I say!

Thursday, October 12th, 2006 11:58 am
caddyman: (Ooo Matron!)
Someone in the marketing department might have thought this packaging through a little before it was released, wouldn't you think?


Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting


Poor old Ainsley...

Bwah ha haaa.

I say!

Thursday, October 12th, 2006 11:58 am
caddyman: (Ooo Matron!)
Someone in the marketing department might have thought this packaging through a little before it was released, wouldn't you think?


Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting


Poor old Ainsley...

Bwah ha haaa.
caddyman: (Default)
For the past few days, Cardinal Place, the plush new development on Victoria Street, which I mentioned a while back, has been partially opened to the public.

Much of it is still boarded off, but even behind those boards, where the last bit of building work is being finished, several recognisable stores are fitting out. Boots have moved in there, as have Specsavers, and an eaterie called, er, Eat. Fitting out is a tapas bar, a branch of Thorntons, and around the front, on Victoria Street itself, a new branch of Lloyds TSB.

All new and increasingly efficient ways of helping us unload our salaries each month.

Of particular interest, despite all the chain’s recent problems, is the appearance of a large Marks & Spencer which is good news as I shall no longer have to bimble off up to Oxford Street to buy stuff. M&S might not be everyone’s cup of tea these days, but for people like me, who couldn’t give a stuff about high fashion, and want to buy Oxford Twill shirts at a reasonable price in lardy-boy sizes, there are few better outlets.

Of course, there is something wrong with the average off the peg M&S suit. They do sell them in my size, but you have to search like crazy. Unsurprisingly, the range of ‘average’ sizes is very large, and their definition of an ‘average’ size is comparatively generous in comparison with some places.

What is odd however, is that someone in the M&S hierarchy clearly seems to think that it is the clothing store of choice for legion upon legion of dwarfish bank managers. Marks & Spencer is the only general high street clothing store I can think of where a man can buy – if he is so disposed – trousers with a waist of 50”, and inside leg measurements of 24”. Moreover, these odd sizes are available in abundance.

Maybe the Gnomes of Zurich fly in at night to stock up on pin stripes before siphoning off Nazi war loot to unmarked offshore accounts.
caddyman: (Default)
For the past few days, Cardinal Place, the plush new development on Victoria Street, which I mentioned a while back, has been partially opened to the public.

Much of it is still boarded off, but even behind those boards, where the last bit of building work is being finished, several recognisable stores are fitting out. Boots have moved in there, as have Specsavers, and an eaterie called, er, Eat. Fitting out is a tapas bar, a branch of Thorntons, and around the front, on Victoria Street itself, a new branch of Lloyds TSB.

All new and increasingly efficient ways of helping us unload our salaries each month.

Of particular interest, despite all the chain’s recent problems, is the appearance of a large Marks & Spencer which is good news as I shall no longer have to bimble off up to Oxford Street to buy stuff. M&S might not be everyone’s cup of tea these days, but for people like me, who couldn’t give a stuff about high fashion, and want to buy Oxford Twill shirts at a reasonable price in lardy-boy sizes, there are few better outlets.

Of course, there is something wrong with the average off the peg M&S suit. They do sell them in my size, but you have to search like crazy. Unsurprisingly, the range of ‘average’ sizes is very large, and their definition of an ‘average’ size is comparatively generous in comparison with some places.

What is odd however, is that someone in the M&S hierarchy clearly seems to think that it is the clothing store of choice for legion upon legion of dwarfish bank managers. Marks & Spencer is the only general high street clothing store I can think of where a man can buy – if he is so disposed – trousers with a waist of 50”, and inside leg measurements of 24”. Moreover, these odd sizes are available in abundance.

Maybe the Gnomes of Zurich fly in at night to stock up on pin stripes before siphoning off Nazi war loot to unmarked offshore accounts.
caddyman: (Default)
There is a whole slew of adverts on telly these days that has me thinking that advertisers have either given up completely, and are operating with some kind of post modernist irony. Either that or they are taking the piss.

The two main sets of products that fall into this category are in the field of “beauty” – prevent yourself from becoming a wrinkled old hag who smells like wee – and “health/healthy living”. You know the sort of thing I mean; each product is the best there’s ever been, merely looking at the box will make you live ten years longer and make you look young enough to be a foetus. Nothing new there, the advertisers have been telling is this crap for years. I am actually waiting for someone to try suing them for false representation at some point, since everything they sell is the pinnacle of human endeavour in that particular field is improved and outstrips the competition on every conceivable level, and yet all they have done is change the packaging and charged a premium price.

But what really gets my goat is the pseudoscientific claims for half this crap. It might have sounded clever twenty or thirty years ago, but they have just given up trying in the hope that the jaded public won’t notice.

“Is your face so wrinkled that you look like a menopausal bulldog? It is? Then try new Bilgeslime from Multilever House of Beauty. In clinical trials, tests showed that the scientifically proven application of our new revolutionary ingredient, rinklegroutium hides the process of aging1 twenty percent more effectively than our competitors’ slap”.


The same crap applies to any lotion, pill, crème or dietary item that claims to have a health benefit. There’s always a dubiously named wonder additive or living culture that no other product has. Indigestion tablets with anti-pronegacalcius, or flatulence powder containing botwarblebungupitas.

Give me a break guys. Stop insulting everyone’s intelligence. Let’s just get back to the ‘Buy this item. We want to sell it, it works and it’s cheap’ mode of advert.

I bet they’d sell more stuff that way.

Anyway, I’m off for a cup of this new coffee I’ve found, with new polyputyketylon for added richness.


1rinklegroutium may cause you to break out in hives. In case of difficulty, apply any garden or household solvent. Also fills small bathroom tiling cracks.
caddyman: (Default)
There is a whole slew of adverts on telly these days that has me thinking that advertisers have either given up completely, and are operating with some kind of post modernist irony. Either that or they are taking the piss.

The two main sets of products that fall into this category are in the field of “beauty” – prevent yourself from becoming a wrinkled old hag who smells like wee – and “health/healthy living”. You know the sort of thing I mean; each product is the best there’s ever been, merely looking at the box will make you live ten years longer and make you look young enough to be a foetus. Nothing new there, the advertisers have been telling is this crap for years. I am actually waiting for someone to try suing them for false representation at some point, since everything they sell is the pinnacle of human endeavour in that particular field is improved and outstrips the competition on every conceivable level, and yet all they have done is change the packaging and charged a premium price.

But what really gets my goat is the pseudoscientific claims for half this crap. It might have sounded clever twenty or thirty years ago, but they have just given up trying in the hope that the jaded public won’t notice.

“Is your face so wrinkled that you look like a menopausal bulldog? It is? Then try new Bilgeslime from Multilever House of Beauty. In clinical trials, tests showed that the scientifically proven application of our new revolutionary ingredient, rinklegroutium hides the process of aging1 twenty percent more effectively than our competitors’ slap”.


The same crap applies to any lotion, pill, crème or dietary item that claims to have a health benefit. There’s always a dubiously named wonder additive or living culture that no other product has. Indigestion tablets with anti-pronegacalcius, or flatulence powder containing botwarblebungupitas.

Give me a break guys. Stop insulting everyone’s intelligence. Let’s just get back to the ‘Buy this item. We want to sell it, it works and it’s cheap’ mode of advert.

I bet they’d sell more stuff that way.

Anyway, I’m off for a cup of this new coffee I’ve found, with new polyputyketylon for added richness.


1rinklegroutium may cause you to break out in hives. In case of difficulty, apply any garden or household solvent. Also fills small bathroom tiling cracks.
caddyman: (Default)
Normally I don't find coming in to work too much of a hassle (with the exception of the period with The Boss From HellTM), but this past couple of days I've found it a real drag to, er, drag myself out of bed and make the journey down to the office. As much as anything, the newly reheated, or at least rehumidified weather doesn't help.

It maketh the inner sloth to blossom.

The main boss is on leave for a couple of weeks, so I think I shall take the opportunity to bunk off early a couple of times. As it is, I am having difficulty doing anything constructive - all part of the general malaise noted above, I guess. It's not that I can't get things done, it's more that I can't get work things done. For example, I am supposed to be overhauling the HRA Subsidy Manual (don't ask), but spent yesterday instead working on a spreadsheet to calculate play strengths for an online Gridiron team I am about to play. (This is something that [livejournal.com profile] pauln will know about, having a team in the same league).

I made the mistake, before coming out this morning, of emailing the spreadsheet to myself in the office. That may turn out to be a bad move. I took the opportunity to send a part written NWO thing, too. Ditto to the bad move.

Anyway, just to prove that life isn't all continuous glummage, I shall relate the story of the Beastie and the skip; an event from exaggerated true life that happened last night once DT sans LJ discovered that the Brasserie next door has closed down. There are few people in the world who can destroy chairs with the facility of our DT - I remember that in eleven years in Clapham, he managed to get through four chairs a year on average, sometimes as many in a month. He will insist on leaning forward on them, see, so that all the (not inconsiderable) weight distribution is concentrated on the two front legs. Now his own legs don't like to do that sort of thing, but have little choice in the matter. Chairs, however, expire.

Anyway, with the Brasserie closing down, a skip appeared and therein, two chairs. Now, he managed to liberate one easily enough, but the chair bug has him now, and after dark, he could be seen flitting around in the shadows transferring junk from our gaff to the skip, and attempting to recycle ex-Brasserie material our way.

Big blokes don't do furtive. Even in the darkness and deep shadow of 11.30pm, the sight of a DT trying to skitter from shadow to shadow, pink panther-like on tippy toe, with arms full of rubbish (including a broken office fan as tall as he), is something that will stay with me for a long time. As will the look of triumph when he reappeared brandishing a cane chair for his computer room. Sadly, his second trip out was wasted. Whilst hiding, ninja-like from a passing band of revelers, someone else nabbed the second chair.

What are people like?
caddyman: (Default)
Normally I don't find coming in to work too much of a hassle (with the exception of the period with The Boss From HellTM), but this past couple of days I've found it a real drag to, er, drag myself out of bed and make the journey down to the office. As much as anything, the newly reheated, or at least rehumidified weather doesn't help.

It maketh the inner sloth to blossom.

The main boss is on leave for a couple of weeks, so I think I shall take the opportunity to bunk off early a couple of times. As it is, I am having difficulty doing anything constructive - all part of the general malaise noted above, I guess. It's not that I can't get things done, it's more that I can't get work things done. For example, I am supposed to be overhauling the HRA Subsidy Manual (don't ask), but spent yesterday instead working on a spreadsheet to calculate play strengths for an online Gridiron team I am about to play. (This is something that [livejournal.com profile] pauln will know about, having a team in the same league).

I made the mistake, before coming out this morning, of emailing the spreadsheet to myself in the office. That may turn out to be a bad move. I took the opportunity to send a part written NWO thing, too. Ditto to the bad move.

Anyway, just to prove that life isn't all continuous glummage, I shall relate the story of the Beastie and the skip; an event from exaggerated true life that happened last night once DT sans LJ discovered that the Brasserie next door has closed down. There are few people in the world who can destroy chairs with the facility of our DT - I remember that in eleven years in Clapham, he managed to get through four chairs a year on average, sometimes as many in a month. He will insist on leaning forward on them, see, so that all the (not inconsiderable) weight distribution is concentrated on the two front legs. Now his own legs don't like to do that sort of thing, but have little choice in the matter. Chairs, however, expire.

Anyway, with the Brasserie closing down, a skip appeared and therein, two chairs. Now, he managed to liberate one easily enough, but the chair bug has him now, and after dark, he could be seen flitting around in the shadows transferring junk from our gaff to the skip, and attempting to recycle ex-Brasserie material our way.

Big blokes don't do furtive. Even in the darkness and deep shadow of 11.30pm, the sight of a DT trying to skitter from shadow to shadow, pink panther-like on tippy toe, with arms full of rubbish (including a broken office fan as tall as he), is something that will stay with me for a long time. As will the look of triumph when he reappeared brandishing a cane chair for his computer room. Sadly, his second trip out was wasted. Whilst hiding, ninja-like from a passing band of revelers, someone else nabbed the second chair.

What are people like?

Fashion on the tube

Wednesday, August 3rd, 2005 12:22 pm
caddyman: (Default)
One of the things I like about living in London – during those periods when I am not hankering for a rural retreat back in Shropshire – is the variety of people you find here.

This morning, for instance, I was exiting the tube at Victoria when I noticed a young woman in her late twenties or early thirties dressed in what can best be described as Land Girl austerity chic, with a touch of Hill Billy and the Gypsy Rose Lees about her to boot. She had dark, curly hair piled up on her head, but loose behind, à la Andrews Sisters (of Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy fame – look it up, kids) and held up with a red rose. Quite stark make up, but bright red lipstick. She was sporting faded jeans and a red/black chequered shirt, both about two sizes too big for her. Ver’ ver’ naice, and quite distinctive, too.

I tend to notice this sort of thing partly, I suspect, because I am a sartorial baboon, with no real concept of fashion. If it’s clean and it fits, then wear it. Other than making sure there are no obvious red/green or blue/yellow colour clashes, I frankly don’t take that much notice of what I wear. (Even the blue-yellow thing goes out of the window if I am wearing my old Shrewsbury Town footie shirt, as their colours are, er, blue and yellow). So basically, it's a subject on which I am eminently unqualified to speak. Which, of course, is why I am speaking about it.

With that in mind, it’s always quite nice to see someone who does understand the concept, especially when in cases like the girl on the tube, it’s someone who clearly carries her own little paradigm with her, and sod the rest of the world.

Fashion on the tube

Wednesday, August 3rd, 2005 12:22 pm
caddyman: (Default)
One of the things I like about living in London – during those periods when I am not hankering for a rural retreat back in Shropshire – is the variety of people you find here.

This morning, for instance, I was exiting the tube at Victoria when I noticed a young woman in her late twenties or early thirties dressed in what can best be described as Land Girl austerity chic, with a touch of Hill Billy and the Gypsy Rose Lees about her to boot. She had dark, curly hair piled up on her head, but loose behind, à la Andrews Sisters (of Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy fame – look it up, kids) and held up with a red rose. Quite stark make up, but bright red lipstick. She was sporting faded jeans and a red/black chequered shirt, both about two sizes too big for her. Ver’ ver’ naice, and quite distinctive, too.

I tend to notice this sort of thing partly, I suspect, because I am a sartorial baboon, with no real concept of fashion. If it’s clean and it fits, then wear it. Other than making sure there are no obvious red/green or blue/yellow colour clashes, I frankly don’t take that much notice of what I wear. (Even the blue-yellow thing goes out of the window if I am wearing my old Shrewsbury Town footie shirt, as their colours are, er, blue and yellow). So basically, it's a subject on which I am eminently unqualified to speak. Which, of course, is why I am speaking about it.

With that in mind, it’s always quite nice to see someone who does understand the concept, especially when in cases like the girl on the tube, it’s someone who clearly carries her own little paradigm with her, and sod the rest of the world.
caddyman: (smoke)
The noon two-minute silence was observed very faithfully in the Victoria area. The Mayor's suggestion that everybody decant outside in a show of solidarity and defiance made for a very surreal spectacle.

Just before noon, all traffic stopped, and most drivers switched off their engines and stood next to their cars. The crowds of office workers fell silent; the bell Westminster Cathedral was clearly audible tolling out the seconds.

And then, after two minutes, the engines started up again and the traffic moved. People turned and broke into small groups and dispersed back into offices and out into the city. I only saw a couple of people over in the distance moving during the silence, and a couple of vehicles at the intersection. Otherwise, all was still.

In a moment of irreverence directly afterward, I had to check to ensure that there was no sign of a midget butler with a multi-coloured umbrella. There wasn't. Nor was there a patrolling weather balloon.

Be seeing you.
caddyman: (smoke)
The noon two-minute silence was observed very faithfully in the Victoria area. The Mayor's suggestion that everybody decant outside in a show of solidarity and defiance made for a very surreal spectacle.

Just before noon, all traffic stopped, and most drivers switched off their engines and stood next to their cars. The crowds of office workers fell silent; the bell Westminster Cathedral was clearly audible tolling out the seconds.

And then, after two minutes, the engines started up again and the traffic moved. People turned and broke into small groups and dispersed back into offices and out into the city. I only saw a couple of people over in the distance moving during the silence, and a couple of vehicles at the intersection. Otherwise, all was still.

In a moment of irreverence directly afterward, I had to check to ensure that there was no sign of a midget butler with a multi-coloured umbrella. There wasn't. Nor was there a patrolling weather balloon.

Be seeing you.
caddyman: (Default)
There was a strange little woman on the tube home today. I've seen her before; she's rather striking, which I guess is a shame, since her demeanour suggests that she'd rather just shrink into the background. This is somewhat at odds with the fact that her entrance was guaranteed to have people spying on her over their papers and books. Having scuttled onto the train, she stood in front of her seat for a moment before trying it with her foot as if to check that it wasn't going to bite or run away. Then she sat down. Clearly nervous, each time I see her she sits on the very edge of the tube car seat clutching her bag and looking at the floor in the middle distance. Physically quite slight, she has moved past fragile to frail, and despite not being obviously poor or destitute, looks as though a good shower and new -or cleaner- clothes wouldn't hurt. That said, she's never been dressed the same way twice when I've seen her, so...

She looks to be at least part south east asian, maybe Malay, or somewhere like that, and has one of those faces that could be anywhere between 25 and 45. I guess maybe toward the older end of that spectrum as her hair is streaked grey. I fear that she has mental problems, which is why she stands out, despite shrinking back.

Never interacting with other passengers, she appears less distracted, more an oblivion unlike most people who simply try to avoid eye contact. It's definitely that, more as if she is oblivious than distracted. Again, given that she is clearly trying not to be there on some level, her behaviour marks her out, and it was clear that those sitting around her were maintaining that rather edgy level of observation that people do when they aren't quite sure how, or if to react.

And that's it. Just an observation of someone in the city. A sad little soul with an unknown story.
caddyman: (Default)
There was a strange little woman on the tube home today. I've seen her before; she's rather striking, which I guess is a shame, since her demeanour suggests that she'd rather just shrink into the background. This is somewhat at odds with the fact that her entrance was guaranteed to have people spying on her over their papers and books. Having scuttled onto the train, she stood in front of her seat for a moment before trying it with her foot as if to check that it wasn't going to bite or run away. Then she sat down. Clearly nervous, each time I see her she sits on the very edge of the tube car seat clutching her bag and looking at the floor in the middle distance. Physically quite slight, she has moved past fragile to frail, and despite not being obviously poor or destitute, looks as though a good shower and new -or cleaner- clothes wouldn't hurt. That said, she's never been dressed the same way twice when I've seen her, so...

She looks to be at least part south east asian, maybe Malay, or somewhere like that, and has one of those faces that could be anywhere between 25 and 45. I guess maybe toward the older end of that spectrum as her hair is streaked grey. I fear that she has mental problems, which is why she stands out, despite shrinking back.

Never interacting with other passengers, she appears less distracted, more an oblivion unlike most people who simply try to avoid eye contact. It's definitely that, more as if she is oblivious than distracted. Again, given that she is clearly trying not to be there on some level, her behaviour marks her out, and it was clear that those sitting around her were maintaining that rather edgy level of observation that people do when they aren't quite sure how, or if to react.

And that's it. Just an observation of someone in the city. A sad little soul with an unknown story.

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