That Friday "Feeling"

Shit Update

Hel-lo there!

I'm afraid John's a wee bit busy at the moment. Is there anything we can do to help?

My name's Marsha, and this is my husband, Tor.

John said to just leave a message. He'll be back soon.

Nice meetin' ya!

Advertisement Feature

Hi there, I'm former Liverpool FC striker Ian Rush, MBE.

And if you're like me, you'll be sick to the back-of-the-net with all these alliterative buzzwords for bad times - "credit crunch", "current climate", "tough times."

So, turn the recession into a Rush-ession, with my limited edition recession alliteration Credit Conch! With the Ian Rush Credit Conch you can consolidate the recession into one easy phrase, statement, or discription that won't rhyme, irritate or wind anyone up... even slightly!

Lost for words?

Then simply blow into the mighty shell and let her blank verse ring out! (via a specially designed underwater micro-thesaurus speaker system).

Thank You Credit Conch!

"After burbling on about the 'current climate' everyday for the last 3 months, my staff thought I was a wagon-hopping shit-for-brains who didn't actually understand the recession in real terms. And although that's still true, by occasinally saying things like 'credit backlog' and 'market forces' I now seem way more grown-up. Thanks Credit Conch!" - Randy Bistro, Sales Manager

So what are you waiting for? Buy the Ian Rush Recession Alliteration Credit Conch today.

Alliteration: It's an own goal!

Patrick McGoohan 1928 - 2009

Following the sad news of Patrick McGoohan's death last week, I thought I'd write a few words about the man I -and many others- considered to be a genius.

I'm miles too young to have experienced McGoohan's TV masterpiece The Prisoner contemporaneously. Instead, I saw it 25 years after it first aired; re-run on Channel 4 back in 1991.

I must've been 11 or 12, and I'd watched it entirely by accident - gripped by that surreal and indelible, now iconic, footage of a man being chased by a giant bubble/balloon/thing over a bleak, windswept beach. It struck me as being quite fun at first; cool and quirky. But then the way the man clawed at the skin of the balloon as it engulfed him - that was sinister. Real sinister...

"Watched this mental programme on C4 last night," said Eleven Year Old Me, to my school mates, next day. "The Prisoner, or something..."

"Be seeing you," smirked a pal of mine, touching his forelock in a particular way. Not only had he seen it as well it seemed, he'd remembered the show's catch-phrases too. Later on, he told me his cooler-than-mine dad had insisted he'd watched the series, making sure his lad had "studied the classics" as it were. But for now, I'd found an ally. And for the next 17 Thursday mornings, we completely pissed off the rest of our mates, autistically quoting the previous night's Prisoner episode to eachother, as we immersed ourselves further and further into Patrick McGoohan's singular, sinister, spectacular world.

HAND AT THE BACK OF THE CLASS: What's The Prisoner actually all about, then?

Well, to quote wikipedia for a moment:

The Prisoner is a British 1960s television series starring and co-created by Patrick McGoohan which combines spy fiction with elements of science fiction, allegory and psychological drama.

It follows a former British agent who, after abruptly resigning from his position, is held captive in a small seaside village by an unidentified power that wishes to establish the reason for his resignation. Episodes typically feature the unnamed prisoner, labelled "Number Six" by his captors, unsuccessfully attempting to escape from or change the authority of "the Village". However, Number Six has numerous victories of his own, successfully thwarting the various individuals serving as the Village's chief administrator, "Number Two", in their attempts to break him or control the Village, causing a disconcertingly rapid turnover of personnel in the position. Eventually, as the series reaches its surreal climax, Number Six's indomitable resistance and mounting blows against the administration threaten the viability of the Village itself, which forces its desperate warders to take drastic action.

You see, it sounds ace even on paper, doesn't it. But what makes it so great, so rich and rewarding, is Patrick McGoohan.

Make no mistake: The Prisoner is the work of a true auteur. Insistent on using the best writers, actors, directors and designers to bring his vision to life, McGoohan turned an elegant, economical dramatic concept into a living, breathing, hermetic world - a vivid, startling, even haunting vision that demands and deserves repeated viewings. Which is why 18 years and dozens of viewings later, 29 Year Old Me is still struck by the atmosphere and luminosity The Prisoner. Still to this day, I get goosebumps from the minute I hear those thunder-claps that preceed Ron Grainger's ass-kicking, hipster theme-tune. And still to this day, my goosebumps intentisfy when those trippy vibes and guitar herald the new No.2 whilst McGoohan delivers his immortal "I am not a number..." speech. Just by themselves, those 3 minutes of footage that pre-figure each episode, are among the coolest fucking things ever made. See for yourself:

Ok, so I admit it has it's clunky moments - the pacey editing is sometimes a little too ambitious for 1966, and there's the odd set wobble here and there. But these are merely brushmarks in the oil paint. Stand back a little, and you'll see The Prisoner is nothing less than a bold, rigorous, and brutally uncompromising piece of work. I defy anyone to watch the final two episodes (penned by McGoohan himself) and not be genuinely shocked by their intensity and inventiveness. Indeed, it was these two episodes that enshrined The Prisoner in TV history - a cataclysmic flourish one could never go back to; never return to for a second series. And why not? After all, McGoohan had acheived precisely what he'd set out to do: to create a prime-time serial drama that was as intellectually satisfying as it was entertaining.

Ladies and gentlemen: Patrick McGoohan proved that popular didn't have to mean dumb; that with a little determination and imagination, the mainstream might possess the same values as art and literature. And it's for that reason that The Prisoner stands as one of the greatest creative acheivements of the 20th Century.

And it's for that reason that 11 Year Old Me and 29 Year Old Me, raise our glasses to Patrick McGoohan.

Be seeing you, mate.

Everybody Loves Hitler

A MAN GETTING DRESSED IN THE MORNING OPENS HIS WARDROBE. REACHING FOR A TIE, HE DISCOVERS ADOLF HITLER STARRING BACK AT HIM FROM INSIDE THE CUPBOARD. THE MAN IS VISIBLY SURPRISED BUT NOT SHOCKED. HE SAYS “OH, SORRY” IN A DIDN’T-MEAN-TO-DISTURB-YOU KIND OF WAY, AND PLEASANTLY CLOSES THE DOOR AGAIN. THEN, ABOUT TO WALK AWAY, HE DOUBLE-TAKES, HAVING FORGOTTEN TO SALUTE THE FUHRER. OPENING THE WARDROBE AGAIN, HE CASUALLY SALUTES HIM WITH A “NEARLY FORGOT” LOOK, FOLLOWED BY AN APOLOGETIC, EFFICIOUS SMILE. HE CLOSES THE DOOR AND GOES ON HIS WAY.

CUT TO: SUPERMARKET

AN OLD LADY IS PUSHING HER TROLLEY THROUGH THE FROZEN FOOD SECTION. RIFLING AMONGST THE FROZEN PEAS, SHE WEIGHS THE VARIOUS BAGS IN HER HANDS. SUDDENLY, BENEATH A BAG OF PEAS SHE FINDS ADOLF HITLER GLARING UP AT HER. THE WOMAN IS PLEASANTLY SURPRISED, AS IF HE IS AN OLD FRIEND. “OH, HELLO THERE!” SHE BEAMS, QUICKLY FOLLOWED BY A PROUD NAZI SALUTE.

CUT TO: CHURCH EXTERIOR – WEDDING DAY.

WEDDING BELLS RING AS A BRIDE PREPARES TO THROW HER BOUQUET. SUDDENLY, THE FLOWERS GO HIGH INTO THE AIR - BRIDESMAIDS AND WOMEN JOSTLE TO CATCH THEM, ONLY FOR IT TO ARCH HIGH OVER HEAD AND OUT OF REACH. THE WOMEN CRANE TO FOLLOW THE CURVE OF THE DESCENT, TURNING AS THE CROWD SEPARATES TO REVEAL ADOLF HITLER CATCHING THE BOUQUET. THERE ARE YELPS OF DELIGHT. THE WOMEN APPLAUD AND SALUTE THEIR FUHRER. ADOLF BLUSHES COQUETTISHLY.

Snatch Update

Wow-er-oony!

Fresh news from England's coolest ad agency, look!

"I Lost My Flabby Legs And Tum"

BEFORE:

This was me just six weeks ago. I was so unhappy with myself.

AFTER:

This is me now; so svelte and curvy - my confidence has bounced right back. I'm a new person!

Take It Like A Man

Reading this at work are you? Ouch. Must be another quiet day in the office.

And how about that speculative project they let you do? Finished it already, eh.

Oh, dear, oh dear, oh dear. Seems like those bored fingers of yours are drumming out a snatch of Morse Code... What's that they're saying..?

Why, "P45" of course! Can you hear it my friend? "P45... P45... P45..." It's like a runaway train, listen- calling at: Shattered Confidence, Job Centre Interchange and Destitution Central. (Passengers for Suicide, please change at Hopelessness Crescent and make your way to the footbridge).

Allll aboarrrrrd!

But wait. Potential unemployment doesn't have to be like that - no. Don't just sit there like half a packet of bacon. It's time to put yourself in the frying pan for once. It's time that you accepted... Voluntary Redundancy!

That's right. Take the bullshit by the horns with the official Content Flavoured Trousers Voluntary Redundancy Resignation Template Letter. It's specially formulated to give you something do in work!


Dear HR,

My name is.....[your name]

I work in......[your department]

Thanks for paying me on time every week/fortnight/month* for the last..... [time position held]. It's ever so kind of you. And now that things have gone a bit quiet, I think I'd like to return the favour.

You've taught me a great deal about dignity and suffering these last... [time position held] Which is why in accepting an/your* offer of... [name your price] I hereby promise NOT to come into work any more.

I know this might sound selfish, but you deserve it.

I've always put my work first, and now is no different. I know this means a lot to you. I just wish I could be there to see your face.

Thanks again for all the pay and the desk you let me use. Maybe now you can burn it as fuel during these difficult months.

Big hugs

[your name]

PS: My leaving do is at... [venue] on [time and date]. Please join me for a drink/keep the fuck away from me*


*Delete as applicable

What Do Ya Want To Be When You Grow Up?

Hmmm, let's think...

I know!

I want to be a tedious, arse-tranquilising mimsy who shits on and on and on about my job and my self day and fucking night; and even when I'm not at work and talking about my work as I'm actually working, I'll be blogging about my work in my own spare time. And I'll never ever be lonely because I'll be surrounded by "virtual" people who are just as pathologically tedious as I am. Bingo!

Sigh.

I've gotten bored of reading advertising blogs again. In the week that Anne Frank's diary was newly adapted for television, I wonder if Scamp's blog will ever make it to the screen..?

Maybe it's time for a career/blog change...

Police officer

Dentist

Nurse

Farmer

Injury lawyer

Business School

Welcome to my Business School Idiot Masterclass.

This is Module 111. Section 2c, entitled How and When to Save Money.

Running a busy advertising agency means inevitably you'll have to use freelance staff from time to time.

This can be done either by dealing with the trader directly, or through a third party agent for a small arrangement fee.

To avoid unnecessary fees, always deal with the trader directly. NEVER phone the trader first, then phone the trader's agent because you can't get hold of them at that minute, and then -after booking the trader via the agent- ask the trader to sidestep the agent altogether in order to avoid fees, because you've already agreed your contract via the agent you thick bastard and they're gonna phone you and hassle you and hound you to death over why the job "mysteriously" fell through aren't they -duh!- and besides which you don't pay enough regularly enough for a trader to tell a big fat "no, I'm not doing that job today" lie to the people who facilitate their work you fucking pillock.

CONCLUSION: Cheeky = ok
Fucking stupid = expensive

Big Train

Ok. [deep breath]

There's a particularly amusing sketch from the second series of Big Train, in which Simon Pegg plays a creative director who insists on using a man called Tim (can't remember his surname) as a runner on a new bog roll commercial. Without spoiling it, the joke is that Pegg must go to extraordinary lengths to convince Tim to take his shitty freelance gig.

Er... now, although I've got the sketch on DVD I couldn't be arsed uploading it myself.

So. I searched YouTube via Google videos...

And this is what I found.

As you can see, it's a very good answer, but it's not right. At all.

Salt n' Sheik

This is houmous: an arabic spread or dip made from cooked, mashed chick peas, garlic and olive oil.

On the other hand, this is Hamas: a Palestinian paramilitary organisation.

Easily confused, aren't they mother.

Just remember: you dip celery in one, and Mossad* in the other.

*A traditional Jewish breadstick.

January Sale

The Content Flavoured Trousers winter sale is now on.

-Big wanks... SLASHED!

-Buy one shit, get a nonsense... absolutely FREE!

-Selected items are of 0% interest

-Pay nothing until 6pm Saturday

-Must end half-price and all that

Content Flavoured Trousers

Very little helps

Low-cation Low-cation Low-cation

NEW FOR 2009

Phil and Kirstie return to Channel 4 with a recession-friendly version of their popular property show.

This week, Steve and Dawn need help after Steve was made redundant earlier last year. Torn from his family and forced to seek work in the city, Steve's on the lookout for an economical pied a terre where he can mournfully masturbate into his Super-Noodles and weep himself to sleep. Meanwhile, Dawn's staying in rural Derbyshire with baby Louisa. They're after a two-bedroom terrace with a mains gas supply, close to Dawn's parents for when she finally puts her head in the oven and "cries for help."

NEXT WEEK: Kirstie helps Val and terminally ill hubby Richard find the perfect retreat for an assisted suicide.