You can't make it up

I switch on the television. There's an advert for some female beauty product - moisturiser or make up, I don't remember. The music is a classic piece of 80s synthpop.

It's Tainted Love. A product that hides blemishes, with a song about imperfections. A product about romance, with a song about a failed relationship.

There's not a trace of irony in the presentation. It's not one of those 'clever' adverts that exploits people's mistrust of advertising by pretending to subvert itself.


I've got an N-Pod. £128.00 for a combined MP3 player, dictaphone, FM Radio reciever and recorder, basic ebook reader, and portable 20GB hard disk.

So now, with a bit of forward planning, I can record what I want from DAB, and listen to it during those hours spent on busses, trains and pavements.


Nathan Barley was rubbish. Just horrible. Fresh as an egyptian mummy, subversive as Phil Collins, eloquent as George Bush, and subtle as a lead brick.

I've probably used the quote before, but, I think it was Tom Paulin who said, "It's a horrible thing when an artist's work matures."


I've got to phone around to remind people of the forum tomorrow. It's about the fraudulence of the Iraq elections.

I know that my list of telephone numbers is somewhere in one of five boxes of stuff that I moved when clearing out my bedroom. So I think I'll listen to some of last week's radio while rifleing through it all.

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