Month: April 2014

Avatar Trendsetter

You start off with a short sentence to ease them in.

Then you lean back with a slightly longer one just to prove that you’re capable of doing more than stringing together a couple of flashy, sticky dib-dabs.

So, after what can only be described as the complete runaway success of my expertly put-together phrase, “Sweet Petunia!” it has unfortunately become far too popular. Everywhere I go these days it is being ushered on street corners, shouted on fruit stalls, giggled in dog-grooming parlours and whispered down sewer grates. It takes a brave man to take a step back and even though I still hold her dear to my heart I think it is time to retire, “Sweet Petunia!” and look to pastures new.

I was in recent discussion with Senor Menendez and Master Reuben about my plight and they too were sad to see her go so soon but understood my reasons for doing so. Getting rid of her was the easiest part; finding a suitable and equally genius replacement would be where the toil began. Luckily being around academics such as these, it was finger wiggle time within a matter of minutes.

Can you replace “Sweet Petunia”? Of course you can. You need something catchy, something clever but also something people can identify with. You don’t want to push that sweet, sweet candy away. Ladies and gentlemen, I present the worthy replacement:

“Penny Vincenzi!”

I would have had, “Barry Norman!” but Master Reuben came up with it first and told me I would have to pay him royalties whenever I mentioned it. You have to be quick off the mark in this game.

Avatar Newsboost – Bag For Life Binging Bad For Britain

The simple bag for life has a simple idea; it is your bag and you have it for life. There is nothing else about it. It doesn’t want to make your life any better apart from helping you to carry your shopping and occasionally maybe a child or a small dog if they can fit. So what could controversial MP Tub Barsley possibly have against them?

He could have a lot against them is the correct response. He has so much against them that he’s practically turning all his beef into a portion of spaghetti bolognaise that could feed seven elderly relatives for the duration of Lent (unless they have happened to give up meat, tomatoes or pasta for it). Mr Barsley has recently published an article damning bags for life because whilst good in theory they do not live up to expectations.

“People buy ’em all the time,” he writes, “and they clearly have good intentions but they never get used. You’ll find ’em at the back of cupboards and wardrobes or under carpets and hiding in trees rather than in your hand at a supermarket. They’re not convenient enough to carry around. We could easily point the fingers at the people who forget to bring them shopping but I would never accuse anyone in my constituency of such a thing. It’s much easier to blame an inanimate object, and for that reason I urge everyone to boycott bags for life.”

One person who doesn’t share the same view as Mr Barsley is Geraldine Ambicott, a voracious young gardener from Milton Keynes. Geraldine has developed an obsession with bags for life and has been known to purchase up to seventeen at the same time, even if she does remember to brings hers with her when she is shopping. Those suffering from this affliction are known in the community as ‘Baggers’ or ‘Bag-nep-pollops’ in Wales.

“I just like them. I feel compelled to pick them up and rub them against my ankles whenever I get the chance,” Geraldine explains, “On my last count I had around three hundred in total. The staff at my local supermarket now refuse to serve me if I am holding, clutching or drooling over a bag for life and I don’t blame them. I know I have a problem; I just wish that someone could sit me down or tie me to a chair and help me. I don’t think Mr Barsley is fair with his comments; bags for life are helping the environment and that can only be a good thing. It’s just chumpos like me who give them a bad name.”

The most publicised Bagger is pop sensation Quinze who declared last month that she owns five outfits made of bags for life and has been known to wander around Asda at 2am putting jars of peanut butter between her legs.

Avatar Your New Favourite Band: Broken Bells

Welcome to the first instalment of what might become a regular music feature. In Your New Favourite Band we take a look at the people behind one of the latest beat combos in the pop charts. This week, please welcome Broken Bells.

Broken Bells in the darkBrooklyn-based pop combo Broken Bells come from Brooklyn in America. On the left is Thatch Heidelberg (left), who plays moody guitar and taps his foot on one of those mad pedal things that records bits of what you’re doing and then plays them back to make loops, you know, KT Tunstall used to use one when she played live, I wonder what happened to her. Heidelberg wears his anorak zipped up to the top because he feels the cold quite easily.

On the right is Winston Forthwright (right), a stage name for a man some will know by his real name (Winston Forthrite) who enjoyed limited success with a country and western EP back in 2008 titled Oh My Long Lost Darling’s Shoes. Forthwright provides lead vocals for Broken Bells, his soulful high-pitched voice almost inaudible at times except to dogs, and accompanies songs with his giant five-foot tambourine and sometimes the kazoo. He generates a much greater amount of body heat and prefers to wear his coat unbuttoned at the top.

The power behind the throne is the unspoken third member, legendary producer and DJ Nizzle who is responsible for crafting the chart-friendly pop beat sounds of Broken Bells and whose slick production and ear for a top pop number have seen them play some of the biggest stages in Brooklyn, America, where they are from. Nizzle is notoriously reclusive except when playing sold-out Brooklyn club nights and producing seven or eight albums a year, sometimes under his own name and sometimes in collaborations with other artists in outfits like Gnarled Banksy and Thunderkecks.

Broken Bells is his latest exploration of the limits of pop beat combos and, with Forthwright and Heidelberg, he looks set to triumph again.

Avatar Best Laid Plans

Every man has a dream.

The great thing about dreams is that they can be as big or a small as you would like them to be. As long as they are relatively realistic then achieving them is just about putting your mind to it.

A man came to me at the weekend and told me his dream. He said that what he wanted most of all was a small herd of goats to keep at the coast so that they could enjoy the sights, sounds and marvels that the English coast do so well, and that when he feels like a jaunt to Scarborough or Filey he can share the experience with those very goats. I told him that such a dream was easily obtained and that he should immediately set about putting his affairs in order.

When a man has a dream though sometimes it just doesn’t go far enough.

Having set about the events so that the man could have his coast goats I then pondered the idea myself and came to the conclusion that it wasn’t enough. It would be nice to have some goats hanging about in Whitby, waiting for me to take them through the whale bones and then across the bridge for fish and chips, but how about a little bit more? What if I had goats not only at the coast but across the whole country? What if I could stop in for a cup of coffee at Costa and high five a goat on the way out? What if a goat would tell me when the bus was running late, or pass me a small pot of porridge when I’m running late for work? It would cost a lot but what about coast-to-coast goats?

Of course I did not reveal my plans to the man because he might steal them as I had stolen his idea. As well as this, his original idea would be besmirched by my much better plans and I am not prepared to besmirch my fellow man. He will eventually learn of my objectives and he will have to come to terms with them as the rest of you mortals.

Avatar Words I Hate, part 3

It’s becoming traditional (come on, we’ve been up and running for three months, so anything that’s been running this long definitely counts as a tradition) for me to wheel out another canister of literary vitriol around the start of the month. And seeing as April is looming up ahead of us I’d better get cracking with… another Word I Hate.

This one is short, because the case can be made very quickly and nobody can argue against it.

Fayre

This word doesn’t even need to exist. We have all the words with this sound and this meaning already: we have fair, meaning an outdoor event or celebration, and we have fare, meaning food and drink and perhaps generous hospitality. Fayre is sometimes used in place of both these perfectly good word by idiots who think it lends their temporary Christmas market or their roast beef serving pub some kind of charming air of tradition and jollity. But it doesn’t do that, any more than calling your newsagent Ye Olde Shoppe gives it medieval heritage. It just makes you an idiot who has called your venture a stupid name for misguided reasons. So stop it. You cretin.