A Load of Mispants

Like many children born in the 1950s I spent the first few years of my life television-free. There was great excitement when a little square box appeared in our front room, and even more of a frenzy when we kids realised you could press a button to switch it on, and change between two channels by twiddling a knob on the front. In the days before technology really took off, that tiny box provided hours of entertainment.

We watched anything - well, anything deemed suitable by our mum and dad, who were meticulous in their scanning and couldn’t possibly have foreseen the dangers of the Internet fifty years hence.

In the absence of much variety, one of the programmes I really loved was Mr Pastry, a clumsy, bumbling old man, who was constantly tripping over and dropping things. At the time - and at the age of seven - it was hilarious. With hindsight, it seems strange that the TV was placed where it was, as the room was waiting to be decorated, and I vividly remember the one and only chair, an old wooden dining chair, painted pale blue. It's now pink and resides in my old bedroom at my mum’s. Needless to say, that chair was the most coveted piece of furniture by us kids. Frequently fought over, it was used proudly by the winner who had to have a very strong bladder in order to maintain his position. Many a time, all three of us would be unceremoniously removed from the room by my mum marching in, switching off the TV and dragging us - in a bundle - out into the hall.

Anyway, back to Mr Pastry. In one of the first programmes, we met his assistant and sidekick, Miss Print. This was my first introduction to a ‘play on words.’ It took me a while to realise there was a double meaning, but once I did I thought it was really funny.

I used to have a folder full of misprints cut out of newspapers. I’ve no idea what happened to them and I can’t remember most of them, but I do recall that the classified ads in the local paper were the most likely to harbour the dreaded misprints.

There was the 3 bedroomed hose; the dining table 3” x 4” (for anybody under about 50, that’s three inches by four inches), seats six; and I still wonder whether anybody bought the large wooden picture farm. The Guardian was known as the Grauniad for good reason. It even had a daily section apologising for the previous day’s mistakes:

Quote 'Readers were informed that the 2003 spring season at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon would feature “The Taming of the Screw”. Anyone spluttering over their morning muesli at this point might have reached for Glaxo’s “controversial treatment for irritable bowl syndrome”, as we once had it. If further proof were needed of the havoc one missing letter can produce, among the highlights expected at Glastonbury 2010 was the group Frightened Rabbi. “[That] should have been the Scottish band Frightened Rabbit,” deadpanned the next day’s corrections column.'

Too many Guardian examples to quote them all, but find more here.

The following images aren't from the Guardian, but they did amuse me.

I’m a bit of a pedant where spelling and punctuation are concerned. I think describing some of the errors I see on social media as misprints is actually giving pretty wide leeway. I bite my tongue and sit on my hands these days.

However one of my favourites was not a misprint, but a mishearing, which I’m sneaking in here. Listening to the radio one day I was shocked to hear a Scottish announcer reporting on new ‘Anti-Stocking Laws.’ I was about to explode in a frenzy of feminist ranting, when the article continued and I realised, with relief, that the Scottish accent meant that ‘stalking’ sounded very similar to ’stocking.’

It's All Just a Load of Mispants

by Jill Ready

Off to the theatre 

The Taming of the Screw

But first

Let's tackle this 

Irritable bowl

that's been bugging me 

Then

lip sick on

Brush the air

do my yes

Mustn't forget to lick the door

quietly

so the dog doesn't start to bake

I'm meeting Pet

at the local pube 

He says it's goo in there

Two pins each and we're ready to go

Halfway there and the bell begins to grumble

Oh no

where are the to lets? 

Something pasty is about to happen

I make it, Justin Tim

Pew!

The play was good but still wandering about the screw.....

Thanks for reading,   Jill

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Mind The Gap?

This week's theme is the generation gap, or 'institutional age segregation' as it is now referred to somewhat fancifully by sociologists. Let's stick with generation gap - I think we can all identify with that term.

It was coined in the 1960s to explain the division that existed between the baby-boomers (born in that decade after the 2nd world war) and their parents; a division that ran the gamut from music (no pun intended) to lifestyle to politics in a way that was more clearly delineated than ever before. To quote the recently departed Paul Kantner (who in turn was plagiarising John Wyndham): "In loyalty to their kind, they cannot tolerate our minds. In loyalty to our kind, we cannot tolerate their obstruction" (from 'Crown of Creation' by Jefferson Airplane). We were rebels and quite often it felt like war of a gentle kind against our parents. My mother and father were conscientious and caring, but they just didn't get it and we were frequently at loggerheads. I left home as early as I could.

Many years later, (I had babies of my own by that time), my father tried to apologise for the heavy-handed way they had acted on occasions. He wasn't exactly trying to excuse himself, it was more an admission to being completely bewildered by the tide of social and cultural changes set in motion in the 1960s, to the extent that neither he nor my mother knew how to cope with what was going on. They tried to keep a lid on - and that ruled out any opportunity to talk issues through to a better mutual understanding. Consequently, the gap was never bridged.

I hope I've not made the same mistakes. My own daughters may well read this blog. It will be interesting to hear their views on the subject.

Today's poem was 'inspired', if that's the appropriate term, by the sight of my parents sitting night after night in their armchairs in front of the television set, never talking to each other (or to me when I graced them with my company), just soaking up whatever was on offer. They frequently fell asleep in their chairs and would wake up when transmissions ceased after the epilogue and the national anthem. I'm sure that's not an uncommon observation. It used to really wind me up.

From the time I left home in my teens, all through university and into my late twenties I didn't have a television at all, much preferring to read or play music. The idea that everyone sat passive in front of their set every night was just anathema to me and I satirised the idea in the poem below, which draws its opening concept from Jean-Jacques Rousseau's famous lines: "Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains..."

Rousseau, writing in the 18th century as a philosopher and political theorist, was principally concerned with ideas of freedom of the individual from exploitation and enslavement. His writings were fundamental to the progress of the Enlightenment in France and gave ammunition to the political activists behind the American and French revolutions of that century. Fast forward two hundred years and TV as a mass medium has the power to seduce and enslave. It doesn't have to be that way, but the danger is there; and the people who control the medium are very powerful as a result.  Viewer beware!

Please note that the poem was actually written a few years ago and predates both LCD technology (hence the reference to cathode light) and the deregulation of the industry (which has led to over 100 channels being available nightly and not just 3).

Electron-Chain-Gang Blues
Man was born free,
but everywhere he is watching TV.
It's a tune-in-and-turn-off routine,
quotidian soma for the modern age.

You sought an antidote to thought
through rapt attention to your screen -
and what a vacant, sweet delight
to follow mindless days
with mindless nights
bathed in the flickering cathode light
beamed from a leading TV station.

Oblivious or accepting of your exploitation,
you've sold out your reality
to media personalities.
So enjoy the celebration
of the Powers-That-Be
every night on channels one, two, three!

Thanks for reading. Have a good week, S ;-)

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Predicting the Future

On the night I was brought into this world, the stars were in the sky. They had assumed the usual position for July, that being the way of things and as a result of those positions, I have read a horoscope periodically for almost all of my life.

This year, I haven’t bothered but I can almost guarantee that it will be a year of great positivity and optimism with developments made in my career and probably relationship (subject to the career thing working out). There is sure to be a sickly optimistic fortune teller out there that will guarantee me that. I could be in line for a windfall. Equally, I could be in line for a death.

When I used to work in a papershop, I had a flick through the magazines on almost a daily basis. I would read science magazines, writing magazines, various BBC titles, historical articles, financial articles, newspapers and of course, the weekly assortment aimed at women. Each of these catered for a different audience and within the categories there would be slight differences, though generally around a theme. I learnt in this time that there isn’t a woman alive that wants a bad horoscope read to her- and so I very rarely read one. Instead, they are peddled with positivity and hooks to make a reader come back for the good news the following week.

Surrounding myself with positivity is the way I am choosing to deal with 2014. I cannot predict the future and I wouldn’t claim to but, in the looking at what I plan to do with it, I can ensure that this year is better than all of those before. I have an ambitious novel to write (or plan) and a poem a week to commit to. I have grand plans meaning I just don’t have the time for the tripe I watch.

For the theme of ‘future’ then, I am setting my only resolution- to watch much less TV. And to get my year going, a poem…

Poem on a mindless afternoon off

We hail in the new year, twenty fourteen

New Celebrity Big Brother starts

Again, they’re all famous from ten years before

With a smattering of daft, frilly tarts

This is it, this is what we’ve decided to do

On our evenings and weekends we sloth

It all started when they made an ITV2

Gave us all those free channels to watch

This year, let’s say sod it to Cowell and Co

The future starts now- show them all where to go

Throw the Ant at the Dec and then both off that bridge

Boost the ratings for one final show

 Or one day, we’ll be forced to repeat old QIs

There’ll be no shows of interest at all

Whilst we’re spending our time watching cable or sky

We’re as well banging heads on the wall.

Thanks for reading,
S.

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THE BIBLE ACCORDING TO RUPERT MURDOCH

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was GOTCHA! And the Lord Rupert said let there be a Royal Family, and let enormous quantities of trivia and drivel be written about them, yeah even unto the point where a lobotomised amoeba couldn’t find it interesting any more, and let babies be born unto this Royal Family, and let the huge swathes of sycophantic, nauseating sludge written about them surpass even that written about their parents, even though these babies and their parents are about as interesting as a wet afternoon watching an endless slow motion loop tape of Phil Collins live at Selhurst Park.

And the Lord Rupert said let there be soap operas, and reality TV shows, and let each and every one be so mind-numbingly moronic as to make a wet afternoon watching an endless slow motion loop tape of Phil Collins live at Selhurst Park seem a truly uplifting experience, and let entire forests be destroyed and the very existence of our planet jeopardised in the endless vistas of retarded outpourings about these unspeakable transmissions.

And let there be enormous breasts, and endless bonking, and days and weeks and months and years of chauvinistic right wing propaganda, so that the people who like the bonking and the soap operas and the breasts and the royal stories get the politics as well.

And let any journalist who tries to stand up to the proprietor and editor in the name of truth, and integrity, and intelligence, and journalistic standards, be summarily dismissed, and cast into a bottomless pit of decomposing chimpanzee smegma, and let those journalists who suffer this fate rejoice at the great career move they have just made.

And the Lord Rupert looked at his work, and even he saw that it was a load of crap, but this was the enterprise culture and it sold millions so it was good. And on the same basis he decided to buy the whole world, and the earth itself wept, and little robins vomited, and cuddly furry animals threw themselves under trains, and the whole thing was filmed by Sky Channel for a horror nature programme, and the most awful thing was that this was just the beginning……

ATTILA THE STOCKBROKER



This guest post by Attila the Stockbroker came with the following introduction which is being placed at the end to avoid interrupting the joy of the work above:

I wrote this some years ago after one of Murdoch's subsidiaries took over publishing firm William Collins, which among other things has the rights to the New International version of the English Bible. Given Mr Murdoch's track record in journalism and publishing - he is like Midas in reverse, all that he touches turns to shit - I thought it was time for a New Revised Version.

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A Modest Proposal

A Modest Proposal For Preventing Government Policy, from Being a Burden on Families or the Country as a whole, and for Making them Beneficial to the Public

It has come to my attention that true democracy in the UK isn’t being played out in the ballot boxes of the voting booths come polling day, but instead the people of this green and pleasant isle exact their will by use of telephone or text voting on so called reality TV shows. It would seem that the logical conclusion to this trend would be to create shows that directly affect the policies that the audience deems important and wishes to have a say in.

As an example I wish to put forward the following format as a pilot scheme.

I propose having a Prime time TV show divided into three stages:

Stage 1: an X-factor styled event, only instead of just singers our judges will look at any talent whatsoever. From great mathematicians to magic acts, every possible talent will be viewed and based on what the judges say, the individual will be either allowed though the next round or sent packing.

Stage 2: a Gladiator competition where the winners from the first round beat the hell out of each other with soft ended giant cotton buds and compete to get through preposterous assault courses with various celebrity Gladiators like Wolf, Storm and Keith Chegwin trying to stop them.

Stage 3: The strongest and fastest from stage two make it through to a Big Brother house from which the public vote out the contestants. During their stay in the House the competitors will undergo tasks and “Bush Tucker” type challenges. These “Housemates” will be whittled down by phone vote until the final day when the public get to choose which Asylum Seeker gets to enter the country. All losers will be dropped out of a trap door hanging over the White Cliffs of Dover onto an inflatable slide, which deposits them safely onto a boat back from whence they came.

The show will be called “”I'm an Asylum Seeker, Get Me Into Here!” and will be hosted by Ant and Dec

The winner will be allowed to enter the country with their family (up to six members) and be given everything that Asylum Seekers are entitled to.

So not only will this show entertain the masses but also help with the current immigration problem. Now we can be sure that the people who enter this country will be talented, strong and liked by the public.

If successful, more shows could be made to help make important decisions on other policy issues of contention.

Other shows that could be considered would be:

• Unemployed and Pointless
• Who wants this Millionaire to have a tax break?
• The X Frackers

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Good TV

 “He's a nasty piece of work” a bent over grey haired old lady said to her friend “A right wrong en'”

So poked the blood soaked teenager with her walking stick. A slight groan came from the pile of broken body.

“Couldn't have happened to a nicer fella.”

To two old ladies turned and carried on their walk towards the church leaving Gregory Fras to feel the pain he had caused others. That's how the ladies saw it, justified the non interference policy.

“God will take care of him” said the old lady

“Or not.” replied her pale blue haired, tweed wearing friend.

Everybody around the Peacock estate had been intimidated  threatened, bullied, attacked, robbed or verbally abused by Gregory at some point in the last 10 years.

Since he turned eleven he's been nothing but trouble. Shoplifting was his first offence followed very quickly by assault on Mr Johnson, the shop keeper that caught him. There was no punishment that he was scared of, no one he respected or listened to. The congregation from the local church viewed as 'evil incarnate'

The two old ladies were not the only ones to leave him in the heap by the side of the road. Others went to help, but as soon as they recognized who it was, the left him there, not even curious as to what had happened.

“He's got what he deserved.” Sneered Mr Dodson to his wife. “Come on, the sermon starts soon.”

Gregory became aware of the clicking of high heels on paving slabs. They stopped, there was an exaggerated scream then the heels clicked faster and towards him. Through blood filled swollen eyes the local tyrant could make out the shape of a woman wearing an ill fitting red wiggle dress, her face, though blurry, was layered thick with makeup and her blonde hair was sliding off the left side of her head as she checked him over for injuries.

She spoke in a deeper voice than she screamed, “Gregory,” he said, “Gregory, can you hear me, it's John”

The damaged hard man tried to speak, but the injuries left by the hit and run driver hurt to much.

“Don't try and move, I'll call for an ambulance,” held Gregory's hand “I'm here, stay with me”

Gregory could hear John talk to the 999 operator on his pink iphone  He knew it was pink because only last week he'd given John a hard time about his gender reassignment. Called him a poof, queer, pedo. He'd taken his hand bag off him and emptied its contents over the pavement. And as John bent over to pick of the pink telephone, Gregory had kicked him in the face, breaking his nose, making him fall over and laddering his tights.

Gregory mustered up some strength, “John, I mean, Jane.” He caught, “Thank you.”

“Let's save all that for later, ambulance is on its way.”

“You're a wonderful woman.”

“Save your strength,” John held back the tears, Gregory was the first one round here to acknowledge him as a woman, the rest either ignored him or called him an abomination against god. “you can try and pick me up when you better”

Gregory pulled a slight smile.

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Joss Whedon

 By Ashley Lister 

 “You're not friends. You'll never be friends. You'll be in love till it kills you both. You'll fight, and you'll shag, and you'll hate each other until it makes you quiver, but you'll never be friends. Love isn't brains, children, it's blood -- blood screaming inside you to work its will. I may be love's bitch, but at least I'm man enough to admit it.”

Spike, BTVS, Season 3

For those of you unfamiliar with Joss Whedon as a writer, take the time to check out some of his work. He wrote the TV series Buffy the Vampire Slayer (BTVS). He wrote the TV series Angel. He wrote the TV series Firefly (and the related movie Serenity). He wrote the online mini-series Dr Horrible’s Sing-a-long Blog. He has screenplay credits for films as diverse as Toy Story, Alien Resurrection, Avengers Assemble, The Cabin in the Woods and the forthcoming screen adaptation of Much Ado About Nothing starring Nathan Fillion, Ashley Johnson and Amy Acker.

Whedon is a master of dialogue. He’s a master of strong characterisation. He’s a master of the complex plot. And he refuses to be bound by genre. I could wax lyrical for hours on what I like and love about Whedon and his writing. However, my favourite thing about his work is that he refuses to remain confined by a single form. He writes TV series, comics, films and musicals. And, with masterful skill, he blends genres and tests the limits of every form with which he works.

There was an episode of Buffy done with almost no dialogue. There was an episode of Buffy performed as a musical. Firefly (and later the film Serenity) blended western and science fiction, almost steampunk in construction and conception, but with a level of realism that made the fantasy enormously powerful. Dr Horrible combined a comic book style superhero and an unforgettable antihero with strongly written musical songs and erudite comedy. Dr Horrible was presented exclusively through the internet as a very successful mini-series.

Whedon was the man who wrote with profound simplicity: “The hardest thing to do in this world is live in it.”

Perhaps Whedon’s work is not commonly perceived as highbrow or intellectual writing. But it’s writing that’s moved me to the most delicious extremes of laughter and it’s writing that has oftentimes left me sobbing in empathy for the fate of his affable and relatable characters. And if a writer can manage that much then, in my opinion, they’ve succeeded at their craft.  

These final words comes from the episode I quoted at the start of this blog post. This is Spike’s realisation of his own way to achieve true love. And it’s typical of Whedon’s quirky, honest and whimsical writing style.

“I've been all wrongheaded about this - weeping, crawling, blaming everybody else. I want Dru back, I've just got to be the man I was. The man she loved. I'm going to do what I should have done in the first place. I'll find her, wherever she is, tie her up, torture her until she likes me again. Love's a funny thing.” 

Spike, BTVS, Season 3

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