Tuesday, May 27, 2008

You're Not Properly Addressed Without It

This is possibly my favourite piece of graffiti ever. It contains neither the territorial pissing of "Kilroy Was 'Ere" and its ilk, nor the angry sloganeering of "George Davis Is Innocent" (note to self - update graffiti references). No, this urban scribe has taken it upon themselves to correct a postcode from NW10 (Willesden) to NW2 (Cricklewood). How genteel is that? It is like the geo-locational wing of that organisation that goes around Tippexing out rogue apostrophes.

Except this road is definitely in NW10. The border is admittedly only a couple of streets away, and does veer wildly around as though the Royal Mail person drawing it were either drunk or looking to perform Anschluss with Kilburn. Given the quality of the postal service around here either is possible. But this road isn't even a Kaliningrad-esque exclave of NW2 with its own Passport to Pimlico-style customs posts on the North Circular - it's NW10 both sides from one end to the other.

Postcodes are clearly important to some people though. With insurance premiums often based on them there are many campaigns to have one's address associated with a less risky neighbourhood, or just a posher one in the case of Windsor residents who don't wish to be stamped with the SL of Slough. Why anyone would pick NW2 over NW10 is harder to answer though, with neither area likely to rank highly on any hot property guide. Perhaps the writer suffered from dyscalculia and meant to write NW3 (Hampstead), thus instantly transforming the road into an oasis of bohemian chic amongst the suburban semis and light industrial estates.

But for true upward mobility they would need to get their Tippex out:

(For anyone not au fait with London postcodes, W1 covers the priciest Monopoly squares of Mayfair and Park Lane.)

Thursday, May 22, 2008

Sugar Daddy

Like many other Apprentice-watchers I am somewhat mystified by the continued presence of Michael Sophocles. But on a recent visit to the BBC I found the following transcript from the final show, which I think reveals everything.


    Sir Alan, Nick and Margaret are on one side of the table. Michael Sophocles and [NAME DELETED] are on the other side.
        SIR ALAN
      Michael – why should I hire you?

      Sir Alan, I’m a good Jewish boy.

        SIR ALAN
      Are you?!

      Well, half-Jewish. I never knew my gentile father though. My mother said that he was driven to suicide in the 1980s when his range of cheap personal computers was ruthlessly undercut by Amstrad. Amstrads had crappy 3” disk drives for fuck’s sake, yet everyone bought them instead. You killed my father. Well now you’re “fired”.
    Sophocles points a gun at Sir Alan.

    Margaret looks shocked.
        SIR ALAN
      You’re not half-Jewish.

      I am! I am! I’m half-Jewish!

        SIR ALAN
      You’re not half-Jewish. You’re 100% Jewish.

      You killed my father!

        SIR ALAN
      No Michael. I am your father.
    Margaret looks shocked.
        SIR ALAN
      That’s right – you’re sired. Sired by me.

      COME ON!
    Sophocles bangs the table then vaults over it and embraces Sir Alan.

    Margaret looks shocked.
        [NAME DELETED]
      Um, is it even worth mentioning that I won this task? No? OK, I'll just fire myself. Frances - could you call me a cab please?

    Thursday, May 15, 2008

    Song Prequels #2

    Girlfriend With a Head Injury

    Annie, Sit Down, I’ve Got Something to Tell You

    23:18 to Georgia

    Where’s the Radio, Kenneth?

    The Penultimate Countdown

    Grandma’s Identical Twin’s Condition Worsens

    Papa’s Lost His Bag

    I’d Do Anything for Love

    If You Tolerate This Your Children Have One More Chance

    You Can Hurry Sex

    (Like these? Try these and these.)

    Tuesday, May 13, 2008

    The Tipping Point

    I make the two hundred and thirty-seventh trip to load up the car, then take a look around the hotel room that has been home for the last four days and nights and our first family holiday. There is food sprayed on the wall, vomit stains on the bedspread and excrement smeared on the towels. It looks like Mötley Crüe have stayed here circa 1987, only if instead of being addicted to class A drugs they were hooked on Hipp organic baby food.

    I realise that I have entered the phase in my life where it is necessary to leave tips everywhere we go.