Wednesday, 23 July 2008
I'm going to possibly be the first person in 2008 to spraypaint
on a wall.
Why? Well I want to see what it's like to come across something 99% of the polycellular population has been party to for several years then appropriate it and idiotically pass it off as my own.
of 24-cunt-power social ignorance from those that are paid to spend an unhealthy proportion of their lives gauging zeitgeists. We're used to cultural appropriation but actually passing this off as an original idea? The audacity of some horrendous goon pinching something after some 20 bumzillion hits, compunded with the lack of checks that managed to get this passed...and then...a fucking Blacmange soundtrack?
I'm guessing only way you can live with yourself redundantly using your creativity and expression to sell overpriced hangover remedies is by stealing someone else's work, thus at least hanging onto a few leptons of your own gak and buzzword-dimmed soul.
Friday, 18 July 2008
Basing it's new campaign on a quote from 19th Century American Christian columnist George Matthew Adams, Orange trots into your living room like that embarrassing party guest who everyone hates but who takes himself so seriously. The kind who wants to explain the butterfly effect when you're in the middle of a joke about Maxine Carr. We'll call him Jan (soft J)
"There is no such thing as a 'self-made' man. We are made up of thousands of others. Everyone who has ever done a kind deed for us, or spoken one word of encouragement to us, has entered into the make-up of our character and of our thoughts, as well as our success lol."
That's roughly it and a sweet sentiment, bit banal, fair enough SO
"I am my Mum....and my sister" Shucks...set that stage! So it's either a)a self- reproducing asexual incestuous snick new English-speaking sentient being OR b)Some justlikeyou fanny who's determined to bore you with his borrowed metaphysics.
Now, within the first 5 words, anyone who isn't the kind of person who points at planes realizes the premise, but of course we have to sit through the usual cast of cunts who the soppy bore has had any fleeting contact with, and yes there follows the usual hopelessly homogenized amalgam of middle class tepid cutouts...Girls he's kissed (and taken to Pizza Express in that new pedestrianized bit) EVERY one of his glazed-over friends (none of whom would put you off your Ricicles were they staring at you from a milk carton) and then...
The killer blow...the "FINISH HIM" moment...the Fuckest of dross lines of the whole sorry event.
"..a bloke I'll meet travelling...who'll teach me the guitar"
So far the style of narration has been akin to a gap year dullard on his deathbed, this is the point where a hint of animation in his tone has the relatives put the crossword down and hold their breath for the pupils to dilate.
...but no we get further 20 seconds dedicated to his shit mates,shitter acquaintances, shit places, pets, proctologists, paedophilic priests, I don't know, blech blech blech until you find yourself literally screaming "WHAT IS THIS IN FUCKING AID OF?"
lets cut the Creative twat time, pull a one liner out of the history of thought and bolt it onto a product.
God is Dead...Nandos
Orange have plotted their marquee in the town square of aspirational irrelevance with this fetid faux-fecund slab of twatronising guff.
You are who you are because of everyone you know - and they're all cunts.
Thursday, 3 July 2008
Whooosh it's The Matrix!
'cept in the place of high powered weaponery and the like it's [drumroll]
Budget airline tickets and car insurance.
The plot shittens.
And subbing for Neo and Morpheus it's one of those fuckfaced couples that can only be the result of the most odious focus groups. You can literally pick apart the brainstorm...the sweaty stench of the Soft Thinking Space as the runner clears up the Perrier and uneaten fruit.
"We need to fly to Barcelona"
but it's not, is it? it's "WenneedaflydaBarcelouna"
which acts as sole catalyst in turning a daft idea that's almost endearingly crap and transparently patched together into something truly malevolent.
The execrable Mid-Atlantic accent actually manages to sound put on...it’s as if he realizes he sounds like a cock but well, it's take 700 and he’s only got a dozen or so WeneedtoflytoBarcelona’s in him before he feels so sick with himself and society that he’s driven to assault the homeless or torture cats.
And in the follow up…of course they drive a New Mini don’t they.
I want to be their travel agent and plead partial deafness as I pack them off to Basra
Tuesday, 1 July 2008
YES so this is what did it.
"An Extra Event" proclaims a small ad in a newspaper and inevitably, a thousand-strong mob of CrosssecshunO'Ciiiety cram into an empty room to stand millimetres away from each other. They come from every strata - there's a studenty bellend (with terrible posture), an anachronistic Just For Men beard gel model, a dead-eyed ursine sex offender, senile game show host doing the "Is this Heaven!?"- face, strangely attractive spacehopper-eyed indie girl and the flaky cunt who's too self-consciously laid back to even put a hood up or down. He turns up tardy.
The soundtrack is 'The more we get together' by The Storytellers - The last word in redundant wetness...you can't really knock them that hard - it's a generic cover that is probably keeping the unsigned band in enough gum to mask any hint of Satan's semen or shit from the shitty-shit-shit-eating grin he sounds like he's singing through. it's more that the package as a whole is so knuckles-of-both-hands-chewingly mawkish that when you see the room packed to cuntpacity at the end, you yearn for the the walls to start getting closer in what would truly be the swiftest smugwipe in history.