random tom

Top 10 Worst Halloween Costumes 2011

2011-10-18T01:04:00.004+01:00

This calendar year is drawing to an abrupt close and it won’t be long before the stinging Christmas hangover kicks in. Before we get set for the big fat orgy of materialism, let’s first discuss October's favourite orange jamboree ... Halloween.

If you're not familiar with Halloween, this is how it goes down. Hollywood serves up a short-lived horror flick centred on a mentally unstable dagger-wielding oddball with a penchant for headwear. Children sport leotards and horns knock on people's doors asking for sweets. Home owners become enraged. Fake tanners in Essex are mistaken for pumpkins. Royal family youth wear Nazi uniforms.

Fortunately there’s more than one way to keep your outfit fresh this October 31st. Follow our 10 offbeat Halloween costumes inspired by disaster events that hogged the news this year.

Worst Halloween Costume No. 10: We Buy Any Car Man

Never before has Britain enjoyed entering their reg number now than with We Buy Any Car. Strap on a white Vauxhall-shaped foam sandwich and paint a dotted border of aluminous car silhouettes to get the look.

Worst Halloween Costume No. 9: Foreign Baddie

This year’s nominees are flamboyant Colonel Gaddafi and veteran terrorist, Bin Laden. It’s literally a choice of life or death. The Colonel still very much the cock of the walk in North Africa, draped in opera curtain themed attire. The Laden look is simpler, wear bed sheets and paint on bullet wounds.

Worst Halloween Costume No. 8: Jedward

Spend small change on a Peter Stringfellow wig and 2 hours with a can of hairspray and you’ll rock the iconic hairdo of Britain’s best known albino double act. Dab a handful of talcum powder on the cheeks for the finishing touch.

Worst Halloween Costume No. 7: Somali Pirate

Pirates are no longer the dapper show ponies of the ocean but that makes recreating the look easier for everyone. Cliches to avoid: leaving old bits of food in your beard, choosing felt, speaking with a Cornish accent, attaching a defrosted chicken to the shoulder as your parrot.

Worst Halloween Costume No. 6: Giant Cash-For-Gold Envelope

Your slender, polished oblong-shaped bodywear will make you the talk of the party, and people will love you for having somewhere to store their bags. Avoid letterboxes when drunk.

Worst Halloween Costume No. 5: Japanese Disaster Victim

Head down to local rubbish tip for a length of driftwood. Then stand under a carwash until you’re soaking wet. You’re a disaster victim so remember to look miserable. Don’t bother to learn Japanese, it’s only Halloween.

Worst Halloween Costume No. 4: London Rioter

Essentially, this is a makeover sponsored by JD Sports. It can be bought for £25 or less. Much less in fact if you throw a brick through the shop window and mug a mannequin. Finish the look with a balaclava. Turn up with a flat screen television or a big bag of rice as a gift just in case the party host mistakes you for general riff-raff and turns you away.

Worst Halloween Costume No. 3: Charlie Sheen

A party just isn’t a party without broads, booze and bowling shirts, Charlie Sheen will agree. The main challenge that lies ahead is staying in character, which entails trying to sleep with every woman in the room and mumbling intelligible phrases about tiger blood.

Worst Halloween Costumer 2: Ghost of Steve Jobs

What? Too soon? Oh, get over it. This is your chance to pay homage to the late innovator of the pod and the pad in an unforgettable way. Grow white whiskers. Reuse that old grim reaper gown. Carry a scythe in the right hand and a pumpkin in the left. For a touch of genius, carve a face into the pumpkin with an apple for the nose.

Worst Halloween Costume No. 1: Pippa Middleton’s Bum

Superglue 2 pumpkins together, paint pink, nestle a tiara on top. Your new gigantic royal pumpkin bum mask may disguise your character too well so carry a red carpet under your arm, ready to roll out on the quick. Take your gran along too - or kidnap a little old lady from a nearby bus stop - to be Queen for the night.

Sport for thought (pt 1/4)

2011-08-15T18:36:00.012+01:00

Idea for 4 posters/cards celebrating the upcoming 2012 London Olympics. Essentially a collection of thoughts inspired by sport on telly.

1.
"Everyone marvels at athlete's legs but no one cares for athlete's foot."

2.
"When you're asked to break in snooker you start, when you're asked to break in boxing you stop."

3.
"A footballer’s tackle can win games whereas a fisherman’s tackle can win fish."

4.
"A team coach can train the team and also drive them to away games."

Stay tuned for more observations inspired by the 2012 Olympic Games.

Patterns in Morocco

2011-07-23T17:39:00.013+01:00

Join me on a short tour of Morocco as I introduce you to some ornate and unusual Arabian patterns.

Even though the classy orientation of ceiling patterns such as these here can be seen all over Morocco, you never grow tired of unravelling the intricate works of art. Its a good idea to stop after several minutes as you feel as if your retinas are on fire.

Phew, this one's easier for the eyes to take in. The text here may look like a foreign Coca-Cola logo but it actually spells out God Country King in Arabic. Seen twice, on the side of the kasbah and a large dam.

Patterns on Moroccan pottery are devoted more to images than words. Expect the usual camels, palm trees and other cliches that tourists go mental for. The real beauty however, is that each hand-made pot is identical in size and shape.

There's more adventurous pattern to be seen in tailor made clothing and accessories. Leather satchels loom over the market walls as customers haggle for a good price.

Search deep within the nooks and crannies of the market and you may discover slow moving reptilian patterns in crates. A low maintenance pet or a frustrating ready meal, tortoises are readily available for purchase.

Or for a more traditional Moroccan feast, head to the port for fresh seafood. This pattern is from my swim shorts, good luck eating those juicy, armoured creatures.

Some of the patterns in Morocco appear by accident. These falcons kindly put their hunt on hold to choreograph an aerial dance act. Great for photographing and then playing dot-to-dot to create new patterns.

Speaking of making marks, why not treat your tanning skin to an authentic henna tattoo. Plenty of original pattern to choose from.

An advantage of going on a beach holiday is that the damp spongy sand is a perfect canvas on which to weave a unique tapestry. These footprints will soon we wiped out by a hungry foam wave. A new batch will form tomorrow.

Napoli ever after

2011-07-22T10:07:00.011+01:00

The exchange rate is a funny one. In England its 0.8 Euros to the pound but in Napoli it drops considerably. Sometimes you get a big fat nothing. This is because thieving bastard taxi drivers like to play a little game called pretend that you have no change and take the tourist for all he's worth. You can only play this game a couple of times before you realise you're completely skint and have to walk back to the hotel in the pissing wind.

The fun doesn't stop there. Even kiosk owners and restaurateurs join in by making up prices on the spot and misplacing the decimal point on the bill. Crafty. If a tourist clocks on to this ploy and confronts the wrongdoer about being cheated out of his hard-earned holiday money the unwritten rule is to play dumb. Expect one of the following reactions: a claim of mild innumeracy in broken English; a tap of the glasses which translates to 'my damned eyesight again'; an apologetic smile and raised hands that look as if they are juggling three invisible apples. If you're lucky you may witness all three simultaneously.

Ok enough whinging, the bottom line is if you visit Napoli count your change and check that the amount due matches the price advertised. Or learn Italian.

If you're a sucker for art there's a round the clock painting exhibition in the city centre. Local vandals have taken time out of barging you in the street to decorate every inch of Napolitan architecture with florescent brushwork. If there's one thing a street-urchin hates its wall space.

The artistry spreads as far as the Island of Capri where cacti is used for practise, and on the outer shell of public transport vehicles, presumably as part of a pimp my carriage non-for-profit scheme.

Ironically Pompeii was the birthplace of graffiti although its great natural disaster has spared it from the vulgarity of this man-made liquid plague. I'll take the ruins over the tags any day.

South Africa - the bush picnic

2011-07-21T14:47:00.010+01:00

Blanket… check. Nibbles… check. Rifle… wo wo wo buster, a rifle? Damn straight. When you’re on a game drive deep in the heart of the South African bush its essential that the wily guide and his beady-eyed tracker are packing heat. You don’t need to be David Attenborough to know that firing a warning shot at a big cat with sharp teeth that fancies you for a spot of lunch is more effective than shouting ‘Shooo!' Fortunately, the many of the animals in the bush have become accustomed to daily intrusions and tend to mind their own business, meaning the gun is never needed and the shots are only taken with a Panasonic. The larger of the bush’s residents, such as the lion, leopard, rhino, buffalo, elephant (known as the big five) will tolerate a game drive truck encroaching on their personal space providing its passengers make no sudden movements or loud noises.

Coming face to face with any of the big five is an unsettling moment if, like me, you are an acclimatized suburbanite whose only frame of reference to the South African bush is Amanda Holden kissing giraffes back to health in her on-screen far-fetched hospital home. The weaker species (those without giant claws, horns or tusks) head for the hills as soon as they spot you, which is to be expected. A herd of elephants however, will rumble right past you without a second’s thought. Noisy buggers. These creatures are the celebrities of the bush and it’s crucial to bear in mind that humans must be on their best behaviour. It only takes a highly-strung elephant to have a Liam Gallagher moment and swat you in the chops for getting in too close.

If a tracker spots an animal’s spore (which he will, they know their stuff) he will then navigate the truck to the whereabouts of the animal as if he is winding in an invisible piece of string that's tied to the perpetrator's limb. This hunt may involve pursuing an uneven dirt track, or a less comfortable and unorthodox route directly through thorn tress and clusters of branches, depending on which is quicker. After all that tracking you feel like a drink and some biscuits, but why wait until you arrive back at the game lodge. The guide and tracker unveil a specially prepared picnic of savoury treats and flavoured tea for a moment of calm. You feel such at ease that it’s tough for even a distant baboon shriek to pierce the tranquility of this precious moment.

tom and jury

2011-05-16T22:24:00.007+01:00

Jury service is a once in a lifetime experience. Unless, like me, you’re unlucky enough to get called up twice. This is an insight into what it’s like to be a member of a jury, and not a factual account of what went on the night Mr Harper strangled his wife with a rope in…ahh, I’ve said too much.

Where did my jury service take place?

For 2.3 weeks I was asked to attend Basildon Crown Court. To get to the court you have to pass its neighbouring building, Basildon Job Centre, which takes sympathy on those who don’t feel like working. The irony is that these unsavoury characters, grown men dressed in tracksuits and women who barely attempt to cover themselves at all, are committing crimes against fashion on a daily basis.

It wouldn’t surprise me to discover that a small majority end up in Basildon Crown Court at some point in their lives too, but cuffed and suited. If the reason to build the Job Centre in spitting distance of the court was to remind anyone thinking of claiming false benefits just where they’ll end up, it’s a stroke of genius on the part of the town planner.

How does jury service work?

Before each case begins 16 members of the public are ushered into the courtroom. 12 are picked at random to sit in on the case. The unused jurors return to the waiting room whinging that the ‘raffle’ process is a complete waste of their time, but their frustration actually stems from watching too much X Factor and being conditioned to think that being rejected means your life is over.

A case can stretch for up to two weeks. When you’re sworn into court the judge asks that you do not disclose the full case with anyone other than the jury. You convince yourself that you’ll keep that promise, which to a certain degree, you do. Revealing different parts of the case to friends and family members separately doesn’t count. The chances of them all meeting to piece together the puzzle is slim. You’ll be fine.

At lunch you’re free to return to the general waiting area where you can buy weak coffee for a small fortune. Or read yesterday’s newspaper. Or find a spot in view of the communal television, which is turned down so low that you can’t interpret the dialog of Loose Women but loud enough that five cackling, alcoholic panellists disrupt your reading.

How do you reach a verdict?

Each member of the jury is responsible for voting guilty or not guilty once the prosecution and the defence have put forward their case. The judge can accept a 12-0, 11-1 or 10-2 majority decision. If a majority decision is not reached, the judge will dismiss the jury and take it from there. But there are reasons why a jury may not be able to see eye to eye.

The white van driver will form a decision in the first 10 minutes on hearing the outline of the case. Guilty of course. Arms folded. Job done. A guilty verdict will also be given by the teenager scribbling West Ham United logos in the notepad that is provided specifically not for that purpose. He won’t remember any facts or persuasive arguments. But the defendant looks guilty, which is all that matters.

Two or three pragmatists will give the defendant the benefit of the doubt and look down on those who aren’t bright enough to entertain the thought that there’s good in everyone. The remaining jurors will pray that no one asks for their opinion as they are frightened that it will shape the course of the defendant’s life. Which is their duty. Instead of thinking rationally, they’ll mimic the verdict of the juror who spoke last.

Unfortunately, I can not comment on how my case ended, as I will no doubt find myself in a spot of ethical soup with a certain judge. A fine point on which to end.

No.Zine 4

2010-02-15T08:40:00.006Z

My blog entries have been few and far between of late. You know how it is: work's a nightmare, time is precious, and A Question of Sport is on BBC2. But, as I have been asked to contribute to No.Zine, once again I'm happy to share with you my contribution for issue 4:

Long live the oblong

Let’s clear something up. An oblong, my friend, is not an oval. It is in fact a quadrilateral with four right angles (thank you omnipotent Wikipedia). Or, according to my old primary teacher, an oblong is what grown-ups call a rectangle. Hard facts from two trusted portals of wisdom. I’ve taken a moment to highlight some oblongs that have shaped my life in their own peculiar way starting with my school days right up to seven minutes ago when I looked up the definition online. Read on grasshopper.

WWF stickers: An expensive way to learn the names of every spunk-and-muscle athlete ever to step foot inside the squared circle. These collectable treats are highly addictive and good practice for kids who get hooked on harsher vices later in life. A typical conversation between two sticker swappers will include the words: ‘got’, ‘erm...need’, and ‘shiny!’

Lego: Before the war the world was cold, angular and looked a lot like Mechano. Then Lego Land brightened up the place with its pirate islands, medieval dungeons and men with chirpy blonde heads. Families now wade through far-off lands and discover enchanting civilisations in a Gulliveresque manner (except in winter, when it shuts for ongoing building work). Lego’s big ideas couldn’t be dreamt up, let alone connected together if the patent for this hollow, self-locking miniature brick hadn’t been granted in 1961.

Books: The perfect bedside conpanions. To look educated beyond their years many charlatans skip to the back cover and catch the highlights rather than really getting stuck in. When you reach adulthood you are expected to swap books with colourful pictures and titles like ‘The Twits’ for those that pile up on your table – handy if you’ve run out coasters. Really old people can buy books about ships or gardening or mushy tales where gentlemen fall in love with their housekeepers. They can be bought at boot sales for the price of a cup of tea, to be read, skimmed or coastered.

Letterboxes: Usually built at groin height, the postman’s peephole is at its busiest between 7am-9pm, when bank statements are usually delivered, reminding you of how poor you are. On special occasions a flurry of birthday cards with pound coins sellotaped to their insides will burst through. Other uses for letterboxes include: the delivery of The Mirror by the paperboy; the dropping off of catalogues from middle-age men without proper day jobs; the posting of flaming parcels of dog mess from young herberts. The latter is usually followed by a rigid shaking of the fist, Beano stylee.

Cadbury’s Caramel: A frontrunner for the greatest chocolate bar of all time. Previously championed by a raunchy bunny rabbit with legs that just wouldn’t quit, Cadbury’s Caramel now relaxes on corner shop shelves and sometimes shows up in selection boxes at Christmas. Although this sweet is oblong shaped its six segments are referred to as slabs or ironically, squares.

Train tickets: There are two types of train ticket in the world. The first is well-behaved; it remains intact in your wallet sleeve and glides through ticket barriers with aplomb. The other, it sulks in your trouser pocket, rolls up its edges and recoils at the sight of a ticket barrier like a cat being ushered into a hot bath. But come midnight both tickets are equal. Unless they are used as a foil to bypass unwitting guards on tomorrow’s free journey, the out of date travel token remains nothing more than a recycling opportunity.

This rose-tinted recollection is merely a footnote to the oblong chapter that refuses to end. There will always be a newer, brighter, more flamboyant addition to the list of objects that fit the four-sided default mould. I’m far too busy to be pondering over that now as my oblong iPod is calling for my attention. My playlists aren’t going to appreciate themselves now, are they.

sledgecam

2010-01-13T18:50:00.010Z

Making the most of the January snow. I am in charge of the camera, and the vehicular menace on the mountain board is my equally clumsy friend. No prizes for guessing how it ends.

Other unsuccessful sledge substitutes I saw being used included: a child’s plastic rocking horse, a ‘for sale’ (housing) sign, a baking tray, a plastic bag and a dad. God loves a trier.

**Apologies for the blue language at the end of the video.**

sounds like #8

2010-01-13T18:32:00.004Z

A new addition to my 'sounds like' list, volume 2. For those of you have been hibernating in straw like a Blue Peter tortoise, allow me to break it down. I choose 2 similar words, and then explore 2 opposing meanings - unofficial definitions if you will. Maybe I can craft a campaign from these one day, about how small changes make a world of difference.

niceland

2009-12-30T18:53:00.016Z

Some words about my long weekend in Reykjavik. Read on if a) you are thinking of visiting and want a heads up or b) you want some useful information to pass off as your own.

1) People

The locals of Reykjavik speak wonderful English. So wonderful in fact, I felt embarrassed that my futile attempt at mastering a second language resulted in a French GCSE certificate, and nothing more. Not only do the Icelandics make you feel at ease, but from my experience, they are mild-mannered and helpful too. Even a bad drunk sitting opposite us in a restaurant, in a fuzzy bear costume, had a certain charm about him.

One other thing that differentiates the nicelanders from us Brits is how names are chosen. The surname of a child is often determined by their father’s Christian name. I’ll give you a ‘for instance’: A man named Jón Stefánsson has a son named Fjalar. Fjalar's last name will not be Stefánsson like his father's, instead it will become Jónsson. Why? Because Fjalar is the son of Jón. Mental.

2) Eating and drinking

Everything, even a pint of milk, costs an arm and a leg in Iceland. For the purposes of equating foreign tariffs I always use ‘London prices’ as my benchmark (as if it were an independent currency). So if a pint of beer is over £3.50, then I believe someone’s pulling a fast one. And trust me, you really do get your pants pulled down in exchange for meat and drink. London prices won’t even touch the sides. But…service is swift, staff are happy and food is yummy.

Drinking hours, like horses, is shorter in Iceland. Nightlife begins at midnight and carries on until 6ish. Prior to going out on the town, young people get boozy at home to save a few quid, which means bars and pubs are usually empty before 10pm. Even McDonalds has decided to call it a day. The last Golden Arches restaurant in Iceland closed earlier this year due to a loss of earnings. Although I think it was it because Red Ron, illustrated below, looks like he should be on the sex offenders register.

3) Landscape

The Icelandic equivalent of Location, Location, Location would be wrapped up after 3 episodes because the baron landscape makes for insufferable living conditions. 70% of the North Atlantic Ocean’s loneliest island resembles an amalgamation of Mars and the Great Plains of America. The geysers smell of sulphur.

Contrary to the belief, a geyser is not someone who wears sovereign rings and beats the wife after downing 10 pints of Stella. Oh no. These natural wonders sit in Iceland’s molten landscape like small lava rock pools with sore heads. Every 10 minutes or so, a live geyser will bubble to the intensity of gas mark 6 before finally losing its rag and erupting with a 30 foot hot jet of water.

The icy sea is so fierce that if you were to fall in, it would be game over in less than 5 minutes. A tour guide told me that, which put me off fishing for the rest of my trip. Weather permitting, every inch of land above sea level is a treat on the eye. Giant frozen waterfalls, angular mountains, serene fishing villages and further rocky terrain are spectacular feats of nature not to be ignored by any budding photographer’s lens.

4) Activities

Other than waiting for my coat outside the Millennium Dome on New Year’s Eve 1999/2000 I have not felt the wrath of the cold so badly when snowmobiling up a glacier in a blizzard. The experience largely consisted of me navigating through endless white, thousands of feet up, while spiteful shards of snow beat me around the chops for an hour. If you can suffer it, do it – it’s highly rewarding. My bones did ache a bit afterwards.

Imagine a hot lake, in the middle of nowhere, guarded by molten rock. Throw in an adjoining health spa, some tourists and a gift shop and you have the Blue Lagoon. It’s pretty much a great big outdoor bath. An endless supply of skin cream is dispensed in obscure taps around the edge of the lagoon. Dab it on your face then rinse off after 5 minutes. Marvellous for the complexion so I’m told.

Because daylight is rare in the winter – 3 hours on Christmas day, you need to pack in all activities double quick. If you’re not so keen on bus trips I recommend quad biking up the mountains (via the main road) as a great way of discovering the island. Expect to whiz past horses, which Icelandic tour guides will rave about. Freakishly small, they are considered a national treasure. Tour guides seem to have a soft spot for Queen. Be warned.

burnt chicken

2009-12-20T10:00:00.001Z

The gym is a funny old place. Used by middle-class housewives by day, taking two and a half parking spaces for their SUV’s, and by evening, filled with beefcakes high-fiving their reflection in the mirror. It's ok Tom, just avoid eye contact, commandeer a fitness machine and look as if you know what you’re doing. But why does each piece of electronic equipment seem to be infatuated with calories? I haven’t got the faintest idea what a single calorie is worth, it might as well be speaking in Swahili. Instead, just for simple folk like me, why not invent a range of treadmills, cross-trainers that tells you how many calories you have burnt in relation to what you eat. For example, if I burn the number of calories contained in a chicken dinner, let that show up on the machine’s screen in its clunky, Atari shoot-em-up typeface. This is what I want: “Congratulations, you have burnt the equivalent of a chicken dinner… 50 more calories to go for cheesecake. And nice trainers by the way.” It’s not too much to ask, surely?

mixed signals

2009-12-15T08:40:00.000Z

So how does this work...I halt then drive? Isn't that what lollypop ladies are for. I don't understand.

batterski

2009-11-02T08:39:00.001Z

A recent visit to the ski festival at Battersea Power Station. I spent the day pondering why the brains behind this event didn't think of calling it 'Batterski'. Would of made perfect sense to me. In short, there was lots of people with floppy hair, walking around saying things like 'rad' and 'dude'. I saw that tall chap from T4 and various camera crews. Then the snowboarding was announced and it all went downhill from then on. Boom boom.

sounds like #7

2009-11-01T07:03:00.000Z

patrick the graphic designer

2009-10-25T00:14:00.000+01:00

You know that spec project Patrick was putting together with contributions from recent graduates and arty folk..? Yeah, No.Zine. Well, it’s all done. Three separate issues, choc-a-block with words and pictures, finished and printed by the boxload. He’s over the moon with how they turned out. And I’m glad that he’s glad. I wrote some bits and bobs for issues 1 and 2, although my haiku was rejected for the third. Bugger. But if there’s one thing I’ve learnt from the baddie in Inspector Gadget, it’s that there will always be a next time. Actually that may be sooner than later. We are thinking of orchestrating another spec project. A document full of abstract illustrations called ‘Draw More’ to give away and inspire people to, well, draw more. I’ll let you know how we get on with that.

(Duvet: Blue tartan, artist's own)

turkey vs guerilla

2009-10-20T12:21:00.000+01:00

Oooh. I found these snaps on my camera the other day, from my short holiday in Turkey last summer. Love the nice outdoor advertising from a shady character called Ismet. Done on the cheap I'd imagine. A delightfully abstract, hand-rendered typeface that makes me ponder whether his rent-a-bike service is as quirky as his use of kerning and slapdash illustration. Only one way to find out. Text the fella (but watch those overseas charges). I'm sure he'll be happy to put us straight.

sounds like #6

2009-10-14T20:34:00.000+01:00

inanimate objective

2009-10-07T15:22:00.000+01:00

I think I need to start being more sensitive to the things in my life I’m closest to. Slouching on my bargain-basement, anti-posture armchair, those things appear to be my Dell keyboard, mouse mat and highlighter pen. (Useful for office duties, awful company however.) Each helps out when need be, all performing rather well, which I often take for granted. Take last week - I channelled a full-blown torrent of vocal abuse towards my door key, because it failed to turn clockwards when acquainted with the front door. My fault, not his. Shameful. Then again with the car radio. Numerous expletive-deletives were hollered wildly due to its inability to pick up 104.9 fm. Shame on me once more. So I see now, this no-carrot-all-stick attitude simply wont wash. In future, whenever my little helpers, as in this case, pen, mouse mat and keyboard function flawlessly, I aim to respond in kind. No more telling off, just smile, compliment and establish a reward system. The efforts of my inanimate objects shall no longer go unnoticed.

my two pence worth

2009-10-01T13:22:00.000+01:00

Nestled on top of my oblong, charcoal television set is a green, rubber alien thing grafted to a keychain mechanism. Next to him is a micro-sized water game for simple folk who get bored in the bath, and adjacent to both lie two identical, replica cars from that 007 movie where Bond drives underwater. One black, one mustard. These four toys make up my total prize winnings in 2009 from various 2p machines in Southend-on-Sea’s boisterous arcade promenade. Each prize equates to roughly half-hour arcade time and somewhere between 6p to £4 of copper ammunition. But who’s counting?

This shared pastime of mine and the members of my social circle, amongst more conventional interests, is better known as The Arcade Olympics. Unfamiliar..? By George, you haven’t lived. I’m left with no choice but to elaborate on this casual obsession by delving into the joys of the ultimate seaside activity.

Requirements for Arcade Olympics:

1: Players - Divisible by four. Actually, four is pretty good. Choose players who are naturally unlucky to enhance your chances of winning. If you don’t have the privilege of calling on three friends, pick up a tramp on the way, toss him a mitten of change and invite him to make up the numbers. Tramps can be located outside almost every arcade establishment worldwide. But watch yourself, they smell.

2: Seaside – This is where the arcade machines live and operate. To arrive there simply look at a map of the UK and follow the quickest route by automobile. If you’re having transport trouble, go steal a Ford Mondeo from a working-class estate. Don’t worry about the consequences because before long you’ll be up to your bollocks in winnings.

3: A daily schedule – By now you’ll realize this is no Mickey Mouse field trip. Attention must be paid to what machines you play, and when. These 2p slots soak up a bundle of concentration rendering you dehydrated, which doesn’t help when the weight of the fat kid on the dance machine sets off the alarms. So keep a bottle of pop close by, allow for piss-stops and regular sunshine breaks outside.

4: Gambling – Start off with an equal amount of scratch. Get your trousers involved; use the left pocket for kitty, use the right pocket for winnings - 2ps and prizes. After 15 minutes of hard graft on each arcade machine compare notes on success rate. Swap machines. Repeat process. Don’t allow the baron spells to tempt you to splash silly money in those slots. The golden rule is always bet with your head, not above it.

All fairly straightforward advice I’m sure you’ll agree. Granted, a visit to the 2p machines at the seaside is not recommended if you are hoping to go home rich. You have every chance to reap the monetary benefits short-term and feel as powerful as Henry VIII on grocery day, but we all know outside arcade land 2ps are worthless (especially since Woolworth’s and their penny mix counter croaked it). If you want to double your money then fold it over once and put it back in your pocket, although that won’t generate the cheap thrills brought by gambling away small change and building emotional attachments to the seaside. The Arcade Olympics is a day of simple pleasures on a shoestring budget. And something to take home at the end, to nestle on top of your television.

p.s. No kicking the machines.

police equations #1

2009-08-07T10:29:00.001+01:00

John Constable

+

Promotion

=

John Sergeant

andrew the product designer

2009-08-03T23:37:00.004+01:00

Andrew is a close friend of mine. He studies product design. He makes things. And he waxes lyrical about this “really wicked” hand-crafted contraption he and a classmate invented, each and every time we meet up at social gatherings. I do the polite thing and order every fibre in my body to appear fascinated by this project of his. Truth be told, I’ve yet to make any bloody sense of how Andrew’s moulding machine actually performs. But now I know. And apparently now the readers of designboom do too. Andrew’s machine has been showcased warts-and-all on their site, complete with a short explanation of how it all works and some rather fetching photos to match. Andrew is the one in the black top with the pink, girly hands. Nice one mate. You’ve come a long way since the days of Mr Broom’s plastic key-fobs and year 7 bargain-basement bottle openers.

tennis etiquette

2009-07-02T10:50:00.010+01:00

I'll probably end up doing a bunch of these. John McEnroe alone serves up enough ammunition for an entire a4 list.

Dear Satanta,

2009-06-30T22:35:00.009+01:00

I want answers. Last time I checked, I was one of the good boys. My name was down in black and white on your list. What’s up with the disappearing act then? The word on the street is you’ve packed up and buggered off to administration. Is that near the North Pole? I’ve behaved myself and everything this year. And now you’re taking back my present or ‘package’ as your most-unhelpful little helpers keep calling it. So that's you and I finished. I no longer believe in you any more. Absolutely no way. Not a sausage. Or carrot. Or glass of milk.

Yours sulkily,

tom (aged 25 and a half)

pick a colour, any colour

2009-06-15T19:49:00.009+01:00

I saw an advert the other day. It told me about a bunch of quirky little applications you can download for your high street gizmo. I got thinking of what app I would like to see produced. Something useful, but entertaining too. I came up with a game to test overall snapping skills and attention to detail. In short, it’s a new twist on an old favourite - dominoes. But instead of matching numbers you trade in pantone colours. Here’s how it works;

~ Player 1. Take a photo of any image where two colours form a clear line through the middle of the screen (green and blue on this occasion).
~ Send to a friend.
~ Friend's left-hand colour must match your right-hand colour (on this occasion blue colour matched, white colour chosen).
~ Points out of 10 are awarded for colour matching, by the application score system (on this occasion white colour is matched, 'orrible brown colour is chosen).
~ Repeat, maybe 5-10 times and await score.

hate rain

2009-05-27T17:46:00.010+01:00

I have a new enemy to add to the list: Straight rain. And I'll tell you why. Strolling through London today I was ambushed by a stroppy downpour. Clerkenwell winds usually blow showers at a 45 degree angle, making dry journeys possible if you walk tightly to the sides of tall buildings (forcing folk with umbrellas on the invisible outside lane). You can get one over on the weather like that. But not today. There was little wind, and consequently, a vertical rainfall, and consequently, a rather damp afternoon for yours truly. But not the folk with umbrellas. Bastards.

sounds like #5

2009-05-12T17:39:00.001+01:00

ding-ding said the bell

2009-05-07T16:17:00.005+01:00

Poor old Ricky Hatton. Outclassed from the start of round one right up until, well, the start of round two. My initial afterthought as to why Hatton lost to Manny Pacquiao was wide of the mark. Half asleep throughout those six minutes, I had no clear opinion on the fight but came up with a preconceived idea anyway. I suggested to friends that Hatton always fights with his heart, not his head; he is driven by emotion rather than logic. Hence the drama attached to each of his boxing matches. Seldom have we seen him bide his time and pick apart opponents (flashback to early Hatton fights). And for the best part of the former world champion’s career that plan worked fine. He was steaming ribcages like it was going out of fashion. But now he’s youth is slipping away, and with it the power in his punching. In order to keep on top of the world rankings, to keep winning fights against classier opponents, I suggested Hatton should have adjusted his fighting style. Don’t rush in. Think before he hits. Use the ring.

Then I thought, naaa. Watching a replay this morning of last week’s bout via some iffy Philippine blog, I knew the reason for the massacre of our Mancunian. Hatton appeared uncomfortably bony for a start, or in need a good meal as some mums might say. I was not aware of this fact before. (Half-asleep remember?) Consequently, his face bore the washed-out crack look and his torso too contracted. Hatton's final stance, which was on the deck looking up, resembled a malnourished, auburn-haired Skeletor on the wrong side of a good clump from He-Man and co. Weight loss was the real reason why Hatton couldn’t make a fight against Manny Pacquiao, let alone put his heart into it as he so often did back in the day.

The moral of the story: eat your greens or Manny Pacquiao will put you on your arse. Bosh.

sounds like #4

2009-04-24T12:22:00.002+01:00

turn left into sharon from across the road

2009-04-17T12:19:00.009+01:00

Computer games and I don’t jive. So I won’t pretend to understand the nature of a virtual realm where everybody crashes into things and blows up. But whilst watching a few close pals play Grand Theft Auto I had a thought. I wondered if there is any possibility of combining an evolved version of this computer game with the use of Google’s I-saw-you-answering-the-door-in-your-pants streetview application. How good would it be to virtually drive down your own street, run over the next door neighbour then steam your flaming wreck of a monster truck through the wall of the local pub? Pull your socks up people. I want to see this happening.

reasons to be cheerful

2009-04-17T11:35:00.008+01:00

As I grow older I’m finding myself reclaiming tiny shards of my childhood in everyday life. Take the other week when I gazed at a margarine pot in the supermarket through rose-tinted specs and imagined it, along with two elastic bands and a used tube of kitchen roll, to be my home-made musical guitar from when I was an eccentric whipper snapper. Then some old lady slung it in her shopping trolley (but that's another story).

And just the other day I giggled like a neurotic cheerleader from an American romcom when my beady eyes caught sight of an almost-good-as-new figurine of Brett Hart. Back then he was the coolest of wrestlers in the WWF. Not only did Brett saunter around the squared circle like he owned the place, but prior to each match he would give away a pair of his bendy, reflective glasses to one lucky middle-class white kid in the crowd (which were most definitely manufactured by young kids in Indian factories for next to nothing). Needless to say all the boys wanted to be him and the girls wanted to have him. So hat was my mind made up and £1.30 well spent at a market stall owned by some man. For just over one pound all those recollections of rewinding sharpshooters and elbow drops on my trusty VCR raced back faster than an ITV proposal for a new celebrity cooking show. Those were the glory days, and in my opinion, another jolly good reason to be cheerful.

three opportunities

2009-04-09T11:56:00.007+01:00

My mate Patrick is a graphic designer. His latest spec project is a sweet idea called No.Zine. Basically, its three publications based on the theme of numbers. The content of issue one will feature photos, illustrations, articles and suchlike all inspired by the connotations of the number 1. The same goes for issues 2 and 3. Hence its canny name. I am contributing with some written pieces and quirky ideas, as are some graduates and people who work in the creative field. If you have any ideas that you think Patrick might like then feel free to email him. The site may or may not be under construction. You'll have to check.

let me sleep on it

2009-04-06T08:34:00.010+01:00

Seeing as bankers can no longer be trusted, all savings must now be stashed at home under a mattress. Bad idea..? Dave and Nikki don't think so.

(Captured in trendy Shoredtich, where all the cool people with sunglasses hang out.)

march into april

2009-04-03T14:25:00.008+01:00

Yep, I was there – not as a rebel with a cause, more of a nosey-parker with a camera. There’s a buzz created by these moments and its trouble-making instigators that takes me back to the playground days, when two of the bigger boys would defy authority by arranging a fight after school. Everybody waits to see the drama unfold. If you managed to get up close to witness the protest you’ll know I mean.

I admired the majority of the herd who turned out yesterday to express their anger at the government and the financial cataclysm we are now victim to. When you see people unite to stand up for what they believe in, there is a sense of dignity about that. You can very easily get swept along with their sporadic chants. Don’t get me wrong, it doesn’t compare to Parisian street arson attacks and suchlike, and will probably remain as a mere footnote in the chapter of international anarchy, but at least Gordon was made to sit up and see how much this issue meant to people.

I did see, amongst the majority of people who had a point to make, a small group of unwashed, multi-pierced creatures being a pain in the arse for the sake of being a pain in the arse. (There’s always one, as my headmaster would say.) Crying out expletive deletives and saying the words ‘pigs’ and ‘fags’ a lot all makes very little sense to me. The same happens with football matches; many people go because they have a longstanding passion for the sport, whereas some attend so they can shout at people. The volume of ‘pigs’ keeping everything in order at Bank didn’t appear to be troubled by this.

I couldn’t help thinking that as so much police attention was given to monitoring Central London it would be an opportunity missed to carry out an armed robbery somewhere south of the river, seizing the moment (and lots of shiny goods too). But I’m useless at crime and balaclavas bring me out in a rash. I was far too busy ogling the fierce patrol of giant Robot Wars contestants anyway, poised to obliterate anyone in their path. Rumour has it they were shipped in from America, where everything is bigger and better (and built by The A-Team).

But protesters, flag-wavers, pigs and fools aside, let us spare a thought for the pinstripe city workers yesterday, who were disrupted from filling in spreadsheets and visiting Costa Coffee for almost eight hours of their lifetime. Diddums.

sounds like #3

2009-03-31T11:38:00.005+01:00

book club

2009-03-24T11:27:00.005Z

Every once in a while I abandon my grown-up reading list by going back to basics. Roald Dahl and his rhyming couplets are my current flavour of the month. I can quite happily reread those books from childhood, then skip back to more serious content about music and drugs and football and art. And when I fancy a change of pace I return to what became of Mr Twit and friends. It’s nice to have that balance.

short story no. 58

2009-03-14T10:08:00.010Z

Patrick and I waited at the bus stop. The number 58 passed by, which read NOT IN SERVICE. “Is that anywhere near Notting Hill?” I asked my friend. He chuckled for around two and a half seconds. “Do you think other people would find that funny?” he asked. “Probably not” I replied.

football today

2009-03-11T11:46:00.012Z

Real Madrid. Home to Galacticos, lotharios and rule benders. At the heart of their midfield stands Lasana Diarra. But if you watched him and his amigos taking a right hiding from Liverpool last night you would have seen the name Lassa printed on the back of his shirt. What's going on there? Never in his Premiership career did I hear anyone referring to him as Lassa. (And I’m particularly observant.) You don't see the titles Fat Frank, Big Ron or Terry Henry gracing the fabric of football kits on the pitch. It doesn't work like that. The agreement is that you play the game. Let the fans have the nicknames.

seasider

2009-03-09T12:56:00.003Z

My trip to the coast started off all blustery and photogenic. I strolled along the seaside for a snapping session, but as always, ended up in the arcades. Then I built up a winning streak that no 2p machine could govern. I finished off with vanilla ice cream.

simple science

2009-03-05T18:50:00.005Z

The other day I popped along to some museums in London - a science one, a natural history one and another with the initials V and A. Here is the documentation of my time spent in all three.

So there’s not much here, I agree. But these snaps, taken on the third floor of The Science Museum, knocked spots of all else I set eyes on. Their humble, charming tone feels as if they have been written by an articulate child, explaining to me with great ease what’s what in the world of science. Delightful.

Oh yeah. There was some pots in the V&A, and a bunch of stuffed birds at The Natural History. They were ok too.

little bitta' twitter

2009-02-17T19:04:00.011Z

For some terrestrial viewers, a one-hour dose of reality television per day simply isn't enough to get by on. And Faceache will be considered old-hat soon. Which brings me to my prediction that Channel 4 will step in by poisoning twitter this summer with an onslaught on samey updates from the Big Brother house. Think I’ll stay well clear of that newsfeed if it does come to fruition. If the guest twitterer was someone like Charlie Brooker, then maybe, I’d be interested. Perhaps he should take the reigns on nomination day. I'd appreciate that. Although I'm guessing the cynical genius' observations wouldn't go down too well with BB's swarm of fanatics. Screw them.

label idea for innocent - the plain orange flavour

2009-02-11T13:23:00.008Z

The following conversation is a result of two fruits mixing;

How is your old man? asks Orange.
Old, replies Pear.
What about your grandma?
Grand, replies Pear.
What about your great aunt?
Not great, replies Pear.
How so? asks Orange.
She has put her hip out again, replies Pear.
With waffle like this we could be here all day.
No body benefits from Orange’s small talk.
So for his own good, he has been separated from Pear.
That’s when you get the best out of Orange.

this elephant ate my snowman

2009-02-03T18:20:00.004Z

Sod snowmen. Build an elephant instead. A bloody great big one that takes up half the afternoon. (And half the garden.) You'll need gloves and a wheelbarrow if you have one. A photo of an elephant might be useful too, to use for reference. Brace for armache, legache and odd looks from next door neighbours.

sounds like #2

2009-02-03T18:14:00.004Z

thinking of you

2009-01-19T20:58:00.006Z

In our last year of uni we had a discussion about that first job. (As you do.) We considered, amongst more important factors, what the best welcoming gift would be from your colleagues. Whilst freelancing last week this thought entered my head again. What about having a small welcome pack? Nothing elaborate or long-winded, but say, a document or online guide. Containing ten things worth knowing. Things you will always ask. Stuff like where to save, how to reconnect to the server. Even down to the cheapest places to buy lunch from.
It’s an idea that’s probably tailored more towards recent graduates than old-timers. And more of a considerate thought than a gift. But it's a considerate thought that would make life easier, and you feel welcome.

who's that in the hat?

2009-01-16T16:41:00.005Z

Walk anywhere in Central London and you tend to see a few tourists. By the landmarks, and usually by the busload. I’m interested to know where they're from but I'm also a bit crap at guessing. For those that are remotely interested too, I could create a handy field guide. Photograph at least one tourist each day for up to three months. And provide a concise write-up on each stereotype. At the end of my casual project I’ll have an ample assortment of first hand research. Title it the London Guide to Tourists.

my bad points

2009-01-16T12:43:00.005Z

As you can see I'm in a bit of a sticky wicket here. For all the good these absentees are doing me I might as well go the whole hog and resurrect Darren Anderton. Come on chaps, I need a weekend team instead of the weakened one in front of me.

breakdown

2009-01-11T22:32:00.004Z

TV ad breaks need sorting. Ads themselves are not too much of a nuisance. I can live alongside those. My quarrel is with the volume of media space the ads commandeer. And they always begin at the same time. On every channel. I think a refuge needs to be built for those four minute slots. Short films, animations, interviews, in fact anything that steers me away from another ad break I would welcome with open arms. Stick em together on an independent channel, with their ad breaks in opposite time frames to all other channels.

army, myself and i

2009-01-11T22:09:00.001Z

Apparently this is me. (Or my look-a-like at least.) In the front line, looking suave, donning Chris Cringle's hat. My sister kindly took the time to point this out. I don’t go much on it myself. He looks too joyful for a start.

hello jan

2009-01-11T21:05:00.007Z

Yes. I'm back. It was a merry little interim while it lasted, with an orgy of turkey sandwiches, chunky knitwear and sluggish Christmas TV specials. But no internet. Talktalk had packed up and left me broadbandless. And the buggers are virtually impossible to get through too, to talktalk the problem through, over the phone. A virus had nestled in (as always around Xmas time) and padlocked the space between me and my internet. There isn't much hope in these situations unless you invest in spyware. Which obviously I had to do. I can't help feeling that these folk who offer online safety are the very same that concoct and spread the virus. That's what happens after you spend too long with a box set of Tony Soprano & co. You suspect everyone. Perhaps the online safety mob saw an opening on my computer, sending in hired goons to shake things up a bit. Then when I whine like a tubby kid who’s had his tuck shop pennies stolen, they conveniently pop up (no pun intended) with a solution. Ready and willing to make sure it doesn’t happen again. (Cue pound signs ringing in their ears.) I don’t have to ask questions. Just make a payment, which I’ve been strong-armed into handing over in a short-con. At least that’s how I imagine it works anyway. I can’t be on my own with that theory, surely.

brown's red cabinet

2008-12-03T19:38:00.002Z

market research

2008-11-30T19:51:00.010Z

Recently, a nice old man named Dave Trott wrote a post on the topic of creative reading. Dave strongly recommended a ruddy great book, The Art of Advertising, written by George Lois. (Who was a bit of a face back in adland's glory days.) Look on ebay and you'll see it weighs in at £50. For a book. Written yesteryear. £50. So the purchase of George's bible had to sit pretty unless I orchestrate some kind of raid on a plump piggy bank. But, if you're really creative, said Dave (on his blog comments, not to me personally) you'll find a way to get hold of a copy. If you care enough about your career, you'll read every word of it.

Shortly after, I spied a copy of The Art of Advertising on a London market stall - in good nick too, far cheaper than the ebay asking price. Needless to say, George Lois came home with me that afternoon. Creativity didn't have much to do with finding a way to get hold of a copy. Sometimes it just down to lady luck. Or as some shrewd sod once said, that moment when preparation meets opportunity. And cheating the system - whether it be a shortcut off the A13, or a humble purchase from a East-end bookseller - feels pretty good too.

beach etc.

2008-11-26T10:32:00.009Z

I used to collect vintage seaside postcards. I used them as inspiration to illustrate my own, thinking one day, I would have the perfect images for an idea about the British seaside. That was back in college. I'm still waiting for the idea.

sargeant pepper's rude bits

2008-11-15T09:33:00.015Z

The Pure Evil Gallery is one of Shoreditch's saucy little backstreet gaffs.
They hosted a private viewing last week, with three rooms of stencil and grafitti-ish brushwork.
One piece in particular - a Jeremy Kyle talk show scene - had already been snapped up by that ginger fella from Harry Potter.
Nice if you can afford it.

Another tidy item on sale was a Peter Blake parody; aptly titled 'Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Heart Club Bastards' (it's the Pure Evil Gallery, after all).
What I adore about this piece is that each 'bastard' has a naughty word attached to their portrait, and in some cases, an articulate, ill-mannered scribble.
This hidden messaging can be seen best when a UV light is run across its canvas.
And if you pay close attention you'll spot Hitler's genitalia.
Some football chants will tell you he only has one ball.
The Pure Evil gallery says otherwise.

volume control

2008-11-15T09:28:00.002Z

Some simple wordplay that sprung to mind.

dampersand

2008-11-11T07:50:00.005Z

Wet, red ampersand nestles up to gum. Gum plays hard to get. Light drizzle interupts.

today's post is diagonal

2008-11-05T19:35:00.007Z

...45 degrees to be exact, otherwise known as an acute angle (if you like your maths).

sink & whiskers

2008-11-04T08:07:00.004Z

You know you've got too much time on your hands when......you have a shave and craft a small animal from the leftovers.

hit me

2008-11-01T10:59:00.008Z

Punch bags provoke me. But as the phrase so nearly goes, bag don't hit back. I could always channel my aggression elsewhere, like at this fight club for instance. Auditions for a cornerman will commence in the New Year, if all goes swimmingly.

copy cups

2008-10-30T20:47:00.012Z

This is not a rave. This is a huddle of plastic cups poked through a fence. Same kind as they use in American high school movies, where the rich kid invites other rich kids to come party. The plump one with a perm spikes the punch, his friend gets laid. The rest writes itself.
Reminds me of a similar idea I saw a while back. The orange and green instuments fuse architecture and sound synthesis as part of an outdoor art instillation.
...Or something along those lines.

name and shame

2008-10-29T10:41:00.005Z

A pleasant atmosphere once belonged to this street, hence the canny name. Now it has diminished for good - not the name, just its fluffy demeanour. But that's roads for you. Linear thinkers. They don’t always see what’s around the corner.

crack attack

2008-10-22T19:17:00.006+01:00

Some crack heads came in to our office today. No one booked them in for a meeting and they certainly weren’t here for a job application. The crafty scruffs nipped in looking for things to rob, only for me to see them scurry back out empty handed. I sit at the front of the office sometimes, so technically, I should be on guard. Now we have to use the buzzer to get in the office (for security reasons). Sometimes I have to get up and answer it. This is unecessary pain I don't need. Its all due to crack.

poll no.2

2008-10-19T13:59:00.001+01:00

arthur mile

2008-10-19T12:55:00.010+01:00

Southend pier is a long walk. In the naughtier weekend weather it feels a whole lot longer. I only made it half way along the pier that weekend. The photo backs me up on this. I figure once you've seen one stretch of Thames, that's pretty much it. (apart from when that whale swam through and died of dehydration).

sweets on streets

2008-10-19T11:03:00.010+01:00

Cake is a form of food that is usually sweet and often baked. You may have seen cake basking on tablecloths, in cake fairs throughout middle England. Some cake of the half baked variety despise tablecloth. Sitting pretty in middle England offers no buzz. Instead they roam the pavement looking to make bad trouble.

where does satan put his rubbish?

2008-10-07T19:18:00.000+01:00

old street's new addition

2008-10-04T08:00:00.005+01:00

...So I need to lay a large four, or three. Bear with me on this one.

celebrity medalists

2008-09-28T19:12:00.004+01:00

a short story about love

2008-09-28T19:02:00.007+01:00

In the sixties there was free love. People were ok with that. Then the iron lady went to power, increasing love to £2.56p in the budget. Lovers were less ok with that. Some time later, The Sun ran coupons in an attempt to increase love. They offered 50% off for a week. That was 1992. Love never fully recovered from that.

poll no.1

2008-08-28T15:40:00.001+01:00

Contrary to popular belief, polls are not always found between Slovakia and Lithuania. (A ripe coconut for whoever spots the embedded pun.) They occasionally pop up on blogs too. Here is an example of how to construct your own.

Answers should be left below or kept under your hat. If you don't own a hat, browse through the C&A catalogue. They have a delightful fez section.

don't phone in, it's just for fun

2008-08-26T20:20:00.000+01:00

If you suffer from poor eyesight and sign up to the Jehovah's Witnesses, do you receive a discount?

lemon aid

2008-08-17T09:06:00.000+01:00

I think Innocent should create their own summer music festival in homage to Geldoff's Live Aid. They could host a celebration of home grown musicians and fruit smoothies all in one field. Or stage, whatever they use these days. For every ticket sold, Innocent could offer to plant some kind of bush or fruit tree. And smoothie flavours on the big day could possibly be inspired after the bands who are playing. Potential lineup:
Lemon Jelly
Gladys Knight & the Pips
Jason Orange
Neneh Cherry
...You get the idea.

my thailand

2008-08-12T12:12:00.008+01:00

I went to a zoo in Thailand. An elephant hoisted me upwards. My wallet fell open and the zoo creatures pillaged my liquid cash. Such is life. I'm the one in the blue top by the way.

Here's one I rented earlier;

Out and about in Thailand I noticed this sign for accommodation. Clearly grammar isn't its strong point. But in its defence, this abstract cut and paste job does ooze character. Well deserving of a Blue Peter badge for their efforts I feel. They even sneak in a cheeky pop at their competition to show who's boss. I did have a hunt although failed in my attempts to find the sign for the 'other.'

family questionnaire

2008-08-09T17:20:00.000+01:00

How is your old man these days?
- Old
How is your grandma these days?
- Grand
How is your great aunt these days?
- Not great
How so?
-She has back trouble
That's a shame

(inspired by shrigley)

glove-hate relationship

2008-08-06T08:58:00.000+01:00

Boxing has become a bit of a forgotten sport over the last few years. And when you witness the judging decisions in recent fights it's no wonder why. Last Friday (apologies for the delay) saw a local lad, John McDermott take on Danny Williams in a British title fight. To curb a long story short, the scorecards cheated John out of a belt. He's a bit of a unit is John, so it would have needed altering anyway. This kind of shady activity ruins the game in my eyes. It almost makes boxing not worth watching. In fact, apart from Amir Kahn and Welsh Joe bobbing and weaving their way through the divisions, I can't think think of another British boxing moment that has set the world alight. Especially with the sluggers. The best achievement to come out of heavyweight boxing over the last few years was probably the new improved model of the George Foreman grill. Frank Warren is currently negotiating its demands to meet John McDermott next autumn. The grill is odds on favourite.

doctors have the strangest names

2008-07-25T14:40:00.002+01:00

Words found on some kind of air vent in the ghetto of Farringdon. I also saw some ducks walking in the middle of the street, just down the road around the corner. By the time I caught up and ring-fenced them into a sexy triangular pose (yes, there were three of them) the click button on my camera went all cockney-builder and stopped working. I was well gutted. Obviously, the ducks had places to be so I couldn't coax them into staying any longer, which is a shame because I was hoping to title this post 'three quacks and a practise.' Next time gadget, next time.

people in the way - part 1

2008-07-23T19:11:00.005+01:00

Sometimes when you're happy-snapping people can take an unhealthy interest in your subject matter. It should get me rattled, yet the look on some of their faces makes it all worth while. Take this chap for example, immortalised online like a pink gargoyle in cheap polyester. And a rather broad forehead. We shall call him Tim.

hot date with joe and james

2008-07-21T11:11:00.000+01:00

Joe and James have a fresh culture magazine called OOXXOO. The launch date is September 5th 2008 in the city. Details are on their blog here. The event will showcase the whole magazine, its first issue focusing on synaesthesia. There is a live set being performed by Peter Greenwood plus inspired instillation work, video, animation, musical compositions. Ask James for a ticket, I think there are a spare few floating around. I’d be popping along if I my sister’s birthday didn’t happen to fall on the same date. Honestly, some people are so inconsiderate.

spuds you might like

2008-07-18T11:07:00.000+01:00

We all remember the pilot episode of Ready, Steady, Cook when Jesus allegedly saved the day with his loaves and fish. Rumour has it that meal fed somewhere around five thousand hungry mouths. (Hyped up for the daytime ratings.) Common sense tells us it was clearly only a hundred members in the studio audience, if that. This lead Patrick and I to discuss the best way to feed a starving crowd. Behold our solution - the guide to cooking top notch mash potatoes. They beat loaves and fish any day of the week. Copy, paste, print, stick on fridge. Simple.

What to use
Pick the finest potatoes around; 1/2 new potatoes, 1/2 Lancaster’s
Use three kinds of mustard - English, wholegrain, and hot dog
Grab one large onion with both hands
Throw in some large African peppercorns
Some sea salt
Take one large carrot (orange)
Add sweet potatoes (for side mash)
And some milk

How to make
Don’t skin but do cut and boil the potatoes, for around 20 mins
Take them out while they’re still too hard to eat (but not so hard that they could run their own firm)
Sprinkle your sea salt all over
Add a big knob of butter
Go and fry one onion
Chop it finely, until it possesses greasy spoon quality
Boil the carrot and chop it up good
Introduce it to the potatoes
Bake the sweet potatoes for 40 mins
Remove the skin and mash it up
Add some black pepper
Mash the potatoes
Then a tea spoon of each mustard
Don’t forget the hot dog
Wrap things up with a tablespoon of milk
Don’t be too strict with mashing, leave some potato chunks
Heat up that pan
Fry mix your batch in veg oil

How to eat
Serve with seven kinds of sausage, mushy peas and good gravy
Put 'the beasts of England' on your record player
Eat and sing

negative thinking

2008-07-13T17:02:00.005+01:00

My sister gave me her photos from her holiday in Jamaica. They had lots of fun moments in and showed the holiday in a very good light. Surely an online travel agency/ holiday dealer want that kind of publicity for their business, telling the world how much all these people enjoyed themselves. I think they should buddy up with Boots (the chemist) and hatch a plan so cunning, you could stick a tail on it and call it a weasel. They could agree to pay for the development of your snaps in exchange for the opportunity to use some of them on their website. Obviously not the naughty ones but a select few that make you go "Ooooo. We're definitely booking up for there."

these new media types

2008-07-08T17:25:00.006+01:00

I saw this man today in Soho. He was one of these new media types, all done up to the nines in camouflage gear. Far too many khaki pockets than he needed. And I thought it's a bit weird how the original intention for camouflage was to make you blend in, yet here in Soho it makes you stand out. So I pondered. If this new media type happens to land a contract working in jungle terrain, will he imitate the backdrop of Soho and don brick-pattern clobber? His shorts could give opening times for late night shows. Definitely a gap in the market there.

got, got, need, shiny, got, got

2008-06-26T11:26:00.012+01:00

Look at his handsome smile. Blissfully unaware England are out of Euro 2008 and watching from a tv at Wayne Rooney's wedding reception. And no qualification means no Merlin stickers this summer featuring Tommy Hutchinson's proteges. Maybe Merlin should turn their hand to another industry sector - like tourism. Partnering with Visit London, a stickerbook could be filled of street performers instead (like the ones in Covent Garden and the Southbank). A short description of each performer could also be included, so you get to know which ones are worth swapping for.

So this fella here, whatever he is, could be given a profile as:

Name: Bike-ameleon Man (a bike and a chameleon)
Colour: Whatever he feels like, although mainly green - 7/10
Height: Average. Taller when walking home - 7/10
Skill factor: Needs stabilizers to perform - 4/10
Stamina: One of the last to leave - 8/10
Character: A sharp tongue and funky headwear - 8/10

fingers on buzzers

2008-06-24T17:10:00.006+01:00

I'm confused. Is this a poster for an upcoming tv show? Somehow I can't see the public going for it. The concept seems a little one dimentional and I hate to think of the legal implications. Somebody should tell those fat cats upstairs to go back to their roots, recomission The Krypton Factor and be done with it. Remember to cheer for green. They always win.

a whiff of the irish

2008-06-10T10:10:00.003+01:00

What a great thought, no? I was running empty on coins so no vend-a-scent for me this time. Probably a lucky escape in retrospect. All the same, I love stumbling upon these funny little throwbacks from yesteryear. This snap was taken whilst drinking in Dublin. Apologies for its unsavoury hue, my camera phone and toilet lighting simply don't jive.

smug

2008-06-10T09:57:00.003+01:00

Say hello to my new favourite possession. I've been hankering for one of these mugs for a while now and last week I received one as a gift. Wit-woo I cheered. It happens to be Arsenal red too, which is ideal for sipping a cuppa and watching the football. Ironically, it's been perched on my draining board and still seen more silverware than the gunners did all last season.

people I almost know

2008-06-05T14:46:00.005+01:00

I’m always rather content to remain in the dark when it comes to people who I know little about. Small details like their age, hobbies etc. are left wide open for me to decide upon, which I like doing. I can mold them in my own perception. Then slowly I get to know them better, casually finding out about those smaller details. Sometimes I find out they are 29 instead of 24, or that they smoke but don’t drink. And I feel a little sad, because my former perception of them is destroyed. I realize I can no longer own those perceptions ever again.

(inspired by the philosophy of andy warhol)

the thinking man's gag

2008-06-02T13:39:00.000+01:00

Quick idea for a sketch show:

Two men are sitting in a cafe playing chess. The first man delivers his move, raises his arm and shouts out 'check!' The waiter passes by and dumps the bill on their table. He then moves on to serve some nearby customers . The second man looks up and asks 'why does that keep happening here?'

how to make musicians buy colgate

2008-06-01T11:40:00.001+01:00

(inspired by a piano and bad ads on tv)

meta-excuses

2008-05-30T17:34:00.001+01:00

mahogany and homogeny

2008-05-21T11:10:00.000+01:00

I have this friend, who for one reason or another feels it is his duty to conform to the unwritten rule book of the working class male (now available in all good book shops.) His vocation ensures that he work with his hands, he refuses designer labels, follows sport on tv and regularly carries out maintenance work on both his car and house. There’s one thing my friend loves most above all. It’s not his heavy, frequent consumption of alcohol. It’s making those around him aware of how much he loves drinking alcohol. Two entirely different matters. I personally, don’t carry any qualms over this linear trajectory of thinking. People are just sometimes happy evolving into products of their own environment. Recently at one of his garden barbecue parties we asked about some furniture he had purchased not long before. The piece we pointed to happened to be out of action due to a fault in the framework. “Yeah, this chair was only four quid. Bought it from (wherever.) You can’t go wrong with four quid can you?” Not detecting any rhetoric intent, I replied, “Well clearly you can. And you have mate. It’s broken.” I don’t think that point ever entered his mind. I can’t help thinking that it would benefit him once in a while to think outside the box. I doubt he will though. I imagine he currently has a lovely man-box, kitted out with decking and homemade shelving. Maybe a bar fixed in the corner of the box, stocked with bottles of Stella and public house paraphernalia. And a massive bastard broken chair purchased for four quid. I may offer to make some necessary amendments to this rule book of his. For a small charge of course.

rubbish parking and good parking

2008-04-29T09:54:00.006+01:00

news vs weather

2008-04-29T09:23:00.003+01:00

Today I was without a hood, and as usual, it was raining. I wore a free London newspaper as a hat. People liked it, they stood in awe of my paper engineering ability. I shrugged it off and walked a brisk walk. Like I say, its was raining and I was hankering for a cooked breakfast.

give bleed

2008-04-23T18:05:00.003+01:00

A simple rule I learned at work this week. Has it any legs for a spoof campaign? Several, possibly.

progress report: part 1

2008-04-23T17:57:00.006+01:00

As mentioned earlier, and along the sidebar somewhere, I’ve been cutting my teeth at ‘an integrated creative agency’ for almost two months now. I know it’s two months because my travel ticket is soon to expire, meaning a colossal chunk of my pay packet will perish in the name of public transport. Damn you Red Ken, damn you.

And being the little pauper that I am, I’ve spent longer hours in the studio, generally being useful and beadily observing the way things work around here. Fortunately, its a rather laid back milieu, which I’m told hasn’t changed since the glory days of ’98. And according to my calculations we're reaching the big one-o some time soon (knocking on a bit if you’re a Cocker Spaniel, but a mere twinkle in the park ranger’s eye if you happen to be a Yellow Birch- those chaps are older than Bruce Forsyth). Maybe we’ll have cake, candles and crap hats? I’m unsure.

I can say however, at the expense of sounding like those pushy mothers down at toddler group, that our agency is very advanced for its age. Very advanced indeed is our agency. Just after 12 months we pioneered mobile marketing, don’t you know? Not bad when you consider it took Mozart to reach three before he wrote his first minuet (for those you of scratching your heads, Mozart was the cat’s pyjamas back then when it came to tickling the ivory- a real wisenheimer on the piano).

So rest assured folks, I’m in fine company and looking forward to the coming months. We shall be busy, I shall be posting.

lost and found

2008-04-21T21:20:00.003+01:00

This morning I lost my car keys, although this afternoon I found jesus. Every cloud...

(inspired by small ads on gumtree)

in tesco we trust

2008-04-18T12:08:00.003+01:00

Two good reasons why Tesco is my April flavour of the month. Not a popular choice, but hear me out you cynical things. First up, those humble Joes on till-point. Each day I swagger in and out for light snacks, always greeted with pleasantries from staff as they smile a winning smile, asking how I am. Their customer service is through the roof. Keep it up troops.

Secondly, I have been toying with new breakfast combinations ever since I lost the urge to pack my own food. This week has saw one strange and unhealthy decision after another. And then I found her, the 'purple perkener'. A right feisty little number made up of red bull (1 can of) and a blueberry muffin. I am highly aware I may not reach 25 if this diet continues.

there's a beard in my font

2008-04-18T12:06:00.002+01:00

I look at this font and I think whoever designed this is half a genius. I’ve waited a long time to be able to craft wordplay using Dan Germain, Lenin, Geoff Capes and friends. See if you can spot any glancing references to other familiar faces.

no more tax-dodging

2008-04-18T11:49:00.001+01:00

I have a job now. A delightful junior position within an integrated creative agency. We get free fruit and cereal. And for those of you with beady eyes, I do not have an alter-ego named Caroline.

what a difference an A makes

2008-04-18T11:47:00.002+01:00

how to look like a baddie

2008-04-18T11:44:00.001+01:00

I have the perfect finery solution for all you static wc symbols in desperate need of a new look this spring. Simply mark out a half-oval shape (sizes vary according to head measurements) and apply above the shoulders. Darth Vader swears by it, and he’s one of the sharpest looking villains this side of Gordan Gekko.

no title necessary

2008-04-18T11:42:00.001+01:00

what do you sell and how much do you charge?