Ask Me About Fleas And Worms

The picture above isn’t a mock-up.

It is a genuine poster on display outside the Pets At Home store in Leamington Spa.

I saw it last week and it literally stopped me in my tracks. I had to take a photo of it, such was my disbelief.

That poor woman! That was my initial thought. That poor, poor woman. Because she doesn’t look like a model or a stand-in (I have pixellated her face to protect her identity – though I acknowledge the futility of that considering she’s on a 6ft poster outside the store for all to see). She looks the genuine article. A real, bona fide store assistant. Some poor women who got called to the manager’s office one day and told to sit down in the comfy seat. The one with arms and a swivel mechanism that works.

“Barbara,” the manager would have said. “Babs. Do you mind if I call you Babs?”

And she would have smiled sweetly and thought, “Shit, he’s either going to fire me or I’m going to have to suck him off to get promotion.”

And then the manager would have revealed the truth. No sucking off. Just sucking.

“Babs, we would like you to be the face of our new campaign. Out of thousands of employees we have chosen yours as the face of our new marketing drive to encourage pet owners to check their beloved pets for fleas and worms. Yours is the visage that says, ‘Yes, I am an expert in this field and I am approachable if you wish to discuss your flea and worm problems.’ We’ve even had a T-shirt made up in your size. Slip it on, Babs, the photographer is downstairs waiting. Or I can give you your P45 if you prefer?”

And that was it. Deal done. Fate sealed. Picture taken. Credibility broken upon the cold altar of commerce.

That poor woman.

Is this the new MO for marketing campaigns? Is this a sign of how things are going to go?

What next?

CBeebies stalwart Justin Fletcher splayed on a poster with the words “Ask me about CRB checks” written in bold Comic Sans MS type beneath his clownish features?

A nice big political campaign poster of David Cameron above the words “Ask me about integrity, fairness and how to protect the rights of the vulnerable”?

How about G4S frontman Nick ‘Buckles under pressure’ with the words: “Ask me about your safety at the Olympi... whoops...!” or Rupert Murdoch “Ask me about a citizen’s right to privacy”?

The list, unlike this blog post, is I am sure endless.

But please don’t ask me about it.

Is This Man Taking Over The World?

Those of you who do not have kids or are, perhaps, indisposed to watching copious amounts of kid’s telly off your own bat will probably be unaware of the clear and present danger that is currently facing our nation.

You will perhaps be lying blissfully idle in your Rugby World Cup bliss; sniggering smugly as you watch Mock The Week or some other adult satire game-show or just sniggering stupidly at the silly people in Big Brother who behave exactly like what you do only wiv-out all the grace and charm you usually exhibit when you give Tel a bit of earache in Lidl for going for the cheap brand cigarettes.

You will be unaware. You will be asleep.

And whether you are a sleeping dragon or a sleeping dog remains to be seen.

One man is trying to take over the world.

He is everywhere. He is omnipresent. Both in body and in voice.

You cannot move anywhere on the CBeebie’s channel without bumping into the golf-ball nose of Justin Fletcher. It’s like he has turned the entire channel into his own personal star vehicle (complete with Pope-like glass viewing dome and furry dice). It started innocuously enough. The Tweenies. Higgledy-House. Something Special. Fine, we thought. He’s just working hard. Paying the bills. But then his voice started appearing on its own in other shows too. Just like Obi Wan Kenobi’s in fact. “Use the spotty bag, Mr Tumble! Use the spotty bag!” Timmy Time, Chuggington, Sean The Sheep – to name but three.

But that wasn’t enough for Citizen Fletcher, oh no. Then came Gigglebiz. An entire show featuring nothing but Justin playing a host of different vaudeville-esque characters. Endless, wall-to-wall Justin. Justin as a disco dancing king. Justin as a female TV naturalist called Anna Conda. Justin as a pantomime dame complete with massive honking breasts.

I felt uneasy. I felt uncomfortable.

This was getting a bit much.

Even in his heyday Noel Edmonds never got everywhere like this.

But the kids were lapping it up. The kids were being sucked in. There was nothing we could do to stem the tide.

And now it is too late. Now we have Justin’s House. Justin’s brand new show. Set in Justinland.

I am not joking.

Am I the only person who can see that this is proof of an ego grown out of all control? An id that has gone global? His catchphrase song on Justin’s House is, “Let’s wibble, let’s wobble.” It makes me shudder because I know there is a secret message hidden in there somewhere, some dire threat like the alien countdown thing in Independence Day. But despite the best minds at Bletchley Park working on it night and day we haven’t yet been able to break the code.

I know. I know. You’re all laughing. You’re all dismissing this as the by-product of a fevered but genius mind. I’m reading too much into it. I’ve lost the plot. I need a quick fix of BBC Four. Even a Channel Five documentary. But you’ll be sorry. You’ll all be sorry when Justin starts popping up in your life too (and squeezing his man-boobs so that they make a sound like a car horn). When Justin appears in Doctor Who as the Doctor’s new assistant you’ll remember my words. When Justin appears in Eastenders as Milkshake Jake and starts flinging whipped cream over that Mitchell fellow you will all quail and remember.

When Justin and his magic spotty bag appears outside number 10 with the new Budget wrapped up in cellophane inside it you will know the end has finally come.

And you’ll all be sorry then.

So just remember: if you see the man in the photo above please approach him with severe caution – he will teach you to say “I am special” in Sign Language and you will not be able to resist.

Go with care, my friends. And don’t say I didn’t warn you!

Careering Out Of Control

My trouble is I think I should be on television. Or, failing that, in television.

Script writing. Joke writing. Satirical gameshow panellist (obviously after downing a few stiff drinks to combat the nerves). Just something. My own office at the BBC. Next door to Steven Moffat. Eating in the Beeb canteen sat opposite Justin Fletcher. Anything.

This conviction has been growing on me for years.

When I watch a TV drama or watch people involved with them being interviewed I think to myself: that should be me, that should; I should be doing that. I’m bloody well made for it I am. It’s the kind of life I want.

But I don’t have it because it’s only come to me in the last few years that this is what I should be doing.

If it had hit me when I was 18 I would have stood more of a chance. I could have done voluntary work at the BBC. Made tea for Biddy Baxter. Polished Terry Wogan’s microphone. Demeaned myself for ten years before getting that first all-valuable foot onto the ladder...

“Oh yes, I’ve written the odd script myself, don’t you know... Care to take a look? Yes, it is rather good, isn’t it...? Just something I’ve had knocking around for the last 15 years...”

But now it’s going to be a hard slog. Upwards all the way. I’m the wrong side of 40. I’m still looking for an agent. Untried and untested despite my obvious *cough cough* talents. Even though I have actually been writing since I was 9. I have The Beatles’ Paperback Writer going round and round in my head. My (paid) work experience up to this point revolves around facilities management and maintenance contracts. It doesn’t exactly say the next Alan Bennett, does it?

I’m being tripped up by all the wrong career turnings I’ve ever taken; all the poor ‘done-for-the-convenience-of-the-moment’ decisions.

I’m still being held back by my youthful naivety – when all I wanted to do was write and so that is all I have been doing. For the last 30 odd years.

What I should have been doing was applying. Writing and trying to apply it. There’s a difference, you see?

Well, I’m not giving up.

Not yet.

I’ll make tea if I have to but, trust me BBC, I’m much better at writing it...

Invaded

If an English man’s home is his castle then his garden is surely his bailey.

Now, although Karen and I haven’t dunged ours about with watchtowers and weapons of war we have (at considerable expense) erected the kind of fence that even Daley Thompson would have trouble pole vaulting over.

So it was with some considerable shock that whilst going about our cosy family business in the dining room yesterday we spied a complete stranger running across our lawn towards our side gate and from thence to the street beyond.

Who this guy was we have no idea. We have never seen him before.

My wife’s only reaction was to drop her jaw. The guy saw this, waggled a finger to her as if to say, “no,” and carried on running. I didn’t get a good look at him but my wife did. He was, to quote her exactly, “chubby – in his twenties and plainly running from someone.”

Aside from the annoyance and sense of outrage this engendered in me (“Get orf moi laaaand!”) – not least because he left our garden gate wide open and we are constantly at pains to keep it secured lest our little ‘un wander out onto the street – he also aroused my curiosity.

Namely because my first reaction from my wife’s description of him was to surmise that he was merely trying to escape bullies or some yobs.

Why did my tiny mind jump to this conclusion? Because he was “chubby”. And that struck me as odd. (a) That my immediate conclusion to a fat person running across our lawn must be because he was trying to escape a mob of size zero Nazi’s with pitchforks and copies of the Atkins diet and (b) that I never considered that his slightly larger body shape might be disguising a thief, murderer, rapist or even a garden gnome defiler.

It just did not occur.

I mean, I’m annoyed he invaded the sanctity of my garden by making it his personal escape route to the chippy up the road but my first reaction wasn’t one of feeling threatened. His body shape somehow rendered him non-threatening. To the point where I wonder why the police don’t employ “big boned” people to act as hostage negotiators or anti siege personnel. I mean, if you were on a bridge about to commit suicide the one person bound to talk you down successfully would be Cbeebies chubber, Justin Fletcher, right?

OK. So that argument fell down at the first hurdle. Scrub that.

But it did make me think very seriously about how the media has trained us all to judge people purely on their body shape. What huge assumptions we all make based on waist size and body mass index.

I mean for all I know, My Chubby could have been running a marathon and had just got himself completely lost...

Roominations

Completely off topic this (in that this post is going to make scanty reference to it being the first day of 2009 and all that "New Year Resolution" kind of jazz)...

Whilst sitting monged in front of the telly during this festive holiday I recall hearing some news that both filled me with despair and inspiration. Well, inspiration of sorts.

Apparently Davina McCall has been quoted as saying that she believes that Big Brother can "run and run and run". I.e. Forever. For perpetuity. Until the End Of Time.

Naturally, being the presenter of the UK version of the show this is more than likely Davina's most fervent wish but my first reaction was "Oh God, is this nation never going to grow up and move away from reality TV smut and tawdriness? Are we forever going to be obsessed with the psychological ingrowing toenails of dysfunctional people who plainly do not know any better?"

Reality TV is the dark stain on the modern psyche. Some people are honest and just admit that they love it. Other people - people like me - profess to hate, loathe and despise it and yet eventually get sucked in. Even if only for a little bit.

It's impossible to ignore. The media goes wild for it. It's on the news, in the papers and, most insidious of all, in the workplace.

With a new series of Celebrity Big Brother about to hit the small screen I just know that the sole topic of conversation at work for the next month or so will be the luridly ridiculous shenanigans of the new series of CBB.

And although I'll resist at first eventually I will succumb and plunge into the whole tawdry circus because I will want to have an opinion.

And that, folks, is how it gets the likes of you and me.

Because suddenly we care. We care even though in three month's time we know that we won't care at all.

So I've come to the startling conclusion that Davina (God bless her) is right. Big Brother will run and run. We'll never be free of it. It's become as essential a component of modern living as the mobile phone. It's the norm. Like Christmas in fact. They'll soon start publishing the broadcast dates of future BB series on retail calendars that we can buy in the shops. There'll be Bank Holidays planned around it.

So if we're going to be stuck with it I've decided to throw my hat into the ring and offer some BB themed suggestions to any programme producers out there who might be reading this post this morning and are willing to take a punt or two in terms of hard ready cash to see them "realized" on TV.

1) I'd like to see a politician special. Just politicians. From all parties. But rather than having them cut off from the outside world I'd like them to be hardwired / bluetoothed to the outside world. I'd like them to continue working. I'd like them to continue working in an environment so transparent that not only can their opposing party counterparts see what they get up to but so can we. Now that would be a social experiment worth conducting surely?
Too dry? Too heavy? Try this...

2) How about all the presenters of CBeebies doing a CBB (CBeebiesCBB?) special? Chris Jarvis, Pui Fan Lee, Andy Day, Sidney Sloane all locked into the house with Mr Tumble for 3 agonizing months... Think of it. They're so pure and seemingly innocent when they're singing songs on Kid's Telly and putting their teddies to bed in the CBeebies studio every evening... but what and who will get put to bed after they've been holed up in the CBB house together for months on end? Will Pui wear her Tellytubbies costume and drive Mr Tumble wild with desire? (Eh oh?!) Will Chris Jarvis wear her cast-offs and fess up about his exact location on the nation's communal gaydar? Can they all really be that cheerful and chipper all of the time? We need to know!
Hmm. Too sleazy, perhaps? Too sick?

OK. A final punt then:

3) We dig up all of the long dead comedians and great entertainers of yesteryear - Eric Morecambe, Leonard Rossiter, Kenneth Williams, Frankie Howard, et al - and place their corrupting cadavers (or little urns - geddit?) in front of the cameras for 3 months and watch a show that will undoubtedly prove to be far more entertaining and edifying than the sad batch of Z list celeb wannabes that Channel 4 has currently got lined up for the new series of CBB this year.

I'm done.

I rest my case.

Oh and did I mention...? Happy New Year to you all!