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