This morning I received a Christmas Newsletter (known in some circles - circles in which I would not like to mix - as a "round robin") from a member of my very own family. To be honest, this is no surprise; they live far away in the bottom of a valley and send one every year. And every year it elicits the same response: I open it and get no more than four lines down without shouting and emailing the other members of my immediate family a choice quote under the subject title "Those Fucking Cunts".
This year's choice quote was "Already in award-winning form for debating for University and individually", a sentence that doesn't really make sense, but refers to the many and manifold achievements of my cousin who has also apparently "Enjoyed his Canadian gap year at X College - and got [a] great reference for reinstating cricket". (Reinstating?)
So, just in case you haven't sent your Christmas Cards off because you're struggling with your Newsletter, here are some tips to get you by.
Show off
You are a cock and not that interesting, but don't let that stop you. Every single one of your readers wants to know how your averagely-intelligent and rather plain children are doing at school. They are also interested in how well you organised the last Rotary dinner, and your recent promotion. And whatever you do, please, I beg of you, don't hold off on the details of your holiday: I for one am fascinated and I know everyone else will be too. But most importantly, I really do want to know every single award your 'musically gifted' (Grade 5 at the age of 15, anyone?) child has won, and the details of the every sporting achievement of your 13 year old. (Under-13s North East of England Ping-Pong Champion? Well done, Barnaby!)
Be funny
You are definitely clever and amusing enough to try and subvert the genre, so go right ahead and let me weep with laughter over your attempts at irony (I wanna see those knowing nods to the conventions of the newsletter), that nevertheless still manage - in a subtle way - to communicate the many and manifold achievements of your family. You are still showing off, however carefully you think you are disguising it.
Assume a narrative voice
What? You're saying your dog wrote this?! Fuck me! I've nearly wet my pants laughing!
Omit Key Facts
"Bristol University" is Bristol University. It is not "The University of the West of England, Bristol". In the same way, "she is working for the BBC" is not the same as "she is working on reception of BBC publications in Milton Keynes".
Provide too much information
Yes, I definitely want to know about the tiny steel umbrella you had shoved down your jap's eye, and I also definitely want to know about the anal seepage. Please give me as much information as you can, preferably with photographs. And if there's anything you can tell me about the stitches after the baby, I want to know that too.
Photographs
As many as you can, as come Christmas time I like to be reminded how lucky I am to look like me and not like you.
Send me God's Blessings to Me and Mine
Do this thing because, as you know, the cat and I are definitely practicing Christians.
Mention Modern Stuff In An Inappropriate Way
This is a "non-blog" newsletter, you say?
Think I Care
If you cannot labour under the misapprehension that everyone is fascinated by every detail of your life, you cannot write a newsletter. And with that I say: good luck with your own newsletters, everyone!
Do let me know how you get on.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Day 159: I May Be Arrested Tonight
TwatBoy, the twat who lives upstairs, has been fretting. He has been approached by our terminally insane freeholder with a terminally insane demand ("I send surveyor round! He look what work be done. We do work, you pay!"). This has made him Panic.
I am not panicking, as I am ten years older than TwatBoy and aware of the existence of words and expressions like "lease", "contract", "my solicitor", "piss off" and "no". However, TwatBoy occasionally appears on the front door and whimpers; I try to be kind as he is young and frightened and I am not. More to the point, I have nothing at all to do, and am therefore mildly interested in the Battle that will ensue if terminally insane freeholder Even Fucking Thinks About It.
I am however uninterested in the work of Razorlight, whose vastly overrated America was played over and over again, very loudly, by TwatBoy yesterday afternoon. It is not a very good song. It contains the line "it's disgusting in America". The boys in the 'group' are 12. Some of them are from England and some of them are from Sweden, but they sing in American accents and they sing about American politics. It is embarrassing to listen to, but not as embarrassing as the thought of middle class public schoolboys (e.g. TwatBoy and Spastic Flatmate), really loving it, and thinking the political message is really clever. But still, it is the season of goodwill to all men, even TwatBoy, so I left them to it and went out.
And then this evening WWIII breaks out upstairs. I hear gunfire, shouts, crashes. Machine gun fire; explosions. It goes on and on and on. After half an hour I Crack and knock on the door. Spastic Flatmate lumbers to the door. I say nothing. He mumbles an apology and lumbers back upstairs. He turns it down. Then TwatBoy came home and it starts again, but this time twice as loud! This can only mean one thing: there are two gormless public schoolboys* playing on a "PlayStation" above my head!
Happily, I have a .22 shotgun under my bed. Now I shall take it, go out of my front door, knock on next door and use it.
Whilst I am committing Twaticide, I am very pleased to share with you one of my Favourite Commercials of All Time, which seems to be on air again.
It reminded me of this, which I was trying to remember last week in the cold. (Quality is shit and the laughing's a pain in the arse, but still):
* I went to a school called Godolphin & Latymer. I have no right to judge, really, except I am not a twat very often.
I am not panicking, as I am ten years older than TwatBoy and aware of the existence of words and expressions like "lease", "contract", "my solicitor", "piss off" and "no". However, TwatBoy occasionally appears on the front door and whimpers; I try to be kind as he is young and frightened and I am not. More to the point, I have nothing at all to do, and am therefore mildly interested in the Battle that will ensue if terminally insane freeholder Even Fucking Thinks About It.
I am however uninterested in the work of Razorlight, whose vastly overrated America was played over and over again, very loudly, by TwatBoy yesterday afternoon. It is not a very good song. It contains the line "it's disgusting in America". The boys in the 'group' are 12. Some of them are from England and some of them are from Sweden, but they sing in American accents and they sing about American politics. It is embarrassing to listen to, but not as embarrassing as the thought of middle class public schoolboys (e.g. TwatBoy and Spastic Flatmate), really loving it, and thinking the political message is really clever. But still, it is the season of goodwill to all men, even TwatBoy, so I left them to it and went out.
And then this evening WWIII breaks out upstairs. I hear gunfire, shouts, crashes. Machine gun fire; explosions. It goes on and on and on. After half an hour I Crack and knock on the door. Spastic Flatmate lumbers to the door. I say nothing. He mumbles an apology and lumbers back upstairs. He turns it down. Then TwatBoy came home and it starts again, but this time twice as loud! This can only mean one thing: there are two gormless public schoolboys* playing on a "PlayStation" above my head!
Happily, I have a .22 shotgun under my bed. Now I shall take it, go out of my front door, knock on next door and use it.
Whilst I am committing Twaticide, I am very pleased to share with you one of my Favourite Commercials of All Time, which seems to be on air again.
It reminded me of this, which I was trying to remember last week in the cold. (Quality is shit and the laughing's a pain in the arse, but still):
* I went to a school called Godolphin & Latymer. I have no right to judge, really, except I am not a twat very often.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Friday, December 15, 2006
Day 157: I Must Make My Christmas Cards
This year, as I am non-working, it would be simply preposterous to buy Christmas cards. Not because of Matters Financial, but because of the hours and hours of time I have at my disposal (when I am not dealing with Cretins and ending up in Oxford Street by mistake). I am therefore making my own with my own two hands, a printer, no Photoshop, a scalpel, a cutting mat, safety pins, coloured crayons, glitter glue and Copydex. Oh yes.
My original ambition was to wrap the usually entirely supine Stupid Fat Cat in tinsel and photograph him, but he wasn't having any of it. However, this afternoon's "shoot" resulted in some strange pictures that I include here for your enjoyment, along with some photographs of some Christmas lights taken from a cab in the rain. Please do let me know which one you would most like to receive in the post. Don't say "none of them, they're all shit" - of course they're all shit: this is a hypothetical question.
Cat's Arse (Surprisingly Magnified) and Tinsel
Out of Focus Cat, With Tinsel
Trees And That Out A Cab Window, With Rear View Mirror
Two Trees Out A Cab Window
Stuff Out A Cab Window, With 'No Lorries' Sign
Send in your votes! And don't forget - I got Grade 'A' in Art A-Level in 1987, so I MUST know what I'm doing! (I have also just ordered a new camera, as the poor quality of my photography is nothing to do with me and everything to do with Sony.)
UPDATE!
I have just found this splendid photograph of Father Christmas in the bath, attended by a penguin with Champagne and some deers made of Lights. I think it may be a winner!
My original ambition was to wrap the usually entirely supine Stupid Fat Cat in tinsel and photograph him, but he wasn't having any of it. However, this afternoon's "shoot" resulted in some strange pictures that I include here for your enjoyment, along with some photographs of some Christmas lights taken from a cab in the rain. Please do let me know which one you would most like to receive in the post. Don't say "none of them, they're all shit" - of course they're all shit: this is a hypothetical question.
Cat's Arse (Surprisingly Magnified) and Tinsel
Out of Focus Cat, With Tinsel
Trees And That Out A Cab Window, With Rear View Mirror
Two Trees Out A Cab Window
Stuff Out A Cab Window, With 'No Lorries' Sign
Send in your votes! And don't forget - I got Grade 'A' in Art A-Level in 1987, so I MUST know what I'm doing! (I have also just ordered a new camera, as the poor quality of my photography is nothing to do with me and everything to do with Sony.)
UPDATE!
I have just found this splendid photograph of Father Christmas in the bath, attended by a penguin with Champagne and some deers made of Lights. I think it may be a winner!
Day 157: I Go To Oxford Street By Mistake
It was mainly full of people from the suburbs eating scones. (I did have a picture but something's broken.) It was as ghastly as it always is: like posts involving IKEA, I shall refrain from making the obvious comments and let you imagine the delight with which I 'accidentally' banged fuckwits standing stock-still three abreast in the middle of the pavement.
Happily, however, my irritation was soon eased by the discovery of a Mysterious Note from a Friend with a "link" to a website called A Case of Curiosities. It contains many images of stuffed animals in anthropomorphic poses, including squirrels. If you squizz around it a bit, you will find Information on a man called Potter and many more photographs, including a monkey riding a goat.
This splendid bit of linkery aside, I am fed up with the Technology and will instead be spending the afternoon writing letters on proper writing paper (white, not blue or cream) with a fountain pen and black ink and making address labels with rubber stamps of individual letters.
Now I'm off to wrap the cat in tinsel in order to create an Image that will become a Christmas Card. And no, it's not cruel; I soak the tinsel in tuna juice first. He loves it.
Happily, however, my irritation was soon eased by the discovery of a Mysterious Note from a Friend with a "link" to a website called A Case of Curiosities. It contains many images of stuffed animals in anthropomorphic poses, including squirrels. If you squizz around it a bit, you will find Information on a man called Potter and many more photographs, including a monkey riding a goat.
This splendid bit of linkery aside, I am fed up with the Technology and will instead be spending the afternoon writing letters on proper writing paper (white, not blue or cream) with a fountain pen and black ink and making address labels with rubber stamps of individual letters.
Now I'm off to wrap the cat in tinsel in order to create an Image that will become a Christmas Card. And no, it's not cruel; I soak the tinsel in tuna juice first. He loves it.
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