When I signed up to this Evian campaign thing, it wasn't just a matter of giving a shameless plug and gushing about the wonders of drinking bottled water. It's about opinions, which as you'll probably have gathered by now, I have rather a lot of. They want an honest opinion on their new advert which seems to have a slight fascination with babies. Babies that dance. Babies with A.D.D and a generous helping of speed.
But here's the thing I don't get. You know when you watch an advert for five minutes on TV, then at the end of it you turn to the person next to you and go "What the hell was that about?" - that's kind of what I reckon to this one. This advert doesn't make me want to go and buy a bottle of water; the thirsty part of my brain does that. No, this advert makes me want to hide behind the sofa with my hands over my eyes, yelling "Make the freaky babies go away". It's like a minute long remake of the film 28 Days Later, except this time the zombies are nappy-clad infants on rollerskates. Shudder.
And that, I suspect, will be the last time any marketing company asks for my opinion on their advert.
Showing posts with label tv. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tv. Show all posts
Sunday, 5 July 2009
Thursday, 18 June 2009
When will they invent tracking devices for remote controls?
About 10:15pm last night, I decided I was going to watch television. Maybe Big Brother, followed by Tears, Tiaras and Transsexuals; something to lull me into dreams about how lucky I am not to be an absolute attention whoring reality TV contestant and / or a pretty lady with manbits. Anyway. I got upstairs, switched on the TV and up popped the last channel I'd had on. Which was, apparently, Magic FM.
Now, I love Magic FM as much as the next drunk. In fact, at 3am in a cab home (if it's not on already) I'll actively request that the driver retune his radio into Magic FM's late night love songs; a back to back extravaganza of cheesey, romantic, golden oldies to sing along to before falling asleep until you have reached your destination.
But at 10:15pm on a sober Wednesday night, it's just not what I'm after. I wanted Big Brother, or some choice trash. Well, "want" is a strong word. A "quick sniff" is perhaps more apt. So I glanced about for the remote (can't change the channel without it on my digibox)...which was nowhere to be found. I played the "if I was a remote control, where would I hide?" game. It wasn't in my bed, on my bean bag, behind a speaker or on any cluttered surface. And "Yesterday Once More" by the Carpenters was not helping my plight.
I quickly turned my bedroom into something resembling Beirut circa 1990, scattering clothes, electrical equipment, bed covers and make up bags all over the gaff. No sign. By this point, it wasn't so much that I wanted to watch Big Brother, it was the fact that I couldn't watch Big Brother even if I wanted to. I couldn't watch anything - just the frozen Magic FM logo. I tried my sister's remote control. I switched the box on and off again. No luck. After 20 minutes of solid searching, I eventually found it in my unpacked suitcase, where I'd thrown it the night before. Game over, yes?
No. The damn thing still wouldn't work. The past 20 minutes had made me angry, but now I'm positively fuming. I'm pressing every god damn button on that piece of plastic, and no go. Batteries! Batteries! Now I'm downstairs, trying to find AAA batteries but of course there's none to be found. Eventually I do what any other irate frustrated woman denied her quota of trashy TV would do: went and nicked the ones from my sister's remote. AHA! Victory is mine!
Except it still didn't bloody work.
If there was a frustration richter scale, I'm now completely off the radar. I'm not just angry at not being able to change the channel, I'm pissed off with the makers of the digibox. I'm annoyed at my dad for buying me this model. I'm completely baffled and worse still, Leona Lewis is now crooning at me from the corner, telling me it'll get better with time. OH JESUS.
So I go to the back of my TV. Unplug everything that it's possible to unplug, switch off everything that can be switched off...and wait. Then I turn it all on again. And hey presto! It works. I revel in being able to change the channel, Channel 4 is my oyster.
To summarise:
30 minutes to find the remote.
5 seconds to realise Big Brother is still the vat of steaming silage I'd usually part with an organ to avoid.
Brilliant.
Now, I love Magic FM as much as the next drunk. In fact, at 3am in a cab home (if it's not on already) I'll actively request that the driver retune his radio into Magic FM's late night love songs; a back to back extravaganza of cheesey, romantic, golden oldies to sing along to before falling asleep until you have reached your destination.
But at 10:15pm on a sober Wednesday night, it's just not what I'm after. I wanted Big Brother, or some choice trash. Well, "want" is a strong word. A "quick sniff" is perhaps more apt. So I glanced about for the remote (can't change the channel without it on my digibox)...which was nowhere to be found. I played the "if I was a remote control, where would I hide?" game. It wasn't in my bed, on my bean bag, behind a speaker or on any cluttered surface. And "Yesterday Once More" by the Carpenters was not helping my plight.
I quickly turned my bedroom into something resembling Beirut circa 1990, scattering clothes, electrical equipment, bed covers and make up bags all over the gaff. No sign. By this point, it wasn't so much that I wanted to watch Big Brother, it was the fact that I couldn't watch Big Brother even if I wanted to. I couldn't watch anything - just the frozen Magic FM logo. I tried my sister's remote control. I switched the box on and off again. No luck. After 20 minutes of solid searching, I eventually found it in my unpacked suitcase, where I'd thrown it the night before. Game over, yes?
No. The damn thing still wouldn't work. The past 20 minutes had made me angry, but now I'm positively fuming. I'm pressing every god damn button on that piece of plastic, and no go. Batteries! Batteries! Now I'm downstairs, trying to find AAA batteries but of course there's none to be found. Eventually I do what any other irate frustrated woman denied her quota of trashy TV would do: went and nicked the ones from my sister's remote. AHA! Victory is mine!
Except it still didn't bloody work.
If there was a frustration richter scale, I'm now completely off the radar. I'm not just angry at not being able to change the channel, I'm pissed off with the makers of the digibox. I'm annoyed at my dad for buying me this model. I'm completely baffled and worse still, Leona Lewis is now crooning at me from the corner, telling me it'll get better with time. OH JESUS.
So I go to the back of my TV. Unplug everything that it's possible to unplug, switch off everything that can be switched off...and wait. Then I turn it all on again. And hey presto! It works. I revel in being able to change the channel, Channel 4 is my oyster.
To summarise:
30 minutes to find the remote.
5 seconds to realise Big Brother is still the vat of steaming silage I'd usually part with an organ to avoid.
Brilliant.
Tuesday, 26 May 2009
The 90s come to East London
Yesterday I found myself sitting on the roof of a flat in Brick Lane with the smells of spicy food drifting up from the streets below, the sun shining down and the towering heights of Canary Wharf visible in the distance.
Three of us had crashed into the flat the night before on the way back from a 90s hip hop night in Shoreditch, where we'd raved hands in the air yelling 'OHHH NOOO!' to tracks we hadn't heard in years. Clutching the remains of cream cheese bagels, we'd tottered down a debris strewn Brick Lane and arrived at the flat, joining it's five male inhabitants and watching Fresh Prince of Bel Air on DVD until the sun came up. Before that we'd watched reruns of The Villa on Sky Three, a match making reality show from the late 90s where horrendous single men and "women" took their high waisted shorts and crop tops to a villa in Ibiza to try and find love. Or just a shag. Class all round.
And that's where we stayed. I caught up with people I hadn't seen since me and the ex broke up and did the only thing possible to do when you've had 2 hours sleep: chill, enjoy the silence of a battery-dead phone and talk incoherent nonsense with friends. Still in last night's clothes, with unbrushed hair, unwashed skin and my feet now covered in plasters from a bad choice of shoes, we finally left late Monday night and walked back through Spitalfields to the station. Three sleep deprived girls in short dresses and flat shoes, ambling through East London, the sun slowly going down on our perfect bank holiday weekend.
"Ehhh girls! You off out tonight? Where you partying?" came a leering male yell from across the concourse at Liverpool street station.
Tonight? We're not back from Sunday night yet. Gissa chance.
Three of us had crashed into the flat the night before on the way back from a 90s hip hop night in Shoreditch, where we'd raved hands in the air yelling 'OHHH NOOO!' to tracks we hadn't heard in years. Clutching the remains of cream cheese bagels, we'd tottered down a debris strewn Brick Lane and arrived at the flat, joining it's five male inhabitants and watching Fresh Prince of Bel Air on DVD until the sun came up. Before that we'd watched reruns of The Villa on Sky Three, a match making reality show from the late 90s where horrendous single men and "women" took their high waisted shorts and crop tops to a villa in Ibiza to try and find love. Or just a shag. Class all round.
And that's where we stayed. I caught up with people I hadn't seen since me and the ex broke up and did the only thing possible to do when you've had 2 hours sleep: chill, enjoy the silence of a battery-dead phone and talk incoherent nonsense with friends. Still in last night's clothes, with unbrushed hair, unwashed skin and my feet now covered in plasters from a bad choice of shoes, we finally left late Monday night and walked back through Spitalfields to the station. Three sleep deprived girls in short dresses and flat shoes, ambling through East London, the sun slowly going down on our perfect bank holiday weekend.
"Ehhh girls! You off out tonight? Where you partying?" came a leering male yell from across the concourse at Liverpool street station.
Tonight? We're not back from Sunday night yet. Gissa chance.
Thursday, 9 April 2009
My shoulder and superman
Something strange happened yesterday. Two hours after waking up, twittering about the most cringeworthy debate about Twitter ever to grace my TV screen, watching 5 minutes of Jeremy Kyle then wondering into my room to get dressed...my shoulder seized up. I can see no other reason for this, except that I had exposed my body to ITV and now I was paying the price.
Slowly the muscles tightened and knotted as I raised my arm to apply some eyeliner. Within ten minutes, my neck refused to grant me access to left and right without a shooting pain whizzing down my arm and the left hand side of my spine. Nevertheless, I slathered myself in Ibuprofen gel and got myself back to London, where I employed all manner of heat pads, pain killers and Green and Blacks dark chocolate to make myself feel better.
This morning, it still hurt - so an off work mum got me a physio appointment at the sports club. Now, bear in mind I was uncomfortable, in pain, but still functioning, i.e. able to dress, make toast, waggle about with the dawgs, generally hold conversation. We approached the reception at the sports club, where we handed over our membership cards and the receptionist said hello, and ah yes you've got an appointment, off you go it's in there.
"Yes. She's in agony." said my mum, eliciting sympathetic noises and cooing from the receptionist.
"Mum, I'm not in agony." I said within earshot as we walked into the gym.
"Aren't you?" she replied, slightly outraged as if she'd been tricked.
"No! Not agony. Like, it hurts...but I wouldn't say it's agony"
She looked at me as if I'd just sworn and farted the alphabet.
"Agony means an all-encompassing pain, like I'd be screaming in pain, and in tears...which I'm not... am I? I just can't move my neck and shoulders."
"Oh." she said, a bit disappointed.
However, as we sat outside the physio office in the air conditioned gym, waiting for an appointment that didn't exist because the physio, believing he had no other patients that afternoon, had gone home ill - it did get worse. And, as I was telling the apologetic receptionist not to worry, I'd just "go home and Nurofen-up", my mum darted after a tall, dashing hunk of a man walking the other way.
Next thing I know this man, who apparently runs my mum's exercise class and "sorted Lorraine's shoulder out once" (?!) has taken me to one side in the sports club foyer and is doing things to my shoulder, neck and back. Magical, wonderful things which are painful in an inexplicably lovely way. He's pressing and teasing out the knots, moving things around and wiggling the rocks that are my shoulder muscles. All the while, he's continuing to have normal conversation with passing people, who stop and chat, look at me and cock their head in imitation or mock sympathy.
"Alright Jay. We still on for 4pm?" or "Hiya Darren. How's it going?", while I am standing there in front of him, mouth agape, half drooling, half grimacing in pain. The man finishes whatever he's doing and tells me to stretch my neck this way and that, then roll my shoulders.
"How does that feel?"
And miraculously, this public, impromptu physio session has given me the gift of movement. Before I can thank him, in true Superman "my work here is done" style, he is running out the door and, I shit you not, sprinting across the car park. Literally, within seconds, he's gone. Me and my mum look at each other as this figure disappears out of view, wondering if he's coming back or what.
I like to think that he was late to an appointment...somewhere out there in NW London, another wounded lady was in need of his attentive Superhands. Godbless that man. It's an easter miracle.
Slowly the muscles tightened and knotted as I raised my arm to apply some eyeliner. Within ten minutes, my neck refused to grant me access to left and right without a shooting pain whizzing down my arm and the left hand side of my spine. Nevertheless, I slathered myself in Ibuprofen gel and got myself back to London, where I employed all manner of heat pads, pain killers and Green and Blacks dark chocolate to make myself feel better.
This morning, it still hurt - so an off work mum got me a physio appointment at the sports club. Now, bear in mind I was uncomfortable, in pain, but still functioning, i.e. able to dress, make toast, waggle about with the dawgs, generally hold conversation. We approached the reception at the sports club, where we handed over our membership cards and the receptionist said hello, and ah yes you've got an appointment, off you go it's in there.
"Yes. She's in agony." said my mum, eliciting sympathetic noises and cooing from the receptionist.
"Mum, I'm not in agony." I said within earshot as we walked into the gym.
"Aren't you?" she replied, slightly outraged as if she'd been tricked.
"No! Not agony. Like, it hurts...but I wouldn't say it's agony"
She looked at me as if I'd just sworn and farted the alphabet.
"Agony means an all-encompassing pain, like I'd be screaming in pain, and in tears...which I'm not... am I? I just can't move my neck and shoulders."
"Oh." she said, a bit disappointed.
However, as we sat outside the physio office in the air conditioned gym, waiting for an appointment that didn't exist because the physio, believing he had no other patients that afternoon, had gone home ill - it did get worse. And, as I was telling the apologetic receptionist not to worry, I'd just "go home and Nurofen-up", my mum darted after a tall, dashing hunk of a man walking the other way.
Next thing I know this man, who apparently runs my mum's exercise class and "sorted Lorraine's shoulder out once" (?!) has taken me to one side in the sports club foyer and is doing things to my shoulder, neck and back. Magical, wonderful things which are painful in an inexplicably lovely way. He's pressing and teasing out the knots, moving things around and wiggling the rocks that are my shoulder muscles. All the while, he's continuing to have normal conversation with passing people, who stop and chat, look at me and cock their head in imitation or mock sympathy.
"Alright Jay. We still on for 4pm?" or "Hiya Darren. How's it going?", while I am standing there in front of him, mouth agape, half drooling, half grimacing in pain. The man finishes whatever he's doing and tells me to stretch my neck this way and that, then roll my shoulders.
"How does that feel?"
And miraculously, this public, impromptu physio session has given me the gift of movement. Before I can thank him, in true Superman "my work here is done" style, he is running out the door and, I shit you not, sprinting across the car park. Literally, within seconds, he's gone. Me and my mum look at each other as this figure disappears out of view, wondering if he's coming back or what.
I like to think that he was late to an appointment...somewhere out there in NW London, another wounded lady was in need of his attentive Superhands. Godbless that man. It's an easter miracle.
Saturday, 28 February 2009
Hairy chin
The other night I was watching TV with my dad, a programme on BBC1 after Eastenders called Inside Out. It's basically a regional programme which investigates topics such as, in this instance, teaching children about same sex relationships in schools.
They had this author on who was being interviewed about her childrens' books, which she wrote depicting alternative families, like for kids who might have two dads or two mums.
All good right?
Wrong.
I couldn't focus on a word she was saying. Well, I did for a little bit, but then I noticed something and it made me go "Dad. Dad. Look. That lady looks like Mr. Tumnus" in manner of three year old at a supermarket. If you missed it, which lets be honest you probably did because this isn't the most interesting thing on TV at the moment, then here it is for your viewing..err...pleasure.
Now, you probably thought the same thing I did. Like you probably didn't see it at first - but then you look a bit closer and you see all these wirey, fairly bushy hairs sproating from her chin. It's not that I want to mock her or anything, but having worked in TV, I could only imagine what had been going through the producers' heads when this woman rocked up. Trust me, it would have been an issue. It reminded me of a time when I worked at the Huge Broadcasting Company on the programme last year.
Whenever we'd have contributers on, they would normally be members of the public or experts we'd found. If they consented and had a great story, we'd film them for the show. Except the thing was, that you couldn't really ask for photos before putting them on camera. So they might have had a great story, sounded normal on the phone, but until the researcher, camera man and crew had got up to their house - it was always a bit hit and miss as to what, or who, might open the door.
It wasn't that the producers were being particularly mean, it's just that you don't want the face of the person getting in the way of the story itself. You want viewers to get involved with what's being said, not going "oh my god, that man has an extraordinarily large boil on his forehead". Many a time the researchers would come back from someones house with hours of interview footage, and there would be debates as to whether they could use it. It might be because of appearance, or perhaps out of nerves the contributor had got drunk beforehand and we'd have the problem of someone telling an awful experience with a manic, pissed up grin on their face.
One such time, the team were gathered round a TV in the studio viewing footage of someone they'd just interviewed. The person had a great story, had agreed to go on camera, so the crew had gone up there. There was a lot of umming, erring, "I see what you mean"-ing, so I went over to investigate.
The problem?
The woman they'd gone to interview was actually a man. Now I don't know the ins and outs, like whether they were expecting a male or female from the fairly deep voice, but the person who greeted them was clearly a transexual. Long hair, female in every way...apart from the fact that it was evidently a man "underneath".
Eventually the producers solved the problem by only using shots from a particular angle, and no close ups. Close up, the manly features were obvious. From far away, and slightly to the side? They could get away with it. So that is what they did.
So if a researcher for a TV programme ever gets in touch with you, then suddenly after meeting them you hear no more about it - it may have something to do with your funny little beard. They'll tell you it's because they've decided not to use your story any more, but really it's your face. Sorry to shatter the illusion.
They had this author on who was being interviewed about her childrens' books, which she wrote depicting alternative families, like for kids who might have two dads or two mums.
All good right?
Wrong.
I couldn't focus on a word she was saying. Well, I did for a little bit, but then I noticed something and it made me go "Dad. Dad. Look. That lady looks like Mr. Tumnus" in manner of three year old at a supermarket. If you missed it, which lets be honest you probably did because this isn't the most interesting thing on TV at the moment, then here it is for your viewing..err...pleasure.
Now, you probably thought the same thing I did. Like you probably didn't see it at first - but then you look a bit closer and you see all these wirey, fairly bushy hairs sproating from her chin. It's not that I want to mock her or anything, but having worked in TV, I could only imagine what had been going through the producers' heads when this woman rocked up. Trust me, it would have been an issue. It reminded me of a time when I worked at the Huge Broadcasting Company on the programme last year.
Whenever we'd have contributers on, they would normally be members of the public or experts we'd found. If they consented and had a great story, we'd film them for the show. Except the thing was, that you couldn't really ask for photos before putting them on camera. So they might have had a great story, sounded normal on the phone, but until the researcher, camera man and crew had got up to their house - it was always a bit hit and miss as to what, or who, might open the door.
It wasn't that the producers were being particularly mean, it's just that you don't want the face of the person getting in the way of the story itself. You want viewers to get involved with what's being said, not going "oh my god, that man has an extraordinarily large boil on his forehead". Many a time the researchers would come back from someones house with hours of interview footage, and there would be debates as to whether they could use it. It might be because of appearance, or perhaps out of nerves the contributor had got drunk beforehand and we'd have the problem of someone telling an awful experience with a manic, pissed up grin on their face.
One such time, the team were gathered round a TV in the studio viewing footage of someone they'd just interviewed. The person had a great story, had agreed to go on camera, so the crew had gone up there. There was a lot of umming, erring, "I see what you mean"-ing, so I went over to investigate.
The problem?
The woman they'd gone to interview was actually a man. Now I don't know the ins and outs, like whether they were expecting a male or female from the fairly deep voice, but the person who greeted them was clearly a transexual. Long hair, female in every way...apart from the fact that it was evidently a man "underneath".
Eventually the producers solved the problem by only using shots from a particular angle, and no close ups. Close up, the manly features were obvious. From far away, and slightly to the side? They could get away with it. So that is what they did.
So if a researcher for a TV programme ever gets in touch with you, then suddenly after meeting them you hear no more about it - it may have something to do with your funny little beard. They'll tell you it's because they've decided not to use your story any more, but really it's your face. Sorry to shatter the illusion.
Friday, 26 December 2008
The following people DO NOT know it's christmas time:
Not that I was expecting to hear from him or anything, I totally wasn't - but it feels strange to be sans boyfriend this Christmas. Not that we spent Christmas together ever, or New Year come to think of it, it's just that weird feeling of no contact again. Getting a card from his parents was nice, although it highlighted the fact that I'd heard nothing from him. As they say..."that's probably a good thing", like everything else.
Oh, and Christmas cheer was definitely in the air on the road next to the doctor's surgery on the 24th, as I nipped in to pick up a prescription and, finding no space in the surgery's stamp sized car park, left my car on the adjacent road. There was indeed someone watching over me, a 21st century yonder star if you will, in the shape of a parking warden who slapped a £50 fine on my windscreen while I was gone. The timings noted on the slip? From 10:56 to: 10:58. Bastards.
My internet is not Christmas friendly. I know this because I've spent 6 hours over the last 2 days watching Gavin and Stacey from start to finish (actually, it's probably more like 10 hours given my internet connection up here. Have to watch it in 5 minute blasts, let it load up a bit, then press play...pause...load up, play etc). iPlayer is refusing to play ball 2 episodes short of the Christmas special - but anyway I think it's probably time I left the house before I start speaking welsh and greeting people with "Al-rite Stace, what's occurin?".
So I'm going to the pub, which will probably close at the thoroughly ungodly hour of 10:30, or something.
Toot toot!
Oh, and Christmas cheer was definitely in the air on the road next to the doctor's surgery on the 24th, as I nipped in to pick up a prescription and, finding no space in the surgery's stamp sized car park, left my car on the adjacent road. There was indeed someone watching over me, a 21st century yonder star if you will, in the shape of a parking warden who slapped a £50 fine on my windscreen while I was gone. The timings noted on the slip? From 10:56 to: 10:58. Bastards.
My internet is not Christmas friendly. I know this because I've spent 6 hours over the last 2 days watching Gavin and Stacey from start to finish (actually, it's probably more like 10 hours given my internet connection up here. Have to watch it in 5 minute blasts, let it load up a bit, then press play...pause...load up, play etc). iPlayer is refusing to play ball 2 episodes short of the Christmas special - but anyway I think it's probably time I left the house before I start speaking welsh and greeting people with "Al-rite Stace, what's occurin?".
So I'm going to the pub, which will probably close at the thoroughly ungodly hour of 10:30, or something.
Toot toot!
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