Last night I worked on my New Year’s resolution to get irresponsibly drunk on weeknights more often (actually quite challenging when you think about it). I saw the Awful Sparks at Ye Olde Goode Shippe, and they were pretty Hot Damn! The lead singer is really skinny and he did a lot of twitching and jerking and staring sweatily off into the middle distance, which is, like, SO SEXY. (Yes, spastic flailing is the key to my heart. Sometimes I go to epilepsy support group meetings to pick up men.) After the show I talked to a Scottish guy who told me he had trouble understanding my accent. At least, I think that’s what he said. Fucking Glaswegians.
My new favourite ad campaign on the Tube is the Canadian Tourism Board’s promotion of Whistler (don’t know why they’re bothering – that place is already bursting at the seams with stoned Australian snowboarders). The slogan they’ve chosen, obviously whilst stoned themselves, is “Whistler. Always real.” I disagree with that statement! Sometimes Whistler is fictitious! That wins the coveted award for Best Asinine Non Sequitur of 2006. This afternoon I will mail them their prize: a dusty Pringle I found behind my computer.
Reminds me of when that Canadian snowboarder won a gold medal in the Winter Olympics and they tried to revoke it because he tested positive…for marijuana. Uh, since when is cannabis a performance-enhancing drug? Did his coach whisper in his ear that there was a bag of Oreo cookies at the bottom of the slope? And also, the guy was from WHISTLER. There’s pot in the fucking water supply there. There’s a sign on the chairlifts that says “You must be at least this stoned to ride”. (Fucking hippies.)
I am also enjoying the billboard adverts for Beyonce’s new perfume, in which she is sexily holding a microphone up to her mouth and ostensibly singing, but obviously not singing, and rather looking for all the world like she’s about to jam the mic in her mouth and suck it for all she’s worth (which must be a lot). Nothing says “Mmm, smells good!” like insinuated oral sex. Another advertising breakthrough.
I probably won’t get drunk tonight, because getting wasted just ain’t as much fun without that wrenching jab of self-recrimination in your gut. I’ll save it up for Monday night £1.50 pints at the Powers.