I Won't Be Buying ...

In the beginning, Coke created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of Coke moved upon the face of the waters.

And Coke said, Let there be light: and there was light. And Coke saw the light, that it was good: and Coke divided the light from the darkness. And Coke called the light Christmas, and the darkness they called Pepsi. And the evening and the morning were the first Christmas day.

Apparently, there has been some controversy over this advert, which threatens to fundamentally damage the development of the children of the nation by brutally and thoughtlessly revealing to them that Santa Claus, or Father Christmas, is not real, and that it is in fact “Mum” who provides the presents.

Apparently, there has been absolutely no controversy over the fact that this advert is explicitly linking good parenting with gratuitous purchasing, replacing the relatively innocent Father Christmas myth — gifts given in exchange for good behaviour, which at least attempts to establish some kind of moral base for the whole splurge — with the more pernicious narrative that drives modern consumerism. This is the first and only principle: if you do not spend, spend, SPEND, without thought for the consequences, you are an inadequate human being. You are a failed entity. You are a poor parent. And you’ve ruined Christmas.

Rise, seas. Fall, skies. We’re done. We’re done.

City Boy Blues, by Jack Lang of Snap, Kaká and Pop!

I got this questionable haircut because …
I
I can’t look at the landscape without thinking of beer because …
I a
I daydream of bubbles and wheat because …
I am
I listen to tawdry cover versions because …
I am a
I lost this girl because …
I am an
Train tracks inexplicably make me think of bass guitar strings because …
I am an a
I can’t play football anymore because …
I am an al
My wet dreams consist of synchronised swimmers in beer glasses because …
I am an alc
I don’t go to festivals for the music, but because …
I am an alco
My mind is beset by flashing images of seaside amusement arcades because …
I am an alcoh
My Olympic rowing ambitions fell by the wayside because …
I am an alcoho
This pub is the most important thing in my life because …
I am an alcohol
All my friends have abandoned me because …
I am an alcoholi
I drink alone now because …
I am an alcoholic.

By Alexander Netherton of Surreal Football

An 80 year old woman cleans the old, scratched glasses of her husband. He would have bought new ones, but his pension annuity is now worthless. He can barely afford soap to maintain his dignity. They are sharing a single cup of tea. The cafe is warmer than their home - the gas man wants £200 before he turns it back on.

A man sneezes on a bus. He sold his car when he lost his job, and the stress of unemployment has made him constantly susceptible to viruses.  

Two thieves stand outside a fried chicken shop. The owner, closing up, is so intimidated he simply allows them in with a wry smile. The third time he’s been burgled this year, his knee never recovered, especially as they can’t remove the bullet.

An elderly lady struggles to reach a toy for her grandson. He needs to be kept occupied ever since his Special Needs School closed down. The mother no longer speaks.

A woman is helped up a flight of stairs. Her husband used to help with the first child, but he’s dead. Shot through the guts and face in Afghanistan. A closed casket at the funeral.

A teenage girl shares an ice cream with her brother. They’ve not had anyone looking after them since they lost their parents in the Camberwell fire two years ago.

A man in a panda costume sweats after completing a charity fun run. He’s raising money for a hospice his brother stays in. He has two months to live, but the hospice is closing down next Saturday. He’ll be moving into the spare room. Neither knows what to do.

Counting to one, and then to two, and knowing and appreciating the difference, isn’t hard. Millions of ordinary people that don’t even work in the financial sector do so every day. Crows can count to 16. But in the event that the good people of Halifax are struggling, here are some helpful examples.

“Ice” has one syllable; “ISA” two.

“Shit” has one syllable; “advert” two.

“Huge” has one syllable; “fucktard” two.

“Kill” has one syllable; “yourself” two.

I have two theories on why the people responsible for making adverts aimed at women end up making adverts that throb with a palpable, almost tangible misogyny.

THEORY THE FIRST. Such adverts are made by men who view women with simple and straightforward contempt. For them, women exist in no realm other than the purely functional: for cooking, for fucking, for looking pretty on the arm. It would therefore be impossible to conceive of an advert that might represent or attempt to comprehend a woman as anything other than a shallow vector for the channeling of masculine desire, because that’s all a woman could ever aspire to be.

THEORY THE SECOND. Such adverts are made by men and/or women who understand that the most effective kind of advertising feeds off a neurotic self-hatred in the consumer. That there is no customer so willing — so grievously grateful — as that customer who has been persuaded that without the LATEST, GREATEST, ANTI-WRINKLIEST tub of cocoa-butter infused dolphin blubber, they will simply cease to exist.

Pick your favourite. Here come the girls.

SUB-CUNT: Okay, the focus group has come back with a couple of questions. Nothing major, but we should probably take a look.

CUNT: Okay. Hit me.

SUB-CUNT: First point. Noel Gallagher. Last wrote a good song in 1994. We sure?

CUNT: Deffo. Was on Football Focus the other day. Proper banter. Champagne Supernova. Legend.

SUN-CUNT: Okay. Secondly, we had a bloke from Dundee worried that the ad didn’t reflect all four of the Home —

CUNT: Tell him to fuck off back to his deep-fried heroin.

SUB-CUNT: Also, a bloke from Abergavenny —

CUNT: Sheep-shagger.

SUB-CUNT: And a chap from Belfast —

CUNT: Terrorist.

SUB-CUNT: Finally, we need a title.

CUNT: Hmmm.

SUB-CUNT: I was thinking “Triumph of the Shill”.

CUNT: Tasty. Make it happen.

They go out for a drink. Then another drink. Conversation is stilted at first, but flows eventually. It turns out they have the same favourite Mumford & Sons album. He tells a joke that she doesn’t think is really funny, but she laughs anyway, and he laughs too. Apparently they were at the same festival last summer, though she doesn’t remembering seeing any of the bands he liked.

They end up back in her bed. He’s had one too many and apologetically gives up after ten minutes of fumbling and thinking frantically about his ex. It’s okay because she wasn’t really feeling it anyway. She drifts off to sleep in his arms, a little confused, a little upset, a little content.

She wakes up to find him holding her knickers to his face with one hand and masturbating furiously with the other. Tears are rolling down his cheeks. She thinks about throwing him out but instead pretends to be asleep. He finishes, and curls up on the other side of the bed. She lies awake staring at the ceiling for a long time.

When she wakes up again he has gone. She thinks she dreamed about something, but she can’t remember what.

My brother Freddie is unemployed.
And my brother Adam sells pencils.
I like to get drunk and hit women.
Freddie, on the other hand, is a date rapist.
My brother orders pretentious coffee to compensate for his sense of intellectual inferiority.
My brother has a urinary tract infection.
Freddie requires constant validation.
I am crushingly lonely.
We have never had a good family Christmas.

CAR AVAILABLE IN RED OR BLUE.

[cack song]

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.