Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Selling copy!

Some dude at estate agents Haart, of 'Haart... is where your home is' 'fame', clearly thinks it is a good idea to enliven the property descriptions in my local paper with a soupcon of 'wit'. At least I think that's what it's supposed to be.

Or possibly OF the art?

Only to someone who previously lived in a hole.

Nope, sorry. What?


Aha! Plain English. Welcome, do come in. We have missed you.

Monday, February 26, 2007


I was in "Scribbler", a greetings card shop, choosing, unsurprisingly, a greetings card. There was a woman nearby, dressed in a Soho approximation of a 'power suit'. Luckily she was also speaking loudly into her mobile so we could all hear her deliberations:

LOUD WOMAN: He's not really a cheeky person is he? I won't get him anything too cheeky... there's something here with a football team on it but... no I don't think so... well, he's not leaving to join a football team is he? He doesn't like football... well he doesn't look as though he likes football... those glasses... I'll just get him one that says 'sorry you're leaving' and we can all sign that. Yes?... Hello?

Friday, February 23, 2007


Welcome to Intellectuals' Corner.

Someone has tippexed an 'F' in front of the word 'art' on this escalator poster on the London Underground.

And because my sense of humour can often be described as 'childish' I found this funny.

Now, I'm presuming whoever did it didn't have a bottle of tippex to hand when they first clapped eyes on the poster. And these darned tube escalators move pretty fast so to graffiti them requires real speed and dexterity.

The thought process may have gone something like this...

"Ooh look, 'Art'. If someone scrawled an 'F' in front of that, it would spell 'Fart'. Now, where's my bottle of tippex? Shit, it's at home. I'll bring it tomorrow."

Perhaps they made a few practice passes down the escalator as I had to (well, one), before taking the pic. But to do this you need to go through the exit barriers and come back in. A slightly tortuous process.

But whatever happened they've managed to plaster on the tippex nice and thick.

And it made me grin this morning.

So, to whoever is responsible, good job!

Thursday, February 15, 2007

A thousand words says a picture

M'colleague at work bats, shall we say, for the other side. Put simply, he's an art director. And as such he receives a regular deluge of mail from photographers eager to show off their latest picture of a scuffed training shoe.

Most of the work speaks for itself, you either like it and file it away or bin it. There is no middle ground, it's a ruthless world.

One such piece of mail came the other day.

And this one had words attached.

Long words. That had been cobbled together in some strange blasphemy of a sentence which failed to make any sense at all.

So I cut the words out and assembled them into a vague poem.

It still didn't make the pictures any better.

Monday, February 12, 2007

"We apologise for any inconvenience this may cause."

I heard these words today.

In fact, I think I've heard them every day since moving to good ol' London Town. Which was, fact fans, 12.5 years ago.

And, being as there's 365 days a year (no, I'm not arsing about with Leap Years), I reckon that's...




4,562.5 days. Give or take.

Minus, let's say, 1300 days for weekends.

Subtract too, about 250 days for holiday. Fuck, 250 days holiday? Where did they all go?

So, we end up with...

... something like,...


3102.5 days, on which I've heard the above announcement. Or variations thereon.

And I've come to the, possibly not very earth-shattering, conclusion that it means ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

Fuck all.

It certainly doesn't mean they're sorry. If they were sorry I'm sure we'd all see the station staff rushing up to the delayed masses begging forgiveness, with eyes drowning in tears of genuine remorse. But we don't. Unless I was away that day.

Frankly, it just irritates. And even though those responsible may seem as stupid as Andrew Wilkinson, the divvy in my class at school, they're surely not so daft as to want to annoy us on purpose. After all, they have timetables to do that.

So here's my solution offered free of charge to any purveyor of public transport wishing to placate the downtrodden masses who suffer their 'service'.

Instead of pretending to be sorry, why not say things that would at least bring a smile to people's faces. For example:

1) Recite a list of British sporting heroes as a reminder of gallant deeds that lifted the nation... Bobby Charlton, Steve Redgrave, Sebastian Coe, Kelly Holmes, Ian Botham, Eddie the Eagle... well, you get the gist.

2) Play a recording of Tommy Cooper: "I backed a horse today, at twenty to one. It came in at half past four." Or Morecombe, Izzard... Dennis... taste varies, obviously.

3) Play snatches of famous sporting commentary: "And here comes Hurst, he's got... some people are on the pitch..." Or famous speeches: "We will fight them on the beaches...".

I'd better stop now, this is starting to make sense.

Wednesday, February 07, 2007

I had to follow this bloke all the way up Regent Street

He may have passed me unseen if it hadn't been for his shouting. Nothing offensive, just a few very loud 'good mornings' to people on the opposite side of the road.

I was despairing of ever getting a half-decent picture such was his rate of progress along the pavement and my camera phone's dated 'technology'. Even litter bins merited only a cursory glance. That is, until he caught sight of an umbrella protruding from a bin near Hamley's.

He's cut the sleeves off this shirt, presumably to allow him to wear it over all his other clothes.

Hey, no shit Sherlock!

His name appears to be Thomas Something-or-Other. He's claiming that MI5 tried to murder him on 5th July 2006. (It could have been the 15th or 25th I suppose but I couldn't see round his armpit.) Anyway, as with many 'intelligence' operations, it was clearly a botched job as it left Thomas nursing a broken shoulder, bruising on the brain, a lasting sense of injustice and the need to acquire a white shirt and black marker pen.

He speculates on who gave the order for this roughing-up: Home Secretary John Reid, or the Godfather himself, T. Blair.

Finally he signs off by claiming he is a prisoner of the state who has been rendered 'inncommunicado' to prevent him from speaking out.

He did smell though.

Monday, February 05, 2007

Not a brothel. Got that?

So there you are, living in an enviable Queen Anne-style house on one of Soho's more salubrious side streets when there's a knock at your door. You open it to a strange man.

MAN: "Mistress Domina?"

YOU: "You what mate?"

MAN: "Er, Mistress... it's not is it?"

YOU: "No it ruddy isn't."

Several hundred similar knocks on the door later... a sturdy sign to let all and sundry know.

Don't suppose it helps the house price much.

UPDATE 23.02.07.:
I see comedian Dave Gorman has beaten me to this one.
And he's got loads of comments too.

Thursday, February 01, 2007

Look out! Swallows!

I'm no great churchgoer, in fact the last time I went was... no, it's gone. But I couldn't resist this plaintive note pinned to a church door in Wales.

For a moment I thought 'Swallows' referred to a particularly unpleasant family who had been barred by the vicar for causing trouble during the service. Perhaps defacing hymn books; carving their initials in the back of the pews; overly aggressive praying. Or, and this was a particular bugbear of the headmaster at my school... spitting.

But hey dumbass, I thought, these are birds. You know, feathers and shit, innit.

So it looks as though squadrons of them had been bombarding our helpless rev as per Tippi Hedren in "The Birds". Perhaps even during his sermon.

REV: So therefore, following the example of St Paul, we must look deeply at ourselves, into ourselves and... who let those fucking swallows in? They're shitting in the font! Bastard cunts!"

I felt the least I could do was go inside and have a look round, maybe drop a quid in the organ fund box.

Don't recall shutting the door on my way out though.