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This morning, whilst in the middle of the mind-numbingly dull task of painting every room in an empty flat with only my DAB tranny for company (woof!), I suddenly tired of my usual diet of Radio 5 Live (the BBC’s attempt to appeal to the Daily Mail demographic by means of phone-ins which feature mostly shouty builders called Dave who start sentences with “I’m not racist, but…” and self-righteous stay-at-home mums from Tunbridge Wells), so I turned the dial to see what I could find, eventually alighting on Planet Rock. “Dr Feelgood” by Motley Crue, “Spirit of Radio” by Rush and “Heart of Gold” by Neil Young were the first three tracks served up for my delectation; I was impressed. Then came the adverts; first up, a plug for the latest issue of music mag “Mojo”, featuring a Neil Young interview and an exclusive CD with a re-interpreted recording of his classic album “Harvest”. Fan-bloody-tastic, I thought; even the adverts are good! I belong to a demographic after all! FINALLY, there’s a radio station for MY kind of guy!
And then the next advert came on: “Over 50? Overweight? Struggling to control your cholestorol levels? Then try Flora ProActive.”
Yeah, cheers for that.
This entry was posted on Wednesday, January 5th, 2011 at 6:09 pm and is filed under General, or uncategorized due to sloppy editing, Irritating Things. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.
Kind of like the feeling of idly yet approvingly staring at an appealing rear end, and then having the possessor turn around to reveal his face.
Not long ago, on a Saturday evening, I was locking my bike outside my house where I saw two people helping a third stagger up the road towards me, all three singing ‘Row, row, row your boat’ in several different keys, at least three of which are not native to Earth. I started muttering about the disgusting drunkards in the area and mentally composing a letter to the Times.
Until they got closer, and I realise they were a Downs syndrome girl and her two supportive parents.
… or catching the eye of a nice-looking checkout girl, smiling confidently, maybe cracking a light gag, thinking “I’ve still got it!” after the event - and then, next time you look in the mirror, realising that she was looking at you so intently because you’ve unknowingly spilled half your lunchtime New Covent Garden Minestrone down your shirt.
Or, in the rare case where I haven’t spilled on myself, realizing that the next most likely explanation for the intent stare is, “Hmm. He reminds me in a weird way of my dad.”