.... why is virtually every music video I watch (purely for cultural balance to my penchant for Monarch of the Glen) full of gyrating women pushing boob tape adhesive to it's limit? Why do these 3-minute movies constantly depict life as hot and steamy? The Victoria Line is hot and steamy, but no-one is gyrating in their underwear all 'crazy in love' or 'doin it like a dude'. If they were, I wouldn't begrudge my annual Oyster Card.
If we all enjoy watching these videos, why isn't it mirrored in daily life? Granted, any British city centre on a Saturday is populated by people turned away from an overbooked Easyjet flight to Ibiza. But, during the day it's all a bit more sedate. Apart from spitting and dropping sweet wrappers on the floor, it's all fairly tame. How much more interesting would a visit to Sainsbury's be if at the self-checkout the announcement 'unidentified item in the bagging area' greeted a scantily-clad customer singing "Stop talking, stop talking, I don't want to scan anymore, I've left my butter and my peas on the shop floor"? How much more motivating would a day in the office be if we presented our photocopying dressed in a rubber cat suit flagged on either side by a bevvy of hip wiggling dancers fanning us with foolscap ring-binders?
My shock peaked this evening when I turned over from ITV to one of the music channels. Having foregone the chance to hear about the individual who had decided to live in sheds at the bottom of his garden, I fell upon "I like the way that you talk dirty, don't wash your mouth out I like it dirty. You like to please yeah I like that yeah yeah yeah yeah me like it, I like the way that you keep me coming. That yeah you so good you had me running. Me like the way that he goin' down down down down down".
At first I thought it was an advert for Listerine mouthwash (they've missed a trick there). But it was, in fact, Nicole Scherzinger's new single 'Right There'. The video reminded me of a gyrating snake trying trying to wriggle through the eye of a needle without the aid of Vaseline. What would the great Alan Titchmarsh say? His experiment in metaphors resulted in "he became more entangled in the lissom limbs of this human boa constrictor". I think that won an award of some sort.
Anyway, we have the Oxford English Dictionary at our disposal, so surely we can come up with something better than 'Yeah'? We have cities full of clothes shop, so surely we can find something that fits us. Someone invented underwear, so let's leave the adhesive on the wallpaper where it belongs. Give our boobs a rest! Yeah, Yeah, Yeah.
Tuesday, 12 July 2011
Sunday, 3 July 2011
I wouldn't mind, but ....
.... whenever someone says to me that 'so and so' celebrity is gorgeous and I google their image to basque in their handsomeness, I'm always disappointed. Most recent cases are Michael Fassbender (actor) and Feliciano Lopez (tennis player). To counter this, I urge you all to google Yotam Ottolenghi (chef). He's awesomly attractive and his cook books are lip-lickingly enticing.
I often walk along Upper Street in Islington and look across the road to the Ottolenghi restaurant, adorned with queues of attractive Islingtonians (there are no ugly people in that part of London, unless the 73 bus breaks down en route from Finsbury Park). As I gaze across, I wish I could overcome my lethargy for queueing or my past-its-sell-by date looks (all downhill after my first birthday) and infiltrate the North London glitterati as it gorges on its Caramelised Endive with Serrano Ham or Camargue Red Quinoa with Orange and Pistachios, all rounded off with a Brioche Galette (sounds so much nicer than 'flan').
No-one entering or exiting is overweight, dressed in BHS, wearing Clarks shoes or dangling an ASDA carrier bag. This is somewhere I would have to change my entire lifestyle in order to breath in its world of dried limes, mograbiah (big couscous) and abundance of fresh herbs. Every time I open my store cupboard and see the chaotic arrangement of Scwartz herb jars - many fatally past their best before dates - I know that to the great Yotam I would be a Jif lemon to his unwaxed, fresh, juicy lemon begging to be squeezed from the wicker basket display in Waitrose. He also has a degree in Philosophy. Imagine the luscious conversations we could have on the merits of introducing quinoa to the masses and whether they will subsequently rise up and demand more rocket and horseradish sauce to dip their chips in.
Today, I'm cooking a recipe from his first book - marinated rack of lamb with coriander and honey. I had to make the marinade last night and let the lamb soak in all the yumminess overnight. Chillies, ginger, garlic, coriander, mint, honey, soy sauce and more - it's got it all. And if that's not enough, the cookbook is littered with pictures of the great man himself. Awesome.
This is also one of those situations where I wish I was a man. He's gay.
I often walk along Upper Street in Islington and look across the road to the Ottolenghi restaurant, adorned with queues of attractive Islingtonians (there are no ugly people in that part of London, unless the 73 bus breaks down en route from Finsbury Park). As I gaze across, I wish I could overcome my lethargy for queueing or my past-its-sell-by date looks (all downhill after my first birthday) and infiltrate the North London glitterati as it gorges on its Caramelised Endive with Serrano Ham or Camargue Red Quinoa with Orange and Pistachios, all rounded off with a Brioche Galette (sounds so much nicer than 'flan').
No-one entering or exiting is overweight, dressed in BHS, wearing Clarks shoes or dangling an ASDA carrier bag. This is somewhere I would have to change my entire lifestyle in order to breath in its world of dried limes, mograbiah (big couscous) and abundance of fresh herbs. Every time I open my store cupboard and see the chaotic arrangement of Scwartz herb jars - many fatally past their best before dates - I know that to the great Yotam I would be a Jif lemon to his unwaxed, fresh, juicy lemon begging to be squeezed from the wicker basket display in Waitrose. He also has a degree in Philosophy. Imagine the luscious conversations we could have on the merits of introducing quinoa to the masses and whether they will subsequently rise up and demand more rocket and horseradish sauce to dip their chips in.
Today, I'm cooking a recipe from his first book - marinated rack of lamb with coriander and honey. I had to make the marinade last night and let the lamb soak in all the yumminess overnight. Chillies, ginger, garlic, coriander, mint, honey, soy sauce and more - it's got it all. And if that's not enough, the cookbook is littered with pictures of the great man himself. Awesome.
This is also one of those situations where I wish I was a man. He's gay.
Tuesday, 21 June 2011
I wouldn't mind, but ....
.... I'm acutely aware that I have a habit of repeating myself. In fact, I sometimes triple myself. But just as a leopard never changes its spots, Junebug is unlikely to tell a story only once. Coming to this realisation, I pondered my portfolio of stories that I tell again and again, many of which I manage to work into a conversation in the first 30 minutes of meeting a new, unsuspecting individual. I doubt I'm the only one for whom this rings true. I've been on the receiving end of many a tale that I've heard before, but my strict upbringing forbids me from saying, "whatever" and showing them the hand. Instead I listen avidly as the repetitive raconteur uses me for therapy, instead of tucking into a family size packet of kettle crisps.
To rid myself of this habit, I set about identifying my top three staple stories - my own version of Shakespeare's complete works, you might say.
They begin with the time I was made to stand in the dustbin during my first chemistry lesson on the assumption that I was rubbish. Heaven knows if Einstein ever spent 45 mins in a classroom dustbin, but for me it didn't light the bunsen burner within. At least in those days the incident wasn't complicated further by recycling. If it was, I might still be there deciding which bin I belonged in.
My second staple story harks back to a job many years ago when my boss phoned me at work to say he/she was on their way into the office and could I please carry out my bodily functions before they arrived. Needless to say, I made sure I was in the loo when they got to work. No one dictates my restroom schedule. In that job, my tights were also a barometer for the emotions of said boss and colleagues would enquire after the condition of my nylons each morning before he/she arrived. If they were laddered, even our restroom schedule would pale into insignificance to the administrative thunderstorm that ensued from refilling the stapler.
My third story is the time I told someone that Birds Eye Walls was an archaeological site along Hadrian's Wall, when in fact it referred to an ice cream incident. I fear this exposed my lack of archaeological knowledge and curtailed my career in the conservation world. I suspect if Hadrian's Wall sheltered a Roman version of the dustbin, I would again have been confined to that artefact.
Anyway, these meagre stories are now consigned to history themselves and I will attempt originality in new encounters from hereon in. I anticipate a very quiet Junebug from now on.
To rid myself of this habit, I set about identifying my top three staple stories - my own version of Shakespeare's complete works, you might say.
They begin with the time I was made to stand in the dustbin during my first chemistry lesson on the assumption that I was rubbish. Heaven knows if Einstein ever spent 45 mins in a classroom dustbin, but for me it didn't light the bunsen burner within. At least in those days the incident wasn't complicated further by recycling. If it was, I might still be there deciding which bin I belonged in.
My second staple story harks back to a job many years ago when my boss phoned me at work to say he/she was on their way into the office and could I please carry out my bodily functions before they arrived. Needless to say, I made sure I was in the loo when they got to work. No one dictates my restroom schedule. In that job, my tights were also a barometer for the emotions of said boss and colleagues would enquire after the condition of my nylons each morning before he/she arrived. If they were laddered, even our restroom schedule would pale into insignificance to the administrative thunderstorm that ensued from refilling the stapler.
My third story is the time I told someone that Birds Eye Walls was an archaeological site along Hadrian's Wall, when in fact it referred to an ice cream incident. I fear this exposed my lack of archaeological knowledge and curtailed my career in the conservation world. I suspect if Hadrian's Wall sheltered a Roman version of the dustbin, I would again have been confined to that artefact.
Anyway, these meagre stories are now consigned to history themselves and I will attempt originality in new encounters from hereon in. I anticipate a very quiet Junebug from now on.
Saturday, 11 June 2011
I wouldn't mind but ....
.... I've seen the future of advertising. I was on my way to Pret-a-Manger to get my lunch when a light bulb flashed metaphorically in front of me. Holding my nerve, I pressed on to secure my soup and lemon cheesecake, before returning to my Eureka moment (minus the bath).
Let me explain. Pedestrians everywhere are walking along staring down at their mobile phones. Whilst I'm scanning for hazards, every other lunchtime worker is transfixed by Facebook updates. What message could be so fascinating that you neglect oncoming obstacles? What text makes you reckless in the face of lampposts, stationary tourist groups looking for Liesesster Square, queues at cashpoints (queue alongside the bank not across the middle of the pavement, you morons!), alfresco dining outside cafes (it's England, it rains, get over it and get inside) and the gentleman with his ferret on a lead that I have often had the pleasure to tip hats to en route to work.
For research purposes I encroached the shoulder of a chap in Pret-a-Manger who was trying to decide which of the 100 counter staff at the five tills all shouting 'Can I help you?' he should submit his crayfish and rocket to. As he finally leant over the Lovebars and said 'yes, I would like a bag', I seized my opportunity and glanced down at the message on his phone: "Buy milk". Was he a stockbroker and was Milk about to crash? Had I stumbled on a scoop. I followed him out of the shop and into the newsagents next door. He grabbed a pint of semi-skimmed milk and went on his way. I'd been duped.
But had I? What if advertisers used the pavement space to advertise? If everyone's looking towards the ground, that's where we need to place those important messages. Pavements sponsored by Cadbury's - chocolate pavements? I realise there's a major flaw in this proposal i.e. how do we stop bumping into each other? But, if you think again, why is that such a problem? Everyone enjoys the Dodgems, so why not ditch the car and get physical? 'Guess who I bumped into today' could keep the conversation going for hours.
And there you have it. It's an idea that any contestant on 'The Apprentice' would give their right arm for and all it took was a close encounter over the lovebars at Pret-a-Manger.
Let me explain. Pedestrians everywhere are walking along staring down at their mobile phones. Whilst I'm scanning for hazards, every other lunchtime worker is transfixed by Facebook updates. What message could be so fascinating that you neglect oncoming obstacles? What text makes you reckless in the face of lampposts, stationary tourist groups looking for Liesesster Square, queues at cashpoints (queue alongside the bank not across the middle of the pavement, you morons!), alfresco dining outside cafes (it's England, it rains, get over it and get inside) and the gentleman with his ferret on a lead that I have often had the pleasure to tip hats to en route to work.
For research purposes I encroached the shoulder of a chap in Pret-a-Manger who was trying to decide which of the 100 counter staff at the five tills all shouting 'Can I help you?' he should submit his crayfish and rocket to. As he finally leant over the Lovebars and said 'yes, I would like a bag', I seized my opportunity and glanced down at the message on his phone: "Buy milk". Was he a stockbroker and was Milk about to crash? Had I stumbled on a scoop. I followed him out of the shop and into the newsagents next door. He grabbed a pint of semi-skimmed milk and went on his way. I'd been duped.
But had I? What if advertisers used the pavement space to advertise? If everyone's looking towards the ground, that's where we need to place those important messages. Pavements sponsored by Cadbury's - chocolate pavements? I realise there's a major flaw in this proposal i.e. how do we stop bumping into each other? But, if you think again, why is that such a problem? Everyone enjoys the Dodgems, so why not ditch the car and get physical? 'Guess who I bumped into today' could keep the conversation going for hours.
And there you have it. It's an idea that any contestant on 'The Apprentice' would give their right arm for and all it took was a close encounter over the lovebars at Pret-a-Manger.
Monday, 6 June 2011
I wouldn't mind, but ....
.... I think I saw the beginning of the end in Marks & Spencer today. There I was in their Paddington station branch gathering my pomegranate seeds and blueberries, when I happened upon the decline of civilisation. I was stopped in my tracks, my wire basket buckled and my pomegranate juiced. There, on the top shelf, were glasses of wine (red and white). Plastic glasses of wine with a pull-off lid. At first I thought they were jellies, but I shook one and it moved. Is this the new lunchtime must-have? If so, I'm destined for a life of billy-no-mates at lunchtime as I sit in the corner with my cup of builders' tea, while all the cool workers are peeling back their lids and knocking back the lambrusco.
Still in shock, I headed for home to mind-map my strategy to save mankind. En route, I opened my copy of 'The Times'. And there, in print, was news of the Candwich - a sandwich in a can. A sandwich in a can! They have a shelf-life of 12 months and come in flavours such as 'pepperoni pizza'. At first I thought the end was here sooner than I expected, but then I got to thinking. If the wine-in-a-glass takes off, then I can hide in Epping Forest with a supply of Candwiches. I won't need any electricity and I can resurface smelling of pepperoni pizza when nearly everyone's died of alcoholic poisoning. If anyone's still alive, I could be the new Eve (or call me Domino). Granted, I'm a bit on the old side, but if the survivors are drunk, they won't notice. Everyone's happy. So back off, the Candwiches are mine!
Still in shock, I headed for home to mind-map my strategy to save mankind. En route, I opened my copy of 'The Times'. And there, in print, was news of the Candwich - a sandwich in a can. A sandwich in a can! They have a shelf-life of 12 months and come in flavours such as 'pepperoni pizza'. At first I thought the end was here sooner than I expected, but then I got to thinking. If the wine-in-a-glass takes off, then I can hide in Epping Forest with a supply of Candwiches. I won't need any electricity and I can resurface smelling of pepperoni pizza when nearly everyone's died of alcoholic poisoning. If anyone's still alive, I could be the new Eve (or call me Domino). Granted, I'm a bit on the old side, but if the survivors are drunk, they won't notice. Everyone's happy. So back off, the Candwiches are mine!
Wednesday, 1 June 2011
I wouldn't mind, but ....
.... I've been struggling with my weight recently (roughly the past 30 years). I once tried hypnotherapy to stop myself eating crisps. This involved paying a hefty sum of money to lie down for one hour with my eyes closed, while a lady with an irritating voice took me 'mentally' into a forest collecting stones wrapped in crisps. When I reached the end of the forest I was urged to drop these stones into a well to rid myself of cheese & onion forever. In reality, it was one of the longest hours of my life and, while in the imaginary forest, I spotted an imaginary tray of Krispy Creme doughnuts and the rest is history (or visible on my hips).
I've also deployed the technique of tapping points whenever I see a tube of Pringles - a signal to my brain warning it of approaching danger and urging me to retreat to a 'pop and go' exclusion zone. In reality, though, the tapping points just reminds me of the time a Krispy Creme doughnut with chocolate icing and custard filling got harpooned on my finger. You get the general drift, I'm sure.
Anyway, I've been thinking. If offensive language and behaviour are a crime, why shouldn't offensive eating be too? I find it very offensive when someone with a fast metabolism is enjoying the delights of an all-day fried breakfast while I'm sitting nearby eating a caesar salad minus dressing and croutons. My metabolism is so slow, I'm still digesting last week's Sunday lunch when I'm tucking into this Sunday's roasted parsnips. In fact, I'm packing a tail back of parsnips that would do any motorway hold-up proud. I'm the M1 of vegetable accompaniments.
Imagine being convicted of eating too many portions of cheesecake. It would surely save the NHS a fortune as people avoided sugary, fatty foods and stampeded the supermarket for that weird spray oil in the yellow can. It would sound the death knoll for the ubiquitous kebab and spits would finally turn empty in the shop windows of Walthamstow and farther afield. Think of all the NHS beds vacated by the newly health-conscious population and the refuge they could provide for the homeless. And there you have it, I'm channelling the spirit of the Big Society and we owe it all to doughnuts.
I've also deployed the technique of tapping points whenever I see a tube of Pringles - a signal to my brain warning it of approaching danger and urging me to retreat to a 'pop and go' exclusion zone. In reality, though, the tapping points just reminds me of the time a Krispy Creme doughnut with chocolate icing and custard filling got harpooned on my finger. You get the general drift, I'm sure.
Anyway, I've been thinking. If offensive language and behaviour are a crime, why shouldn't offensive eating be too? I find it very offensive when someone with a fast metabolism is enjoying the delights of an all-day fried breakfast while I'm sitting nearby eating a caesar salad minus dressing and croutons. My metabolism is so slow, I'm still digesting last week's Sunday lunch when I'm tucking into this Sunday's roasted parsnips. In fact, I'm packing a tail back of parsnips that would do any motorway hold-up proud. I'm the M1 of vegetable accompaniments.
Imagine being convicted of eating too many portions of cheesecake. It would surely save the NHS a fortune as people avoided sugary, fatty foods and stampeded the supermarket for that weird spray oil in the yellow can. It would sound the death knoll for the ubiquitous kebab and spits would finally turn empty in the shop windows of Walthamstow and farther afield. Think of all the NHS beds vacated by the newly health-conscious population and the refuge they could provide for the homeless. And there you have it, I'm channelling the spirit of the Big Society and we owe it all to doughnuts.
Sunday, 22 May 2011
I wouldn't mind, but ....
.... why is it only performers who receive applause? Last night I saw 'Total Football' at the Barbican and loved it. But at the end when everyone was clapping and the actors bowing, it dawned on me how much more motivating it would be for the general workforce if we all received a round of applause at the end of our shifts. I realise this additional burden on our hands could have health and safety implications and there may be some increased cost for the employer in terms of hand cream, but I think the benefits outweigh the deficits. How exhilarating would it be for the shop assistant who had spent all day standing in the luggage section of a department store if, on clocking off, his colleagues praised his enthusiasm for a five-piece Carlton luggage set by noisily pressing hand to hand? Or, perhaps the middle manager in an office supply firm, who is lauded at clocking off time for his attention to detail with that day's staple order. You may snigger, but don't imagine that the world of office supply is without that frisson that has us all reaching for the air conditioning controls to cool down. I, myself, am currently enthused by the search for a slimline pedestal, both lockable and sleek. The Rolls Royce of storage; its mere picture in the catalogue causing me to rev up the cool air dial on the atmospheric control panel.
Thinking through the logistics of my plan, there is a danger that it may delay the workforce leaving the building after their shift, if we all have to wait in line for our accolade. So, how about an automated round of applause that we activate ourselves on leaving? Or an automated message of some sort? Automated announcements litter our lives daily and are virtually part of the family. For many of us, they fill the major part of our conversational day. Who, after their shift, wouldn't want to shut down their PC, grab their coat and head for the tour to be greeted by the trusty announcement "unexpected item in bagging area"? I know I would. Perhaps we could have a series of options on the control panel. After a good day, we could select "Notes are dispensed below the counter" to give us a little encouragement. If the employee is a little overweight, they could leave to the sound of "Your mailbox is over its limit". Subliminal messages for a healthier workforce. The applications are endless. Thank you for reading this blog. Applause please!
Thinking through the logistics of my plan, there is a danger that it may delay the workforce leaving the building after their shift, if we all have to wait in line for our accolade. So, how about an automated round of applause that we activate ourselves on leaving? Or an automated message of some sort? Automated announcements litter our lives daily and are virtually part of the family. For many of us, they fill the major part of our conversational day. Who, after their shift, wouldn't want to shut down their PC, grab their coat and head for the tour to be greeted by the trusty announcement "unexpected item in bagging area"? I know I would. Perhaps we could have a series of options on the control panel. After a good day, we could select "Notes are dispensed below the counter" to give us a little encouragement. If the employee is a little overweight, they could leave to the sound of "Your mailbox is over its limit". Subliminal messages for a healthier workforce. The applications are endless. Thank you for reading this blog. Applause please!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)