Slightly Askew

Excuse me?

I’ll think you’ll find that you sent me the unsolicited email.  So who the hell are you to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do?

Sending an email from an address such as do-not-reply@igonorant-arseholes.com is akin to phoning your mate and saying:

Hi there, I’ve got something to tell you.  I don’t want your opinion on what I’ve got to say, nor am I looking for any answers.  I’m just going to talk at you for a bit and then hang up.

Those with any sort of self-esteem would hang up first, of course.  Obviously, injecting an abrupt:

How about you fuck off

before doing so would be ideal.

If you want people to buy a product, converse with them.  It doesn’t matter whether it’s credit cards (yup, that’s you Tesco; every little bit helps you know) or music (Polydor - you’re on the ropes, don’t make it worse for yourselves), allow your customers to speak to you.

They’ll like you all the more for it.

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Have you been browsing on the World Wide Web recently?

Hopefully not.  Surfing the web is quite adequate.  Come on, take a few deep breaths; it’s not scary anymore.

There’s a school of thought that the web is a place, and therefore a proper noun.  So it’s more correctly the Web.  Utter shite.  The web isn’t a place.  Kenya is a place.  Florida is a place.  Lowestoft is a place (although there’s no need to confirm this by visiting, trust me).

The web’s just a bit like the internet (no, you don’t need a capital I in that either).  You read something on the web, or watch something on the internet.  You wouldn’t read a Book, or watch the Television, so you don’t surf the Web.

Leave the World Wide Web, hereafter known as ‘the Web’, for the legal drafters - they’re beyond saving.

Oh, and if you’re still spelling email E-mail, you may like to know that they’ve unified Germany, stopped selling video tapes, and mobile phones have become quite a craze.

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Some time ago, an article by Erin Kissane stirred a hatred inside of me.  Not because I didn’t like the article; I loved the article.  She give a thorough and humourous explanation as to why the word solution is, well, shit.

“Solution” is much too vague to be useful.

And she’s absolutely right.  I went to an ebusiness seminar today and every godforsaken IT company in attendance were parading their products as solutions.  Even better (and by that, I mean worse), an end-to-end solution.  As I sit writing this, I’m still no closer to fathoming-out exactly what those products actually did.

So this nonsense has to stop now.  Just because the financial sector is often riddled with self-indulgent jargon, the IT crowd should not be trying to play catch-up.  If you’re a consumer, and someone can’t explain what something does without using the word solution, that something probably isn’t worth buying.

After all: you can call a turd a bowel disposal solution, but it’s still a turd.

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It was quite some time ago when Wash & Go devised this snappy strapline.  Their product, you may remember, contained both shampoo and conditioner - negating the need for that frequent which bottle? decision.

In my youth, there were many great inventions like this: coke that looked like lemonade but tasted like coke; Push-Pops (a sweet you could eat, but save the rest for later); and teeth-coroding cereals made of compressed sugar, packaged under slightly misleading names such as Lucky Charms.

It’s a tribute to the marketers that Wash & Go’s product has all but dissappeared from our consicence, yet the strapline is cemented in the brains of those who witnessed the particular ad.  But why?

Maybe it was about the convenience: appealing to consumers by making our drab lives that little bit easier.  Perhaps it actually was a problem the world over; that people were flamboyantly sacrificing the shine of their hair so one hand was free to turn the shower on.  Or maybe it’s because blokes all over the world turned to a female and asked: “what’s a conditioner?”

For those who had lost sleep, churning the pros and cons of each bottle in their respective minds, Wash & Go was a saviour.

Now, I don’t boil eggs often (you can see where I’m going with this).  Possibly because of the lack of equipment I own in order to do so:  I’ve no egg-timer and no egg-cups.

But will I buy two types of egg-boiling equipment?  I think not.

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I was eight during Italia 90.  I knew all the words to John Barnes’s rap in World in Motion.  I possibly still do.

Memories are just like heroes: not to be forgotten.

Get well soon Gazza.

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The Kooks didn’t used to be huge, you know.  There was a time when Luke Pritchard and his merry men were another mop-top bunch of chancers, competing for girls’ hearts and boys’ respect.  They certainly weren’t the indie-pop enormogroup they are today.

And then something weird happened.  Naive, the group’s fourth single (they released six from the debut album Inside In / Inside Out) got under the skin of everybody with a pair of functioning ears.  Radio One’s breakfast show was dropped, and instead they played the single sixty-two times, back-to-back, five days a week (or was that just me?).

Brighton had spawned a monster.  And that monster has returned.

Always where I need to be is the comeback single we always expected it to be (arp).  Sure, it’ll do-do-do-do your head in (double arp) e-ven-tu-ally (triple arp - that’s it, promise), but you can’t help but feel that Summer’s chomping at the bit after hearing this.

Sure, the goths will hate it for being cheerful.  And the emos will hate it for being cheerful.  And Jeremy Clarkson will hate it for being cheerful.  And that’s just bloody wonderful by me.  Buy it.  Buy ten.  Download it illegally to annoy Metallica too.  It’s a crazy life.

I’ve no idea when the single is out, but it presumably precedes the album - Konk - which is released on 14 April (incidentally, the best day of the year.  Somebody very special was born.)

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Now, maybe it’s just me (and it usually is), but does anyone else love being a passenger in the back of a car at night?

There’s something about just sitting there, staring out of the window, seeing the glow from distant buildings light up the landscape.  The experience works all the better if there’s a good tune on the stereo.  Actually, it needn’t be particularly good; the naffest of song can enhance a moment.  Digressing slightly: I was once in a helicopter, flying over the Grand Canyon, and our pilot piped that nauseating Celine Dion song from Titanic into our headsets.  And it was quite beautiful.  No, honestly.

I’ve always preferred night to day.  Not in a gothic, take-your-shoes-off-and-garble-Led-Zep-songs-backwards manner; it’s just I’ve always liked the peace and quiet, and a little me time.  And me time isn’t a euphemism for a five-knuckle shuffle (which, in turn, is a euphemism for wanking - if you’re a little on the slow side).

And if you don’t agree with me, you’re wrong - cos Bruce is on my side:

Show a little faith; there’s magic in the night

And that’s from Thunder Road, if your music taste beggars belief.

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What the devil does this actually mean?

It seems that 100% is the new nice.  So when you say:

This pizza is 100% quality and 100% tasty.

You’re really saying:

This pizza is really nice.

To me, it’s just lazy.  Would a company say that any of its products were less than 100% quality?  Probably not - unless that was their selling point (e.g. Car for sale.  No engine; no wheels; excessive rust.  Found in woods.  Countless careless owners.  £10.).  So by using 100% something, you’re just wasting space.

A way of making 100% tasty better, would be to do a bit of maths before it.  For instance:

50% cheesey + 50% meaty = 100% tasty

Okay, so it’s not exactly brilliant, but at least you know why the pizza is meant to be so tasty.  You can’t just tell me it’s 100% tasty, because I don’t believe you.  Tell me why Mr Pizza Man.  Tell me why.

This rant comes courtesy of Domino’s Pizza.

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Ah, the evil mouth ulcer.  Foe to many, friend to none.

Remember the 80s cartoon Dungeons & Dragons?  Where every episode brought new hope of a resolution; that finally those brave teenagers would be reunited with their loved ones?  So near they came, and yet so far it all transpired to be.

The magical cure for mouth ulcers appears to be similarly elusive - yet not without hope.  There’s sugar-free Rinstead pastilles (they’re like extra tough Wine Gums) and Anbesol gel.  Not to mention Bonjela, rinsing with salt water, and - my Mother’s favourite - a good night’s sleep.  I tried, they failed.

The mouth ulcer remains, and the pain of eating salt & vinegar crisps frightfully obvious.

But what’s that coming over the hills?  Is it a monster?  No, it’s a rancid tasting mouthwash, that - golly gosh - seems to work.  Yes, my fellow sufferers, we no longer need to, er… suffer.

As someone who’s been riddled by these bloody things for the last ten or so years of my life, Cordosyl comes recommended.  Sure, it feels like you’ve dipped your tongue in hydrochloric acid, but as we all know: if it hurts, it works.

If you don’t suffer from ulcers and you’re feeling smug reading this, go paper-cut your eyelids or something.  I’ll laugh at you when you’ve got migraine; take some Nurofen you pussy.

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This made me stop and think.  And nearly cry.  There’s more at postsecret.

Every year, a single rose from this pink rose bush would bloom white.  My grandpa thought it was really special; he and I would wait for it every year.  He died nine years ago.  The white bloom still comes, but now it’s just like any other flower.

My grandad died nine years ago too, and he also loved his garden.  Maybe all grandads love their garden.

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