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blog rants
things that have been getting on my tits lately, when before I didn't really notice . . .
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| BEST UK BLOG: killer heels at the ready, girls |
if
anyone carries out a risk assessment on my shoes I swear I'll stab them
When it starts to get dark on my way home from work, and the radiators come on in the mornings, I know I need to get away
for a holiday. But it’s not just the damp cold weather creeping in, I sometimes feel I have to leave this country because
our move to a nanny state is too much to bear. The latest ridiculous plan to force your best mate to undergo a criminal records
bureau test, so they can pick little Jack up from footie practice makes me want to scream, and now the unions have decided
I can’t wear high heel shoes at work. I need to go somewhere that will trust me to be a law abiding citizen, go
into any shop and buy whatever footwear I want - and no I don't
want bloody cashback . . . more
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| BEST UK BLOG: Anything we can help you with there, Daniel? |
Ronaldo
banned from Alton Towers
OK, so he wasn't exactly banned, but the celebrated gay icon
will no longer be able to go to the Splash Landings Hotel in Staffordshire (part of the Alton Towers complex), for a couple
of quick lengths. Britain's most popular theme park has banned Speedos and other brands of skimpy trunks from its swimming
pools. So Christiano, who has always been admired for his modesty, will no longer be able to wear his famous red speedos when
in Staffordshire. He's gutted I'm sure. Obviously I would ban him from entering the country in any form of attire,
simply because he really gets up my nose. But that aside, I'm glad they're banning speedos because its rarely someone
nice that wears them. It seems to be the preserve of men over fifty, with a range of lumps and bumps and not just the obvious
tril, and generally the overall look is more bag of walnuts than bags of style.
Officially, the management declared
that skimpy trunks "are more suited to Spain than Staffordshire . . . the style itself is not deemed public or family
friendly, and therefore we are requesting that male swimmers wear more appropriate styles such as boardshorts.” A reasonably
sensible stance you might think, but then the marketing people at Alton Towers sort of blew it by adding “the resort
is also considering introducing mandatory bikini waxing for men, in a bid to prevent unsightly hair from being on display.”
So how is that going to work? Trained inspectors check your bikini line for any stray wisps
before you leave the changing rooms? Let’s leave it there shall we? Could I just ask though, that Daniel Craig is exempt
(just attached a picture so you can see my reasoning - anything we can help you with there, Daniel?)
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| BEST UK BLOG: Jordan endearing herself to the public |
a Price worth paying?
The
media tide is definitely turning for Katie Price Jordan. I used to have a faint feeling of sympathy for her. She has been
entirely self-sufficient in building her own wealth as a woman in a modelling industry notoriously adept at mistreating their
own. Obviously she invested in gravity-defying knockers to stay (literally) in front of the competition, but somehow, you
knew that she had no misconceptions about it at all. I don’t think she has a first class honours degree and probably
doesn’t even have an O level in home economics, but she understood exactly how the media worked, and used her honesty
and earthy humour to gain maximum exposure (literally). She knew what made a good storyline for journalists and a great pic
for photographers. She exploited their ‘system’.
I thought the horse riding thing where she turned up like Barbie in front of all the Princess Anne
and Lucinda Prior-Palmer lookylikies was
hilarious. A class statement (literally). Having a severely handicapped child by a father who has steadfastedly refused to
help, even though he is a very rich footballer, added to my grudging admiration for her. But since she has broken up with
that Australian bloke who can’t sing very well, her supreme skills at handling the hacks of Fleet Street and the OK-Hello-Now
glossies, have completed deserted her. Whereas, the Australian bloke has got it spot on.
Snogging the face off
a rough cage fighter (whatever that is) whilst your husband goes to feed the ducks alone with your kids is a monumental
PR blunder, from which she won’t recover. My sympathy for her has completely dissolved because I’ve just realised
that she always been a tart without a heart and as false as her falsies. The best
thing she could do now is to stay OUT of the papers. Trouble is, I don’t think she knows how to.
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| BEST UK BLOG: the swarthy bearded Cuban aka Paul O'Grady |
do Americans ever go
anywhere?
If you look at Paul O’Grady you wouldn’t automatically assume
that he comes from somewhere in the middle of the Caribbean would you? In a line up with swarthy bearded men who smoke big
Havanas he would stand out like a sore thumb. More likely to be a pal of Putin than Che Guevara. I also get the impression
that he probably drives a little white Fiat 500 and not a big winged 1950s Thunderbirds car. So how is it possible that he
was held at Miami Airport for two hours on suspicion of being an illegal Cuban alien, because he had a “funny accent”
as the immigration officials described it? Now obviously in the UK we all have our thoughts on scouse
accents, but being similar to Spaneeesh is not one of them. Honestly Americans really do need to get out more,
or at the very least watch a few re-runs of the Liver Birds.
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| BEST UK BLOG: A bare Bear |
a Chief Scout
for the people
Edward, the former Old Etonian and son of Sir Michael the prominent Tory MP
(and champagne and tobacco importer), was officially named Chief Scout on the 11th July. You know the one. The
chap nicknamed Bear whose surname is Grylls, who’s been accused of fabricating an awful lot of his achievements. Perfect
as a role model to get young lads off the streets and into wholesome dib dib dobs.
Personally I cannot watch
that ironically titled (given his upbringing) Born Survivor programme, it’s so ridiculously exaggerated it’s
impossible to believe. All that “if I don’t find shelter in the next 20 minutes I’m likely to die of hyperthermia”
stuff is hilarious. Especially when you know there's a camera man and sound bloke, holding up one of those fluffy microphone
thingies tracking his every word and movement. Will they die too?
When he was exposed as staying in a motel
in Hawaii that served blueberry pancakes for breakfast and had internet access, when he claimed to be stranded on a desert
island, I can't say I was entirely surprised. Still, he does bare his bottom quite a bit which is nice, and he is better
looking than Robert Baden Powell, so maybe it's a smart appointment. After all it's Mums that
make you buy a woggle and sign up for scouts - not the kids themselves surely.
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| BEST UK BLOG: "Ooooh! Look a horsey" |
the great class divide
I went
to Royal Ascot last month courtesy of a lovely client, and it was great to see that the classes are as divided as ever. I
suppose in today’s so called meritocracy at least anyone across the social divide can get in (if you’ve got sixty
quid that is), though the gap between the chattering classes and the hoi polloi is still as wide as it ever was. Chavs clashed
with the haves, in a veritable car crash of spilt Pimms, fake tans and fascinators (those feathery flowery oversized hairclips
with a bit of netting that have replaced hats).
In the royal enclosure there was a very strict dress code where men had been told what they must
wear, and women what they must not. So whilst the ladies were not permitted to wear trousers or reveal bare
legs, or backs, or have dress straps less than an inch in width (metrication hasn’t hit the upper classes yet), the
chaps just had to show up in a morning suit. Much champagne was being drunk by the male elite whilst they nibbled on titbits
earnestly talking racing form - the angle of their top hats a reliable indicator of intoxication. But the women in their expensive
slimline outfits and kitten heels never ate a thing. They were pompously pleased that they were in the presence of Her Majesty,
but seemed bored and sober. Could it be that a floppy fascinator would give the game away and social disgrace would ensue?
More probably, they don’t eat or drink because it’s social and domestic suicide to stray from a size ten.
Meanwhile in
the chav section it was all a bit Torremolinos. Size tens were practically extinct and no-one was overly interested
in The Racing Post. I even heard a ladette shout “oooh look a horsey” as she dragged on a Marlboro near the parade
ring. There was ample Beryl Cook skin on show, with an impressive array of tattoos but it’s not the dress code that
sets them apart from the royal enclosure types. You can always tell the female of the chav species because they can’t
stand up for long. Two races in, they were sitting on the grass legs akimbo drinking from the necks of bottles, guffawing
away between expletives. I don’t even think they knew that HM was there, but at least they looked like they were enjoying
themselves, I just wish they wouldn’t flash their knickers so much.
The lads whilst admirably attired in suits, generally wore sunglasses and were huddled in groups drinking lager and stuffing
themselves with hamburgers. They never sit down like the girls (why is that?). They looked like bouncers
waiting for their shift to finish, or were they just preparing themselves for huge amounts of earache from
their hammered missus on the way home?
The organisers
may think that imposing stricter dress codes will turn the lower order, at least temporarily, into demure wannabe upper classes.
But the fact is the plumbers and temps who attended Ascot have substantial disposable income and whilst they are looked down
on, they in turn do not look up. They’re ambition is not to enter into a higher social strata, but to have more money
and stay as they are.
Needless to say I didn’t win anything on the gee gees, but
quietly observing the legal apartheid being enforced by ‘the authorities’
across two wildly opposing cultures made it all worthwhile. Unmissable but expensive.
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home pride
Many marketing
agencies have conjured up brand values for products which, whilst they may be exciting and sexy and form the basis of good
adverts, they necessarily mean you have to fake the company’s credentials. In the post-credit crunch world, it is much
wiser to advocate ‘authenticity’ instead because the reputational damage when you get found out by your customers,
can be financially devastating.
Witness the debacle when Coca-Cola entered the bottled water market
using the brand name Dasani. They claimed to use a
“highly sophisticated purification process” based on Nasa spacecraft technology.
Actually all they did was fill the bottles with tap water from their factory in Sidcup, courtesy of Thames Water. They
marked it up from 0.03p to 95p per half litre. Pretty good marketing wheeze you might think, but Coca-Cola subsequently lost
tens of millions when the public found out, and it’s hard not to gloat at their folly.
The practice
is still prevalent, and is particularly interesting when brands fake foreign identities to make them seem more exotic or (ironically)
authentic. Baileys Irish Cream was in fact invented by a bloke from Cornwall, whilst living in
the USA. Neutrogena soap trumpets its Norwegian formula, claims it is used by Norwegian fisherman and uses the Norwegian flag
on its packaging. A bar of their soap has probably never been anywhere near Scandinavia, it’s made in America.
A bottle of Cobra Beer
has never been anywhere near India either, sold in Indian restaurants all over the UK, the company was founded in Fulham and
is about as English as you can get. As is Pret a Manger and Matsui, (Dixon’s own electronics brand). Stella Artois uses
fabulous French imagery in its adverts, but is actually Belgian and Moben kitchens hail from Manchester, even though they
like you to think they’re German. And finally, Panama hats? They’re from Ecuador.
plastic bag hypocrisy
Daily newspaper sales figures have just been released, showing that newspaper readership has maintained its relentless
decline over the last six months. The worst performer was The Guardian which lost another 4.3% of its readers. Even the nation’s
two favourite newspapers have slightly dropped sales against this time last year
– The Sun dropped 0.2% to 3.2million copies sold each day and the Daily Mail 0.7% to 2.3million. This is despite the
great CD give away, which each newspaper is using to tempt buyers. An inestimable number of parents have kept nostalgic
copies of Jean Michel Jarre’s Oxygene or films from the 60s like West Side Story, explaining to our
teenage kids what classics they are. But it's the CDs that we don’t want, which is most of them, that make this
marketing tactic inherently hypocritical: Whilst the dailies have rushed to show their green credentials by vociferously backing
the banning of plastic bags, their free CDs are going into landfill by the million.
the elasticated waistband brigade
Following the clashing of the haves and chavs at Royal Ascot last month, it was off to the Royal Horticultural Society’s
show at Tatton Park. No worries about the lower classes and drunken behaviour here. At £21 a ticket it’s about
the same price as attending a top footie match, but it’s steadfastly middle class and middle aged, with a sedate waft
of gentle bonhomie in the air. Pimms was widely available but couldn’t see any Carling Black
Label anywhere. There wasn’t one fascinator, cleavage or even a Bolero jacket, but acres of elasticated
waistbands, crumpled shorts and wobbly knees. Not as entertainingly voyeuristic as Ascot, but probably more of a reflection
of British society.
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