A thought occurred to me while watching our three-year-old yomp his way through a plate of Alphabetti Spaghetti on toast yesterday: do Heinz skimp on the cost of producing a separate W by just doubling the amount of Ms, as when they’re upside-down on a plate, they appear indistinguishable?
Similarly, if they were to introduce lower-case characters, the letters b, d, p and q are all interchangeable. They could save a fortune, (except, of course, they’d have to produce each of the other 22 letters as well).
Admittedly it wasn’t a very interesting thought, but a thought nonetheless.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Tame Nightmares
There was footage of an Alice Cooper stage-show on telly the other night (called Welcome to my Nightmare or some such clichéd tat, and of the conceptual kind that abounded in the ‘70s). Filmed back in the days when Mr (or should that be Mrs?) Cooper was regarded as something of a renegade with a “shocking” penchant for heavy eye makeup and hanging himself, it made for amusing viewing.
In the show, our Alice largely spent his time emerging from behind cardboard tombstones and popping balloons with a plastic sword, or cavorting with dancers dressed as giant spiders clambering up and down a makeshift web. The rest of the time he spent striking theatrical poses like a first-year drama student and shouting a lot. Hmm, terrifying. Parents – protect your children’s eyes.
It was amusing to watch something which may have seemed rebellious and edgy at the time now appearing fantastically tame. In fact, the most nightmarish thing about the entire show was the somewhat unflattering red jumpsuit he wore which unfortunately left very little to the imagination.
This tempering of what was once seen as subversive isn’t a quality restricted to Mr Cooper, and it’s well-documented that what goes around comes around in music. Years ago, Elvis’s swaying hips were the most seditious thing in the world of entertainment, with each trademark wiggle sending out seismic shockwaves of repressed sexuality across America, corrupting young girls and disgusting their parents.
And so to today, where the natural inheritor of Alice Cooper’s crown is Marilyn Manson, who has kept the pasty face and heavy eye makeup of his predecessor, and who has his own effect on impressionable youth. To all of you moping around in your big black coats and peculiar hair: your little hero, with his toyshop props and one googly eye, is about as outrageous and subversive as those root vegetables that used to appear on That’s Life that resembled malformed genitalia.
Time will judge him just as it judges everything else. He’s just a normal skinny chap called Brian who’s had a persona constructed by some clever marketing people at the record company in an effort to convince you that you might like to buy his music, and really you’re no different from the girls who used to go into paroxysms of delight every time Mr Presley flung his pelvis left and right. Aah! Bless you all...
In the show, our Alice largely spent his time emerging from behind cardboard tombstones and popping balloons with a plastic sword, or cavorting with dancers dressed as giant spiders clambering up and down a makeshift web. The rest of the time he spent striking theatrical poses like a first-year drama student and shouting a lot. Hmm, terrifying. Parents – protect your children’s eyes.
It was amusing to watch something which may have seemed rebellious and edgy at the time now appearing fantastically tame. In fact, the most nightmarish thing about the entire show was the somewhat unflattering red jumpsuit he wore which unfortunately left very little to the imagination.
This tempering of what was once seen as subversive isn’t a quality restricted to Mr Cooper, and it’s well-documented that what goes around comes around in music. Years ago, Elvis’s swaying hips were the most seditious thing in the world of entertainment, with each trademark wiggle sending out seismic shockwaves of repressed sexuality across America, corrupting young girls and disgusting their parents.
And so to today, where the natural inheritor of Alice Cooper’s crown is Marilyn Manson, who has kept the pasty face and heavy eye makeup of his predecessor, and who has his own effect on impressionable youth. To all of you moping around in your big black coats and peculiar hair: your little hero, with his toyshop props and one googly eye, is about as outrageous and subversive as those root vegetables that used to appear on That’s Life that resembled malformed genitalia.
Time will judge him just as it judges everything else. He’s just a normal skinny chap called Brian who’s had a persona constructed by some clever marketing people at the record company in an effort to convince you that you might like to buy his music, and really you’re no different from the girls who used to go into paroxysms of delight every time Mr Presley flung his pelvis left and right. Aah! Bless you all...
I Am What I Eat
Given that:
a) the average sandwich weighs approximately 200g, and
b) I favour particularly unadventurous lunches,
a worrying calculation today has revealed that, in the past few years, I’ve eaten my own bodyweight in cheese and ham sarnies.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Anyone seen him lately?
“It’s Chico time!”
No it isn’t, not any more. You’ve had your fifteen minutes of richly undeserved fame. Now on your “Chico-bike”, there’s a good lad…
No it isn’t, not any more. You’ve had your fifteen minutes of richly undeserved fame. Now on your “Chico-bike”, there’s a good lad…
The Worst Getaway Car in the World
Strange article in the news yesterday about a chap who tried to jump in Benedict XVI’s popemobile during his weekly trundle around St Peter’s Square.
With a top speed of around 5mph, a gaggle of security guards in close proximity and 35,000 Catholic devotees as witnesses, I can’t help but think his choice of vehicle to car-jack was poor (still, at least he would have had an actual holy figurehead on the dashboard instead of some plastic figurine).
As if his attempt wasn’t conspicuous enough, his choice of clothing didn’t help matters, dressed, as he was, in black shorts and a lurid pink T-shirt. His Holiness probably thought he was being kidnapped by one of the kids from Fame.
With a top speed of around 5mph, a gaggle of security guards in close proximity and 35,000 Catholic devotees as witnesses, I can’t help but think his choice of vehicle to car-jack was poor (still, at least he would have had an actual holy figurehead on the dashboard instead of some plastic figurine).
As if his attempt wasn’t conspicuous enough, his choice of clothing didn’t help matters, dressed, as he was, in black shorts and a lurid pink T-shirt. His Holiness probably thought he was being kidnapped by one of the kids from Fame.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Somebody Stop Him
Somebody called Mark Ronson has recently released an astonishingly bad version of “Stop me if you think that you’ve heard this one before” by The Smiths. Personally, I’d like to take Mr Ronson up on his invitation, to the extent that I’d cheerfully snip his particularly untalented vocal chords with a sharp pair of scissors if the opportunity arose. Failing this, a less-favourable (though equally effective) solution would be to ram rusty cutlery in my ears in an effort to not hear him sing it again.
The cool lackadaisical voiceover on the advert for his album on telly claims it features “the vocal talents of Lily Allen”. This is a bit like claiming that Big Break features the “comedy” of Jim Davidson. It’s like trying to polish a turd with an oily rag.
The cool lackadaisical voiceover on the advert for his album on telly claims it features “the vocal talents of Lily Allen”. This is a bit like claiming that Big Break features the “comedy” of Jim Davidson. It’s like trying to polish a turd with an oily rag.
Hairy Situations
There was a cure for baldness on telly the other night. Clever men in white coats with glasses as thick as glacier mints have developed a cream that stimulates the follicles into action. A couple of smears on the head and hey presto – instant hair (well, perhaps not instant, but that doesn’t make it any the less remarkable). Next week they’re tackling alchemy.
Despite sporting a hairline that, from the front resembles the swooping curves and lines of a tennis ball, I don’t think I’d be inclined to try it. I’ve gotten quite used to my hairless head and the face on the front of it that peers back at me from the mirror every morning. A more hirsute version would be unfamiliar and a bit unnerving. Also, in an effort to retain a bit of integrity, I think if I'm naturally sparsely-haired then I shouldn’t fight it, and if this means not having the cascading locks of yesteryear, then that’s just the way it’s meant to be.
Similarly, using laser surgery to correct my vision resulting in the need to no longer wear glasses doesn’t really appeal either, but for different reasons. Glasses are as much a part of my face as the mole on my cheek or the slightly protruding upper lip and an unbespectacled me would feel quite facially-naked and featureless without them. I was meant to peer at the world through a pair of strategically-milled lenses, and to be honest, I quite like wearing them as it gives a touch of personality to an otherwise fairly featureless face (apart from the mole and the slightly protruding upper lip).
Despite sporting a hairline that, from the front resembles the swooping curves and lines of a tennis ball, I don’t think I’d be inclined to try it. I’ve gotten quite used to my hairless head and the face on the front of it that peers back at me from the mirror every morning. A more hirsute version would be unfamiliar and a bit unnerving. Also, in an effort to retain a bit of integrity, I think if I'm naturally sparsely-haired then I shouldn’t fight it, and if this means not having the cascading locks of yesteryear, then that’s just the way it’s meant to be.
Similarly, using laser surgery to correct my vision resulting in the need to no longer wear glasses doesn’t really appeal either, but for different reasons. Glasses are as much a part of my face as the mole on my cheek or the slightly protruding upper lip and an unbespectacled me would feel quite facially-naked and featureless without them. I was meant to peer at the world through a pair of strategically-milled lenses, and to be honest, I quite like wearing them as it gives a touch of personality to an otherwise fairly featureless face (apart from the mole and the slightly protruding upper lip).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)