There are few things more abhorrent in our little isolated bubble of privilege and excess as advertising industry. But they have money and I want some. So, here are a couple pitches.

Pitch number one. We do a photo series inspired by the corpse piles from the photographs of the liberation of Dachau using only the best and most vacuous of today's super models. Because, let's face it if those girls weren't murdered by racist Nazi fucks, they would have been fabulous. I mean, just look at those figures. Ribs and sex appeal. Curves are for the fat girl catalogues.
We can pay homage to those fabulous but forgotten by recreating those images as a photo shot for Manolo Blahnik. Picture the bodies of models like Kate, Agyness, Giselle, etc. Their emaciated but perfectly groomed bodies cast upon each other, limbs akimbo, like a pile of human kindling, wearing only the finest examples of fall season oh eight. We can do a Spielberg and have it shot on grainy black and white stock except for the shoes are full super saturated colour. Gorgeous. Maybe a nice tag line like 'they died so that Manolo might live' or 'I'd rather die than leave my Blahniks'. I don't know; I am open to suggestions.

Pitch number two. This one is pretty versatile. It'll sell anything. And sex sells anything, so I hear. You flip through any kind of magazine and you have pre-pubescent girls pouting their lips and arching their backs to sell anything from clothes to bacon. It always confuses me why the seconds-long exposure of a grown woman's areola is taboo but it is okay to have a 17 year-old pop star grind her spangled clad groin against a pole for three minutes. But, rules are rules and, by god, I know if you want to flog some crap you can't be breaking rules. So, my original idea of having a 29 second close up of the coitus of two white heterosexual and married couple followed by one second black back-grounded logo shot and a deep-voiced reading of the company's tag line. But, imagine how the cases of Budweiser would fly off the shelves after the unwashed masses got a load of fuck fuck fuck then bam - "Budweiser. King of Beers" read by the guy who does the "ready to rumble" spiel. So, yes that one is out. Instead we get all Hitchcock on the people. I'm talking visual allegory baby! We film a tight shot of the business ends of pigs humping like the mad mammals they are, cleaned up and sparkling pink, mind you. 28 seconds of that. 1 second of a zoom out to reveal it's pigs rather than people and so we can say to the censors 'it's just nature, man, taking its course', then before the blood rushes away from the viewers' genitals – "Budweiser. King of Beers".

Please make checks payable to, wickedtomocktheafflicted marketing consultancy.

I learned a new word at work the other day. Monetize. Then I realized that I already had a word to describe that action. Whoring.

I promise I practice every day but cynicism doesn't come naturally to me. This is obvious when I watch a video like this and it thrills me with its possibilities and its hopefulness.

Let it be true.

Mana Mana

With their mother, two beautiful children, brother and sister, dressed in their school uniforms, were sat beside me on the tube. They made it the best commute I ever had when they broke into this song.


The girl doing the 'do do do'. The boy doing the 'mana mana' part.

Then on the commute home I had the thought, "wouldn't it be nice to ride the bus home and not have to smell businessmen's farts."

I went to see Seasick Steve last night. He's one of the few living blues players I can stomach, never mind enjoy. He absolves the sins of SRV.

It's been a long time since I've been to a show that wasn't in the back room of a bar. I forgot you should never show up early. It's a lot of waiting and doing nothing. It was even worse because it was at the Royal Albert hall. Great venue, but not for this kind of music. No drinking? It's the blues, goddamnit. Plus, it looked like many seats went to corporations who filled the seats with suited cultural philistines.

However I was glad I caught the opening act, Amy LaVere. Think bluesy-honkeytonk Mazzy Star.

Now removed from musicians and arty-fartys, I tend to find new music in a random and uncontextual manner. This is good because I listen to the music rather than the hype. A consequence is I have no idea how popular a musician is or their demographic of listeners. I sometimes think I found a little treasure of all my own only to find out he's been on the tele. Oh well, nevermind.