First of all, let me apologise for something that’s not my fault, but is very probably persuading some Sloggers that I’ve finally gone crackers and decided I’m a personality cult. For reasons probably unknown even to WordPress itself, it has decided to multiply all my byline shots by two and then plaster them in that fashion on every post and the Home Page. The latter now looks like a progressive study in the ghastly attic painting of Dorian Gray.
If anyone has the remotest idea how I might stop this, do get in touch.
For those of you missed The Slog’s pictorial contribution on Twitter today – following a marginally insane anti-meat article in the rapidly sinking Grauniad this morning – I thought I would just keep everyone abreast of attitude trends in France on the subject:
Meanwhile, Deutsche Bank got fined again, this time for completely ignoring the processes of the Volcker Act on the avoidance of risk-taking in the non-retail sector. The reaction of Bloomberg’s talking heads to the news was to sympathise with John Cryan who “really doesn’t need this right now” (Well guys, 18 months of it happened on his watch) as opposed to saying something normal such as “Isn’t it about some of those getting huge bonuses in return for fudiciary responsibilities and duties went on a long course in the art of rock-breaking?”
Head of Number Ten communications found guilty of perversion of justice and phone tampering, gets six months, out in five weeks. His former colleague and close chum of the PM is acquitted of all charges. Her husband is let off because he appears to be mad. James Murdoch bang to rights on Hackgate cover-up, leaves country in broad daylight, case dropped, succeeds father to Newscorp throne. Judge in follow-up perjury case against Number Ten comms jailbird dismisses charges as “not relevant” without giving the jury a chance to make their own mind up. Boris Johnson goes free after Murdoch justice tampering and Elm House cover-up (still no report four years on), his fellow London emissions conspirator Tim Yeo is never charged – despite confirmation of evidence from Tory Department of the Environment. Alleged Conservative 2015 election irregularities still not brought to a single charge after nearly two years, sound of investigation deafened by PM who has called a snap Election for her own ends, against every last iota of the spirit of the 2010 Fixed Parliaments Act.
Only Cat Ballou could fail to hit the side of a barn this big in terms of blatant big business, banking and political criminality, allowable thanks to the rapid deterioration in the power of the Law in the United Kingdom. Cat Ballou had the excuse of being Drunk & Incapable: no such excuse is available to the current shambolic rainbow of rigid fantasy previously known as the Labour Party.
I await with hope in my heart the concerted attack by the entire Labour Party on this appalling array of opportunistic politico-corporate fascism….alongside an active, practical campaign of getting the desperate apathy vote out. Sadly, I’m doing so at the same expectation level as a squadron of airborne pigs flying over my property, and Kate Beckinsale writing to declare her undying love for me.
In the old politically incorrect days of genuinely creative British advertising, my chosen profession used to have an acronym for demeaning Procter & Gamble detergent advertising, wherein two women would discuss the crucial life issue of how to get Philip’s unpleasant string-trimmed underpants whiter than virgin piste. The acronym was 2CK – two c***s in the kitchen – and was an advertising form we of the mould-breaking persuasion reviled.
In an allegedly more enlightened age, adfolks in the financial sector these days have switched to what I call 2DG advertising – either Two dicks in the gym or playing golf. The men portrayed in 2DG advertising cleave to the neocon line, in that they spend their leisure hours discussing work.
Thus, while whacking a squash ball around the court, they tell each other they’re “buying big into assets this year, and nobody knows that sector like ZOB”, evoking the opponent’s response, “Gee, I missed out on that one, I better get onto it”. Or just before one poor bugger takes aim at the Titleist, the other golfer says, “I’m really pleased with the way my broker is getting it dead right despite the dearth of emerging market opportoonidies right now”, to which his pal responds, “Aw shucks, my guy is really falling short there – what’s the name of your broker again?”
It’s hard not to be disappointed that, forty years on, bright young adthings are still Yes-manning the clients who think consumers enjoy watching tedious reflections of their life lowpoints, minus only the sense of humour that gets them through it.
Finally tonight, some tips from thorny-handed ton of soil Pokey Mellorslog….
Thankee kindly, and a warm welcome to all horticulturalists, agriculturalists, environmentalists, colonialists, multiculturalists and Efrem Zimbalists out there….tonight I shall be explaining how to grow or completely destroy roses, depending on your proclivities.
Growing roses: simply plant them on the wall of an old barn where they gets 11 minutes of sunshine a day, then restore the barn giving free rein to Polish builders to stomp all over the roses from mornin’ to noight. Carefully avoiding the temptation to water or feed the roses, call in an Arab exterior plasterer to spray more toxic shit all over the wall than they yet seen in Fukushima where the roses be growin’. Foinally – and this is the crucial bit rosaphiles – place eight-inch footings above what’s left of the roses, that is, their roots.
The followin’ Zummer you’ll ‘ave spactackeler roses like you never imagined.
Destroying Roses: Go to the garden centre, buy some roses with lots of special-feed compost – following the full sun, half sun, shadow directions to the letter. Plant them in the richest clay soil you can find. Water them once a day for the first week, and then once every other day in dry periods.
Sure as red skies at night don’t mean shit, they’ll wither away and doyee before the summer be gone.