Tag Archives: all that guff

My car advert

The scene opens on a sparse expanse of land, bereft of anything bar one or two tiny shrubs, struggling to get even a little bit of anything from this life. It is, obviously, all presented in black and white – just so you know it’s ART. There are swooshing and swooping noises, with three or four quick cuts showing – very briefly, as in less than a second in length – the wheels of a moving car, the headlights, the exhaust and the side profile. A deep, authoritative-sounding man speaks the voice over:

“To experience is to be, to be is to do… and yet… we think?”

We return to the dead, black and white landscape and are treated to a few more cuts. They’re very similar to the ones we’ve seen before, though each lasts approximately 20 per cent longer than last time. The VO kicks back in:

“Heart, soul, thought, power, passion – feeling. But do we know?”

Again we return to the landscape – this time we can see a meaty, quite scary scorpion making its way through the area. More flashes of the car, this time enough to really see what it is and how epic the whole ‘vehicle’ thing is. It makes the viewer really want one. VO man returns:

“Confines: broken. Expression: expected. Fortitude: baroque. Onomatopoeia: boom. Elongated: sentence. Car 17539: will make you a better person.”

A massive fat bloke runs into the middle of the empty landscape, squats down and takes a shit on the passing scorpion. The camera remains zoomed on this close-up on a mean-looking arachnid trying its hardest to escape the sticky confines of a fat man’s poo.

The logo of the car flashes up, along with a price.

Can I have a job in advertising now, please?

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Food, eating and all that shit.

I have established earlier that I am incapable of looking after myself, feeding my stupid face noodles, pasta and other such simple, un-nourishing nonsense. I like it that way. That way is fun, tasty, sexy and easy. I don’t have to try to pretend to look after myself. But did I mention I have a girlfriend? She’s here now. She comes down south fairly often, and every time she does, my incredible plans go right out of the window.

For you see, this insane girl feels she has to feed me what would be classified as “real” food. She gets what I have read are called “ingredients”, mixes them “together” and makes “food” for “me” to eat. It’s not cool – it’s insane. Tonight I’m having roast chicken with bean stew. What’s going on?

I’m comfortable in what I eat. Noodles: they may have all the nutritional value of a pregnant pause, but they are salty and delicious. Pasta? I can make a vat of it to last a week and it costs me a couple of quid. There’s none of this ‘salt’ or ‘spices’ or other such nonsense. It’s simple, just like my brain, and it makes it easier for me to carry on living.

Having said that, this does smell amazing and I do really prefer this actual food to the nonsense I shove down my own gullet. Well done, woman.

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