BNfuckingP Again

Just read this fucking nonsense in The Drum . Christ, what is wrong with these people?

Boo bloody hoo BNP. The MEN ran a story about your racist policies, did they? Oooh, the tight bastards. That's not fair is it. It wouldn't have happened during the Blitz, would it. I mean, our grandfather's fought two World Wars so you could spread insidious hate and fear without reprisal, didn't they. What would Oswald Mosely say, or that nice Jim Davidson.

Dya know what I'd do? I'd write to all the people who advertise in the MEN and tell them not to, because the MEN is clearly an organ of the bourgeois fat-cats who make sure that thick fucking people like you and me, stay fucking thick. Cos the MEN have loads of advertisers who'd normally be sympathetic to the BNP, havent they...

Dear Ku Klux Carwash of Harpurhey,

Please be advised to stop advertising in the MEN cos it sounds like they love niggers. Alternative advertising space can be found in the Combat 18 pamphlets behind the bar of The White Lion in Stretford.

Cheers,
The BNP

PS: Please vote for us next week.

Yeah, that'll show em, won't it. That'll teach em not to mess with the BNP. Normally I don't vote cos I'm fucking thick, but this time I can't wait to vote - I can't wait for the BNP to win! Then there'll be fucking Spitfire's overhead every night and no more Pakis at tea-parties.

Did I mention the fact I was thick as fucking shit?

NOTE TO ANY GENUINELY THICK PEOPLE: This post is sarcastic.

24 Scripts For A Guinness Advert: Fugue No. 1 (Cmajor)

Ok. Here's my 2nd Guinness ad variation in Cmaj - fugue. You can read the prelude here.

For anyone who's completely lost, the idea here is to develop and vary the material in the prelude.

Why am I doing this? Because Guinness adverts are all style-over-substance dogshit dressed as something arty. I thought I'd help them climb even further up their own arses by developing some Guinness ads along my own conceited lines - namely, the classical compositional form of Prelude and Fugue. It's ambitious. It's pretentious. And it wouldn't be a Guinness advert otherwise, would it.

Right...

INTERIOR: A 16TH CENTURY INN, COMPELTE WITH WENCHES AND RUDDY-FACED FARMERS.

ENTER VINCENT PRICE IN FULL "WITCHFINDER GENERAL" GARB. A SMALL CROSS-BREED DOG TROTS ALONG BEHIND HIM. IT IS PIPPIN, THE CHILDREN'S HEALTH AND SAFETY DOG.

BARMAN: Sweet sherry, sir?

VINCENT HAS BEGUN REMOVING HIS FINE LEATHER GLOVES OVER NUMEROURS SOVERIGN RINGS. HE SLAPS THE FACE OF THE BARMAN WITH THE BACK OF HIS GAUNTLET.

VINCENT: Devil! Such insolence befouls me. A Guinness for my thirst landlord, and (THE DOG YAPS) what's that, Pippin? A half for the hound. And godspeed about it.

HE SLAPS THE BAR, SENDING THE BARMAN AWAY. HE CONTINUES THE BUSINESS OF REMOVING HIS GLOVES, RUEFULLY TEASING EACH FINGER.

VINCENT: We have travelled the course of Satan's own belly this day, my companion and I - haven't we Pippin (PIPPIN BARKS). These lands are rotten. There is a darkness in the air...

HE BEGINS TO WATCH THE GUINNESS BEING POURED

... a rich and unholy darkness... deep and magnificent... unfurling and unfolding dark upon the breeze... and upon my lips.

THE BARMAN PLACES THE GUINNESS ON THE BAR WITH A SMILE.

PIPPIN BARKS, REALISING THAT -OH NO!- THE GUINNESS IS DAAAARRRKK!!!

VINCENT: What? -My God, Pippin. You're right. (HE DRAWS HIS DAGGER TOWARDS THE BARMAN) Behind thee at once, Satan! What devilry is this! (HE BEGINS BACKING TOWARDS THE DOOR) I see you're wickedness, inside that pot. You are marked - all of you! Touched by His darkness. Well, may God have mercy on your souls, for this day.... you shall burrrnn! Quickly Pippin - the horses!

EDGING OUT OF THE INN HE SLAMS THE DOOR CLOSED BEHIND HIM. FROM INSIDE HIS CAPE VINCENT PRODUCES A TORCH WHICH HE LIGHTS WITH A SMALL MATCH. WE SEE PIPPIN UNHOOKING THE HORSES FROM THE BARN AND LEADING THEM TO SAFETY, REINS IN HIS MOUTH. VINCENT FLINGS OPEN THE DOOR OF THE INN AND MANIACALLY TOSSES THE TORCH INSIDE.

VINCENT: (RUNNING INTO DISTANCE, HOLDING ON TO HIS HAT) Godspeed, Pippin! Godspeed!

INSIDE THE INN, THE TORCH FIZZLES PATHETICALLY ON THE STONE FLOOR. THE LOCALS LOOK ON CONFUSED.

VINCENT: (ON HORSE BACK, STROKING PIPPIN WHO IS ON THE HORSE NEXT TO HIM) Good lad, Pippin. Good lad.

ENDLINE: Guinness. Yes. It's dark.

(only another 46 to go now!)

Can't be arsed thinking of a title for this. I'm not in the mood this morning, so here's a poe-faced post about work

Good morning everybody.

("Good morning Mr. John")

I've chosen as the theme of today's assembly Halldor Laxness' novel Independent People.

Part of my job as a copywriter involves staring out the window chewing a pen and drawing really really small, spidery-weird scribbles in a scamp pad that only I can understand (a bit like something off Most Haunted). Then there's the other part of my job - the writing bit- that involves trying to find something really interesting to say about something that's (usually but not always) terrifyingly dull.

Take for instance "sheep farming in Iceland in the early 1930's." Yaaa-aa-aawn. You'd need a glovebox full of coke and a 3-way blowjob on the end of it for that to grab your attention, right? Wrong! Because Independent People isn't just one of the greatest novels aboout sheep farming. In Iceland. In the 30's. It's one of the greatest, most intelligent, lyrical, and captivating novels you're ever likely to read.

A kind of weird cross between James Herriot and Dostoevsky, the novel follows the story of Bjartus, a croftsman, stubbornly scraping a living on a shithole patch of land, determined to be beholdent to no-one. And whilst the prospect of the narrative might sound (like a brief for some financial services shelf-wobblers) unremittingly bleak, the sheer technical quality of Laxness' writing turns Independent People into an engrossing, rewarding, it-changed-my-life masterpiece. Because good writing demands to read again and again, whether it's a two-page description of a rain-storm on an Icelandic crofthouse (which I read 4! times I was so impressed with it) or the instruction manual for a new kind of gas chamber. Good writing doesn't just make makes things palatable, it makes things delicious.*

So the next time a brief makes your heart sink, just write in the What is Required box: "600 pages on sheep farming in Iceland in the 30's."

Oh, and read Independent People, too.

*How fucking gay do I sound!?

Disclaimer

Dear Blog reader,

Thank you for choosing Content Flavoured Trousers.

Whilst many of the views, opinions, ropey ideas, meaningless dialogues, flights of fancy, pictures of cocks, tits, arses and swear words expressed and displayed here are indeed the work of the author, Content Flavoured Trousers contains a great deal that is apocryphal, loosely satirical, spontaneous, insubstantial, and generally best taken with a pinch of salt (incuding this disclaimer). Whilst it is the author's sole intention that these works titilate any audience they find, the random nature of these outbursts however belies the very serious purpose of this weblog.

Content Flavoured Trousers is first and foremost about writing, both as a framework and vehicle for creative endeavour. It is a gymnasium, workshop and research centre all in one, for that most put-upon cornerstone of the communication industry... the written word.

The author sincerely urges readers not to forget or overlook this.

We will now return you to the swearing-dicks and arse-rants.

Regards,
Content Flavoured Trousers

Party Election Broadcast

Do you fondly remember the Great Wars of 1914 and 1939 when millions of British men were sent to their death? Perhaps you get glassy-eyed at the thought of steam trains, top-hats, handlebar-moustaches and cricket?

Then never has so little been re-imagined by so many.

On June 4th, The British Nostalgia Party will give voice to the false memory, hazy recollection and rose-tinted longing of England . Because the BNP is about people like you remembering stuff like what we do...

Great British stuff like Bovril and bulldogs; Toffee Crisps and Sid James... Eating a teacake with Neville Chamberlain infront of Michael Caine, or Tommy Cooper's diamond jubilee Spitfire. The day Barbara Windsor took one in the Falklands, as Princess Diana became the new Dr. Who. And who could forget Paul Gascoigne and Jack the Ripper winning Wimbledon during the Blitz, or the day that Queen Victoria played Wembley stadium... in a Mini Cooper.

These are just some of the things that Gordon Brown's progressive "iPod government" has systematically failed to recall. Through a policy of wistfulness and romanticism, the British Nostalgia Party is resolutely commited to the following:

-Legistaltion to maintain the number of Union Jacks on Oasis' albums
-Enforced Panama hats for clergymen
-Teaching of Kingsley Amis in primary schools
-Establish a national "Only Fools and Horses" museum
-Subsidised bunting for skinheads

Show your support for the BNP by displaying Del Boy Trotter in the window of your home, car, caravan or castle.

(sic)

The British Nostalgia Party

"Lest We Forget"

Advertising Feature

Please give generously.

Razzle-Bam-Perche

Cher Club de Caravane de pli de Braithwaite,

Mon nom est Paul Toppings (trompette). Et sur ma gauche est mon collègue et band-mate, Andrew Messages
(glisser-guitare/vibraphone/harmonica). Ensemble nous sommes Razzle-Bam-Perche - le duo de jazz-bleus le plus passionnant à émerger de Cumbria dans plus qu'une décennie.

Svp ; livrez-vous nous pour un instant, et hypnotisons-vous avec notre message de l'amour…

Pour lui est l'amour que nous prêchons, et l'amour dont nous parlons. Pour l'amour est notre première langue. Et car chacun sait, le Français est la langue de l'amour…

Nous avons réservé 4 nuits au pli de Braithwaite (débutant 22/5/09) et souhaitons réserver un parking durant la nuit additionnel pour nos invités le dimanche (24/5/09).

J'enferme un chèque pour £7.50 et une photo.

Attendre avec intérêt le plaisir exquis de votre hospitalité

Paul et Andrew (Razzle-Bam-Perche) xx

-----------------------------------------------------------

Tanslation:

Dear Braithwaite Fold Caravan Club,

My name is Paul Topping (trumpet). And on my left is my close colleague and band-mate, Andrew Messages (slide-guitar/vibes/harmonica). Together we are Razzle-Bam-Boom – the most exciting jazz-blues duo to emerge from Cumbria in more than a decade.

Please; indulge us for a moment, and let us hypnotise you with our message of love…

For it is love that we preach, and love that we speak of. For love is our first language. And as everyone knows, French is the language of love…

We have booked 4 nights at Braithwaite Fold (commencing 22/5/09) and wish to book an additional over-night parking space for our guests on the Sunday (24/5/09).

I enclose a cheque for £7.50 and a photo.

Looking forward to the exquisite pleasure of your hospitality

Paul and Andrew (Razzle-Bam-Boom)

xx

24 Scripts For A Guinness Advert: Prelude No. 1 (Cmajor)

Once upon time, Guinness commercials were a thing to marvel. But, no-one bloody notices them noadays. They're all just formulaic variations on a theme...

So welcome to a brand new part of the blog entitled 24 Scripts For A Guinness Advert: Preludes and Fugues. Like J.S Bach and his Well Tempered Clavier, I'll be writing 24 different scripts for a Guinness ad, each corresponding to the major and minor keys of the chromatic scale. Each script will be in two parts: a prelude and a fugue. This'll happen each day/week/whenever I can be arsed.

So as classical form dictates, we'll start with a simple one: Prelude No.1 - Cmajor

A MAN WALKS INTO A BAR. HE HAS SLAPPED-DOWN HAIR IN A SIDE-PARTING AND WEARS HIS TROUSERS SLIGHTLY TOO HIGH ABOVE HIS WAIST.

MAN: I'd like a drink please.

BARMAN: Certainly, sir. What would you like?

MAN: I think I'd like... a pint of Guinness, please.

BARMAN: Of course. I'll just fetch you a glass.

THE BARMAN DISAPPEARS FOR A MOMENT. THE MAN WIPES THE BAR WITH HIS FINGER FOR DUST.

BARMAN: There you are sir, how's that for you? (HE PRESENTS A PERFECTLY NORMAL GUINNESS GLASS)

MAN: That's lovely, thank you.

BARMAN: Oh, good. Well that was easy wasn't it.

THEY BOTH LAUGH UNNATURALLY.

THE BARMAN BEGINS TO POUR THE GUINNESS.

BARMAN: You had it before then, Guinness?

MAN: No. Never. Never ever ever.

BARMAN: Oh. (PAUSE) I think you'll like it.

MAN: Yes. I hope so. It looks fucking tasty.

THE BARMAN GRINS AT HIM AS THE PINT SETTLES OUT

BARMAN: It's just settling.

MAN: Oh.

BARMAN: Come and watch if you like.

THE MAN STEPS BEHIND THE BAR, AND THE TWO OF THEM PEER INTO THE GUINNESS.

MAN: Gosh.

WITH A FLOURISH THE BARMAN PULLS THE FINAL DROPS OF GUINNESS INTO THE GLASS.

BARMAN: Theeeeere, you are sir.

MAN: Oh. Thank you.

THE MAN RAISES THE GLASS TO HIS LIPS. HE HESITATES, LOOKING AT THE BARMAN, WHO GESTURES AT HIM ENCOURAGINGLY. NERVOUSLY HE TAKES A SIP, SAVOURING IT AS IT GOES DOWN.

MAN: Oooooh, I say. That really is something special. Mmmm.

THE BARMAN RAISES HIS EYEBROWS AND ROLLS ON HIS HEELS WITH PRIDE, PATTING THE HANDPUMP WITH GLEE.

CUT TO: EXTREME CLOSE UP OF GUINNESS.

(END)

Just wait till we get to D-minor!

Berlusconi Appointed CD of Italy?

I love Italians. They're completely sexist, a little bit racist, and above all, stylish. Really, really... erm... stylish. They love clothes and...er, fabrics. Yeah.

I know one shouldn't really generalise about a nation, or a race of people, but hey- I'm Italian! It's ok!

Buggery

I get confused over some adverts. What are they trying to say? Why are they saying it like that?

All those signs and signifiers, codefied meanings and connotations - all those layers of symbolism and metaphor. It's a lot to get through.

Luckily for me though, I've got a degree in English Literature and Media Studies. So I know my semiotics from my semi-colons. Saussure, Baudrillard, Freud and Jung - I had to read them all at some point. So I reckon I've got a pretty good idea how meanings work.

And yet...I cannot for the FUCKING LIFE of me figure out why Barclaycard think that being on crutches is a positive thing...




Now you're all going to tell me those aren't proper crutches, aren't you. That they're special dancing crutches for cooooooool people. And it's the coooooool bit that's important. Not that having a Barclaycard is a bit like having a.... SPECIAL DANCING CRUTCH!!??

WTfuckingF?

("Hi there, we're Saatchi and Saatchi. And we believe that great advertising comes from bundling logic into a darkened alleyway and shoving a rusty knife up it's baffled little arsehole." - Saatchi Bros. Perverting the course of logic since 1970)

"What have you done, you crazy bastards!!?"

You know the old adage about monkeys + typewriters x infinity = complete works of Shakespeare? Well, it's not far off being a reality.

Seriously, man. We better get Darwin on the phone or something. Take a look at this .

Seems there's some monkeys out there who've developed the ability USE THE INTERNET! And not only that, they're using it to ask QUESTIONS ABOUT THEMSELVES... They're self-aware!

But don't expect to find the Statue of Liberty in the desert any time soon though. Luckily, these apes can't spell. Oh, or reproduce either, apparently. Weird.

Meantime, anyone got Attenborough's number?

Not Funny

Just had someone stick a fucking BNP flyer through our letterbox!

"People like you, voting for us" it says.

I am outraged. Completely fucking outraged.

Felt the need to retaliate via a spontaneous 10-minute PaintShop job.

Shite effort, I know. Maybe should've said "It's (Just) Not Funny" instead. And "Where's your CTA?" says my imaginary Creative Director... Erm, "Local Elections - Take It Seriously" or something like that... You get the idea, anyway.

Any other thoughts on how we can stop these (particular) nasty fucking retards infiltrating our government, please be my guest.

Good Morning Britain

NICK OWEN ON THE TVAM SET, CIRCA 1984.

NICK OWEN: (TO CAMERA) Good morning, Britain. And welcome back to TVAM.

NICK STARES INTO THE CAMERA. HAS HE FORGOTTEN WHAT TO SAY? IS HE ABOUT TO SPEAK? MAYBE HE'S TRYING NOT TO FART? WHAT'S GOING ON?

NICK CONTINUES TO STARE, UNLFINCHING, RESOLUTE, INTO THE CAMERA. IT IS THE REMORSELESS GAZE OF PREGNANT POSSIBILITY - STARING, AND STARING, AND STARING, AND STARING.

HE REMAINS STONE STILL, AND AS THE STARE GOES ON, WE SEE THERE IS LIFE IN HIS EYES AFTER ALL. NOT A DISTANT, FADED LIFE, BUT A COILED AND SMOULDERING INSTINCT, HELD IN STASIS LIKE AN ANIMAL LAID IN WAITING.

AND STILL HE STARES, HARD AND FAST INTO THE LENS LIKE A CONSTIPATED LASER BEAM. AND AS THE APPREHENSION AROUND HIM BUILDS, THE CAMERA SHAKES SLIGHTLY AS IT'S OPERATOR FLINCHES IN SOME AWKWARDNESS, PIERCED BY THE EERIE GAZE OF NICK OWEN...

...WHO STARES, AND STARES, AND STARES. WHEN WILL THIS END, THIS CEASELESS, CHILLING SCRUTINY, THAT STARES, AND STARES, AND STARES FAR, FAR BEYOND OUR BONES?

SUDDENLY, ONE OF NICK'S EARS FALLS OFF ON TO THE FLOOR, WITH A SOFT THUD.

HE BLINKS.

NICK OWEN: (SURPRISED) Oh, I'm sorry about that viewers... Seems my ear's just dropped off.

Drawing The Same Conclusions

What's with all these ads with bloody smeary-doodly-drawings in them at the moment? Have we all gone "molest a surface" crazy since the iPhone or something?

Here's Twining's latest sand-frotting thing:



And here's BMW's painty-splash skidmark floor-wipe shite:



And I'm sure I've seen another sand or light thing somewhere too?

Fuck the creatives. We'll Just get the client to do some brass-rubbings or something, yeah. WTF?

No! Stalgia

Well, then. Ahem. It seems I have an apology to make.

That post I did yesterday - the one about Soundgarden? Well, we're gonna have to disallow it.

Nostalgia on the internet is RIGHT OUT from now on, cos nostalgia is about "curation" and not "criticism," apparently. Which means it's an act of simply logging or checking something, rather than engaging with it and measuring it. Erm... and that's ultimately quite pointless and shallow, ok?

So, bad news for my self-indulgent blogpost.

I just hope they extend the same rule to TV. Then I won't have to watch any more commercials with fucking A-Team or Ghostbusters references in em, you dismal fucking bastards. You're meant to be "Creatives" for Christsake, aren't you!? Briefs get sent to the "Creative Dept."- yeah?- not the fucking "Recollections Office"...

Oh, and and one more thing: Which cockwit's responsible for the new Virgin Trains ad? The one where the working-man Everygeek has to write a presentation last-minute, but he's A-OK cos he's in First Class - he can work on the train! Cue "hilarious" fantasy sequence played out to "Final Countdown" (more nostalgia), which is all fair enough and good-hearted... until the endline: "Where do you want to be?" Where do I want to be!? Erm... NOT IN FUCKING WORK, perhaps? Pissed in Euston station? Banging a hostess in the disabled loos? Anywhere except work, to be honest wth you mate. First fucking Class or not.

Frowngarden

Affected by sadness, longing or remembrance? Then you need Soundgarden.

Specially formulated to help fight nostalgia, Soundgarden reduces the symptoms of Kurt Cobain's death by up to 80%*.

If symptoms persist for more than 10minutes, seek musical advice.

*Based on a sample of blokes who were still at school in 1992 and thought Pearl Jam were shit




Soundgarden-The day i tried to live
by alflam

(We used to sing "Seize the da-ayy, Join the clergy, drop the bla-ade" cos we were dead wacky like)

The Brady Lunch?

I'd probably avoid the Meat Feast, if I were you.

And what's the "family meal deal" exactly? Find one, get one free..?

Farcebook

Man pretending to be dead, yesterday

"Social Media Is a Double Edged Sword" apparently. Seems that some people aren't using it exactly how us marketing-tarts would like. I mean, can you believe it!? People having the audacity to just MAKE SHIT UP FOR THEMSELVES and post it on the internet! It's outrageous!

And just look at this (brilliant) article - people PRETENDING they're dying to get sympathy, and attention!? Well, I've never been so...

So what? So naive? So daft enough to think the internet is filled with nothing but goodwill and honesty? Don't be a dick.

Because Facebook and Web.2.0 have become some sort of loony evangelical church mission for advertising people, we all seem to have swallowed this romanticised notion of the internet where everyone/everything is safe and lovely and happy and friendly. But it's bollocks! The internet is/was/still the murky, apocryphal, sleazy, exotic, and (let's face it) not-entirely-honest place it's always been. Being on Facebook is a bit like walking around one of those gated communites in Florida, where everyone waves and smiles at you for no good reason. It all feels inclusive, but it's entirely selfish; not to mention eerie, and ever so slightly suspect. Yes, Facebook is doubtless a full-blown, recognisable "community" -but well... so was Waco.

So a great big baby big boo-hoo-hoo! to all those ad people who got bitten on the arse by some web content. For all our virals, vodcasts, and iApps, it seems the internet's still only good for one thing: wanking.

(In fact, I've just had a cracking wank. Think I'll go and Twitter about it...)

10 Imaginary Agencies

1. Mogodon (a tiny PR firm in Cheshire )

2. e-Schwirpes (digital - shit websites for local business. Named after owner)

3. V. (integrated bollocks)

4. Wallop (crap design agency in Liverpool/Sheffield)

5. Jungle Panda (Pee-Yar again. Anything named after an animal is always shit)

6. Dirt (wanky design collective with no office)

7. Kingdom Come (integrated London agency that had an amazing reputation about 10 years ago)

8. Thrust (DM, BTL stuff somewhere out of town)

9. Hello Humans (small Londonish agency who're up their own arses)

10 Trifle (packaging design, POS and thin catalogues)

Morose Code

From now on I'll be using Morse Code to broadcast distress signals (and further nuggets of turbulence) via Twitter.

Please follow the link at the side of the page. And keep this frequency clear!

An Oldie, But A Goodie

Heres an old sketch what i did write. it were in my desk with some rubbish papers but i still like

it lots yes. i hope you can enjoy it thank you

"JULY 1869"

A HUGE VICTORIAN SPACE SHIP LANDS ON THE MOON. IT IS MADE OF GLASS AND WROUGHT IRON, WITH GOTHIC STYLE WINDOWS AND A WEATHER-VANE ON THE NOSE CONE. A CLOUD OF DUST BILLOWS OUT FROM BENEATH IT

CUT TO: INT. SPACE SHIP

INSIDE ARE A TYPICAL VICTORIAN OUTING PARTY, WEARING DISCREET JULES VERNE-STYLE BREATHING APPARATUS OVER THEIR NOSES.

ADMIRAL SEAGROVE:

Ladies and gentlemen. May I have your attention please. Firstly, as I'm sure most of you will've noticed, we have reached the lunar surface.

GENERAL GASPS. SOME LADIES PRESS THEIR FACES TO THE WINDOW.

Ladies, please. I beg you not to fog the brass. (CLEARS THROAT) Gentles all, allow me to welcome you... to the moon!

EXCITED AND POLITE APPLAUSE.

Now before we set forth, I will remind the ladies that they have all been issued with a dust-retardant girdle (THE LADIES BLUSH) and the men a copy of Baedeker and Wisden. Are there any questions before we embark? (A LADY RAISES HER HAND) Yes, Miss. Emily?

MISS EMILY:

Permit me Admiral Seagrove, but you said we were all to wear flat shoes. Only I've forgetten my mother's galoshes and I notice some of the men are wearing gaitors...

ADMIRAL SEAGROVE:

Come, come my good woman. Let us not concern ourselves with trifling details. We are about to make history, yes? Now. If you'll allow me...

HE OPENS THE HATCH WHICH CREAKS LIKE AN OLD STEAM ENGINE.

Ladies first.

THE WOMEN EXCITEDLY MAKE THEIR WAY ON TO THE MOON SURFACE AT WHICH POINT ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE AS THEIR CRINOLINE SKIRTS FLOAT UP OVER THEIR HEADS. SOME OF THEM, ABASHED, FAINT.

AS THE MEN FOLLOW BEHIND, THEIR TOP HATS AND BEARDS ALL FLOAT UPWARDS AS SOME OF THEM ATTEMPT TO REVIVE THE LADIES WITH SMELLING SALTS AND SLAPS TO THE WRIST.

EVENTUTALLY, THE WOMEN ARE REVIVED AND THE MEN SEE THE FUNNY SIDE - PLAYFULLY CHASING THEIR HATS AND LAUGHING.

A GROUP OF PEOPLE HAVE LAID A PICNIC BLANKET OUT. A WOMAN WITH HER SKIRT OVER HER HEAD LIFTS A TEACUP TO HER FACE WHICH CATAPULTS OUT OF HER HAND AND OFF INTO SPACE. BEHIND HER, A MAN WITH AN EASEL AND PAINTS FLOATS PAST IN THE BACKGROUND.

ANOTHER LADY SITS EATING A SANDWICH. SHE REACHES INTO HER PETTICOAT AND TAKES OUT A BOOK. AS SHE OPENS IT, DOZENS OF PRESSED FLOWERS COME FLYING OUT OF THE PAGES.

A STREET URCHIN BARGES PAST A GENTLEMEN WHO, HAVING TAKEN OFFENCE, CLIPS HIM ROUND THE EAR, SENDING HIM TUMBLING OFF INTO SPACE.

SOME MEN HAVE DECIDED TO PLAY CRICKET. WITH A NOD, ONE OF THEM BOWLS. THE BALL TAKES ABOUT 45 SECONDS TO REACH THE BATSMAN WHO SUBSEQUENTLY MISSES.

A UNION-JACK HAS BEEN PLANTED IN THE GROUND. THE PARTY GATHER ROUND FOR A PHOTOGRAPH. WITH A PUFF OF SMOKE, THE PARTY ARE IMMORTALISED IN A SEPIA TONE PHOTO OF THEM ALL WITH THEIR BEARDS AT STUPID ANGLES AND THE WOMEN'S SKIRTS PULLED ROUND THEIR HEADS.

Media-Hedging

Media-Hedging.

What is it?

I dunno. I just made it up.

Maybe it's like Dog Paint? (I just made that up too).

Luv yers
x

Say No More

A big well done to everyone who succeeded at The Roses last night.

Here's some weird cat porn to celebrate.