Thirty Thousand Streets

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

Tax Tuesday

I'm working back at a large ad agency in Camden. There's a variety of accounts, but I've mostly been occupied with that of a certain high street retailer.

For professional reasons I obviously can't divulge who this is, but if I said:

"This isn't just retail advertising, it's ..... ... ....... advertising"

In a breathy female voice like the Cadburys Caramel rabbit (remember her?) you might have a clue. And if you were to think of a certain 60s model who currently features in their campaign, I'm sure you'd soon twig who I'm talking about.

Also, this brand is very close to the national heart – you could almost say it's the opposite of sado-masochism.

On your marks, get set, go!

Anyway. I'm bored right now, hence writing this.

Weekend was OK. Went out for Ed's new housemate Madhu(?)'s bithday on friday. Thirty three apparently, but she looks much younger.

Anyway we went to, yes, the Hermit's cave and generally shot the breeze.. The place was thronged with art students in tight jeans, some of whom were ogling the Kinder egg I gave Madhu until Ed had a word.

About the most eventful thing was someone shuffling over and offering me 50p for a roll-up, which I refused, offering instead that he help himself. At this point Ed took receipt of the Pentagonal coin, and our new friend took this as a cue to calmly lift the packet of Golden Virginia from the tab and dart out the pub, causing all three of us to do a double take.

Exeunt me and Ed, pursuant, only to find the street outside as quiet as Margate in the winter, bar the usual usual convention of hop-heads, rudeboys and assorted lost souls who trickle down Camberwell Church Street's leg at all hours.

Slightly puzzled, we retired inside, only for odd-lad to return five minutes later brandishing the baccy pouch and demanding we return his 50p. Things get slight hazy here, but seconds later I found myself outside having to separate him and Ed, and telling the bounder to:

"Just smoke it all mate"

which was itself a a nearly subliminal uppercut I thought.. proving my innate superiority by refusing to brawl over tobacco of all things (plus tobacco is bad for you, so perhaps he'll smoke it all get ill and die. Which would be poetic comeuppance I suppose).

Perhaps he'll even contribute, in the grand scheme of things, to me giving up (again).

Anyway. Sunday went round for a roast at David's flat. Ate loads, then started playing board games – including Trivial Pursuit, which my team triumphed at, before receiving a sound birching at 'Cranium', which is over-wrought and stupid anyway. I also had a Pop Tart for the first time since, ooh, 1996? (and vowed to reacquaint myself with said toaster pastries soon).

Also trying to sort out PAYE on my limited enterprise, but the company acting as accountants seem, as usual, to be doing very little to help. I think the new year might be time to part ways with them, however much of a temporary inconvenience it presents.

In the interim I seem to spending a lot of quiet moments ringing an engaged number in Shipley. I'm almost glad it doesn't connect as the Inland Revenue is one of the more bureaucratic articulations of the human spirit, and trying to explain why I've not paid tax I'm not yet due to pay, to a bored someone-or-other in East Yorkshire on a tuesday afternoon (whilst at work) has fairly obvious limits in terms of enjoyment.

On the other hand, much like dental surgery, it really isn't worth deferring too long, so I would prefer to get it out of the way, pronto.

Film night at the Sun and Doves tonight, but I'll probably give it a miss as I've got some other stuff that really needs doing. Cheerio.


Zeno Cosini said...

Working for McDonald's, huh? How can you live with yourself, Eyechild? Shame on you.

I just ate a raspberry yoghurt.

Earlier today I sent you a book.


The Eyechild said...

Not Maccy D's Zeno, guess again (Though I have worked on BK in the past)

Cheers f't book, looks ace.. will read it after Moby Dick and The Medusa Frequency.

Lord Bunty Chunk said...

I knew a guy who got caught wanking on the toilet by his mum. Word soon spread and its spreading coincided with him badly burning his hands catching pop-tarts as they sped from the toaster. This meant he had to come to school with bandaged mits and endure the obvious inferential humour. Soon after he went on tV's 'Watchdog' along with other pop-tart victims, compounding his school misery yet further. Hallelu-jah!

The Fly said...

Jeez just reading that you're working for the company I had a summer job with sends shivers down my spine.

Never again will I do nightshifts, well at that company anyway.

Don't you feel the adverts are becoming a bit off putting? Most of the customers I talked to found it really annoying...

The Eyechild said...

The Fly: Hmm, I know what you mean, but the evidence suggests that they have been hugely succesful. I wouldn't be suprised if some of the older set who shopped there are a little affronted by it all.

PLUS those voiceovers

And nightshifts are generally pretty dire anyway..

Bunty: You won't be seeing me on Watchdog mate.