this is the hundredth blog post what I have done. Typing it on 21st. Century paper on my iPod touch gubbins. Sound like a right spas don't I. Impossible not to mistype stuff. Now I know how Stephen Hawkins feels.
Mobile technology = immobile sounding literature
Thursday, 7 August 2008
Wednesday, 6 August 2008
A Child's Story
I was speaking to my old chum Pieman yesterday. We were chewing over the industry fat, and it was exactly like the tramps in The Two Ronnies at one point. Except we were in a bar in Manchester, and not under a hedge...
Anyway. I was delighted to hear about his new kid's book. After penning a tale for his daughter, he called in a few favours, got the thing illustrated and now it's all poised for the publishers! So, nice one mate. He was beaming with excitement -bless him- and it does sound dead good. In fact, it made me wonder if I could write a child's story..? But the answer to that is no. Because I'm a fucking miserable arse and hate children.
However, once upon a time I did -indirectly- write a child's story for a job I was doing. I also happen to know two very talented and very, very frustrated designers who'll be reading this at work (hello ladies!) Maybe if they get a mo, they could illustrate my story?
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the infamous... Tale Of The Virgin Sow
Anyway. I was delighted to hear about his new kid's book. After penning a tale for his daughter, he called in a few favours, got the thing illustrated and now it's all poised for the publishers! So, nice one mate. He was beaming with excitement -bless him- and it does sound dead good. In fact, it made me wonder if I could write a child's story..? But the answer to that is no. Because I'm a fucking miserable arse and hate children.
However, once upon a time I did -indirectly- write a child's story for a job I was doing. I also happen to know two very talented and very, very frustrated designers who'll be reading this at work (hello ladies!) Maybe if they get a mo, they could illustrate my story?
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the infamous... Tale Of The Virgin Sow
Once upon a time, there was a farmer called Mr.Neddy. Every morning he would set out early from his cottage to visit all the animals he kept on his farm. Mr. Neddy’s animals were his friends.
There was Anthony the horse, Stuart the bull, Julie the sheep, the two hens, Helen and Jane and Matthew the cockerel. But of all his animals, Mr.Neddy’s best friends were his two pigs, Wendy and Karl.
There was Anthony the horse, Stuart the bull, Julie the sheep, the two hens, Helen and Jane and Matthew the cockerel. But of all his animals, Mr.Neddy’s best friends were his two pigs, Wendy and Karl.
It was Spring time on the farm and all was well. The sun shone high in the sky and all the animals seemed happy. This was Mr.Neddy’s favourite time of year. After feeding and talking to his animals, he spent the day digging a hole. Then, after watching the sun go down he returned to his cottage for some well earned rest.
That night, he had a hearty meal and was just settling into his favourite armchair when there was a knock at the door. Grumbling to his feet, Mr. Neddy opened it, and to his surprise found Karl the pig standing nervously on his doorstep.
“Why, Karl,” he said. “It’s so late. What can I do for you?”
“I need to speak to you,” said Karl. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You’d better come in, my friend. You look awful.”
Inside the cottage, Karl sat down by the fireplace anxiously wringing his trotters.
“Can I get you drink?” asked Mr. Neddy.
“Thank you,” said the pig.
Mr. Neddy poured two large whiskies. “What’s all this about then, Karl?” he asked, handing his guest a generous tumbler of Scotch.
Karl lit a cigarette. “It’s Wendy. She won’t let me near her.”
“What do you mean?” said Mr. Neddy, puzzled.
“I mean, she won’t put out.”
“I see.” He paused. “Is this because of the miscarriage?”
“That’s just it, Mr. Neddy. There was no miscarriage. We made it up.”
“But... -Why?”
Karl stood up, turning his back as he spoke. His pride was shattered. “We knew you’d be disappointed. We had to be seen to be trying. ‘Truth is, we’ve never tried. She won’t let me. She’s closed up. Like a clam. I can’t go on like this, all the excuses, the lies. I need to know she loves me.”
Mr. Neddy sat back in his chair and took a thoughtful sip of his whisky. He stood up. “Karl,” he said, placing a hand on the pig’s shoulder, “I’m not disappointed in you. I understand. Don’t worry. I have an idea. Go back to bed and leave it to me.”
“But the sty! Wendy – she’s so cold,” he blubbed.
“I know, I know. But trust me. You go and sleep on it, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
Their eyes met in an exchange of trust. Karl bowed his head as if to say thank you and quietly, reluctantly trotted back to the sty.
That morning, Karl and Wendy awoke as usual. When Mr. Neddy came around with their feed, he had a knowing look in his eye.
“Good morning. And how are you this morning Karl?”
“As well as can be expected.”
“Jolly good. And you Wendy, how are you today? May I say look as radiant as ever?”
Wendy blushed. “Oh, thank you Mr. Neddy. I’m very well, thank you.”
“Splendid,” said the farmer. “You must excuse me for a moment, only I have some urgent business to attend to. I shall see you both later.”
And with that, Mr. Neddy disappeared behind the barn.
Karl looked at his feed but didn’t feel hungry. Trotting across the sty, he lay down in the sunshine and sighed, watching Wendy demurely crunching her breakfast. A few moments past, then, suddenly there was a sound; a noise that neither of the pigs had heard before. It was music, a wiry but infectious electric guitar. It had a groove. Then, a voice: “Very superstitious,” it sang, “Writing on the wall…” Karl lay confused. It continued, but Wendy was powerless. Her ears pricked up and she began to sway. She looked at Karl, now rising up on her hind legs, sashaying towards him she danced, her hips in time to the music. He was transfixed, hypnotised by this strange new ritual. Wendy jiggled around him smiling and slowly began to dance towards the sty, her eyes fixed on his. Karl followed her instinctively until the pair had vanished inside…
Later that day, Mr. Neddy walked past the pigsty to find Karl leaning over the fence, wistfully smoking a cigarette.
“Well?” asked the farmer.
“It worked.”
The farmer nodded with a hint of conceit and silently walked away.
“Wait!” said Karl. The farmer turned. “What was that music?”
“Stevie Wonder. The Talking Book L.P, 1972.”
That night, he had a hearty meal and was just settling into his favourite armchair when there was a knock at the door. Grumbling to his feet, Mr. Neddy opened it, and to his surprise found Karl the pig standing nervously on his doorstep.
“Why, Karl,” he said. “It’s so late. What can I do for you?”
“I need to speak to you,” said Karl. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You’d better come in, my friend. You look awful.”
Inside the cottage, Karl sat down by the fireplace anxiously wringing his trotters.
“Can I get you drink?” asked Mr. Neddy.
“Thank you,” said the pig.
Mr. Neddy poured two large whiskies. “What’s all this about then, Karl?” he asked, handing his guest a generous tumbler of Scotch.
Karl lit a cigarette. “It’s Wendy. She won’t let me near her.”
“What do you mean?” said Mr. Neddy, puzzled.
“I mean, she won’t put out.”
“I see.” He paused. “Is this because of the miscarriage?”
“That’s just it, Mr. Neddy. There was no miscarriage. We made it up.”
“But... -Why?”
Karl stood up, turning his back as he spoke. His pride was shattered. “We knew you’d be disappointed. We had to be seen to be trying. ‘Truth is, we’ve never tried. She won’t let me. She’s closed up. Like a clam. I can’t go on like this, all the excuses, the lies. I need to know she loves me.”
Mr. Neddy sat back in his chair and took a thoughtful sip of his whisky. He stood up. “Karl,” he said, placing a hand on the pig’s shoulder, “I’m not disappointed in you. I understand. Don’t worry. I have an idea. Go back to bed and leave it to me.”
“But the sty! Wendy – she’s so cold,” he blubbed.
“I know, I know. But trust me. You go and sleep on it, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
Their eyes met in an exchange of trust. Karl bowed his head as if to say thank you and quietly, reluctantly trotted back to the sty.
That morning, Karl and Wendy awoke as usual. When Mr. Neddy came around with their feed, he had a knowing look in his eye.
“Good morning. And how are you this morning Karl?”
“As well as can be expected.”
“Jolly good. And you Wendy, how are you today? May I say look as radiant as ever?”
Wendy blushed. “Oh, thank you Mr. Neddy. I’m very well, thank you.”
“Splendid,” said the farmer. “You must excuse me for a moment, only I have some urgent business to attend to. I shall see you both later.”
And with that, Mr. Neddy disappeared behind the barn.
Karl looked at his feed but didn’t feel hungry. Trotting across the sty, he lay down in the sunshine and sighed, watching Wendy demurely crunching her breakfast. A few moments past, then, suddenly there was a sound; a noise that neither of the pigs had heard before. It was music, a wiry but infectious electric guitar. It had a groove. Then, a voice: “Very superstitious,” it sang, “Writing on the wall…” Karl lay confused. It continued, but Wendy was powerless. Her ears pricked up and she began to sway. She looked at Karl, now rising up on her hind legs, sashaying towards him she danced, her hips in time to the music. He was transfixed, hypnotised by this strange new ritual. Wendy jiggled around him smiling and slowly began to dance towards the sty, her eyes fixed on his. Karl followed her instinctively until the pair had vanished inside…
Later that day, Mr. Neddy walked past the pigsty to find Karl leaning over the fence, wistfully smoking a cigarette.
“Well?” asked the farmer.
“It worked.”
The farmer nodded with a hint of conceit and silently walked away.
“Wait!” said Karl. The farmer turned. “What was that music?”
“Stevie Wonder. The Talking Book L.P, 1972.”
"But-"
"Well, it worked for Mrs. Neddy."
"Well, it worked for Mrs. Neddy."
THE END
Monday, 4 August 2008
(Carly) Simon says...
You're so vain, I bet you think this blog is about you... don't you, DON'T YOU..!?
Tuesday, 22 July 2008
No Fucking Title, ok Blogger!? -That ok with you, you fucking form-field fuck!?
Random shit/word association that has amused me today:
"Club Urine"
"Mister Jaguar"
Some jokes about salad
Free chromosomes at Primark
"Ferguson's Tunnel"
A picture of a dress made of carpet
Calling my iPod Touch an "iFrot"
"Club Urine"
"Mister Jaguar"
Some jokes about salad
Free chromosomes at Primark
"Ferguson's Tunnel"
A picture of a dress made of carpet
Calling my iPod Touch an "iFrot"
Drudgery
Hey, how are ya? Gee, I'm great thanks. I just lOVe working in my office. It's so clean and modern, and that blistering unnatural strip lighting is just divine.
All those computers and phones and people coughing and sighing and moaning all around me. Aint it so cute?
Sigh. Don't you just adore all those people who wear their pass-cards round their necks... even on the train. And the way all the guys clutch their sandwiches in a faded plastic-bag, like their pathetic, timid lives depend on it. Day in. Day out. It is such a fuckin' hoot!
I just couldn't imagine not being institutionalised with my pass-card and my creased suit and my miserable sandwiches. And thank god I've got my Blackberry - I'm never more than a vital blip or a buzz away from the winning team.
Three cheers for work!
Friday, 11 July 2008
Eugenics and Advertising
Hello - or should I say "guten tag". I'm Josef Mengele, leader of the Nazi's eugenics program.
I'm actually dead now, but when I was alive I conducted all sorts of experiments. Some were horrific. Some were chilling. Some were actually pointless. Some were even horrific and pointless. Nevertheless, they were all aimed at roughly the same thing - trying to create the ultimate human being that could out-perform everything else: I wanted to create a sure fire winner.
So I sliced and spliced and chopped and diced, and ended-up creating nothing more than some wonky old spastics and a right bloody mess. So imagine my joy when I learned the people from CBS Outdoor were employing much the same techniques when optimizing content for their network of LCD ad-hoardings across the London Underground. Whoopee! They're tracking your movements, they're tracking your eye movements - they're unravelling your social genome.
Imagine how empowering it'll be when the results are out. In fact it's a shame I'm dead, because I'd love to get a brief for a CBS Outdoor campaign: "We found drop-shadows on fonts are less effective after 6pm - take it out." "People are more inclined to read things backwards before 10am - invert the copy!" "People will look at animals any time of the day - put a fucking puppy in there!"
Look out London. There's gonna be some real crazy wonky shit coming your way.
Hugs and kisses
Josef xx
Tuesday, 8 July 2008
Wishful Marketing (aka incoherent shit and nonsense)
Interesting little debate here I culled from the always wonderful Things Magazine.
In a nutshell: This ties in with what my faithful companion Goldie was saying about Poligrip trumpeting about "ooze control" ie. some obscure aspect of a product being squashed and buggered into an ad under the misconception it's an incredible and appealing selling-point.
I see this quite a lot. I mean who in god's name thought "ooze control" sounded good? Answer: The client, because they invented it. So who allowed it in the ad? Well, that's a matter of contention.
Whoever's responsible either way, the outcome is always the same: a completely naff, or weird, or incoherent, or just plain shit piece of work - a great creative off-set by an incongruous, unappealing bit of techno-guff.
From a writer's point of view this is less about the overall direction of a piece of work, and more about the way a piece is developed. A brief (spelt right today?) might be about - I dunno - tampons. I write a lovely, flowery, sensitive and subtle piece of copy for it. Account people love it but -doh! We forgot to tell you the client wants us to mention the the chairman's daughter has just passed her A-Levels, in it. Or "they're really keen to stress the interest free credit but can we maybe mention it's his wedding anniversary, too." Or "we love that Poligrip is a safe, reasurring household brand, but can you mention it no longer spews, splurges or discharges from people's mouths."
Too. Many. Cooks. Spoil. The. Broth. Ok?
In a nutshell: This ties in with what my faithful companion Goldie was saying about Poligrip trumpeting about "ooze control" ie. some obscure aspect of a product being squashed and buggered into an ad under the misconception it's an incredible and appealing selling-point.
I see this quite a lot. I mean who in god's name thought "ooze control" sounded good? Answer: The client, because they invented it. So who allowed it in the ad? Well, that's a matter of contention.
Whoever's responsible either way, the outcome is always the same: a completely naff, or weird, or incoherent, or just plain shit piece of work - a great creative off-set by an incongruous, unappealing bit of techno-guff.
From a writer's point of view this is less about the overall direction of a piece of work, and more about the way a piece is developed. A brief (spelt right today?) might be about - I dunno - tampons. I write a lovely, flowery, sensitive and subtle piece of copy for it. Account people love it but -doh! We forgot to tell you the client wants us to mention the the chairman's daughter has just passed her A-Levels, in it. Or "they're really keen to stress the interest free credit but can we maybe mention it's his wedding anniversary, too." Or "we love that Poligrip is a safe, reasurring household brand, but can you mention it no longer spews, splurges or discharges from people's mouths."
Too. Many. Cooks. Spoil. The. Broth. Ok?
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