Poor taste link to previous obscure and poorly understood blog gag

Investigators have just announced the cause of that train derailment in Cumbria. Apparently they've found a tomahawk embedded in the side of one of the carriages.

to see the original unacclaimed piece, click here, scroll down past the big poo story until you get to the entry titled 'Gon-ads'

and here is the strange advert that is unlikely to be appearing on TV again. Incidentally, in searching for this clip, I found that this ad had caused much annoyance on cycling messageboards - the bit with the cyclist getting knocked off at the start had made them very irate. A gratuitous poking of fun at cyclists apparently. And watching it again, I found the "First class only" disclaimer at the bottom quite amusing. Don't worry, standard class passengers - you won't be attacked for your big ideas! But you probably will have to stand up all the way from London to Manchester and pay vast amounts for the privilege.

My grandmother and mother taught me

Put a camera in front of me and I go all well-spoken it seems.

So yesterday I was on Eggheads as part of the I Knit London dream team.

I'm afraid I can't tell you if we won or not - you'll have to wait and see. The tension! There was a fairly hefty cashpot up for grabs....

Thrupenny bits

This is how how some people think of London:



For me, rhyming slang should have been included in that list. One of the things I was most looking forward to when moving down here was hearing the cryptic friendly banter [what, not the sky-high rent and beer prices, crime and dirt? London Ed.]. To my disappointment, until last week I don't think I'd heard any. Admittedly, I don't think that there are any Pearly Kings working in my research unit and I need to get down the East End more to boost my chances. But anyway, one evening last week I heard some casual slang. And not only that, it was directed at me.

I'd been playing 5 a side and was walking back to the house. I only live a few minutes away from the sports centre so hadn't bothered getting changed out of my footy kit but it was a cold night so I had my coat on over the top. This meant that my fine legs were on broad display (and from the back it might have looked like I was wearing nothing under the coat. Nice image eh folks?). So I'm walking down a dark street in Brixton and there's a group of guys at the other end. Head down Willis, walk quickly by. As I approached, one of them shouts, "Here, I'd think about covering up your fackin' bacon 'n eggs mate!". How rude!

Community service

The short walk from Brixton tube to my house is usually pretty interesting, whatever the time or day. My favourite regular character is undoubtedly the lady who sits outside Iceland selling homemade artworks. She plays the comb (a dying art!) and has a tube of Pringles with beans in or something for percussion. Her works are all brightly coloured pictures of animals, often incorporating use of reflective silver paper. She's great. When we were tidying up our house recently we found one of them that was presumably bought by our landlady - I'll put a picture up on here.

Then there are the many regular preachers out spreading the word. One woman in particular is very impressive - the volume and projection that she manages really is something. A one-off highlight was the topless gentlemen who had a snake coiled around the top of his head. There is also of course the most widely known feature of Brixton high street: the drug dealers. A walk home isn't complete without at least a couple of whistles or mumbled "Skunkweedpills?"

But last night was pretty memorable, even for Brixton. It was about 2130 and I'd popped out to the shop. On my way back I got the usual and predictable offers of illegal substances (I often wear a hoodie on purpose - it's amusing to see how many more offers I can get when I am wearing it). But I was also stopped three times by:

1. a guy telling me he had run out of petrol and could I give him 85p to get some? No, sorry, I could not.

2. 100m further on another guy stopped me. I said I had no cash and he looked really offended. He just wanted to know where he had put his beer. I said I'm sorry, I don't know. He then spotted that the church was open and told me he was going in there. Ok. Bye.

3. Not again - I just want to get home! This time a woman crouching on the floor calls me over. Oh God...what kind of trap am I being lured into here? What kind of fuckery is this? As I had rounded the corner I had got my phone out of my pocket and the front was lit up. She asked if I had a torch. "No, it's my phone" [Great work Willis - why not just hand it right over now?] "I need a torch. I've lost my nose stud. Help me look for it". As it turned out, she really had just lost her nose stud. So we both ended up crouching down looking for it in the feeble half-light provided by my phone. And I found it! Well done me.

I got home with no further escapades.

Forest Whitaker is a great actor. The way he gets his eye to do that thing is amazing.

Happy New Year etc etc.

All go around here at the moment isn't it?

For wont of anything new to write about, I'll continue flogging the lookalike donkey. As I entered the rather excellent Clapham Tandoori on Friday, a waiter said 'It's the guy from Oasis!' I think he meant Bonehead.

Every loser wins.... aka 'Don't be a sinner, be a winner'.....aka Zero to hero

I feel that in January, my move south didn't get off to the best of starts. Within a couple of weeks I mislaid my wallet and the police made their feelings about me very clear indeed:

















Well, 12 months have passed and now perhaps the balance has been restored. This parcel came for me last week:
















I may not write again before the end of the year, so Happy Christmas one and all.

With my feelings of self-worth restored, here's to a great 2007!

The Tombolablog Christmas Campaign

Today we launch our Christmas campaign. Charity shops are seen as a benign, welcoming component of our high streets and shopping centres. They provide essential funds for continued charity work, while at the same time allowing thrifty shoppers to pick up bargains and possibly even something underpriced that is actually worth far more.

However, Tombolablog today highlights the darker underbelly of these apparently innocuous shops. Our children and pensioners must be protected from being exposed to the filth on open sale in these establishments. We hereby launch a campaign to clean up Britain's charity shops.

Confused? We present Exhibit A, picked up by our undercover reporter in the Barnado's store in Brixton:

















They should be ashamed.

Available now from selected newsagents

Mauschwitz

The battle goes on....CP's arrival in the big city heralded an increase in activity in the war on rodents. We recently had five (count 'em) traps primed and ready in the kitchen: two humane box traps, two spine busting snap traps, and an innovative use of a bucket, a piece of card, and some peanut butter that I thought was a sure-fire winner:










But it was not to be. The mice flatly ignored it, along with the two peanut butter smeared snap traps. Damn them and their evolved intellect!


However, they aren't completely smart. In the space of four days, we caught two of the little b*stards in the humane traps (again baited with peanut butter). They were both taken for a little walk across Brixton and deposited on a patch of grass.

For a short time we started to believe that maybe, just maybe, that was it. But no, a few dropping-free days later, the signs were back. Yeah yeah, perhaps those few days were just the time needed for Chester & Fievel to make their way back to the house. Last night I got angry. And angry meant thinking more inhumanely. I hit upon the following idea: next time we catch one in a humane trap, we could position it directly in front of a snap trap, and then open the humane trap up, giving the unfortunate incumbent two options: starve, or snap. A bit like an animal version of 'Saw'.

If you're having girl problems I feel bad for you son, I got 99 blogs and here's the ton

That's right, 100 blogs. One hundred. What a year it's been. Time for a real life blog party:




Drinks were consumed....

...jokes were shared...

...and a great time was had by all!







As the night wore on, Tombolablog got rather amorous with the toaster. He should watch out, he'll only end up getting burned.








Alas, rather too many drinks were imbibed by Tombolablog, resulting in the inevitable:

Chin chin! x

TSI: Brixton

[Forgive me readers, for what follows. If you are easily sickened, I suggest you look away now and come back when something else has replaced this. This is the Tombola equivalent of 'Hollyoaks: In the City' - the embarrassing version that only brings shame on those involved.]

As regular readers (there's a couple, honest. Although there might not be after this entry) will know, Ak's blog tends to deal with the weighty issues while I am often content to focus on the crap. Quite literally in this case.

I've deliberated about this for some time and there is no way of skirting around the issue. I'll be blunt: for at least a fortnight there has been a cack of quite monstrous proportions not far from my house and on my route to work. I am appalled and yet thrilled by it on a daily basis. Seriously, it's HUGE. Both in length and girth. Especially girth. If ever a scat was deserving of the euphemism 'a dead otter', then this is it.

I live in fear of ever encountering the beast that laid this cable. Mind you, I wouldn't be surprised if it died of severe trauma and exhaustion shortly after.

If that's what it leaves behind, what the hell does it eat? I've seen smaller dogs. Barry White's Boxing Day dump wouldn't come close.

The title refers to 'Turd Scene Investigation: Brixton'. Don't bet against that appearing on a cable channel soon. The use of the scaling device should in no way reflect upon the quality of that product. To help you fully grasp the gargantuan magnitude of it: that piece of card is just over 21cm long and approximately 4cm wide. That must be like giving birth. To a mudbaby.

Tuesday November 28, 2006

On Tuesday October 17th, 2006, the National Trust encouraged people to record a diary of their day, making it "Britain's biggest blog". Simply for the fact that I didn't know about it, I didn't join in. I could have submitted an entry after the event but, true to form, I never got around to it. As it happened, I put an entry on here about Tuesday October 17th. That was the day I mingled with* lots of celebrities at the opening night of Spamalot.

So here are some things that caught my eye on Tuesday November 28th, instead:

0815 - 0900
Head to Camberwell for a meeting. Have the excitement of taking a new bus route. It's p*ssing down and the directions I printed are in serious danger of disintegrating. As the bus crawls through Denmark Hill I look out of the window and through a gap in the buildings. In spite of the low cloud and pouring rain I can see St. Paul's. At this point I realise that one of the things I enjoy most about living down here is the unexpected glimpses of landmarks. As I walk towards my meeting another example occurs: I turn a corner and this time Canary Wharf looms out of the mist.

0945-1030
Meeting over, I need to get a bus to London Bridge. On the way my attention is grabbed by two sights:


1. This shop. Now I know where to go to meet my bubble wrap needs. I felt a bit naughty when the guy appeared and saw me taking the picture. I hurriedly fled the scene and started trying to think of what I would say if he chased me and demanded to know what I was up to. It also appears that I have found out what Blinkhorn is doing in his retirement.




2. This shop. I just stood and stared at this for ages. Brilliant! Unless you can find some way of making the picture bigger, you'll have to take my word for it that on display are a sign saying 'BEWARE Caterpillars' and what appears to be the Wimbledon Ladies Trophy. Being too young for Steptoe & Son, I imagine that all of London once looked like this.




Another snatched glimpse of a London landmark from the upper deck of the bus: this time the London Eye.

1030
Turn on computer. Am saddened to learn the news that Alan 'Fluff' Freeman has died. Office colleagues don't know who he is so I do a 'Not 'arf!' impression. They still don't know who he is.

1215
This isn't the place to go into the reasons, but I need to find an example of a cover from a magazine. My initial google image search doesn't get me what I want. But it does help with something else. Do you ever forget how to measure vertical curves? I know I do. Well, here's the solution.

The rest of the day
Erm, nothing else of note. Had a very amusing chat with Gaz about a new idea for a blog entry. Continued my battle with the mice (one dead, one released far away, the war goes on). The electro thing was sent back yesterday to get a refund and today I tried using chocolate cookie in the humane trap.


*stared at

Gon-ads

I'm encroaching onto Munch's territory here but I have some advert thoughts and wanted to get them down.

1. Nappy adverts. When did they stop showing baby's asses being stroked? You know, to show that the baby is dry. I saw a nappy ad the other day and just wondered when the plug was pulled on that shot selection. Calm down, I'm no Pete Townsend (will that book be out in time for Christmas?). I just wondered - when did the penny drop that that was actually a bit weird?

2. That Virgin Trains ad. What's his big idea then, eh? The only thoughts I get on a train are "Isn't this supposed to be the quiet carriage?" and "Where is that smell of sick coming from?"
Well, I've taped the advert and run it back frame by frame. I can reveal what is contained within his frenzied scribbles. Something so mind-blowing that it causes a tribe of Red Indians to emerge from the British countryside and attack a train moving at 140mph.

Tombolablog: making myself look a dick for your amusement

In subtle ways, blogging has changed my life. Not drastically - I'm yet to receive a call from a media tycoon who's stumbled across it and wants to pay me for my work - but in little ways that mean I've ended up doing things that I wouldn't normally do. For instance, I often have daft little ideas for things. Previously, I would maybe have just mentioned them to a couple of people, or, more likely, done nothing and quickly forgotten about them. But recently that changed. Now I'm tending to think along the lines of 'That's quite funny. I should do it and see what happens. And then blog it.' As I write this opening salvo, I'm starting to worry a little bit - Tombolablog was created as a reflection of what I get up to...but if it's very being is actually determining what I get up to, then the whole thing is just a charade....

Oh man...this wasn't what I was intending to write at all. Back to the start. Some weeks back I was in Regents Park with C-P30. We went to Pizza Express for tea before she got on the train back north. I can't remember the exact thought process involved but I started to think that Pizza Express were missing a trick by not building an advertising campaign around the song 'National Express' by the Divine Comedy. As I said, usually ideas like that pop into my head and then die a natural death. But the existence of Tombolablog is now acting as a kind of life-support machine for my stupid whims. I thought up some highly intelligent lyrics. I composed a letter. I looked up the address for Pizza Express HQ. I then wondered that maybe the Pizza Express HQ folk might not know the song so I went and put it on a CD ESPECIALLY FOR THEM:

And I put it in an envelope, accompanied by the following letter:



MY ADDRESS*

London

22nd September, 2006


Dear Sir/Madam,

I am a regular diner at Pizza Express restaurants and while in one of your London branches recently I had an idea for an advertising campaign. I know this might seem like an unusual letter, but instead of just forgetting about it I thought I would drop you a line in case it might be of interest.

Basically, the advert centres on the use of the song ‘National Express’ by ‘The Divine Comedy’. The song is about different kinds of people who ride on the National Express and with a bit of thought the lyrics can easily be changed to suit a possible advert. Obviously it helps if you are familiar with the song, so I have enclosed a CD so that you can hear it. The song reached no.8 in the UK charts in February, 1999.

After a few minutes of playing around with the lyrics I had come up with this example:

“From the businessman,
with pepperoni and ham,
and a glass of wine.

To the newlyweds,
sharing garlic bread
at suppertime.

We’re going where the pizza’s great

Pizza Express, Pizza Express, Pizza Express [fade]

The song is very catchy and I have no doubt that a campaign on TV and radio would make an impact. I’m sure that different versions could be done along the same theme, using different people/menu items. I don’t recall ever seeing or hearing an advert for Pizza Express and believe that this could work. The potential stumbling block would of course be obtaining the permission of The Divine Comedy/Neil Hannon who wrote the song.

I hope that this letter is of interest, and at the very least has provided an entertaining distraction. I’d love to hear what you make of the idea.

With best wishes,
Yours faithfully,



MY NAME**

_____

Stop laughing. It's a great idea and those lyrics fit really well!

Have I had a response? Have I buggery. Miserable sods didn't even have the courtesy to reply. After I made them a CD as well! I thought at the very least they could have said 'thanks. and don't ever contact us again'. If it wasn't rancid I would seriously consider going to Pizza Hut for my flat, open-faced baked pie*** sustenance instead. Despite being shunned, I reckon I might try this sort of thing again. Or not, depending on the ridicule I get following this admission.

* Of course I didn't write 'My address'. That would be stupid. I've deliberately censored the letter so I don't get internet weirdos coming after me. Like that nutjob who's just been done for coming at someone with a pickaxe after a row in a chatroom.

** See point *, above.

*** Have you ever thought of a pizza as an open-faced baked pie? I certainly hadn't. But that's what it is.

Deja voodoo

In amongst the handful of takeaway menus to fall through our letterbox last week - we seem to get more here than when I lived in the most studenty areas of Leeds - was this card:

Where to begin eh? I like the increasingly histrionic use of capitals but my favourite part has to be the penultimate sentence. It sounds like something from a Bond film:

[Bond strapped to a table, in a dark, grimy cell. Head Villain strolls around the room, brandishing a pair of pliers and a blowtorch.]

Bond: "Your plan will never succeed, Mr Suwareh!"

Mr Suwareh: "Your pain is my responsibility 007....you will not be disappointed [evil cackle]"

Having said that, if he really can solve my problems in a few days then he could be worth a call. Wonder if the power of Kahteem has much to say about academic careers?

EDIT:

Have just looked on google to try and learn about the power of Kahteem. The only link to come up was this: http://www-us.flickr.com/photos/schnappi/37861589/in/set-138866/. Mr Suwareh evidently has an accomplice!

Looking as you are

Regular visitors to Tombolablog will no doubt be aware that the issue of 'lookalikes' is a fairly sensitive subject to me. I'm regularly informed that I look like X (see here, here & here). This entry is not about my oh-so-common features, but I can't let it pass without mentioning the truly bizarre coincidence that occurred a couple of weeks ago (I meant to blog about it then but didn't get around to it).

Sometime in 2002/3, this picture was torn from a newspaper and pinned onto our kitchen wall by an amused housemate. I've no idea who the kid is, and have never seen him since. Until a fortnight ago that is. Going through one of my regular 'there must be better jobs than this' routines, I clicked on a careers website and there was a feature on age discrimination. The feature was accompanied by this picture:

Who is this kid?? Who is the old chap with him? The plot thickens... the Google boffins need to pull their fingers out and come up with some handy picture image search thing that would answer these questions for me. Perhaps there's mileage in some sort of Dave Gormanesque show whereby I try and track down not people who share my name, but those who share my slightly Georgian features. I would meet them, shake them by the hand and then have my photo taken alongside them. Perhaps I could ask them who they have been compared to....I'm thinking out loud now...I could draw up some kind of Willis lookalike tree, with me in the middle and the branches leading off to other people. Wonder how many steps you would need to get to Brad Pitt? This is gold dust...I shouldn't be publishing this in the public domain. At the end of the series I could gather everyone in one big room and then someone else, perhaps my parents, could have a giant game of 'Where's Wally?'. Which would be rechristened 'Where's Willis?' for the occasion.

Anyway, believe it or not that was all just an amusing cul-de-sac. As I was saying, the world of lookalikes is a topic close to my heart. Also by chance in the last fortnight, my father's short-lived celebrity career re-entered the spotlight. You might remember Stephen Willis from such roles as Michael Howard in 'The Secret Election', or Michael Howard in 'This Week: Election Special'. A couple of weeks ago, the Independent had a feature on the booming celebrity lookalike industry. To all our surprise, Stevo was pictured in the article (which you can read here if you really want to pay for the privilege). [I took the photo that they printed... I assume a cheque is in the post, Mr Kelner]. For completeness, a response from the man himself can be read here. You can book Stephen here: still available for Christmas parties!

Lookalikes are in demands then. (When the world needs a Joey Rainbow doppelganger, my phone won't stop ringing...). A lookalike Tony Blair will do a speech at your corporate dinner, have his photo taken with you and so on. Musical tributes have of course long been popular too. This hit a surreal peak a few years ago when Oasis tribute act 'Nowaysis' somehow charted with their cover of 'I'd like to teach the world to sing'. I'm not sure why you'd want to spend several quid seeing someone with a moptop wig on playing Beatles covers but I can see they serve a useful purpose. 'Bjorn Again' played our Grad Ball and that was great. However, I think a line has now been crossed with the advent of the comedy tribute act. I recently saw an ad for a Chubby Brown tribute act appearing in my home town of Stalybridge. Normally standing at the front of a pub shouting foul-mouthed 'jokes' would get you an ASBO. Now it seems it can be a handy second income. If Royston Vasey's not your cup of tea (unlikely as that may be) then how about some reheated Peter Kay gags? An hour long set?! Telling someone else's jokes! Man alive. Why not just put a DVD on? It's ridiculous. "Ha! Look! He's skidding on his knees! That's just like Peter Kay! And now he's doing that thing where he sticks two fingers up on the side of his face to look like he's got an itch! Genius!"

A suggestion for anyone looking to book this: save your cash and just play one of Vernon Kay's Radio One shows instead - he's got Kay's high-pitched vocalisms down to a tee and repeats the same jokes.

Bar humbug

Exciting times down in SW2 right now: a new bar is about to open. I've somehow ended up on their mailing list and was recently greeted by this invite to their launch night:

Hmm. Doesn’t really scream ‘relaxing evening experience’ does it? This flyer was sent on Oct 19th, 2006. You might be aware that on 28th September, 2006, there was a double shooting in Brixton McDonalds [ssh! I don't think Mrs Parker knows about that! South London Propaganda Ed]. Somebody clearly didn't think this one through.

Anyhow, it appears that chastisement resulted and I was highly amused by this email that dropped into my inbox yesterday, 24th October:

I can't make that any more legible so I'll summarise. The email is titled 'Uproar of Brixton bar publicity campaign'. Oops. Basically they've realised that 'bang bang' probably isn't the smartest name for a bar in this area of town and are going to change it. Apparently, the " intention of the promotional material was to show the difference in the misconstrued negative perception of Brixton by some people and the ever increasing positive reality of the area. We greatly regret that it has been interpreted very differently to our intention and unreservedly apologise for any coffence caused."

Any suggestions for a new name are welcomed. Ok, how about "Bar-doh!"? Cheers.

Several questions here: does anyone know of a less appropriately named establishment? On a related theme, does anyone else grumble at the trend for increasingly pathetic bar names? At the weekend I passed one that announced itself as a 'pub, bar, club transmogrification'. F*ck's sake.... I'm going to sound like someone off Grumpy Old Men here but what happened to good old names like 'The Flea & Whippet'? If you're opening a bar now it appears that you should firstly try for a pun using the word bar (as contrived as you like, it doesn't matter) e.g. 'Baa bar' or 'Bar roque'. Failing that, try and cram in any old pun e.g 'So.uk'. "Do you see?! The place has some North African-ish stylings! And, erm, well the internet is popular nowadays isn't it?" Great work, wifebeater.

Another thing - turning into a rant now - the names of, ahem, gentlemen's establishments. Here's how you do it:

1. Pick a colour

2. Pick an animal

3. Add them together

Simple! Blue Leopard! Red Leopard! er, Spearmint Rhino! I eagerly await the opening of Puce Maggot. Which sounds like a condition you might end up with after spending too long in one of those places.

Every day I write the blog

Earlier today the screen on the cashpoint informed me that this week is 'National Identity Fraud Week'. I wish I'd known that on Monday when I spent 90 quid at Sainsbury's: I would have pretended to be the guy who used to live at my address whose post I keep opening*

But this did get me thinking about something that's occurred to me in the past. How far ahead does stuff go? My diary runs until the end of the year. Depending on how conscientious and vigilant I'm being I might have a good grasp of what's happening at work in the next fortnight (deadlines, meetings etc). More often than not, I have no idea what's happening tomorrow, only finding out - and often panicking - when I look it up in my diary the evening before.

It's good to plan ahead, of course - important dates will get entered on a calendar so that your best friend's wedding doesn't end up double booked with a weekend away or something. The furthest I book stuff is approximately 1 year and I reckon that's fairly normal. But how far ahead is stuff planned? I sometimes ponder the existence of a giant global calendar....the dates of the Olympic Games of 2008, 2012, 2016...World Cups, Eurovision even. We're regularly told that this is Year of X, National Y Week (incidentally, this week is also National Knitting Week. Didn't plan that too well did you, fraud prevention people?), but when are these booked? Who decides on them and when they should be? Sky, probably. Then there are those stupid ones that people try and sneak in e.g. National Talk Like A Pirate Day. Do me a favour!


* of course this is a joke

The red carpet diaries

Last night I somehow found myself at the opening night of Spamalot, the new Monty Python musical. My friend Matt was visiting, we fancied seeing a show, he went to the ticket booth in Leicester Square, they had tickets...next thing we know we're stepping down the red carpet and smiling at paparazzi, while a crowd try and work out whether we're famous or not.

Here's how the evening went:

1930
Enter theatre. Given complimentary programme that has a special 'First night: 17th October 2006' sticker on. Wonder how much I could get on ebay for it. Look at overpriced merchandise stall: chuckle at the tray of spam sandwiches.

1933
Begin to head up to our seats up in the roof of the theatre. Look back down into the foyer and spot Brian May and Anita Dobson. Woo!

1935
Get to seats - central but very high up. It's very hot. I head to the bar to book interval drinks.

1936
Realise that the show's not due to start until 8pm so instead of returning to the seat I decide to head back downstairs and see who else I can spot.

1938
Get back to the foyer, pretend to be looking at the merchandise. Quickly abandon the pretence and position myself bang in front of the door. Lots of camera bulbs popping outside...

1939
Sir Cliff Richard enters, wearing a rather loud black and white shirt under his jacket. He's accompanied by a lady. As he passes me, he says to her 'Hey, Brian's here!' and they go and speak to Brian May. I am very excited.

1940
Spot Gary Lineker outside, working the crowd. There's also a big guy with a white beard. I don't know who he is but he seems to be popular.

1941
Steven Berkoff comes in.

1944
That artist that won the Turner prize a couple of years back, wears dresses and does pottery comes in. He's wearing normal clothes though.

1945
Lots of people who might be famous but might just be pretending to be by dressing up a bit walk past me. I recognised a Scottish man who is in stuff on TV. It's not Ken Stott. That's all I can tell you.

1946
Thought I saw Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall come in. Decide it's not him.

1947
Lineker is still working the crowd.

1950
I decide that I probably ought to head back to my seat and begin the climb upstairs. As I do so, I have another glance down into the foyer: Jonathan Pryce has come in with his leg in plaster.

1955
Get back to seat. VERY excited.

1957
Gawp around at the people sat on the 3rd tier - anyone famous up here? Doesn't appear to be. The guy that probably isn't Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall is sat nearby though. As is a guy that looks like the big fella who works the reception in ER.

2005
Much smirking around me as a young lady gets to her seat a couple of rows in front - the tag from the shop is still attached and hanging prominently down the back of her dress. Oh dahling...

2010
Performance not started yet. Regret not hanging about longer downstairs.

2015
Away we go....

2115
Interval. The first half was pretty good - several funny moments. But no time for reflection - time to get back downstairs.

2117
Collect drinks and begin battling past everyone to get to the ground floor. Double-take as I thought I saw Melinda Messenger. I didn't. I need the toilet but decide to hang on until the stalls toilet on the off chance that I might end up stood next to someone famous. Ideally Sir Cliff.

2119
Get to the stalls bar. Bill Oddie is leaning by the wall reading the programme. Head to the toilet - Lineker is just exiting as I enter. Dammit - so close! Ignoring toilet taboo and breaking established urinal etiquette, I head straight for a position between two other guys. I don't look who they are first, just get into position and try and surreptitously glance left and right to see if I recognise them. I don't. Arse!

2122
Back into the bar. There's Tim Brooke-Taylor. Only need one more for a clean sweep. That fat guy from the History Boys who used to be in Pie in the Sky and shouts at unfortunate theatre-goers who forget to turn their mobiles off blocks my path and I have to squeeze past him. He's a big fella. Spot Steven Berkoff again.

2124
There's Eddie Izzard! People start ushering us back to seats so quickly head back upstairs for pt 2.

2130
It's absolutely boiling up here!

2230
The curtain comes down - end of the show. Cast take a bow. Eric Idle gets up on stage. The guy in front of me gets extremely excited. Idle does a speech and makes some lame jokes about America. He invites some people up on stage. Turns out the Charles Darwin lookalike I spotted at the start is his American co-writer. The rest of the Python team get up onstage - sans Cleese - and the guy in front of me can barely contain himself. Everyone sings an encore of 'Always look on the bright side of life'. I really dislike the song so just mumble along.

2240

Begin the slow exit from the theatre. John Sessions is behind us and I earwig on his conversation with a friend (who I'm pretty sure is the narrator guy in the current production of the Canterbury Tales on in London).

2250

Get outside. Some people dressed as peasants are shouting for 'anyone going to the party' to follow them. We consider following, but decide against it. Lurk outside for a few minutes in case any other interesting people emerge, but no more.

And there we are! To be honest, we both felt that if it wasn't for the razzamatazz of it being the opening night, we would have been a bit disappointed. A few jokes aside, the 2nd half was pretty lame I'm afraid: it was mostly filler, the story was non-existent and it suddenly struck me that it was all a bit panto. There are no real female roles in the film so they've tried to shoehorn one into the musical. Understandable, but they shouldn't have bothered: it adds nothing aside from a contrived finale and some pretty pointless songs. There's also a big song about how you need some Jews involved if you want your musical to be a success. Someone near me booed during that. I wouldn't have gone that far but I did feel a bit uncomfortable during it. It just wasn't very funny really, and felt like an attempt to copy The Producers. If I'm being ultra-picky, I'd say that the make-up made the lead lady look like some kind of cat. That was from the highest seats in the house - god knows how it looked from the front.

"Kipper tie?" "Yes thanks, two sugars"

We live in the age of the advert. Many brands are more powerful than most countries. Branding and sponsorship are just accepted - wherever there is room for one to fit, you'll find a logo. From school textbooks to enormous banners on the sides of buildings, we're all bombarded with messages at every turn, all competing for our cash. Having read No Logo and Fast Food Nation, I've built up a set of morals that could at best be described as 'confused'. Given the opportunity, I'll spout forth about how international companies are evil, baby carrots flown from Kenya to Tesco are ridiculous, and will regularly question whether the fish my mum has cooked for tea was caught from a managed population. (Sorry mum, I just do it now out of predictable awkwardness). But then, at the same time, I'm just as bad as everyone else: I ponce about with my ipod, play footy in Nike trainers and shinpads, and nip in to Sainsbury's Metro on the way home because it's convenient. All the while trying to justify to myself why I didn't go and spend my money in one of the many independent shops just minutes away.

Anyway, the point of this is adverts. Since moving to London I'm exposed to even more than I was before. They can come in handy when you're on the Tube and have no reading material, but 99% of the time I sneering at them and the rubbish statements they make (WKD being a prize example). Every so often though, I'll see something that stands out from the crowd. Here's one currently on display in London Bridge underground station:



There's something about ones like this that fascinates me. Who pays for them? I like to think that the chimps in PG Tips HQ decided that enough is enough, sales are in freefall and it's time they put aside their differences with those funny little guys at Tetley and put a joint ad: "Come on guys, we can worry about individual needs later, the main thing is to get people buying tea again. Pomegranates are destroying us! What do you say? The Twinings gang are on board and I'm waiting to hear back from Typhoo."

The only other real example that I am aware of are the ones for flowers, and tulips in particular. There was a few of these a couple of years ago: 'He won't get you any, so buy your own', 'Fresh flowers brighten your home' etc. They seem even more unusual to me - who clubs together to pay for those? What if tulip sales rocket? How will people making their livelihood from roses and begonias fight back? Do the Dutch put in any money? or just reap the benefits?

But my favourite example of nonbrand-specific ads like this can be found adorning the pitch-side hoardings at the home of Fulchester United FC: