It is upside down and I can't seem to fix it. No matter - the photo is the mere McGuffin here. If you want to find out why I took it then follow my Twitter account.
This is about how I took it.
I saw this shop and the declaration of war on English grammar it has made the day before I took this photo. The platter of "Baked Potato's", "Salad Bowl's" and "Full breakfast's to sit in or takeaway" on offer was pure Twitter fodder.
By the next day I had decided, yes, I am going to record this in a Tweet. It'll be just what my follow-dwellers expect of me.
I got up early - I had checked the weather forecast: Rain by 12 noon - and closed the door behind me.
8 minutes later I was there, at Fillip's Sandwich Shop. I was surprised at the queue in it. I could hardly simply stand outside, take my photo and walk away. That is not the actions of a normal person if I was witnessed.
I can't have people think I am odd.
Nope. I needed to be normal. I needed to pretend I had normal, every man reason for being there.
Could I stand at the bus stop outside the shop? That is what normal people do if they are waiting for a bus. And even though I wasn't waiting on a bus, no one would know I wasn't. It has to be pretty easy to convince people you are waiting for a bus. You stand a bus stop at 11 in the morning: you're certainly waiting for a bus. It is that simple.
But then, what if the bus came? I would need to be normal by boarding it. No one would suspect a thing. But then, how far would I travel? Judging by a normal person of my health and age, a few stops would be suspicious. I would need to get off much further than I would be reasonably expected to walk. Damn, why hadn't I waited until the rain. Getting a bus 2 stops up the road in the rain - I could get away with that.
But then, either way, I have had a bus journey to all intents as a normal person. Only I have no reason to even be on the bus.
No, that version of normal wouldn't do.
So I gave myself another backstory.
Having agreed to meet someone, I was now waiting for them. I checked my watch again. THst definitely says: waiting for someone. My character was impatient. I looked up the road in the direction I figured my meeting would be arriving from.
Then I had a masterstroke.
I pulled out my phone and pretended I had a text. It was asking where I was. There was no text [keep up].
I took a photo of the sandwich shop Fillip owns and made out as if I was sending it in a text. Of course I was in fact tweeting it. Clever, Greville, clever.
Mission accomplished. Followers now up to speed.
Only now, people would be expecting someone to meet me.
Play it smooth. We can get out of this.
I stood for another 3 minutes gazing up the road. Then my eyes widened. Oh, a text! In inverted commas. I read the blank screen it as if my meeting was now not to be taking place there after all - a change of plans. I shook my head.
I actually shook my head at the screen of the phone. There was nothing on it.
Then I calmly walked away until out of sight round the corner and I legged it back home. So I wouldn't caught.
A man arranges a meeting. Possibly with idea of getting a couple of filled roll's [sic] for brunch. He texts proof where he is to help the other party to know what to look out for. The other party texts back - a change of plan, a new place to meet is agreed.
What could be more normal than that?
Only of course, none of it was really happening.
In a bid to be normal I had, in fact, acted out a one man vignette show of normality with all the subtlety of a play written by Samuel Beckett.
That's, well, I don't think that is normal.
And not even a single f**king retweet. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother.
I can understand some TV adverts can't, in reality, fully allow the viewer to appreciate the product. Perfumes are the classic example.
What does the perfume smell like....
A leopard in the snow? Like constantly missing the chance of a relationship? Katy Perry? Whatever this scary lady smells like?
But one product that is almost perfectly designed for the consumer to look at an advert of is Computer Games.
It is possible to put a demo of the game on the TV for 25 seconds of the game which will be on your TV screen if you buy it. It is almost incomprehensible that a computer game advert would not have a portion of gameplay in it. But here we are:
None of this is actual game footage.
Yes, the advert looks amazing, but none of it is gameplay.
And it happens all the time - the small line at the bottom of the screen: "Not Actual Gameplay" or "Not Game Footage"
Why not? Some adverts at least showcase you the cutaway graphics but a fair bit of the RYSE ad doesn't look like it is computerised at all.
It only makes sense if the game is terrible and looks woeful and the imagined gameplay far outstrips what the actuality can ever fulfil. But no ad agency would be stupid enough to do that, right?
Ok, well, maybe there is precedent.
Imagine you've seen the advert to RYSE and you rush to the Virgin Megastore, upstairs to the Computer Game section and pick up the box. You get home and stick the disc into the drive and this is what you are presented with:
I like Twitter.
I am astonished and amused at what people tweet.
People out there have great little accounts, tweeting away about their days, posting photos or short jokes or links to things they've created.
There are also parody accounts of famous people, companies or inanimate objects making the zeitgeist. These are often entertaining and everybody involved is in on the deal because they state "parody" in the bio.
Then there are fake accounts. Accounts created and tweeted from by people pretending to be someone well-known. I am not sure what they are for. The person pretending to be someone else must have an unusual agenda.
In my short time on Twitter I have come into contact with only 2 fake accounts which left a lasting impression.
There was the account set up a few years back supposedly by Gary Glitter, to promote his musical comeback. The person behind the tweets must have read some vitriol on his timeline but simply would tweet: "Just wait until you hear the new album, that'll change your mind"
The Twitter corner I frequent was quick to RT "Gary" into my feed and quicker to then oust the account as fake.
Well, obviously it was fake! At no point, reading the tweets did I think Gary Glitter would be actually back recording a new album to both win back his respect in the industry and bring back "Glam".
The account was quickly suspended.
Only last week a fake Christopher Eccleston account appeared. Within hours he had 20,000 followers (including me). I like Eccleston. He might even be my favourite Doctor. I have to admit I suspected it was a fake account.
It didn't need a whole lot of deduction on my part. I read his tweets.
I strongly feel Christopher Eccleston would not set up a twitter account to tweet photos of DVD stands in an HMV he's in with the title:
"Ah HMV, I love these prices"
Although it would make my year, if he did. Because that is comedy genius.
I wish I had a twitter account set up to tweet photos of things in HMV and "I love these HMV prices". Trust me, I would never get bored of tweeting that.
But I don't have the time. And I'd say neither does Christopher Eccleston.
I continued to follow despite my developing suspicion. I wanted to see just where this was going.
Like all these fake accounts the account holder quickly goes mad with the power, tweeting with increasing frequency. Within 12 hours CE was tweeting about going for run, making a cup of tea (both getting 100's of favourites - what??) live tweeting a Harry Potter film (he bought the DVD from HMV, presumably - though didn't mention it, which was an open goal miss) and finally tried to get his suggested hashtags trending.
It seemed that most people commenting on these tweets were not actually acknowledging the content of them at all. They would write undiluted whovian adulation towards Christopher. Which is fine - but Christopher clearly isn't here to read them.
Still people tweeted, begging him for a selfie to prove his presence as genuine. None was forthcoming, though more tweets came:
"You don't believe I am me? You don't know me, you don't know what I like to tweet!"
Which I imagine Jesus might also tweet on his 2nd coming. Jesus would definitely have a twitter account. "You don't know what I like to tweet - I just really enjoy the prices in HMV. JC out."
Jesus would also end his tweets "JC out", I would suggest.
Predictably the fake Eccleston account was soon suspended and the person behind it with his mission to... promote HMV?... was over. I can now go back to believing Eccleston is a regular independent record store customer.
Wednesday 6th November 2013 was Stress Awareness Day.
The ever conscientious HR at my open plan office sent out this bulk email.
Quite aside from the rather relaxing font size to start the mail, STOP! is in no way a stress inducing first word to read from your Human Resources Department.
Then there is the odd Zen style, "mystic" instructions following it.
"Be Curious"
"Can you watch the thought without judging yourself for it?" and the self referential "How interesting" in parenthesis.
"Curiously, what could you do to release tension?"
"What are you noticing about your feelings now?"
"Are you wondering where your breath is too-ing and fro-from? Shallow, from your chest? Deeper...? Or Deeper...?"
I mean, just... what??
Why must I release tension curiously?
If a thought passes across my mind without judging it, does it make a sound?
It all came over as a weird sort of $ex chat from a frustrated therapist who heard I might have had an unproductive morning meeting.
But there was more. There was an attachment. Here it is:
Now, I am no councillor, but I am not sure just how practical this advice is. It is, to me, little on the shallow side. It seems, well, a little patronising to sending this out, unsolicited, to people who might be going through real tough times. You might be stressed in any combination of complex situations but just, you know, "Sort out your worries". Ta-da!!
It is a little like sending someone who has had their home, family or life destroyed by war a "Keep Calm and Carry On" postcard.
Why not put a shell up to your ear and listen to the calming sea which is also you blood pumping round your body at an ever increasing pace through your panicking heart?
Of course, I am no psychiatrist and so maybe it is this simple. Maybe I could do one of these little notices for next National Stress Awareness Day?
So, I have:
So now I have taken care of the scourge of stress - let's see if I can't show the tricky field of boredom what for in the months to come. Watch this space!
[starts making a poster with the phrase "Do Interesting Things, Like Trying To Watch Your Thoughts Without Judging Them"]
Here is my first attempt at a graphic novel (not comic). It is about a Grunge Librarian.
The thing about Grunge Librarians is that they will start stamping books really quietly and then stamp the books really loudly and wildly for a bit and then go back to stamping them quietly again.
I did this in the office the other day.
But first is the theme tune:
Because it is not just emo librarians who can be melancholic, grunge librarians can be too.
The thing about emo librarians is that they are never sitting at the service desk, they are always outside the service desk looking in, questioning why there is so many people coming up to it and considering the fleeting shallow vacuous nature of its mainstream popularity.
One of my most popular blog posts was just that last one, down below.
@LibrarianNelly and my Dad and others sent me adverts which amused / horrified them. I feel this could end up being a semi-regular set of posts.
And so, since we should make this a little more scientific instead of simply being an advertisement man's patsy, what have I learnt so far about what sells things?
Humour sells things:
Catchy jingles sell things:
Cultural caricatures sell things:
Attractive girls sell things:
Adverts I feel compelled to watch a number of times because I have no idea what they are selling sell things:
And this advert should never sell anything ever, unless it is the souls to the Devil of anyone who sings along to the Karaoke styling, if there is any justice in the universe:
I even liked this one - it would come on during my school summer holidays and set me up for a day of wishing the sun was shining so I could go outside for a bit:
And here is another classic:
But all this leads me to the point of my bloggette this evening. It has been suggested that this is the most irritating advert of all time:
And to show irritation is not sexist:
BUT may I suggest these as contenders?
This definitely is sexist - some of us don't have a penis to point to your Facebook shenanigans.
And this one is obscene - just what does the robot interrupt?
Enough of these aperitifs! Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present what I believe to be the worst advert ever. It is creepy and annoying and all seven shades of wrong. Remember it is trying to sell you the product. I give you the Plenty More Fish advert.
Watch it 3 times and tell me this isn't marginally worse than some talky Australian couple walking to their cars.
Oh. My. Word.
One - are you going to think "Hmmm I am a dead eyed cockney lady who is tone deaf and looking for love. Yes I would like to find a man who looks half-baked on meds with terrible posture and potentially a civil servant."
And what about those little monkey clones of her?
Hideous.
Ah! Greville - I hear you say after chewing your sofa cushion - the Kia advert still wins because there were two. One was an annoying woman but it also had one that was a man!
Those long term readers of this blog among you - those in my basement dungeon with a screen showing my blog where a window should have been - will recall I once watched Inn Mates. And blogged about it. Here.
Well, it seems I was not the only one who thought it wasn't the best. The writer did too.
Well he sort of apologised. He blamed the BBC Comedy Execs for changing it all. But he did admit Inn Mates was rubbish.
He said his idea was completely different. It was in a pub but would be about people eating Sunday lunch and the twist was... the bar would never be filmed. To be fair - as a concept the jury is still out on how good it would be. Given the article he wrote about it, the jury is out on just how funny he can write. Something about making soup and wearing a tea bag as a hat. A tiny, brown, damp, hat. For what purpose? It isn't even practical. Comedy at least has to obey some laws.
He no longer writes comedy's.
This is a shame. I do hope I wasn't partly to blame.
So there has been quite a mass of commentary, media coverage and blogging on the Death of Maggie Thatcher this week. Not one for missing a band waggon I thought I should add to this mire.
Thatcher polarised political thinking and caused as much anger as approval for her policies by the people of Britain. By sheer number of years of her premiership, a British era was coined in her name: Thatcher's Children.
Some of what I have read has been personal accounts of how Thatcher affected the writer of the piece. And for mine, I will be no different.
For me, given my generation, Margaret Thatcher affected me in my formative years. And it was a profound shaping by her. Mrs. Thatcher gave me my first complex joke. Not one of these Question / "I don't know" / Punchline jingles. A proper stripped down "garden path" joke.
And now, more than ever, at the most poignant/happy time this seems right to tell it again.
Another boy in the classroom told me it. Having possibly just heard it himself, he hurried accross to where I sat.
"Whatever I say, you say 'Inspector Boobs' after it, OK?"
Others gathered round my desk. They knew what was going down here.
"Who got you into the Army?"
"Inspector Boobs"
"Who got you out the Army?"
"Inspector Boobs"
"Who got you in the Navy?"
"Inspector Boobs"
"Who got you out the Navy?"
"Inspector Boobs"
"Who got you in the Police force?"
"Inspector Boobs"
"Who drives you in the police car?"
"Inspector Boobs"
"Who solves the murders?"
"Inspector Boobs"
"Who solves the robberies?"
"Inspector Boobs"
"Who arrests drug dealers?"
"Inspector Boobs"
"Who files all their paperwork the neatest?"
"Inspector Boobs"
"Who is the highest goal scorer in the local Force football team?"
"Inspector Boobs"
"What would you do if you met Maggie Thatcher?"
"Inspector Boobs"
Ha! Brilliant.
Inspect her boobs.
It could have been The Queen in the joke. It could have been Samantha Fox. But it wasn't. It was Margaret Thatcher.
And for that, I will always remember Margaret Thatcher.
Call me old fashioned. Call me quaint in my views. Call me coy.
But I thought the activity of dogging was couples driving to quiet car parks at night, getting into their back seats and pleasuring each other in various sexually deviant means whilst other couples wandered round trying to glimpse a little flesh through cracked open otherwise steamed up windows. A bit like a weekend car show in some stately ground, only with less interest in the polished carburettors. So to speak.
Turns out my Edwardian views are laughably way off.
Watching Dogging Tales (C4) the other night pulled my eyes into the 21st century meaning of the term with hooks attached to my pupils. I learnt a number of details about this adult pastime from the protagonists.
The documentary followed a selective number of folk who all partook in this nocturnal activity. The voice over warned of scenes of an adult nature beforehand. But did not warn of scenes of a masked nature. I mean, jeezus! Surely this scene needs a warning?!
Worst Doctor Who baddie yet
It turns out dogging involves rather broken people in pretty unsettling woodland animal masks wandering off into the nearest forest and having a grim evening of loveless touching with anonymous strangers who happen to pass through the clearing and spot them.
One countryside vermin masked man summed up dogging: "I used to be a DJ, and this is the same thing - we are providing entertainment for others. I am an entertainer" then he asked his wife, dressed in a super-hero cape, sat on a tree stump, to lift her dress for a photo. It didn't seem much like entertainment. And I wasn't the only one - 2 men doggers stood at a distance, arms folded in indifference.
A cat faced lady on screen posed the question: "How many viewers watching will want to try dogging after seeing this?" I guess she was going for "loads" I willing to bet it was less.
The documentary was shot with very little of the actual dogging being filmed. What was, was filmed hand-held and illuminated by virtue of mobile phone flashlights and torch apps or break lights bouncing of nearby branches and legs. Most of the documentary - on location - concentrated on the trees, the moon, the wildlife, an open car door swinging rhythmically.
All the women involved promoted dogging as a way to crawl back some confidence from a life of disappointment and rejection through multiple nameless physical brief moments of being wanted beside some trees. All the men enjoyed dogging because it made them feel as if their wives and partner's were coveted by other men and also a proof of their own masculinity.
I learnt dogging is not glamorous.
Listening to a fox faced truck driver I learnt, by his calculation, 70% of truck drivers he knows do dogging. Considering he is basing this percentage on truck drivers' he knows, probably through dogging - it doesn't seem like a lot. The fox faced truck driver talked in rather troubling terms - referring consistently to the women involved as "Females" and saying love costs where dogging is free so why would he want to ever stop?
When he asks you, "What is love?" you better come up with the correct f***ing answer
A benevolent wolf faced man talks of his sad beaten rabbit faced wife: "There are regulations in dogging. You can't just do anything. It's my wife after all."
It's my wife.
When asked who makes the dogging rules, the wolf faced man points his snout to us: "I do. I like a small crowd of men around to take turns with my wife."
Again and again snippets of phrases and words come out of these real-life action Creature Comfort characters which betray both the motives of those taking part and social (if one can describe it so) circle built up around it as something far removed from the glamorous and exciting lifestyle all those involved were keen to convey.
One women at one stage talks of the enjoyment of being free and loss of control and the next admits she has had abusive relationships in the past where she was used. Another talks about the empowerment of being attractive to an intimidating degree to those men in the woods with her before quickly revealing she has had body image issues in the past and fears being seen as unattractive.
The men, too, reveal much. The bird masked man talks of fathering 17 children because there is no condom big enough to fit him. That would be condoms, the regular make-shift water balloons and facilitator of popular school boy jinx of pulling them over their heads same condoms I am aware of? He then talks about his shock of how quickly his brother died of cancer and vowed to make sure he died with a smile on his face. The Sinister Mr. Fox talks also of being hurt emotionally in the past after claiming he does not recognise love.
Perhaps the most affecting of those shown in the documentary were a young couple. The.. er... mouse? ... raccoon? ... roadkill badger? faced boyfriend says he works 12 hours, 7 days a week. The... animal... faced girlfriend explained she was bored and they have begun dogging to prevent her from cheating.
It is quickly apparent the boyfriend is uncomfortable and "cold" when they drive out to an overgrown layby with another girl. He then calls it off altogether when a 2nd man approaches them.
By the end of the documentary, we see the relationship has survived the short foray into this dogging world and the girlfriend has come to realise her boyfriend had only agreed to support her in the venture.
It was, though, the only person who wasn't dogging who provided me with the most insight.
He was complaining. The places where he once walked with his young daughter, telling her delightful stories of woodland nymphs and fairies living between the plants and trees now was a popular place for dogging - naked men, soiled mattresses and soiled memories.
As he explains his belief these doggers "whittle low branches into penises and then put their arses on them" he says he is pleased a concerted police and local pressure have moved them on because there is "no place for them in this nature reserve".
The thing is, as I recalled the bird faced masked man with the genitals larger than a school boy reminiscing: "These days we spend more time on the interent trying to arrange meets when we should just be in the woods shagging", our non-dogger has it wrong.
Dogging - with the country habitat, animal masks, utter lack of love and base motive to have hollow meaningless sex instead of the internet - is perfect for a nature reserve.
I have long questioned what makes humanity different from other animals? Is it religious: we recognise some further place after death, that we hold souls in our bodies? But not all of us believe. Is it more complex: We create art, obey laws and invent processes to ease the lives of others? But then not all of us do. Is it more basic? We are able to supersede instinct and biological drives and and go against them using free will? Watching this documentary I am not so sure.
I think I now have the answer: it is theatre.
Even when humanity is being at it's most animal, it requires an audience. Even if that audience is subjected to a play of Wind in the Willows directed by someone who has taken a lot of brown heroin.
On Twitter I am continuing to sometime amuse myself with fictional quotes from fictional films. The adorable @ellekaypea suggested if I was in a film it would be called "Sexy Autopsy". I would have argued, but to be fair, it sounded about right.
It prompted me to tweet some possible twitter film quotes from it:
Sexy Autopsy
"So, who's on the slab this morning? Hmmm, 'Sarah Jones'... Nice set of brain lobes."
- Sexy Autopsy (2013, Rated R)
"Nurse! My y-incision CD." "Moby, Doctor?" "Not this time. Put on... Best of Barry White"
- Sexy Autopsy (2013, Rated R)
"I suppose, Nurse, the brain is the sexiest part of the body. But not when it's in that bowl. Or is it?"
- Sexy Autopsy (2013, Rated R)
"What makes an autopsy sexy?" "That would be where you come in, Nurse. Now hand me that saw. Slowly"
- Sexy Autopsy (2013, Rated R)
And, of course, there is still my pet fictional film project: Clouds Set To: Doom!
"I'm not a mad scientist! I take 24 pills a day to keep me sane!" "Professor, I'd say you need to start taking 26."
- Clouds Set To: Doom! (2012)
"It's true! There is a silver lining to every cloud!" "That's no silver lining. Put on your anti-neutron poncho!"
- Clouds Set To: Doom! (2012)
And I have not even started made-up quoting from this yet: Greville's Terror Tales From The Tomb! Where the women run hot and the blood runs cold. Rated R. #tombsmovie
If you are not following me on Twitter, then sadly, you are missing out on this sort of stuff on a nigh daily basis.
I have begun to notice a new trend. Shop assistants talking to me when I am at the till making my purchase.
I don't mean the shop assistant handling the normal purchaser / vendor administration. I am not referring to the regular angry guy behind till at my local corner shop who talks to me and has called me by name ever since he read my name off my credit card. He is called Neil, and I can tell you this because he wears a name badge - so we are on an equal footing.
No - it is shop assistants in high street stores who I have not seen before and likely will not see again are taking an interest in my day and what I am buying.
"Have you found what you wanted?"
"Oh, that is a great purchase - I think that will look great on you"
Is this a thing now?
Surely my standing at the till with the product is tantamount proof of me finding at least something I want and, by simple deduction, I am willing to pay for it means I deem it likable enough to be also willingly seen in. Really, by this stage of my retail experience, I don't want your opinion. I don't mean to offend you, but I am not sure I should trust your view on my purchase - partly because you have vested interests in my making of the purchase and partly because your taste, ethics and morality - outwith this, you have to admit, slim scenario that's all I have to base your opinion on - may turn out to be something I do not want to associate my trust with.
It is not that I am not personable when paying. I'd choose an assistant to a self-service system any time. I am always sure to smile, say please and thank you and wish them a good day when I leave. I make sure I am pleasant and will try and talk about the weather or ask if they are having a busy day if I can. I certainly want to be a friendly, amicable and happy customer at all times.
But it is the specific questioning and commenting of the things I am buying that I find, well, off-putting.
For example:
I bought a music CD recently and the shop assistant behind the till asked if I had found everything I had been looking for. In order to not get into any philosophical debate about the individual human condition and our absolute need to never truly find what we are looking for being the main reason we can further ourselves and why some of us end up astronauts, I thought it best to say "yes, thanks".
"Oh, I love that album." he actually went on! "It is much more consistent than his debut and you can tell he has become more musically proficient in his melodies". Really? Well I enjoyed the rather more bedroom production of his.... This is isn't CD club! This isn't even that independent record shop in High Fidelity. This is a 25 second transaction of goods and profit at a chain store. I don't overly care about your validation of the music I am buying and, quite honestly, thanks to your review you have sucked the rock and roll thrill of it all. I pretty much hold you responsible for the death of the physical album.
Only this week I was in a high street brand clothes shop. The girl at the Pay counter said: "Did you find everything you wanted today?" and I was forced to admit it was. Yes thanks, what I have lain down before you and your bar code gun is "everything I had wanted today", I got out of my flat from the solitary motivation to buy 3 identical pairs of charcoal coloured trousers for work. That is the state of my life right now.
As she then continued! "I want to spend my money today on clothes once I finish my shift but with March coming up so quickly I shouldn't. It's hard not to buy something for the weekend though, but I have a lot of things going on in March, I probably should be good and save my wage. It's funny how birthdays and events all happen in one month like that, isn't it?"
Positively mind blowing. A real phenomenon of the cosmos.
It wasn't so much her conversation (I replied to her that she was right, it was a difficult situation) but that throughout it she was idly stroking and repeatedly smoothing out my work trousers laid out in front of her at the upper thigh. I couldn't get out my mind as I watched her hands that we were only a single quantum paradigm shift in the multi-verse from her sexually assaulting me.
I struggle to look at those trousers straight in the eye now. Knowing. She's been there.
Jeezus, don't these shop assistants think of the consequences?
Yesterday I was out in town to buy a birthday present for a baby. I went to the baby shop. I looked round for a bit and found exactly what I was after. A baby wetsuit.
At the pay counter the girl asked me if I had found everything I was after in the shop. Confidently I said: "Yes, thanks".
She kept talking! She was telling me how good the baby wetsuit was for babies.
I thought, I haven't a clue - I don't have a baby. I just picked up the same one from the photo I was given. But I thought, be polite and agree. It'll be quicker this way. Besides, it is probably better because I'll appear less weird if I pretend I have one. So I nodded and said this was what "we" thought.
Then she kept talking... "So is this for his first swimming class?" she asked through a sweet smile, looking at the baby wetsuit.
I hadn't been expecting this. I had not counted on it at all. A third question about what I was buying! I was plunged into unknown shop assistant small talk territory and at the worst moment: in a baby shop where I was pretending I had a baby.
I didn't really want to get into the whole buying a birthday present for someone else's baby at this point in case she felt I had initially led her to believe otherwise. Which I sort of had. Changing my story would not be good. It would make me seem almost certainly suspicious. And so I figured I would simply tell her the facts without mentioning they were about my friend's young son.
I explained he had been swimming for a few months. He enjoyed it. He is getting into all sorts of things at home, too. He has been getting a little help onto his feet, but is quite capable once up of getting to places he wants to and really he shouldn't. Why do little ones, do that? Go towards the most dangerous things in any room. It's a wonder we have survived as a species.
She giggled.
"So what's his name?"
When would this chip and PIN interrogation stop?? I told her his name. No last name. If angry Neil has taught me anything, it is my name can be seen on my credit card.
"They are great when they are this age, aren't they? Trying out the swimming and things. It is good for them to start early."
Right I thought, I am in deep cover. Maybe too deep. If I slip up and she finds out I don't have a baby, not only will this appear now extremely suspicious that I am buying a baby wetsuit, but I bet she won't believe the birthday present reason now either. And then I am basically back where I started: I am a man buying a baby wetsuit when I don't have a baby. Only now with added "pretended he had a baby" blown cover story baggage.
I concurred. Yes. I... erm... suppose it is.
This was tense. More tense than shopping ought to be.
Thankfully, the girl didn't expose my rouse and I left the shop dignity intact. And on his birthday, the little guy got his wetsuit with a cartoon whale on it.
In hindsight I should have just told her the truth from the moment I walked in. I have no baby. I want a baby wetsuit. It is a birthday present. In fact, it would be much easier if we all did this going into every high street shop.
As soon as we walk into a shop go to the pay counter and tell them what we want, why we want it and tell them we are delighted they approve of what we want and where we would like the receipt once we come back to them in 10 minutes to buy it.
My phone rang on my desk. My phone never rings on my desk. This is the genuine [aside from the anonymity I am granting] conversation I had when I picked it up.
GT: Hello, Greville Tombs, Open Plan Office?
PH: Hello? This is TexisMexis Publishing House. Can I speak to Greville Tombs?
GT: Yes, I am Greville Tombs. Can I help?
PH: You are Greville Tombs?
GT: Yes.
PH: I have your letter here regarding your request to cancel your subscription to the Series Title.
GT: No you don’t.
PH: Yes, Mr. Tombs, you wrote us a letter dated 13th December.
GT: No I didn’t.
PH: You have a subscription with us for the Series Title, Mr. Tombs.
GT: No I don’t.
PH: I have your letter dated 13th December. But you say you didn’t send it to us?
GT: I didn’t send any letter to you. I don’t believe I am the person you want. Can I just check your contact details for me and how you came to be phoning me?
PH: You are Greville Tombs?
GT: Yes.
PH: Your address is Open Plan Office, Building, Town?
GT: Yes.
PH: Your subscription reference is DX-34-45-67-RTY?
GT: No.
PH: But you are Greville Tombs?
GT: Yes. And I am talking to you from the Open Plan Office.
PH: This is TexisMexis Publishing House.
GT: I know.
PH: This is strange. I have your letter here. It is dated 13th December. I have your details on my screen of your subscription with us at TexisMexis Publishing House. I just need to confirm I am talking to you in order to proceed with your cancellation request.
GT: But you can’t confirm it, because it isn’t me. You are talking to someone else.
PH: This is strange.
GT: I didn’t send you a letter, but I am Greville Tombs.
PH: Will I continue your subscription?
Me: I don’t have a subscription. Never have. What I am more concerned about is how you got my number. Was it on the letter?
GT: Let me check. You have signed the letter “Greville Tombs”.
Me: I can’t have.
PH: Let me look again at the subscription details on my screen.
GT: Good idea. Is there anything in them which might suggest a different contact name, as I am the only Greville Tombs at this address?
PH: OK. Can you now confirm your name is Greville Turns?
GT: No.
PH: You are not Greville Turns?
GT: No. I am Greville Tombs.
PH: But why have I got your address and phone number?
GT: What is the phone number? The phone number you dialled to get me today?
PH: 1111 222 3333
GT: That’s not my phone number.
PH: This is very strange.
GT: You have dialled the Open Plan Office switchboard number and you asked for Greville Tombs and have been put through to me.
PH: Yes.
GT: Only you wanted Greville Turns not Greville Tombs.
PH: OK. I have your email address on the subscription screen.
GT: What is it?
PH: Greville dot Turns at Faceless dot org dot uk
GT: That’s not my email address. I am Greville Tombs. But I think I know what has happened. I am checking to see if we have a staff member named Greville Turns.
PH: Hmmm, it is very important I talk with you about your subscription – there are big changes to come in the New Year and I need to confirm them with you.
GT: I don’t have a subscription with you and I am Greville Tombs, not Greville Turns.
PH: This is funny.
GT: It is a little confusing.
PH: I will email instead, I think that this is the better idea, bye!
GT: I think so too. Bye, now!
It was the girl’s steadfast refusal to accept it wasn’t me, when her sole reason for calling was to securely confirm she was talking to the right person, which left me laughing!
She was her own paradox.
Which, incidentally, is the name of Greville and the Tombstone's touring support band next year, I am led to believe.
2 weeks later, I only go and get another phone call. I know!:
“Hello I am calling from Different Publishing House my name is Echo, Victor, Alpha, November, November, India, Alpha. Am I speaking to your company’s payment account department?”
Whoa, Love! I need a pencil. OK Bravo Two Zero!
"No, I am not in this department. I don't think we even have this department." "Oh! Do you know about payment accounts in your company?" "No. Can I take your details and get someone to call you back?" "Can I call this number again and leave a voice mail instead?" "SIGH!"
I mean, what is going on these days with publication house telephonists? Clearly these people are sat at a computer screen with one of those headsets which Rachel Stevens used to wear on stage and, like Rachel Stevens, totally unable to think sideways or deviate from the prescribed question/response they are trained for our gentle entertainment for.
All this made me think quite hard as I sat tugging the cable out the back of my phone.
What happened to Rachel Stevens? Is she still recording? Tell me she is still putting out calenders, at least.
Why, oh why does February have the fewest days in?
So here is my brief word stream review of 2012 and feel free to fit them into any categories you might have written down:
Olympics, John Terry, Savile, Mr Wig - Wiggo - Wiggins, Greville and the Tombstones, Mayans, films, gangnam style.
There! Are you happy now? Are you not entertained?
I have had literally no tweets asking why I haven't blogged a year review like I did in 2011 and 2010.
The reason is almost certainly the same as why I didn't write one - because people are tired of 2012 reviews. There seemed to be a never ending myriad of reviews of 2012. It was exhausting living through it all again before it was even over.
But I hear what you are saying. It is 2013 now.
Ok, you have twisted my arm.
Here are just a couple of things which I thought were stand outs of the 2012 and deserve a mention in an end of year summary, which many reviews may have missed.
Best TV of 2012
Sport this year dominated the TV. But sport is not really proper television. Sport on TV is a seat in the stadium or visual radio show. Although sport did produce some wonderful jaw dropping and unimaginable moments in 2012's 12 months it did not produce the most jaw dropping or the most unimaginable.
That went to a programme called 15 Stone Babies (C4).
15 Stone Babies was astonishing. It basically showed what will happen if you keep your Cabbage Patch doll for 40 years. Grown men and women wanting to be fully cared for as infants and the wives, girlfriends, boyfriends and businesses facilitating this want.
The only show which equalled my state of mesmerised horror was a programme from a few years back which I think was called, Guys and Dolls.
Guys and Dolls told the stories of 4 men who purchased, used and cared for "realdolls". For those who don't know, Realdolls are a mad scientist's experiment gone wrong of splicing Barbie DNA with that of 5 blow up sex dolls. Life sized anatomically correct latex dolls, glass eyes, tongues like stress balls and featuring spring loaded hips.
3 scenes from Guys and Dolls remain with me.
1. The chap who needed to return his doll to the factory to be chemically cleaned BY HAND [if I cleaned men's sex dolls for a job I would lie if someone asked why my hands are so soft and say I smother piglets for a living] and have its VAGINAL WALLS replaced [shudder]. He was brushing it's hair and stuff as he packaged it up back in it's tea crate to be sent away.
2. The man who wanted to have his realdoll lifestyle combined with a normal relationship so went on a dating site. Openly he explained to the girl he had a thing for realdolls. Fine, she said, everyone has something a little odd. Bet she wasn't expecting it to be a big but odd though and to walk into his house to see 8 realdolls sitting around his living room as best they could in their, what can only be described as, whoring postures. To his credit, the man had dressed them in demure conservative dresses, put make-up on them as if they were ginny-women of 1860's London. There was also the paper cone party hats on their heads and party blowers in their dirty mouths because it was Lucy realdoll's birthday.
If that lady didn't think: "Just eat a bit cake, drink a little tea, talk about the weather, pretend this is all normal and I might get out of here alive" then I don't know when she would ever think it, quite honestly.
[Anyway, forget the menagerie of life-sized, latex, love ladies, it's the teddy ruxpin on the shelf you need to worry about. There is a home recorded cassette up his ass of the guy talking dirty in a "lady voice". Probably]
3. The lad who tried to kick his realdoll addiction and shoved his collection into cardboard boxes in the garage, producing a scene resembling one of those suburban serial killers the cops occasionally stumble upon in Russia.
Anyway, I digress.
These adult babies enjoyed being tended to, changed and nursed. Both sides of the agreement suggested there was nothing sexual in the role-play but that "accidents happen" and are generally ignored.
The "babies" really wanted to remove all responsibility from their lives - to not have to worry about dressing, toileting or even, for some, understanding words. Those mothering (or fathering) them seemed to enjoy the caring, power and the nurturing aspects - saying the process fulfilled a need for them too.
Despite perceptions these people were in unhealthy relationships, and there was more to this fetish/lifestyle than simple enjoyment of role-playing it was something to realise these people were openly discussing this at all. Identities were not hidden.
Hi, this is me, this is the company I work for, this is my home and this is my man sized cot.
Perhaps 2012 was the point where people were becoming more aware and tolerant of what people like to innocently do without questioning any undercurrent of perversion?
One couple on the show at the end, explained it wasn't quite doing it for the husband anymore so he was busy building a sex-dungeon in the shed at the far side of their garden.
Ah.
So, to my winner!
New Girl.
Good Lord but I love New Girl - it is the perfect accompaniment to a hot chocolate served in a thick mug with Christmas designs printed on. Starring the leggy mermaid Zooey Deschanel and a cast of characters of which Schmidt is the stand out comedy conducting rod, it is simply a lovely piece of TV. How I truly feel about it, disappointingly for a blog, is something I struggle to put into words. Perhaps the best way to put it is I am following the entire cast of the show on Twitter on the off-chance they do a Twitter only episode and I don't want to miss it!
Weirdest moment of 2012
2012 did have it's fair share of weird moments. In 2010 the award went to Raoul Moat and 2011 the Krankies. So look away now if you don't want a little gentle controversy.
Up to the last moment of 2011 I was going to award this to the end of the world as predicted by old Religious fruit, Harold Camping, before the Krankies stole a march. Unfortunately for Earth, it has happened again.
According to some, that the Mayan calender ended on our modern 21st December 2012 was a sure sign of the end of the world. For me, I wondered if the Mayans wouldn't just have planned to hang up another one, like what I do every January 3rd. Of course, we will never know who was correct. Oh, no, that's right, we did, on 22nd December, it was me.
But let's cut to the chase!
For me, the weirdest thing came out of the hoax call made to the Private Hospital by a couple of OZ radio DJs gaining insight into the condition of the host to our future royal ruler parasite. [this isn't a treasonous sentence, but of high satire about modern monarchy and the female role within it. Honest]
Why these DJs wanted and were allowed to do this in the first place, given it was not a very funny "prank" - let's pretend we are the Royal Family and try and get confidential medical records is not funny, just a poor plot-line from a low budget ITV spy drama - will remain a mystery when studied in the cold light of day.
They said they never thought they would the information they were eventually privy to, that someone would have been sharp to their rouse. But this simply makes their motive even more blurred.
Then the UK media got involved. They blamed the DJs and they lambasted the Hospital Staff for a week. Then things took a tragic turn. One of the nurses hoodwinked took her own life.
The DJs now at the centre of this awful situation were distraught. Filmed broken, in tears, careers almost certainly over apologising into infinity. Their lives shattered after what they considered to be a bit of a laugh at someone's expense who they did not know or care about.
Once it became apparent a fortnight later that this was not a case of "pranking the pranksters" and the nurse was not just waiting to jump out of the wardrobe in the girl DJs bedroom in what surely be the ultimate prank of all time, it was time to reflect on what this all meant.
Suddenly the dangers of prank calls, hidden camera jokes and constructed situations to cause elevated reactions were laid bare. The risks and post-trauma potential risks are astronomical when considering the permutations of how people will react.
Those Mayans stopping their calendar short as a jape - someone died falling off a mountain in France which some (I believe the term is) loon dictated to be the only safe place on Earth on 21st December.
You've Been Framed - you are watching potential injury and death and serious mental health issues happening as you sit with your tea tray on your knees eating your fish fingers and sweet corn on a Saturday early evening, before your eyes.
If you thought the investigation to Savile was in depth, wait until someone sends the police the box set of Beadle's About.
Hopefully this terriable incident will mean the end to all these contrived and recorded set-ups which simply feasts on people's genuine humiliation and are always cruel.
There are better things to laugh at - and one of the best of them is New Girl.
So here is to a slightly less filled year in 2013, and one with fewer slo-mo montages of sporting emotion.
Now time to party 2013 music style!!
Sheesh, Roll on 2014 or to when the chronological rolls over to 0000 and we get to 1985 again.
And that's why I didn't do an annual review this time.
After I wrote the pretend song, The Unicorn Song, and posted it onto my band blog I wasn't prepared for the response. People telling about unicorns, sending me pictures of unicorns, asking me why I like unicorns...
The following exchange of conversation has become part of my life now.
There is a street in Glenrothes, Scotland called Unicorn Way, maybe Greville needs to move to live there:
You write one song about a vampire being into kinky unicorn sex...!
I now know how Wet Wet Wet felt.
I might need to delete all copies of my song and hope that heroin does the rest
in making me forget I ever mentioned the words “Unicorn” and “Song”.
I am haunted by unicorns. Their phosphorus, twisted horns glow out of the fog
of my middle conscience state. Their ribs hang with the strips of rotten white
skin and they brae out from the darkness welled in pools in my mind and I smell
their cured breath vapours from between their pointed cracked teeth as I drift
to sleep.
In saying that – travelling to Glenrothes to get a photo of me at the sign would make a cool roadtrip movie. Does anyone have a Video recorder these days?
That would be a short movie.
I wouldn’t look for a cinematic release.
Straight to the Poundland DVD section?
Yes.
“Greville Tombs goes the full distance to face his demons: Unicorns. “The Way to
Unicorn Way” is a cool road trip movie full of hip tunes and shows us the youth
of today as close-up, and as real… and as funky… as never before. You’ll laugh at
their jokes, be touched by their feelings and be shocked by the standards they
live by. “The Way to Unicorn Way” is not a movie the government wants you to
see, but then, if you go to Unicorn Way, you don’t play by legislation. “The
Way to Unicorn Way” where one man and his group of young, fresh ladies take on
unicorns their own way. Rated R: Contains scenes of nudity while driving and
prolonged Unicorns.”
How does a unicorn become prolonged?
You’ll see. Oh, you’ll see.
I am disturbed!
I thought the film sounded fun. Kind of thing I’d watch. But the point is, I created the band blog to get away from the madness of being in an imaginary band recording a make-believe album out of pretend songs - and now? Well now I am pitching straight-to-DVD movies about the single off it.
It is upside down and I can't seem to fix it. No matter - the photo is the mere McGuffin here. If you want to find out why I took it then follow my Twitter account.
