I Heart 80's

Love the 1980's? Me too.

Remember Michael J. Fox? Yeah! Remember the Brighton Bomb? Double-yeah!

Celebrate both with my delightful series of t-shirts commemorating the "heroes" of Maggie's cabinet.

More Idiots on the Train

This woman's decided to dress her daughter up as an... angel? Bridesmaid? Puffball mushroom..? Whatthefuck?

You can't see it in the picture but she even had her pyjama bottom's on too like a proper little pikey (pikette?) Let's hope mum's fags stay safely in her handbag - lest the little angel goes up like a fuckin' Christmas tree.

[I felt compelled to disguise her just cos it's not her fault. Looks all the more chilling for it though, no?] :-)

When I'm Giddy

An old hobby of mine - one which I haven't indulged in for some time - was writing and submitting offensive and/or unusable material to BBC Radio's Parson's and Naylor's Pull-Out Sections. It's one of those horribly light "satirical comedy" shows: smug, contrived and about as funny as full-blown AIDS. As it happens to be one of the few BBC shows with an open-door submission policy, I thought I'd baffle, annoy, and generally waste the time of it's producers by sending in stuff they couldn't ever use. For example, anyone familiar with my (breif and pointless) Facebook profile will have read my sketch "The Nigger of Dibley" which was culled from this body of material. Get the idea?

Anyway, I've just been tidying the hard-drive on my laptop and discovered the following surrealist comic-oddity. I don't even remember writing this one. I can only guess I was giddy on espresso when I spewed this one out.

So. Hilarious or just bloody odd? You decide.

KEY IN THE DOOR – LIGHTS COME ON AND A MAN AND WOMAN ENTER A LARGE, BRIGHT APARTMENT/FLAT.

MAN: Well, this is it – the bachelor pad.

WOMAN: Goodness. Isn’t it lovely. It’s very bright. And a good size too.

MAN: Yes it is, isn’t it. Far, far larger than my poor old penis.

WOMAN: Oh dear. I –

THE MAN PRESSES A FINGER TO HER LIPS TO HUSH HER.

MAN: Shhh. Trust me.

HE GOES OVER TO A DRINKS CABINET AND POURS TWO LARGE BRANDIES.

MAN: …That is, of course, assuming we are going to have sex?

WOMAN: Oh, naturally. Although, if its any consolation, I do have a very shallow –

MAN: Bottom? No matter, my love. No, matter.

WOMAN: I was going to say womb.

MAN: Womb? Pah! There’ll be no need for wombs where we’re going, my dear. (HE HANDS HER HER DRINK) Come. Let me show you the bedroom…

THEY ENTER THE BEDROOM

WOMAN: … So, how long have you had a small penis for then, exactly?

MAN: Not always. Why do you ask?

WOMAN: Oh, I was just wondering... Do a lot of men have them then– these "small penises?" I suppose its just a local thing, is it?

MAN: (LOOKING OUT THE WINDOW) This whole town’s full of them.

WOMAN: Ah, penises, penises, penises, penises, penises… isn’t it funny to think that there’s more than one in the world?

MAN: Yes. But there’s only one in this room, remember.

WOMAN: Gosh, I know. Isn’t it exciting. I say- do you think we’ll have trouble finding it then?

MAN: Oh, I shouldn’t think so. Here. (HE GOES OVER TO A CUPBOARD)

WOMAN: I suppose you have it alarmed or something, don’t you.

MAN: Look.

WOMAN: Gracious, what is it?

MAN: It’s a pump. For pumping more blood into my small penis.

WOMAN: But whatever for?

MAN: To make it bigger, of course!

WOMAN: I see.

MAN: Yes. I put my small penis into this, much larger, chamber, thus. (HE DOES SO) Then, by squeezing this bulb the subsequent change in atmospheric pressure causes the cock to swell within the vacuum. Would you like to try?

WOMAN: Yes please!

SHE BEGINS PUMPING

MAN: There, see…steady now…

WOMAN: Its just like the Magdeburg hemispheres… look at it now – it’s huge.

MAN: Keep going. You’re nearly there.

WOMAN: Yes...!

MAN: (ENORMOUS GASP) Wait! Stop stop stop!

WOMAN: What is it – what’s wrong?

MAN: There’s something inside the chamber. Something that shouldn’t be there.

WOMAN: Oh my goodness- where?

MAN: There. Close to the tip.

WOMAN: What is it?
MAN: It’s… it… but I don’t understand –

WOMAN: What is it!?

MAN: (HESITANT) It’s... a frog.

WOMAN: A frog? But how!?

MAN: I don’t know. It must’ve hopped in there.

WOMAN: It looks uncomfortable. Its eyes are bulging.

MAN: At least it wasn’t a toad.

WOMAN: What are we going to do? I’ve never had sex with a frog before. Although –ahem- I have kissed one or two.

THEY BOTH LAUGH WITH GOOD HUMOUR

THE END

Going (Even) Further Places With Famous Faces

Ok. So I'm changing the rules a bit now. Now it's just infringing the human rights of peasants as they sleep...

Going Places with Famous Faces

Public transport getting you down? Over-crowded carriages and other people's diseases taking the shine off your day?

Then why not do what I did on the way back from work today and pretend you're surrounded by stars!

Yes! Going Places with Famous Faces is easy to play. Simply pick a prole on the same train, bus or ferry as you and imagine they're someone slightly famous. Choose any prole you want: fat, grey, noisey, dirty. It doesn't matter. Then transpose their miserable chops on to someone off the telly.

So go on. Find a star on your travels and put the shine back in your day. I did!

No. 1: Willy Rushton

Something for the weekend

Valentine's Day looms like an angry headmaster.

So. I got thinking about greetings cards. I once bought my mother a 100th birthday card as a bit of a joke (she's 58 by the way -aren't I just hil-hairy-arse!). On it was a picture of an ancient galleon sailing (or listing?) into the sunset. I couldn't help thinking there was something slightly sinister about it.

Here then are two of my own patented Slightly Sinister Cards what i did make-up me self. Enjoy.

Self Promotion

I've been messed around by a client. No work until next week. Sigh. Still, these things happen - last minute changes; other projects within the agency. Can't be helped.

So. If anyone out there* has anything they'd like me to work on, then please feel free to get in touch. Look, I've even made a new little poster for myself and everything..!


[* Who reads this anyway? Somebody does because my Google Analytics account tells me so. Come out! Show yourselves! I know you're out there!]

Art for art's sake

Found my pencils before so drew this. It's a man with a fiddle and a big top-hat... Obviously.

This still makes me chuckle...

I'm Nadine Baggart; celebrity beauty editor of Content Flavoured Trousers.

People often ask me which glossy magazine I'd most like to celebrity-beauty-edit. Vogue? Cosmopolitan? Marie Claire?

The answer is simple.

I can recommend Girls and Corpses Magazine.

http://www.girlsandcorpses.com/

When I grow up I want to be... an iconoclast!

ME: Mummy?

MY MUM: Yes, darling.

ME: When I grow up, mummy...

MY MUM: Yes, darling.

ME: What will happen to me, mummy?

MY MUM: Whatever do you mean, darling?

ME: What will happen to me when I'm older?

MY MUM SMILES AT ME. (I'M IMAGINING I'M ABOUT 6 YEARS OLD DURING THIS, BY THE WAY).

MY MUM: Oh, I wouldn't worry about that, darling.

ME: But, I'm frightened, mummy. Petrified in fact. (I HAVE AN EXCELLENT VOCABULARY EVEN BACK THEN)

MY MUM: What of?

ME: The future, mummy. The vast and terrible future. It's so horrid and stifling, mummy. I can't take my mind off it. I'm consumed, mummy. Consumed with doubt and worry. Can't you see the fear in my eyes, mummy?

MY MUM: Oh, Johnny-John-John-John-John, my little yoghurt-pot, there's nothing to worry about at all. Theres nothing to fear. Nothing to fear at all.

ME: But, mummy what will happen to me! I beg you, I emplore you; I order you to tell me!

MY MUM: Well. Exactly the same as happens to all of us. We end up grey and dull, frustrasted and sad. Your dreams are crushed and your potential suffocated. It's very bleak darling, but I assure you it's perfectly natural.

ME: I don't want that to happen to me mummy. I want to be different. I want to be... an iconoclast.

MY MUM: A what?

ME: An iconoclast! I want to smash everything up and start again. Build new things and have new ideas.

MY MUM: Sounds a bit postmodern to me young man. Your father won't like it.

ME: Fuck that shit, mummy!

MY MUM SLAPS ME.

MY MUM: This is heresy, Johnny. Heresy and treason and wrong. Very wrong. Now I want you to go upstairs and start blogging about graphic design or graffiti or brands or adverts you've enjoyed. People have spent a long time establishing these conventions, and you can damn-well go and adhere to them.

I GRUMBLE AND GO TO MY ROOM.

MY MUM: Little shit.

Yellow Lounge (it's about bloody time).

The Arts bit of that left-wing agitprop hippy rag, The Guardian, ran a short piece about this yesterday: The Yellow Lounge; a club night dedicated entirely to classical music. Ruthlessly organised by our cultured friends, the Germans, it's quickly become one of Berlin's twendiest nights out. And thank fucking-Christ for that.

Me and a couple of mates have "gone all classical" over these last 18months since we took the plunge with Professor Robert Greenburg's fantastic lecture series "How to listen to and understand great music" by The Teaching Company (kinda like the American Open University). We pinched the torrents from (tee-hee!) you-know-where and haven't looked back since. So whilst the rest of the world is boldly shitting out bollocks like this and hysterically bellowing a lot of cobblers at the swirling, misty gas of the future, we've all been refining ourselves in the discipline and rigours of the great composers. And I can't recommend it enough. It's not often you can say something genuinely changes your life but appreciating and understanding classical music (as opposed to say, Elliot Smith) is one of those rare things. So. There.

Anyway, going back to the club night, whilst the concept does whiff a wee bit of pretension, one of the great things is it's attachment to the Deutsche Grammaphon record label, which means that sets feature live performances from some of the world's most respected classical performers. And I thought it'd just be a room full of kids in plastic sunglasses pretending to dance a Viennese waltz.

So. Who would've thought that I'm fucking cool at last! Come on kids, let's crank up Prokofiev's 3rd Piano Concerto - you know that Andante kicks arse!

Poetry 2

Ok then. So, as promised yesterday, here's my sonnet based on (da-dada-dah!) the Everest Windows January sale. For those of you interested enough, this is an English sonnet rather than an Italian one, and no, it isn't written in iambic pentameter.


I think I now know why people don't use poetry in advertising: because writing this made me feel like one of those people who send their work into Countdown for Whitely/Lynam to read out; some retired headmaster, conceitedly sucking a Werther's Original as Vorderman applaudes his futile observations about Giles Brandreth's jumpers or something. Sorry folks, but poetry makes you feel faded and very, very beige indeed.

No more after this. I promise.
Enjoy (although I doubt it).


Everest windows keep out the cold,
For those in their maturity
But we don’t just make them for the old.
Cos’ they’re great for your security.

Tailor made to your design,
Hand-crafted and made specific,
We fit and finish to combine
A service that’s terrific.

Stained and leaded, plain or wood
There aint no compromise on style,
Our sliding sashes look just as good,
UPVC is so versatile!

So come my friends and let Everest prevail!
You'll save 40% in our January Sale!

(Holy fucking Christ, kill me now..!)

Christmas Survival Kit

Stigmatic at the thought of having to boil your turkeys? Then stem the bleeding with my helpful Christmas Survival Kit of things. Simply assemble them in a single, always-at-hand location and you too can avoid those common seasonal pitfalls such as botched suicide and freezing to death in a doorway. So, get your kit out for the lads and let's make this the least harrowing Christmas on record! Ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho, said the reindeer etc.

1. WINE GLASSES:

Special glasses for wine.

Prices may vary.

2. BUMPER GIN:

Dry, vintage - it doesn't matter. Just make sure it's bumper!

3. PORN:

Whatever you're into this time of year, get something much stronger than usual.

4. PETS:

Pets are really good this time of year, reminding us just how humble and hairy the Baby Jesus actually was.

All of these products are available NOW in shops all around Britain TODAY! Why not buy them and have a boozey porno-petting Christmas "yule" never forget!

"Ceci n'est pas une pipe?"

-Ey up, mutha. 'as thee gitten any dog mince?
-Aye, lad. Up theer. Next t' cat's th' eggs.

Modern Copywriting: 101

Modern copywriting, eh. You know the kind. The kind that uses short sentences. Like this. And where we always use a Royal We. Like that. And where we're always happy you're just like us.

We're all about being plain and simple. We're matter-of-fact and honest. We don't need to shout. This isn't the voice of irony. We're just here to help. Because reading things like this is fun.

We've made lots of friends recently. On the sides of drinks cartons and on TV. People think we're great. But we've been around for ages. We're familiar and faithful and much, much older than you'd think. You'd probably love to know where we came from, wouldn't you. Would you like me to tell you?

I'm sorry Dave, I'm afraid I can't do that...

Last Minute Christmas Shopping.

It's an annual Christmas dilemma isn't it: what to buy the Situationist in your life? Something knowing, world-weary and ha-ha-larious, that's savagely ironic and elegantly puerile? Then look no further than The Aquarium Gallery's Christmas Shop. There's some lovely stuff here, including James (KLF) Cauty's Christmas single. Ok, so his art is embarassingly shit and makes Banksy look like Noam Chomsky, but the concept for the single almost, almost makes up for it - genius!

Rumbled

I always had my suspicions. I just needed proof. Well, Master Osbourne the truth is out - exposed on the Freeview menu for all to see. Those squishy cheeks and jam-jar glasses of yours... I knew there had to be a reason. So that's why your mum is so patient and tolerant on The X-Factor...

My Parents Are Seaweed

Concerned your child is illiterate? Then allay your fears with my heart warming new picture book! It tackles illiteracy head-on by containing actual words like "insurance" and "environment." Future titles include "My Friends Are Majolica" and "My Nanny is a Gas".

Warm-Up Act

If you're reading this blog so close to its inception, chances are you've been invited/asked/told/ordered/advised to do so. So, thanks for dropping by and sorry there isn't more here to hold your attention. We're still in the embryonic stages I'm afraid, so I'll have to insist on laboratory conditions for the time being: white coats are over by the door, as are your safety goggles. Come, let's make our way over to the microscope for a closer look. (If one of you would be kind enough to get the light)...

Ok. So. I know it doesn't look like much, squirming on the slide like this at X100 magnification. So far, there are no distinguishing features. There's a little picture and a profile and a silly name. It looks, acts, behaves much like any other (yawning, boring) blog. And in some ways I guess it's redundant; eclipsed and out-done by the billion and how-ever-many ad and design blogs, spaces, e-rants and web-wanks already out there. So to be honest, I just couldn't see the point of having one. But as I peer into the eyepiece now and see my blog wriggling, headless, limbless and blind, I'm already beginning to imagine what it might grow into. To be (uncharacteristically) poe-faced for a second, a blog is simply about communication. And as someone who (whenever I can) makes a living out of communication, I figured it'd be good practise to have somewhere to, well, practise; somewhere to experiment and reflect. Likewise, an agency MD once contended with me that copywriting is simply a poor man's creative writing. Hopefully I can disprove that once and for all.

So, my little zygotic bloglet. Let us plant you in Mother Internet's artificial womb and see what happens. I have high hopes for you. And if it all goes tits-up, no matter. I can always destroy the evidence in the incinerator...