Patronising Ad of the Week

This missive popped up as I browsed Reddit this morning. There is always an ad close to the top of the page and I usually let my gaze drift over them, unperturbed and frequently non-comprehending.  This one, though, demanded attention and it did so in an alarming manner. My browsing having been interrupted, I took in the main content of the message and was forced to contemplate it.

What caught me? Reader, it was a simple but misplaced comma. Can you spot it? [Don't offer any prizes, there is only one and most of them will find it. Ed]. There is no need for this comma. It wrongly breaks up the sentence. I suspect that someone fresh from working at a greengrocer who sells "tomato's" and "cucumber's" has been let loose on this slogan. They missed the golden chance to write "friend's" though.

On to the crux. "We" at Tesco Mobile know about us, the public. Our friends and family come first, yes, even ahead of a second-tier reseller of mobile phone services. Amazing, is it not? I wonder how they know. They certainly did not ask me.  I think I would remember a survey that asked me to rank in order of importance a) friends and family b) Tesco Mobile. 

The arrogance is astounding. Unless it is meant to be ironic and self-deprecating. "Yes, we are just one amongst many service providers but, you know, we really care and we are radiantly happy just to be runner-up in your affections, the top place couldn't have gone to a more deserving winner, we get a warm glow just being compared to your friends and family. And if you have a falling out with them, your family disown you and friends cross the street as you approach, fear not, we'll be there for you in the bad times as well as the good, the two of us against the world, hand in hand into a  brighter tomorrow"

The funny thing is that Tesco Mobile are not a network. They enable access. They are the equivalent of the assistant in the supermarket selling National Lottery tickets pretending they decide each week's winners. If they ceased operating tomorrow the mobile phone network and all the related stuff that links to the Internet would carry on without anyone noticing.

So, patronising, ungrammatical and incorrect. Not bad for two short sentences.  Perhaps all was explained in the video, the link to which comprised the body of the ad, but, as usual, I refused to watch it and we shall never know.

When Art Comes to the Crunch

Source: The Guardian

 I am at somewhat of a loss as to how to cover this story, which I inexplicably missed when it was published back in July. A well-known and highly controversial artist, Wim Schippers, died earlier this year. His final wish was for the realisation of a piece that, it seems, he regarded as having no meaning other than it being an outstandingly daft idea, namely creating a hexagon of solid peanut butter on the floor of an exhibition space.

I note that the Guardian entrusted the report to their European culture editor. I was tempted to ask our resident food and drink correspondent to compare the sculptural qualities of smooth vs crunchy peanut butter, or to get someone from a cleaning company to put in an estimate for the cost of getting the whole sticky mess off the floor, complete with musings of the efficacies of various chemical agents, but let us stay with the cultural side, and no sniggering at the back please, as we consider it as a work of art.

I have, more than once, defined art as anything that is intended to stimulate the senses and focussed on whether something presented as art can be called good art. As one who loves peanut butter, to step into a room redolent of the stuff would certainly stimulate my taste buds, so art it is. But good art? Let me invoke my three tests 

• Does it transcend the medium? Nope. Peanut butter spread on the floor is just peanut butter spread on the floor. One cannot even try to see patterns in the stuff because the "artist" specified that smooth butter be used and it was applied by the museum staff using plastering trowels. No attempt to make anything in the least bit sculptural.
• Is it original? Perhaps but every household with a toddler has probably experienced the "jam all over the kitchen table" moment. Anyway, I spread peanut butter (crunchy, preferably) over my toast every weekend for breakfast and jolly good it is too, but do I stick a slab on a canvas and rush round to the Royal Academy shouting "Let me in, I'm a sculptor of merit?". No, it's too far and I do not wish to be escorted from the premises and ejected into Piccadilly into an uncaring, possibly jeering, crowd. 
• Does it fill one's head with ideas? Does it fulfil the fundamental criterion of stimulation in a way that gladdens the heart? No. It does not move the emotions or inspire imagination. I don't pause to wonder what it tastes like because I know what it tastes like, there is nothing to look at other than a monotonous sheet of orange and I suppose one could breathe in the intoxicating aroma for a moment but then the only idea that would fill my head would be popping down to the museum cafe for something tasty.

It is not good art. It is just an exhibition of something that the "artist" did not make or interact with in any way, apart from getting others to open a few jars and stick the contents on the floor. Nonetheless the Museum Boijmans van Beuningen in Rotterdam were honoured to follow the instructions of the deceased Mr Schippers and it is curious to read this quote from The Guardian when they interviewed the museum's acting director, Sandra Kisters.

Kisters said the museum shop would also sell smooth peanut butter, so visitors “can make their own art at home”.

I wonder what goes through the head of anyone buying peanut butter from a museum gift shop in order to make art? Do they stop outside their local greengrocer, stroke their chins whilst contemplating cucumbers and think "I could buy 50 or 60 of those, stick them in a giant circle on a sheet of glass and hang them over the fireplace, be a great conversation piece"? When they visit [Ed - insert name of any well known Dutch supermarket here], do they order a gross of red peppers, a few cartons of orange juice and a basketful of  kale, go into the car park and chuck the whole lot at a fence  "to make people think about the futility of conflict"? We already know about how bananas can be used to make easy money and win awards, so it seems that any foodstuff, applied liberally to a wall or maybe just thrown around the room can command a hefty price tag and garner critical acclaim for the bloke who opened the packet.

I do know what goes through the head of museum directors, acting or not. It's the pleasing chink of cash registers as they watch another deluded customer fill a basket with jars of stuff they could have bought for half the price at the supermarket down the road. 

That's About The Size Of It

 

I have commented before on the pleasures of trying to interpret the mangled straplines attached to pictures on the screen that displays when swiping left on my tablet. It's a sort of potpourri of snippets culled from news media. Each story gets the same space so the longer the strapline, the more it is truncated, leaving us to ponder what we are missing.

I, of course, ignored the bit from the Oxford Mail about a non-existent chateau and the bit at the bottom about butterflies and went straight for the jugular. A name hitherto unknown to this column, M. Jean-Luc Mélenchon and his appeal to young French voters. An appeal that is perhaps about to be jeopardised by ... well, this is where we must speculate.  "... realise the size o" is a phrase to ponder, slowly, over a coffee. 

Let us consider the word that begins with "o". I assume it is "of". But the size of what? Here are some suggestions

• his overdraft
• his ego
• his swimming pool
• his new electric SUV
• the beef and pickle sandwich he invariably has for lunch 

Some of our coarser readers will, no doubt, assume that the item in question must be a certain, shall we say, personal, aspect  - we are talking about France, after all - but surely in the 21st century people no longer judge a man by the size of his nose. Indeed, some people with a bit to spare in the schnozzle department have been successful in politics. General de Gaulle had a massive hooter and he got away with it. Anyway, judging by the photo, our man seems normal enough and I really do not see why the next generation of Gallic voters should take exception to it.

I suppose I could click on the link and undercover the mystery. But, dedicated though we at Ramblings Towers are to the thorough examination of the facts, I think I shall just leave it hanging and let you, my loyal readers, have your say.

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READERS! What is M. Mélenchon hiding? How big is the mysterious thing that everyone is getting so worked up about? Send in your suggestions, with pictures or diagrams if you must, to the usual address. The most entertaining and yet, somehow, plausible will win an Editor's Award. 

Terms and Conditions most certainly apply. Amongst them is the bit that says that the Editor's Award shall be an attestion that the Award has been given. It may or may not be written on a scrap of paper or could just be emailed, or perhaps posted somewhere obscure on social media. No other prize, voucher, docket, token or item of value shall be awarded and it's no use protesting and organising flash mobs, the decision has been made.