positive article about him- in fact, you'd probably have to write it then post it online, and then you'd have to kill yourself after thinking about what you've done.

But like I say, I won't write about Kilroy-Silk today. It's all in the past, and I really can't remember what an utterly disgusting orange foetid repugnant bag of sick of a man he is. Ugh.

Today's Tune

In Which I'm Certainly Uncertain

This medicine I'm taking seems to be negating the worst effects of this suspected idiopathic epilepsy. Then again, I have started to feel a bit nauseous at points, and a bit dizzy but without the spinny-ness. It could be that the epilepsy was always going to worsen so that I would feel sick and... well, odd, and that the 100mg of Lamotrigine first and last thing are keeping things in check. However, it could be that these are side effects from the Lamotrigine, whose paper insert says that the side effects might include suicidal thoughts, or better yet, could actually make the epilepsy worse. It could be that for some reason, the misfiring brain activity spiked and has now fallen and plateaued to a more manageable level. So the medicine might not be helping me all that much. The problem is that this thing has come on so fast that it's rather hard to tell.

Anyway, writing this blog is proving to be somewhat cathartic. It's like therapy for someone who isn't willing/can't afford or, let's face it, couldn't be arsed to go and see a therapist. Writing about stuff wot goes on around me keeps my mind in check, provides a safety valve. I have to be careful about what I write, mind, because incriminating someone is the last thing I want to do. It's not great to be around friends who are scared of doing anything because they have the Essex Stasi on their case. Well, I say it's therapeutic. It could be that for some reason, the feelings of existential angst spiked and have now fallen and plateaued to a more manageable level. So the writing might be helping me all that much. The problem is that this thing has come on so fast that it's rather hard to tell.

Today's Tune

In Which I Rage Against the Obscene

On occasion there will be days where nothing of note happens to me. I was asked by J today what tomorrow's blog would be about, and I told her than I had no idea at all, and that it depended what happened/didn't happen to me, such is the nature of an autobiographical blog. I had to prepare for the possibility that there would be days when I would need some filler, and it's just as well I did because NOTHING HAPPENED YESTERDAY. So.

This bloody series of Go Compare adverts that they've foisted on us for years when the first one wasn't even funny where they have some pachyderm in a shit suit with the fakest of 'tasches miming to some pre recorded soundtrack of faux opera that fucking IDIOTS in public of the stupidest calibre will sing to you in the most inapplicable situations just in case you didn't catch it the first seventeen thousand times it was on the idiot box, those adverts. Well, they're a nightmare aren't they. What Go Compare have now done is have that fat prick starting to sing and then Sue Barker blow him up in one ad and have Stuart Pearce boot a ball at his balls in the other. After you get to see Barker's "I'm so happy I've done the world a favour" and Stuart Pearce's "I look unusually smug" faces, after you've seen those, the slogan for the advert comes up and it says "Go Compare- saving the nation". You see what they did there? They're saving the nation money, because they're such good value, and also! Also. They're saving us from the monstrosity of having that singing arsehole. Actually, that's unfair to a singing arsehole. I'd be more likely to use a comparison website if a singing arsehole implored me to compare prices on it. Anyway, isn't it nice of Go Compare to come to the nation's rescue by having celebrities mock hurt the fucker THAT THEY INFLICTED ON US IN THE FIRST PLACE! It is just about the oddest P.R stance ever. The equivalent would be like the Nazis expecting the Jews et al to welcome them with open arms as they disassembled the concentration camps.

"Don't worry, we're saving you!"
"But wasn't it you that-"
"No. Don't worry, you won't be seeing those evil Nazis again."
"I'm pretty sure it was you who put us in h-"
"No, no, no, you must be mistaken. We're the good guys! Can't you tell by Sue Barker and Stuart Pearce turning up to help?"
"What?"
"Nothing..."

So yeah. And whilst we're at it, what the HELL does a meerkat have to do with car insurance? And meerkats are South African, not Russian. Comparison website ads are micturating bags of vom worthy bum fluff. Grrrrr.

Today's Tune  

In Which I Discover a Lifetime Ban is for a Decade, Not for Life

A significant milestone achieved yesterday. It was 10 years (to the day? Yeah, let's say it's that, it makes it seem more significant) since I was banned for life from the crazy golf/putting green,the result of a bet that got a little out of hand... In the words of Roots Manuva "Forgive me Lord, I knew not what I did. I was just a kid trying to hustle up a quid." However, I thought that the person who banned me would probably be dead by now- the last I saw of him he looked as if he was about to have a heart attack.  Sure enough, when T and I got there, there was some child who was in charge of admissions, so we got in with no hassle. It would be boastful for me to say I won, so I shall merely let you know that it wasn't a draw and I didn't lose. This was all accompanied by what I suspect was a compilation album called Now That's What I Call Disgustingly Cheesy Pop Hits From The 90's That You Love To Hate: Volume 5. There certainly wasn't any music from the last ten years, and this antediluvian music, if you can call it that, came wafting in on the wind from the adjacent roller skating rink. We then toddled over to the crazy golf, which is apparently a synonym for exercise in futility. There are six holes, and we certainly got our value for money as we were stuck on one of the bastards for about 15 minutes. But the gradients and delapidated nature of the ramps and such meant that it was a bit of an arbitary exercise- you might as well place your ball somewhere and see if continental drift would get it in the hole in a few millenia. No, scratch that. It's more like when you take a running fuck at a rolling doughnut. It's very unpleasant when you miss, and after you finally manage to get it in the hole, you feel embarassed and wonder why you did it in the first place, let alone pay for it. T and I were on the last hole, and he got tempted to see if he could accidentally hit the ball into the adjoining rollerskating rink. "T," I cautioned, "that way lifetime bans from putting greens lie. Plus, you might end up killing that woman who's skating." He gave me a withering look. "She looks like she's fifty and she's skating around to the music of S Club 7. I'd be doing her a favour." He may have had a point.

Today's Tune

In Which I Assess the Damage

Sure enough, it chucked it down yesterday. I don't think it was any exaggeration that I had somehow managed to style my hair so that it was better than any hairstyle beforehand, and any hairstyle afterwards. I began to don a saintly glow. I could have sworn I felt a halo attach itself to my head, my body started to smell of sanctity as I stepped outside- and then the heavens opened. My immaculately coiffured bonce was reduced to this. Here’s a thing. Why do they say “the heavens opened”? Surely that only makes sense if heaven is a giant swimming pool. Hmm.

Anyroad, an olde timey Routemaster bus (the 159 from Paddington to Streatham if you’re interested) was hired to take us to the venue, which seemed like overkill because there were only 16 or so of us. Still, it’s quite a novelty if you enjoy trundling down the A120 at the exact speed to maximise the fuel economy of an olde timey Routemaster bus. I have a slight suspicion that this was also to maximise the economy of the free-until-the-money-runs-out-bar. Seeing as I got there later than I would have liked, it was a race to the bar. The guy in front of me asked for a double spiced rum and coke, and was admonished by the bar staff that although it was a free bar, he shouldn’t take the piss. Schoolboy error, though what a schoolboy would be doing trying to get 40% ABV at a wedding I do not know. Anyway, I tutted disapprovingly. I got two single spiced rum and cokes for me and my friend, but ended up having to drink theirs due to the fact that they were fictitious. That’s how you do it.

W+A were particularly good value (as was the booze to start off with), and T seemed to be quite cheery. He was particularly proud to have managed to get the last free drink, or the last top up out of Saigon as I called it to anyone who would listen. His sister R was with a brace of her cousins, and I was arguing the point that, from an artistic point of view, Huey Lewis and the News’s “Power of Love” shits upon Kenny Loggins’s “Footloose” from a great height. “Come on,” I postulated. “Back to the Future makes Footloose look like Footloose!” Alas, none of them had seen Back to the Future before. I did write previously that I might try and crack on with R, but I couldn’t in all good conscience do so with a mouthful of vom (induced by her not having seen BTTF, not because I was pissed. Honest). Back to the Future is, as they say, a dealbreaker. However, someone there did take a shine to me. I was talking to her about when the government of 1992 withdrew the pound from the European Exchange Rate Mechanism due to the pounds devaluation because of fluctuating markets, as the youth of today are so fond of discussing. The fact that she liked me I gleaned from her body language, subtle signs like her twirling her hair, exposing her neck and dry humping my leg. I say dry humping, but there did seem to be an element of moisture for some reason. It’s nice to feel wanted.

As I predicted, THE FUCKING GREASE FUCKING MEGAMIX reared its ugly head, which was particularly unpleasant as I hadn’t had the requisite amount of alcohol to be able to cope with that sort of thing. So yours truly did what any right thinking person would do in that situation- crawl into a corner and assuming the foetal position, whilst my leg was being grinded (ground?) like a pole in some questionable gentleman's club. Anyway, D saw that I was soberish, and kindly got drunk enough for the both of us. He also vomited for the both of us when we were driven home by W+A. W had ostensibly pulled into a petrol station for some fuel, but I think that he knew D was about to show off the prowess of his digestive tract. There was a bit of a kerfuffle with the child locks (a borrowed car) but we managed to get D out before it managed to get out of D, so to speak. Sauntered into the shop to get some water for D and to get abused by the burly woman behind the counter. “Do you know that your friend is vomiting next to the bin? I hope he doesn’t expect me to clear it up.” Tempted to reply that she wasn’t important enough to even register on his consciousness, but decided against it as she looked like the sort of person who could murder someone and make it look like suicide. All in all, a good night. I suppose it was my density. I mean, my destiny. And if you don't get that reference, you've broken a deal.

Today's Tune 

In Which I Am About to Dust Off the Wedding Suit

It’s a good day for a white wedding, as Billy Idol had it. I say that, but it’s probably going to chuck it down. The day has come and the next time I see M+C they will be husband and wife. That’s because it’s only IMMEDIATE family that are going to the service, or so I’m told. I’ve managed to behave myself at five out of six weddings, and I was only four years old for the sixth one. A coach has been laid on for all of us lesser mortals there and back, as it’s a little far from civilisation. I hear there’s a hog roast, but wouldn’t be surprised if that’s all gone by the time I get there. I wonder if M will use my idea for his speech? I say my idea, I mean Hugh Laurie’s, but let’s not split hairs. Essentially we will be getting there in time to get stupidly drunk (must remember to get some money, the bar is cash only and the nearest cashpoint is miles away). Due to being overly aware that when I dance, I look like a daddy long legs that has just been stepped on and is having an epileptic attack, I only take to the discotheque floor when there’s a great tune and I am rather drunk. I fear that only one of those will happen tonight.

M left his wedding suit in Brighton the other day, and his brother T kindly offered to keep him company for the drive there and back. T had plonked a CD on (a CD that I saw it my duty to foist upon him, T knows toss all about good albums thus far) and was happily listening to the musical stylings of one Eric Clapton when M decided that because he doesn’t love T, he should put a bit of David Guetta on. This is essentially the equivalent of me taking M’s wedding cake away and replacing it with a hot steaming turd. Hmm. Visions of disgustingly modern dance music playing and also THE FUCKING GREASE MEGAMIX WHICH FUCKING FOLLOWS ME EVERYWHERE. I suppose I shall console myself by trying to chat up M+T’s sister R, and making an utter arse of myself. I find her detached hostility rather charming. I know that if I tried the same approach I would end up dying alone, but then she is a little easier on the eye than me.

Today's Tune 

In Which I Try and Become Magneto

I went to the Neurology department in Colchester General today for a spot of Magnetic Resonance Imaging. The all-seeing all-knowing consultant who diagnosed me with epilepsy referred me to this department as well to confirm his diagnosis/cover his back in case of a lawsuit. Apparently Neurology and Neurophysiology are quite separate departments, hence the appointments on different days.  After a little bit of fraughtness with Network Rail and one of their hilarious delays, I made it to the MRI unit 5 minutes early (after having rapidly stripped down outside into shorts and a t-shirt as to not have any metallic clothing on that might bugger up a God-knows-how-much-piece-of-equipment).

  

The NHS is perhaps the finest institution the British have to offer, and is by that token inherently British. This was confirmed when I was left in the waiting room for 40 minutes, exhibiting my knobbliest of knees and my palest of pins to all and sundry. I had come prepared for this eventuality by bringing a hefty book (Palin’s “Full Circle”, since you asked) and a bag of sweeties. Alas, I couldn’t find a kid to eat them in front of, saying things like “Mmm, these sweeties are delicious, my mummy got me loads, because she really loves meeee…”

Eventually I was led to this portakabin full of magical gizmos, where the nurse who was dealing me openly mocked my milk bottled leggies, saying that there was no need for me to have stripped because it wasn’t my legs going into the machine. The letter I had received was very clear on the point that I should have no metal about my person at all, else a couple of NHS nurses called Derek and Denzel would come and put my head so far up my arse that my face would be poking out of my mouth (I know, I didn’t understand it either).  To take attention away from the fact that I looked like some sort of anaemic albino 80’s throwback, I asked her if there was some music I could listen to in there as staring at the inside of a white chamber wasn’t exactly my idea of a night out. I thought of the first relaxed artist I could think of, and I’m not sure why I said him, maybe it’s because I saw Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery the other day. Perhaps it was my brain misfiring, but I did hear from a distance someone else’s words coming out of my mouth- “Have you got any Burt Bacharach I can listen to in there?” I don’t even like the guy. Anyway, she told me that they do let some of the patients have the radio on. She also let me know in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t going to let me have the radio on and I wasn’t allowed music because I liked Burt Bacharach and was therefore a massive twat.

You know that scene in Star Trek 2: The Wrath of Khan where it’s Spock’s funeral and I can’t h- where some of the people watching can’t help but cry? What d’you mean, no? Well, he’s in a space coffin and the space coffin is slowly slid into this photon torpedo tube to be shot into space. That’s what it feels like to go into an MRI cylinder. Except Spock’s not dead and he has earplugs and his head rigidly fixed into place.  The nurse was wrong about not having any music though.  For the 20 minutes I was inside that chamber, there was throbbing and pulsing and noises all over the shop. It was just like one of the latest dubstep tracks someone played me, only it was different this time  because when it was “playing” I had put earplugs in. Hmm. No, come to think of it, it was exactly the same.

Today's Tune

In Which I Start Blogging and Get Bullied by an Antipodean

  
Just as it was mediocrity that made me embark on “The Neverending Project That Dare Not Speak Its Name”, it was mediocre blogs (not yours, A.W) that made me think that I probably need to try my hand. That way, if mine is any good I can have a go at the ones that aren’t (most of them) and if mine is cack, then I shall get with the winning side and contribute to the ever increasing stream of effluent. I’ll be writing about myself, as it’s one of the few things I’m an authority on. When there’s anything that affects me directly or indirectly and that I can/am willing to juice a few words out of I will. So.

I went to the Neurophysiology department in Colchester General today for an Electroencephalogram. The all-seeing all-knowing consultant who diagnosed me with epilepsy referred me to this department to confirm his diagnosis/cover his back in case of a lawsuit. This involved having the electricity produced by my brain measured on a screen whilst having instructions barked at me by an Australian. I asked if he was from New Zealand when I heard his accent, even though there’s about five times as many Aussies in the world. The reason is that if you’re wrong about an Australian they’ll laugh it off, but if you accuse a Kiwi of being from Oz, they will rip your head off and use it as a chamber pot.

For some reason, he decided to try and put me at ease by asking me about my aspirations. I muttered something about having unfeasible and unrealistic dreams, and he countered this by saying it’s all about attitude and believing I can do it. Perhaps the Aussies have a slightly less jaded and cynical outlook than the British. Anyway, he pushed me for an answer for what I most wanted, and I told him that it was to accumulate all the wealth and materials on Earth, become King of the world and leave everyone else in the gutter wishing they were me. He countered by telling me that that was his plan and he was a little closer to it than me, but that I could be his acolyte. We eventually agreed on the condition that I would be able to delegate responsibility but not power (so blame the lower down bastards whilst not letting them actually do anything) and for me to be able to rid this Earth of one person. I chose Hugh Dallas, a referee who as yet is the only person to cause me to make these noises.

So there I was, lying back with electrodes pasted to my scalp having to hyperventilate on command whilst lying on an NHS La-Z-Boy chair (other brands are available). The most interesting part was being made to stare at these futuristic lights that were strobing with the brightness of a thousand suns- reminiscent of the bit in 2001: A Space Odyssey where David Bowman has all those otherworldy lights streaking towards him at a huge velocity. Also a bit reminiscent of that bit in A Clockwork Orange. The ultra-violent droog Alex has his eyes held open and is forced to watch violent images that he slowly grows sickened and scared of. After that, he commits or looks at acts of violence again due to intense nausea. Consequently, I suppose I’ll start gagging the next time I’ll see a strobe light. Perhaps that’s the consultant covering his back again. After all, he wants me to look like an epileptic…

Today's Tune