Adman and Eve

Last week, I wrote a guest blog about advertising and prostitution. You can read it here

Bus

I am pretty excited. I have just discovered a bus route that’ll cut my travel to work by about 15 minutes. My wife and I arrive at the bus stop full of expectation – she is with me to test the route. I smile at another couple who are already waiting. The girl smiles back.

The guy just nods. No smile.

He’s probably threatened by another male suddenly joining the bus queue. He knows that today’s maverick buses stop anywhere within a 10 metre range – he’ll lose face in front of his girlfriend if it stops near to us and we step on first. In other parts of the animal kingdom, pee markings would clarify where everyone is supposed to stand.

I nod back to show I understand.

He looks relieved.

Minutes pass of general glancing around. I read the nearby bus route information and discover something amazing. I prod my wife.

‘Listen…we are waiting for the number 40, but we can also get the number 65! They both go in the same direction!’

She stares at me with disbelief until I reveal the source of my information. She agrees with me that my discovery is, indeed, amazing.

We do more waiting. A few other people join the bus queue bringing with them more smiles, nods and worry. There is a chubby woman making her way down the other side of the street. She looks a bit like an Oompa Loompa. A young kid is trying to walk past her, but she is swinging her stumpy arms widely with each step – she has to do this to gather forward momentum. Years of walking experience must have shown her that, without the flailing arms, she grinds to an inevitable halt. The kid sees his chance and dashes past on the left side.

Everyone in the bus queue is watching, waiting. We are witnessing a small, but significant act of courage in the urban theatre. The kid whips his shoulder, matrix-style, to avoid a meaty Oompa Loompa hand. I hear a gasp behind me. It could have been nasty...but the kid is now strolling ahead, optimistic about his future.

There is no time for us to dwell on what we’ve just seen – the bus arrives.

People in the queue have noticed the bus is very full. Panic spreads and our previously harmonious queue becomes a medieval brawl. People who clearly arrived after us are pushing forward. The original guy must be wishing he’d done some peeing, but it’s too late now.

My wife uses her bag to fend off pushers and we’re on. All the seats are taken and I march down the gangway. Shortly, the gangway is pretty much filled. There is tension on the bus. The sitting people resent the standing people for leaning into their personal space; the standing people resent the sitting people for having seats. In French Revolutionary terms, the Standers are the revolutionary underclass and the Sitters are the bloated aristocracy.

I digress.

The bus closes its door and trundles along to the next stop. We pull up to a new bus queue – more panic and pushing. But there is a problem. The original Standers haven’t moved down the bus enough. I am the lead Stander, so I move down to create extra space. But the other Standers don’t follow! A man with a yellow hat is resolutely refusing to move.

The bus driver notices.

‘Will the man in the yellow hat please move down! People can’t get on the bus!’

Hatman has had enough of being oppressed by the two-tier class system of the bus. The Driver, after all, is also a Sitter. Ideas of bloody revolution, class equality and workers rights are probably whirling around Hatman’s beleaguered mind.

He has no option but to express this to the Driver.

He decides to say, ‘F**k you!’

Eloquent. Sitters are aghast – not so comfy in their seats now. Their leader has been challenged and the world has changed. Who does the Driver think he is? Perhaps we should all take turns doing the driving and have a rota-system for the seats. The Driver is just a human man, like the rest of us.

‘I’m not moving the bus until you move down the gangway,’ is the Driver’s teacher-like response.

Checkmate. The Driver didn’t get to the top by buckling in situations like this. Hatman toys with his iPhone and shuffles a few grumbling steps in my direction. I look at him, and pity his stupid hat and dreams.

The bus moves off.

The gangway action has distracted me, and I notice my wife is no longer nearby. I check around.

She is a Sitter.

Vendetta

Recently I’ve been eating a lot of spicy food. This isn’t part of any grand strategy or culinary plan. It just seems to be that I need spicier and spicier food to satisfy my taste buds.

The last weekend was a fairly good example.

My wife and I are heading to Bodean’s. For those of you not in the know, Bodean’s is the only place in London where you can get decent American BBQ food for a good price. So I’m feeling pretty smug as we walk in the door. Apropos of nothing, I am a regular attendee at the Bodean’s in Soho, but on this occasion I find myself at the Tower Bridge one (which is not as good).

A helpful lady walks us to our seats. She is a waitress, not just a helpful stranger. She gestures towards a small table for two. I glance at my wife and see her nose twitch. We are thinking the same thing. We are not a particularly chubby couple, but it’s nice to have space to spread out. I like to place my beer in a north-westerly direction from my plate, and my water in the north-east. The small table means both drinks will both have to be crammed due east. And I don’t know what my wife’s system for drink placement is, but I’m damned sure it’s more complex than mine.

The restaurant is perhaps 40% full and there are plenty of larger tables. My wife asks the waitress if we could sit at a larger table. The waitress is not happy.

‘No, I’m afraid not. We may well be busy tonight and might need the larger tables for a bigger group.’

We don’t feel like arguing so we sit. We get the tiny table because of potential customers that may potentially need the larger tables at some potential point in a potential future. We fume a bit.

Our mood soon improves when my wife whips out her special Bodean’s Q card. This magical card gets us free stuff when we order and this makes me tremendously happy. Today we get free chicken wings. The lady offers us a choice of flavour ranging from mild to Diablo. Now, I’m as adventurous as the next guy, but Diablo sounds worrying. We opt for hot, which is one notch below Diablo, and wait expectantly.

Five minutes pass during which time we worry that we have only got one of the usual two bottles of BBQ sauce on our table.

The wings arrive. I silently thank the higher power that there are six. Odd numbers of food create awkward food sharing situations. After over thirty years of life, that is the one piece of philosophy I can claim as truly mine. So don’t nick it. Or do, but credit me.

Remember ‘Odd numbers of food create awkward food sharing situations.’ Pithy.

I digress.

We each take a wing and bite. They are unbelievably hot. Words cannot convey the searing spicy, heat of these wings. Imagine putting a small bit of the sun on your tongue and then stabbing your gums repeatedly. My lips go numb, my nose begins to run and my eyes start to water. I wonder if I will cry.

I look across the tiny table to my wife. We share a moment of complete agreement. Perhaps we will never agree on anything as much as we agree that these are particularly hot wings. I stare at the wing in my shaking hand.

‘There is no way they have hotter wings than this!’ I whisper through my pain, ‘She has given us the Diablo wings!’

My wife gulps down some water.

‘This is her revenge for our asking about a bigger table,’ she hisses, ‘she has taken spicy vengeance!’

I nod wisely and imagine the waitress peering covertly around a corner to watch our pain.

Now, when the situation requires it, I can be as small-minded and childish as anyone. I decide that this is just such a situation and that my wife and I will finish, yes finish, the entire plate of wings. That’ll show our vengeful waitress just who's boss.

I explain my plan to my wife but, if I am honest, I’m not clear if she is supportive of the plan or not. There are six wings and we have already finished one each. Leaving four. I munch bravely though my remaining two wings – speed is best. My eyes clear around 2 minutes later and I see my wife has also finished. Jubilation fades to confusion. She has left her last wing, fully untouched, in the plate. It is a thick, chunky wing and is swimming in the deepest puddle of hot sauce. I had avoided this particular wing, hoping my wife would eat it.

She obviously hasn’t.

From the way she is cleaning up with face wipes, it is clear she has no intention of proceeding any further. I point at the last wing accusingly. She sips her beverage and looks stubborn. The sort of look that says there is no chance on God’s green earth she’ll eat this or any other wing. I die a little inside. For I too am stubborn. And now the mantle has been passed to me. I peer down at the wing and prod it with my fork.

My wife tells me she feels faint. I tell her this isn’t about her. She had her chance. This is about me and the big wing. I need to focus – surely she understands that I don’t have time to worry about a fainting wife.

I grab the wing, glance around the see if the waitress is looking, and quickly scrape off as much sauce as possible. I eat it as speedily as I can and, after a minute or so of misery, am bathing in the warm glow of victory.

The waitress comes by after a short while and clears our plates. She doesn’t seem to notice that we ate all the wings. She is quick and professional. No awe, wonder, or words of congratulation. As she sweeps off, we are left pondering the possibility that the waitress did not engage in ‘spicy vengeance’ and that they weren’t Diablo wings. Just regular hot wings.

We tip well and leave Bodean’s to begin our walk home. We are in a strangely happy mood, giggly even. I’m aware that spicy food can release endorphins in your brain, but this is my first proper experience of the phenomenon. We amble across Tower Bridge chatting like giddy hippies and agree that, next time, we must order the Diablo flavour to remove any doubt.

The next day, we wander around Brick Lane and decide to go for a curry. For the first time in our collective lives, we order a vindaloo. It is great.

We are addicts.

A bit of futurology

Ok, this is a slight departure from my usual, light-hearted take on life. I've been in a bit of a Nostradamus mood recently, so thought I'd share my musings.

The whole concept of simulation has been bugging me. Like many of my fellow brethren, I enjoy the odd play on my Xbox. I don’t spend hours on the thing, but I've done my share of running around and killing baddies. I don’t buy into the idea that violent games have a harmful psychological affect on otherwise normal people. Yet. If you look at the evolution of game simulations over the last 25 years, you’ll see a change from square blobs moving jerkily across black screens, to the movie quality games available now. Advancement in quality will doubtless continue and the inevitable end point is an entirely immersive 3D environment, virtually indistinguishable from reality. Proper virtual reality. I reckon that running around in this environment shooting people in the head is likely to be a much more harrowing and damaging proposition than Grand Theft Auto. Scary even.

This leads to interesting questions for moral philosophers. Games are already developing in the direction of free roam worlds and increasing customisation. What happens when the ‘game’ player can customise the almost-real simulations of the future? What if you found out someone had created a simulation of you? How will we feel about people who do very bad things in these almost-real simulations? Will punishing or vilifying someone for engaging in distasteful simulations or customisations be the same as punishing someone for their thoughts?

I think almost-real simulation challenges the line between thought and action.

So, what does all of this mean? No idea. Smarter people than me will need to work it out. What is certainly true is that we are heading into an increasingly tricky world for the ethics leaders and law-makers to decipher.

Job Centre

If you have never had to claim job-seeking benefit payments from a Job Centre, you are very lucky. I am currently in the unfortunate position of having to do so and am required to attend fortnightly interviews at my local Job Centre to prove that I am actually looking for work. Needless to say, I find these regular visits somewhat disruptive to my job searching.

In the beginning I was filled with naïve optimism. I received an appointment card that informed me I was to attend the Job Centre at 11:22 every other Thursday.

11.22.

Not 11.20 or 11.25.

I found this encouraging and had visions of German-esque efficiency and customers being smoothly processed in 2 minute time slots.

Time passes. It is the day of my first visit.

I arrive at the Job Centre and am greeted by a double door. I see two door attendants standing inside. Neither moves to open the door for me, so I open the door myself. I smile at the door people: one man and one woman. I find I am smiling alone. No words are spoken so I continue on, triggering the female guard into action. She bars my path with a stumpy arm.

‘What are you here for?’ she snaps, jutting her chin out.

I explain that, like almost everyone else, I am here for my Job Centre interview. She seems suspicious, but gestures that I should move onward. Three metres ahead there is another woman leaning on a Welcome podium. I approach her and smile. I am still smiling alone. She musters up the energy to raise an eyebrow in acknowledgment of my presence. I realise that verbal communication skills are thin on the ground here, so I just wave my appointment card. She thumbs behind her in the direction of a large waiting area.

I walk on and find a spot on one of the seats. The seats are arranged in three sides of a square and face inwards. The area is fairly full, so we all sit in silence trying not to stare at each other. There is no interesting reading material available, but there is a slight smell of cheese in the air.

Across from the waiting area are four service desks numbered 1 to 4. All four have staff behind them but only one is attending to a customer. My hopes of quick and efficient service wane. There are no Germans here. It is 11.21 and here is what I can see: the young guy running Desk 1 is looking at his screen. He is not typing or showing any other signs of life and looks bewildered; the guy at Desk 2 is actually handling a customer – but he looks stressed and panicky; the lady at Desk 3 is lounging and typing fluidly – a little too fluidly – perhaps an email to a friend or Twitter; the older fellow at Desk 4 has pulled his chair back and appears to be looking intently at his shoes and is grunting occasionally.

Nothing good can come of this.

We wait.

11.22 is now long gone. Three of the desks have still not serviced any customers, but Desk 2 is now available and shouts ‘Mr Thomas’ to summon his next victim. I say ‘shouts’, but it is more of a whisper. ‘Mr Thomas’ he tries again, this time a reedy whine. I can only hear this because I am seated closest to Desk 2 - I am fairly sure Mr Thomas cannot. Desk 2 tries again several times. At no stage does he consider getting off his ass and walking the ten metres across to the waiting area. I inform the folk near me of Desk 2’s need for a Mr Thomas and immediately a small, chubby man gets up and shuffles across to Desk 2.

We wait.

At long last Desk 3 has completed her epic email. She seems pleased. Perhaps she was planning a birthday. She pulls out a piece of paper from her work-pile and stares at it blankly. She looks up in the general direction of the waiting area and whispers ‘Mr Thomas.’ Desk 4, who has stopped staring at his shoes and is now fiddling with his footrest, leans across and tells Desk 3 that Mr Thomas is already at Desk 2. Not much slips passed Desk 4 it seems. For completeness, I should mention that Desk 1 is now absent. He got up, still bewildered, and wandered off some time ago.

Desk 3 leans over to Desk 2 who has just begun to deal with Mr Thomas. There is much nodding as both agree that Mr Thomas is indeed being seen. Desk 3 returns to her work-pile and flips through it unenthusiastically. In the waiting area, we all lean slightly forward, anticipating our names being called next. After a few moments, she starts a new email.

So we wait.

It is now 11.45. Desk 4 calls me forward, creatively adding an ‘S’ to the end of my surname. As I walk across, I realise the cheese smell is concentrated in the waiting area. I ponder the possibility that someone over there has actually died.

I take a seat at Desk 4. He has fixed his footrest and is sipping a cup of coffee while staring intently at his screen. He probably got the job based on such exemplary multi-tasking.

‘Have you been using the Internet in your job search?’

He still doesn’t look up from his screen. I assume he is looking at porn.

‘Yes’, I dully intone.

‘What does this say?’, he jabs a grubby finger at my form.

‘It says “speculative”.’ I reply.

His expression betrays total incomprehension.

After another 30 seconds of equally penetrating probing, my interview is over. I head for the exit and pass the Welcome podium, now vacant, and the two door monkeys who are deep in discussion about their new mobile phones. They do not open the door for me. I escape onto the street, relief quickly fading into dread as I consider the potential of future fortnightly interviews. As I begin my walk home, I spot Desk 1 standing with one of his colleagues a hundred yards or so up the street.

They are drinking Starbucks and laughing.

Legs and The Lord of the Rings

I have short legs and a long torso. It isn’t my fault and there is very little I can do about it. When I look in the mirror, the overall impression is that my waist is exactly halfway up my body. In other words, my torso contributes more to my overall height than many believe it should. T-shirts are always too short and trousers are always too long. Suave dress is a problem.

I often wonder what can be done about this sorry situation. I once read that people with short legs should wear matching colours on their top and bottom halves – this way, there is no clear breakpoint of colour midway up your body. This is supposed to stop people from noticing your short legs. It really doesn’t.

We live in an age of political correctness. So what is the polite term for short-legged folk like me? I spent a few minutes touring the Web today to try and find out, but I'm sorry to report that there doesn't appear to be an accepted term. I did find the following though:

A criminal = Morally challenged individual
Clumsy = Uniquely coordinated
Cowardly = Challenge challenged
To fail = To achieve a deficiency
Handicapped = Handi-capable
Ignorant = Factually unencumbered
Serial killer = Person with difficult-to-meet needs

More can be found here.

Anyway – I fear I have strayed from the point.

Here are my suggestions for PC terms for us short-legged folk:
- economical in the lower limb area
- low-waisted
- demonstrating frugality of leg
- strong-legged (my fav!)

I am happy to take other suggestions.

Sometimes I try to see the positives in having short legs. I’m reasonably sure I would fare better in a strong gale than the rest of you long-legged, spidery looking folk. Also, my brain signals don’t have so far to travel down my legs, so doubtless my feet should be more responsive. In fact, a recent study of the world’s best tap-dancers proved this. Probably. Also, let's not forget limbo-dancing! In the dark and underground world of unlicensed limbo, long-legged wannabes are roundly mocked until they wake up to their foolhardy ambitions.

I have a friend who also has short legs. Many times we have stood in bars, with our jean hems taken up, and glanced around at the smug, long-legged crowds. In Lord of the Rings terms, we are the stocky Dwarves and they are the willowy Elves. This makes me happy, because the Elves were assholes.

Vintage Adverts

The last Friday Four was fairly negative. So, in the spirit of karmic balance, this one isn’t. Here are four classic adverts from my childhood:

1. Milk Tray

In my opinion, one of the best adverts of all time. Three factors come together in perfect harmony: the James Bond-style music; the man who laughs in the face of sharks and; the astonishing ability to keep a box of chocolates dry underwater. But this was in the carefree days of the 1980s – nowadays, the only knife-wielding chaps found clambering onto boats are Somali pirates. How depressing. And all because the lady loves Milk Tray.

2. Hamlet

Since 2002 all forms of tobacco advertising are banned in England. This is a shame because Hamlet cigar adverts used to be quite amusing. The ad agency behind this one hit on the universal truth that comb-overs are always funny. Are they funnier than mullets? Tough question, though it is a lifetime ambition of mine to see a comb-over and mullet combined on the same head.

3. Carling Black Label

I remember thinking it was amazing that anyone could train a squirrel to do this. Fun advert, but not sure why the ad agency thought linking beer and athleticism was a smart idea.

4. Wrigleys

Boy meets girl on a bus. Boy gives girl a stick of gum. Girl breaks stick of gum in half and gives half back to boy. Boy gets off the bus, probably thinking the relationship was developing at too fast a pace for his liking. Boy turns and sees girl staring at him from the bus. Boy makes a gesture as if to say ‘I have no more gum – buy your own!’ Boy walks in to café to sit down, probably relieved. Last shot of the advert is the girl appearing behind him. Girl is thinking that the boy gave her a stick of gum, so now he is hers. This tense stalker plot, admirably set to the magnificent song ‘Alright Now’ by Free, makes for a classic advert.