Day 74: I Am Speechless

Here - finally, and for the benefit of those who may not have had the great good fortune to see it before - is a high-quality reproduction of my famous work, "My Two Cats: Stupid Fat Bastard (on left); Dead Cat (on right)".















And here is what Hot Coffee Girl has done. I think you should join in. I don't know why. You just should.

Day 74: I Have Changed

I used to go to meetings and have a business card and whatnot. Now I do this. All day.

Day 73: I Find Oatibix In Streatham

Regular readers will be aware of my recent struggle to find an alleged new product called Oatibix. (Weetabix*, but made of oats.) (I'd link to the original post but I've broken Blogger.) To cut a long story short, I kept seeing tantalising advertising for the splashy-milk-covered-biscuits-of-Oaty-Joy, but couldn't find them in any of the 93 shops I tried (I'm unemployed, remember), and it was surprisingly irritating.

I wrote to the Weetabix Cereal Co (I'm unemployed, remember), and waited for their reply. While I waited, my (now ex-) friend E took it upon herself to increase my frustration by sending me photographs of people eating Oatibix. Pictures like this:














I sent her an email. She replied. I replied to her email replying to mine.

Me: I HATE YOU. (Where did he get them?). I am in tears of Rage and Desire.
E: Am getting some for you. On the Oatibix black market. Oh yes, you will owe me forever.
Me: I am your slave. You feed me Oatibix, I follow you like dog in a slightly sinister Stalker way.

Then she want to Tesco in Broadgate to get some for me, and they weren't there.

Things were looking up yesterday morning though. The postman rang on the doorbell and I thought it was Weetabix sending me a case of Oatibix to apologise for my distress. It wasn't, though, it was a new book from www.moderntoss.com and t-shirt about not working. I was happy for a while, reading the new Modern Toss book. But then I felt sad, because Weetabix hadn't sent me any Oatibix.

Then I checked my email. And lo! Correspondence from Weetabix.com! Were they going to answer all my questions? Would they show appreciation for the letter I had spent some time (c. 8 minutes) writing? Were they going to send me Oatibix in the post to prove they existed? No. They sent me this dreary, patronising drivel, and I went Bang Off Oatibix almost immediately.

Dear Non-Workingmonkey (except I used my real name, obv)

Thank you for your enquiry about Oatibix.

All three of our Oatibix varieties have proved extremely popular and we are doing everything we can to match the high demand for this exciting new range of products.

All the major retailer groups will be taking Oatibix so it could be in Asda, Co op, Morrisons, Sainsburys, Somerfield, Tesco and Waitrose stores in your area very soon.

We must add though, that availability at local level is at the discretion of individual store managers. They determine what products they offer and of course this applies to all commodities; the breakfast cereals and bars we make are but two examples. The final decision on ranges, varieties, etc, really is theirs. It is also true to say the larger outlets will have greater scope and more options than the smaller shops.

Of course, we would be delighted if every store stocked all our products but, unfortunately, this is not the case.

The best advice we can give is to ask the manager(s) of your favourite store(s) to obtain some for you. Other customers may very well feel the same and if asked often enough he or she could be persuaded to do so. After all, they are in business to
meet demand!

I am sorry we are unable to help further but thank you again for taking the time to contact us.

Yours sincerely

Weetabix People

In the old days, when the streets of London were paved with gold and Polos cost 5p a packet, I worked in the advertising and then the marketing. And I know a little bit about this sort of thing. Manufacturers go and talk to retailers. And they say: "we will be spending millions of pounds advertising and marketing this new product; bearing in mind this information, will you stock our product?". And the retailers say yes, and the people see the ads, and go to the shops to buy the products, and everyone is happy.

But I don't think they do things that way at Weetabix. I think they just advertise, randomly, and cross their wheaty fingers and hope that the big shops will stock their products. And when their customers can't find the product that they've seen advertised on the television, Weetabix hope that they will 'ask the manager(s) of [their] favourite store(s) to obtain some' for them.

I spent ages on that letter. I liked to think of the Weetabix People in their offices looking out of the window making pyramids out of Oatibix Bitesize and wondering what to do next, what with there being no product to sell. I thought that if I asked them a sensible question in a nice way and tried to make them laugh a bit, they would write me a nice letter back and maybe send me a box. (That's what we used to do if people made an effort writing in.) But they didn't. They just sent me that rubbish email.

I really did go bang off Oatibix after that. I didn't want them anymore. I thought they would be a mean-minded, humourless type of breakfast-cereal-biscuit, and I didn't want them in my house. (I've got enough to worry about without miserable cereal taking up space in my kitchen cupboard.)

Imagine the irony when I went to Sainsbury's in Streatham this morning. It's closing tonight for three weeks, so they're clearing stock. And what did I see in the cereal aisle? Six boxes of Oatibix. So I bought one.

I brought it home. (Here it is, with two individual Oatibix on a plate, arranged in an attractive still life in my kitchen.) I ate one, with milk, and let half of it go a bit mushy. Wasn't that impressed, as it goes.

* Weird cereal compacted into ovals. Goes soggy in milk. Like Marmite, bananas and custard and orange jelly with tangerine segments for English people: reminds them of their childhoods.

Day 73: I Consider Ill-Advised Attempts To Be Down Wid' Da Yoot

Disco Vicar. That's what I'm talking about. The horrible, sinking feeling of watching your local Minister busting some moves at the local church disco. The toe-curling horror of seeing one of your teachers wearing hi-tops at the weekend. Grown-ups dancing, generally.

The minute someone white and middle class tries to communicate with young people, it all goes to shit. They think they're "really talking their language". They're not. They're just doing things that mean I can shout THAT'S FUCKING DISCO VICAR THAT IS as the telly/radio/paper/in the street. Examples include:

1. Politicians generally: William Hague in a baseball cap; David Cameron on Desert Island Discs (Radiohead? The Smiths? THE KILLERS?); Tony Blair playing the electronic guitar in public; anyone with the letters "MP" after their name talking about the Arctic Monkeys

2. Prince William doing this very bad thing I show above, and Andrew 'The Twat' Motion (our Poet Laureate, no less), writing a "rap poem" for his 21st birthday

3. The Daily Telegraph sponsoring the Student DJ Awards and the Newquay Surf Festival (which they did - and believe me, I know)

4. Mars Bar advertising with New Order's Blue Monday as the soundtrack (not as puzzling as Leftfield on Cheese Strings, mind you)

5. Tim Westwood

6. Local council advertising that uses graffiti (of sorts) and written patois

7. Most people over the age of 35 who work in creative departments in advertising agencies

8. Middle aged adults trying to take a 'lively interest' in their childrens' music

9. Christians with guitars

10. Christian Rock

11. Use of any of the following words:

- wicked
- cool
- trendy
- track (acceptable if you are 40 or over - just)

Give it up, loves. The only people who know what it's like to be 15 are fifteen-year-olds. No amount of "focus groups" (and ask yourself: what kind of person goes to "focus groups", eh?), is going to help. The massed ranks of the British advertising industry do not understand, and make themselves look like straining cockmonkeys by pretending that they do. Politicians are being given PR advice by callow youths who graduated in Classics from Oxford with a First and went straight into the Civil Service, and The Daily Telegraph is a right-wing broadsheet newspaper read by people who live in Walton-on-Thames and go to the golf club of a Saturday morning, or - rather more accurately - wish they did. What on earth do they know what it's like to be fifteen? When they were teenagers, TV didn't exist.

It has to stop. The safest thing you can do, if you are nearly middle-aged (as I am), is to remember that if you can remember wearing something the first time round (e.g. footless tights, leggings or baggy sweater-dresses), you should avoid it the second time round. That most music is derivative and no, it probably doesn't sound like Nick Drake. Stop trying so hard. As in all things, the minute you try too hard you look like a twat. So stop it. If you do, there's a chance that da yoot might listen to what you have to say.

And on that note, I'm off to listen to Radio 4, read The Guardian and have a cup of tea.

Day 73: I Am Very Easily Pleased

A dog? With its head sticking out of a car window? There is nothing better.