Not really a successful discussion programme: too short, too many guests and too broad and therefore shallow. You can watch it on iPlayer here. I’m spoiled now by (good) blogs as far as debating goes, I think. Dinner with Portillo is probably the best that telly can do.
But it was quite rib-tickling from the point of view of a Thought Experiments reader with experience of the Way of the Yard. Bryan made about four utterances each of which fell stillborn into baffled silence. The other guests plus Portillo appeared to be suspicious of him; and rightly so since the Yard was starting from a position in which he took it as read that describing science as ‘amoral’ is meaningless because apart from a very narrow series of actions, eg. in the lab or at the computer, everything about any kind of science – from the rationale for the research and the justification for the funding through to the use of the results – is moral. Therefore all the obvious rhetorical points which you might expect to hear in a sixth-form debate about science and morality can be skipped. The rest of the guests listened to him, nodded warily and proceeded to make all the obvious rhetorical points which you might expect to hear in a sixth-form debate about science and morality. The Yard looked tired and picked the carbs out of his dinner.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Appleyard versus Portillo
The Yard is on telly tonight, which explains why he has removed himself from the country. Scoffing and Waffling with Portillo - 21.10 on BBC 4.
Should be a keenly fought meal, as it's about science and morals.
Should be a keenly fought meal, as it's about science and morals.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Ticket to Ride
So I bought myself this little beauty – the complete remastered stereo Beatles box set – which, you may recall, I coveted here. A not inconsiderable financial outlay but what the hell, life is short, and so far it has been more than justified as the quality is a vast improvement on the old CDs in terms of depth and immediacy of sound.
I’m working my way through the albums in chronological order and having now completed Revolver which, closing as it does with the milestone freakery of Tomorrow Never Knows, I will designate as the halfway point, I thought I’d better report on my findings. It’s been interesting. The pop of the first four albums sounds less tinny and more bluesy and raw in the remastered format. There have been a few revelations (No Reply and I’m a Loser particularly. I’m Looking Through You was unexpectedly moving.). Some of the over-familiars are made strange again (I Want to Tell You with that weird atonal piano line. Eleanor Rigby is given a kick - I remembered again the profoundly disconcerting effect that the line about “Wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door” had on my imagination as a child).
But for me the first big moment comes with Ticket to Ride (halfway through Help!). I don’t know quite why it is – there are plenty of great songs preceding it – but there’s some indefinable quality in the way that Lennon’s underdone vocal, the slightly slurred guitar and the tom-toms mesh together that makes the sound first and foremost 'Beatleness', as opposed to a pop song which happens to be by the Beatles and in their style. You might say that Ticket to Ride is the Platonic Beatle number. A very English sound, timeless; for some reason it reminds me not of Liverpool but of trains rattling through Baker Street tube station and grey-brown autumn dusks. Also the hot chestnut sellers who used to peddle their goods around Trafalgar Square, and may still. I can’t really articulate it; it just is what it is and the world is a tangibly better place for its existence. My friends, we must treasure these glimpses, snatched between the eternities of darkness and so forth. How's that for a music review, heh.
I’m working my way through the albums in chronological order and having now completed Revolver which, closing as it does with the milestone freakery of Tomorrow Never Knows, I will designate as the halfway point, I thought I’d better report on my findings. It’s been interesting. The pop of the first four albums sounds less tinny and more bluesy and raw in the remastered format. There have been a few revelations (No Reply and I’m a Loser particularly. I’m Looking Through You was unexpectedly moving.). Some of the over-familiars are made strange again (I Want to Tell You with that weird atonal piano line. Eleanor Rigby is given a kick - I remembered again the profoundly disconcerting effect that the line about “Wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door” had on my imagination as a child).
But for me the first big moment comes with Ticket to Ride (halfway through Help!). I don’t know quite why it is – there are plenty of great songs preceding it – but there’s some indefinable quality in the way that Lennon’s underdone vocal, the slightly slurred guitar and the tom-toms mesh together that makes the sound first and foremost 'Beatleness', as opposed to a pop song which happens to be by the Beatles and in their style. You might say that Ticket to Ride is the Platonic Beatle number. A very English sound, timeless; for some reason it reminds me not of Liverpool but of trains rattling through Baker Street tube station and grey-brown autumn dusks. Also the hot chestnut sellers who used to peddle their goods around Trafalgar Square, and may still. I can’t really articulate it; it just is what it is and the world is a tangibly better place for its existence. My friends, we must treasure these glimpses, snatched between the eternities of darkness and so forth. How's that for a music review, heh.
King Solomon Complex
Sometimes the truth of something appears not so much as a revelation but more as a gradual submerging into conscious realisation; then when you express it clearly it seems to have been obvious all along.
This morning I noted the following: when two friendly parties independently bend your ear to complain about the other following some minor incident or altercation, each with a completely opposite interpretation of the circumstances; it is your role merely to sympathise, acknowledge their grievance and, with gentle nudges, attempt to bring the parties back to a friendly understanding. It is not required of you to hear both sides, consider sagely and then pronounce a judgement on the case (either for one of the parties or for a compromise).
I suspect most women grasp this instinctively, but we men tend to suffer from what I will hereby christen but probably never refer to again as the King Solomon Complex.
This morning I noted the following: when two friendly parties independently bend your ear to complain about the other following some minor incident or altercation, each with a completely opposite interpretation of the circumstances; it is your role merely to sympathise, acknowledge their grievance and, with gentle nudges, attempt to bring the parties back to a friendly understanding. It is not required of you to hear both sides, consider sagely and then pronounce a judgement on the case (either for one of the parties or for a compromise).
I suspect most women grasp this instinctively, but we men tend to suffer from what I will hereby christen but probably never refer to again as the King Solomon Complex.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
The Intrepid Bun
Lying flat out without stirring himself,
Frollo got the French to equip him,
For that is the way of the French:
Getting their shoes on while lying down.
That’s according to Andrew de Coutances, anyway. The awkwardness of a literal translation is one of life’s little joys. I’m always pleased by an oddity on a Chinese menu, for instance. Asian cultures obviously have a concept which almost but doesn’t quite translate into either “Lucky” or “Happy”. I’ll have The Seven Lucky Golden Wish Vegetables, please. My favourite business name - and it still makes me chuckle to think of it - belonged to a Chinese café down on good old Southsea Parade in Portsmouth. It was called The Intrepid Bun.
Languages are limited; concepts can slip between the words. I suppose that poetry attempts to exploit this: to use words to convey something more than the total sum of those words. But if, for example, you were to imagine that Wallace Stevens’s Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock was a literal translation from something in Mandarin Chinese, it might take on a whole new dimension.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red weather.
Oh lucky wish dance!
Frollo got the French to equip him,
For that is the way of the French:
Getting their shoes on while lying down.
That’s according to Andrew de Coutances, anyway. The awkwardness of a literal translation is one of life’s little joys. I’m always pleased by an oddity on a Chinese menu, for instance. Asian cultures obviously have a concept which almost but doesn’t quite translate into either “Lucky” or “Happy”. I’ll have The Seven Lucky Golden Wish Vegetables, please. My favourite business name - and it still makes me chuckle to think of it - belonged to a Chinese café down on good old Southsea Parade in Portsmouth. It was called The Intrepid Bun.
Languages are limited; concepts can slip between the words. I suppose that poetry attempts to exploit this: to use words to convey something more than the total sum of those words. But if, for example, you were to imagine that Wallace Stevens’s Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock was a literal translation from something in Mandarin Chinese, it might take on a whole new dimension.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red weather.
Oh lucky wish dance!
750 dollar cupcake
Talking of pretentious food descriptions, I suppose that having stumbled across the “Decadence D’Or” – containing, amongst other nonsense, a special chocolate varietal derived from the rare and fragile Porcelana Criollo bean and cultivated to its fullest state of richness exclusively at the Valrhona plantation in Venezuela, and Tahitian Gold Vanilla Caviar, the world’s most labor-intensive agricultural crop – I can’t let it go by wholly unblogged, but I’m a bit bored of cupcakes now, they’re very 2009.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
The Connoisseur’s Experience
Talking of choccy, back here Gadjo noted that the descriptions in selection boxes have become considerably poncier in recent years – “a fantasy of ganache enrobed in sumptuous cacao-essence and ennobled with hazelnuts” etc.
Choc-scoffing has thus become yet another area of British life where the Connoisseur’s Experience has seeped into the mainstream; it is no longer possible just to pick up a box of choccies; you have to make a lifestyle decision when purchasing, and talk about it while consuming.
Whether the cause is increasing sophistication, cynical marketing or sheer middle-class boredom I’m not sure, but the CE has long since spread from its natural habitats of wine, whisky and cheese into such everyday commodities as beer, coffee, ready-made sandwiches, pizzas, sausages, water, bread (malted wholemeal batch loaves etc), olives, olive oil, pickled onions, tonic water, cider (!), eggs, beef (matured), chutney, pies, citrus fruit, chicken (corn-fed), microwave curries, pasta, chillies, garlic, tomatoes (on the vine), pasta sauce, hot chocolate, butter, cordial, squash, hamburgers, ginger beer, fruit juice, ice cream, fruit tea, soup, yoghurt, crumpets, mousse-like puddings, breakfast cereals, crisps, nuts, tinned fish, jam, marmalade, apples, biscuits, cookies, honey (Sainsbury’s sell a jar which costs eleven quid!), mushrooms and baby food, amongst others.
How did this come about so quickly? I reckon that the only safe, statement-free grocery purchases we can now make are Marmite and Heinz Cream of Tomato Soup.
Choc-scoffing has thus become yet another area of British life where the Connoisseur’s Experience has seeped into the mainstream; it is no longer possible just to pick up a box of choccies; you have to make a lifestyle decision when purchasing, and talk about it while consuming.
Whether the cause is increasing sophistication, cynical marketing or sheer middle-class boredom I’m not sure, but the CE has long since spread from its natural habitats of wine, whisky and cheese into such everyday commodities as beer, coffee, ready-made sandwiches, pizzas, sausages, water, bread (malted wholemeal batch loaves etc), olives, olive oil, pickled onions, tonic water, cider (!), eggs, beef (matured), chutney, pies, citrus fruit, chicken (corn-fed), microwave curries, pasta, chillies, garlic, tomatoes (on the vine), pasta sauce, hot chocolate, butter, cordial, squash, hamburgers, ginger beer, fruit juice, ice cream, fruit tea, soup, yoghurt, crumpets, mousse-like puddings, breakfast cereals, crisps, nuts, tinned fish, jam, marmalade, apples, biscuits, cookies, honey (Sainsbury’s sell a jar which costs eleven quid!), mushrooms and baby food, amongst others.
How did this come about so quickly? I reckon that the only safe, statement-free grocery purchases we can now make are Marmite and Heinz Cream of Tomato Soup.
Profanity Policy
Gaw asks me to clarify TofE’s policy on swearing. The best approach is to avoid if in doubt, as though you were at a dinner party with strangers whose views on profanity are unknown to you. Personally I’m not offended by profanity – I play football, after all – but this policy has been in place since TofE’s inception, continuing a tradition from the post-Judd blogs.
This might strike you as quaint in the wilds of the internet, but there are three reasons:
1. I have a very varied readership, some of whom I know dislike swearing.
2. Unless used judiciously – ie. unless you know how to swear effectively, and many people don’t - it is a lazy shortcut to emphasis. Refraining is a good self-discipline which forces you to find more inventive ways of expressing your point, resulting in a better quality of comment thread overall, so...
3. Above all, it is a slippery slope. Once people start effing at each other in comment threads, you usually end up with little else – see Guido, Guardian message boards, YouTube threads and indeed 99% of the internet.
It's testament to the calibre of TofE's commenters that I very, very rarely have to mention this policy because you naturally get it - and if you don't think that's remarkable, go and check out some of that 99% of the internet. Thanks all!
This might strike you as quaint in the wilds of the internet, but there are three reasons:
1. I have a very varied readership, some of whom I know dislike swearing.
2. Unless used judiciously – ie. unless you know how to swear effectively, and many people don’t - it is a lazy shortcut to emphasis. Refraining is a good self-discipline which forces you to find more inventive ways of expressing your point, resulting in a better quality of comment thread overall, so...
3. Above all, it is a slippery slope. Once people start effing at each other in comment threads, you usually end up with little else – see Guido, Guardian message boards, YouTube threads and indeed 99% of the internet.
It's testament to the calibre of TofE's commenters that I very, very rarely have to mention this policy because you naturally get it - and if you don't think that's remarkable, go and check out some of that 99% of the internet. Thanks all!
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Read Nick Cohen
It's been an unusually topical Tuesday on ToE today. Here's one more for you.
Nick Cohen has this superb piece in the Observer on the wrong-headedness and long-term irrelevance of the latest Iraq inquiry. Nick at his best, this: concise, mostly irrefutable and cutting clear through all the crap.
Nick Cohen has this superb piece in the Observer on the wrong-headedness and long-term irrelevance of the latest Iraq inquiry. Nick at his best, this: concise, mostly irrefutable and cutting clear through all the crap.
Will this do?
An early contender for “Most Feeble Evolutionary Psychology Claim of 2010” here…
Pretty women 'anger more easily'
...The University of California interviewed 156 female students to gauge their temperament and how they handled conflict.
...In the study, the women who believed they were good looking were more likely to respond angrily in disputes than those who rated themselves as less attractive.
Attractive women also had higher expectations of what they deserved.
...The researchers believe the findings have an evolutionary basis, ensuring that the "fittest" people mate and have offspring.
Pretty women 'anger more easily'
...The University of California interviewed 156 female students to gauge their temperament and how they handled conflict.
...In the study, the women who believed they were good looking were more likely to respond angrily in disputes than those who rated themselves as less attractive.
Attractive women also had higher expectations of what they deserved.
...The researchers believe the findings have an evolutionary basis, ensuring that the "fittest" people mate and have offspring.
Not in my name
So, not content with ruining my football club, the imperialist bastards have now got their hands on Cadbury's. The War on Terror is one thing but every man has his limits.
Pass me my placard, my whistle, my drum, my Peruvian hat, my book of Pinter poems, my lack of perspective and my sense of self-righteousness; I'm hitting the streets.
Pass me my placard, my whistle, my drum, my Peruvian hat, my book of Pinter poems, my lack of perspective and my sense of self-righteousness; I'm hitting the streets.
Monday, January 18, 2010
On Chesil Beach
Rattled through Ian McEwan’s On Chesil Beach over the weekend. Typical McEwan in that it is about the life-defining consequences of moments that seem both arbitrary and unavoidable; in this case, a row between newlyweds after their excruciatingly bodged attempt at consummation. There are some stylistic oddities. The forensic real-time descriptions of Edward and Florence’s tragicomic attempts at dinner and sex are interrupted by awkward authorial remarks along the lines of “This was not a good moment in the history of English cuisine” (it’s set in 1962, ie. the year before sexual intercourse began). These interjections are justified at the close of the book by an alarmingly brusque account of the lives of the protagonists over the next four decades – bringing us up to the 'all-knowing' present – but on first read they are a bit jarring. I could also have done without the flashback half-hints at incestuous abuse suffered by the juvenile Florence, offering an unnecessary Freudian explanation for her physical horror of sex.
But I quibble – mostly it is masterly. I loved the glimpses of Edward’s mother, left “brain-damaged” by a hit-and-run railway carriage door incident. The critical row on the beach is superbly done: two people who really don’t want to hurt each other striking ever more unforgivable blows purely because each insult seems to follow, with unavoidable logic, from the last. And in fact I also liked the brevity of the what-happened-next coda. Possibly we need fewer novels and more novellas from our big guns. In a normal-sized novel we’d have had chapters in which Florence and Edward meet again in later life, but the rapidity with which McEwan wraps up his story gives a much more powerful shock.
Which brings me at last to the point of this post. The intention of On Chesil Beach is, I assume, to tap into the universal horror of regret: those moments of opportunities blown and wounds unnecessarily inflicted which, while by no means defining us, can surprise us by lurching into our consciousness at 3am. If I had only been braver or smarter at that one instant, my whole life might have turned out so much better, and I only have one life, aaargh!
But for me, the central conceit only works because neither Edward nor Florence subsequently have children in their separate lives. Being a recent father I’m either biased towards thinking this or possibly just attuned to noticing its truth. Offspring are regret-killers (at least, of everything occuring before their appearance), even the nasty little buggers. If Edward had had children in one of his later relationships the structure of this novella would collapse, since upon contemplating his sprogs his overriding sentiment would most likely be: “Thank goodness we had that row on Chesil Beach, otherwise you would never have come into existence”, thus turning the thing on its head. In this respect, the lasting sensation for most readers will be pity for the characters rather than introspective horror, and I don’t know if that was McEwan’s purpose.
But I quibble – mostly it is masterly. I loved the glimpses of Edward’s mother, left “brain-damaged” by a hit-and-run railway carriage door incident. The critical row on the beach is superbly done: two people who really don’t want to hurt each other striking ever more unforgivable blows purely because each insult seems to follow, with unavoidable logic, from the last. And in fact I also liked the brevity of the what-happened-next coda. Possibly we need fewer novels and more novellas from our big guns. In a normal-sized novel we’d have had chapters in which Florence and Edward meet again in later life, but the rapidity with which McEwan wraps up his story gives a much more powerful shock.
Which brings me at last to the point of this post. The intention of On Chesil Beach is, I assume, to tap into the universal horror of regret: those moments of opportunities blown and wounds unnecessarily inflicted which, while by no means defining us, can surprise us by lurching into our consciousness at 3am. If I had only been braver or smarter at that one instant, my whole life might have turned out so much better, and I only have one life, aaargh!
But for me, the central conceit only works because neither Edward nor Florence subsequently have children in their separate lives. Being a recent father I’m either biased towards thinking this or possibly just attuned to noticing its truth. Offspring are regret-killers (at least, of everything occuring before their appearance), even the nasty little buggers. If Edward had had children in one of his later relationships the structure of this novella would collapse, since upon contemplating his sprogs his overriding sentiment would most likely be: “Thank goodness we had that row on Chesil Beach, otherwise you would never have come into existence”, thus turning the thing on its head. In this respect, the lasting sensation for most readers will be pity for the characters rather than introspective horror, and I don’t know if that was McEwan’s purpose.
"Drive them off with kicks"
David points me to this news of the translation of a 12th Century Anglo-Norman poem about the French.
Poet Andrew de Coutances, an Anglo-Norman cleric, describes the French as godless, arrogant and lazy dogs. Even more stingingly, he accuses French people of being cowardly, and calls them heretics and rapists.
Well, so far they’ve had 800 years to prove us wrong...
Poet Andrew de Coutances, an Anglo-Norman cleric, describes the French as godless, arrogant and lazy dogs. Even more stingingly, he accuses French people of being cowardly, and calls them heretics and rapists.
Well, so far they’ve had 800 years to prove us wrong...
Friday, January 15, 2010
Tracks
Even in this crowded country you don’t have to walk for very long to feel cut off from the reach of CCTV and the great swarming human ant colony.
A steep downhill path through Baron’s Wood connects two of my lunchtime lanes. Usually this path is a mudslide so walking it is impractical in office clothes, but on Tuesday everything was so frozen that I thought I’d give it a go. On top of the hard mud was a thick layer of untouched snow and tiny flakes were still falling. The wood was silent, leafless and had that strange perspective that comes from the contrast of dark branches covered in bright white snow. About halfway through the wood I suddenly felt a spine-shiver of extreme isolation. Tree stumps glimpsed in the middle-distance morphed momentarily into human shapes. In other words, I got the willies.
The willies soon passed but like most people I rather enjoy getting them, so yesterday I decided to walk through the wood again. There was another fresh layer of snow but this time, running down the hill and more or less following the path, was a single set of tracks made by a fox or possibly a small domestic dog off for a sneaky solo walk. I followed the tracks carefully, using them to guide me through the uneven ground to help reduce the risk of twisting an ankle. My concentration on the tracks prevented me from getting the willies, but when I looked back up the hill it occurred to me that at that moment I was the only person in the entire unimaginable vastness of space and time who knew that a fox or possibly a small dog had stepped in those spots that morning. Furthermore, any person or persons making the walk after me would see my size 10 footmarks mingled in with the pawprints and would likely bet their bottom dollar that the tracks were made by a man taking his dog for a walk. But, ha ha, they would be quite, quite wrong about that, because the tracks were made by a fox or possibly a small solo dog and by me at completely different times of day, so hard lines and put that in your pipe and smoke it you bloody know-it-all presuming fools!
A steep downhill path through Baron’s Wood connects two of my lunchtime lanes. Usually this path is a mudslide so walking it is impractical in office clothes, but on Tuesday everything was so frozen that I thought I’d give it a go. On top of the hard mud was a thick layer of untouched snow and tiny flakes were still falling. The wood was silent, leafless and had that strange perspective that comes from the contrast of dark branches covered in bright white snow. About halfway through the wood I suddenly felt a spine-shiver of extreme isolation. Tree stumps glimpsed in the middle-distance morphed momentarily into human shapes. In other words, I got the willies.
The willies soon passed but like most people I rather enjoy getting them, so yesterday I decided to walk through the wood again. There was another fresh layer of snow but this time, running down the hill and more or less following the path, was a single set of tracks made by a fox or possibly a small domestic dog off for a sneaky solo walk. I followed the tracks carefully, using them to guide me through the uneven ground to help reduce the risk of twisting an ankle. My concentration on the tracks prevented me from getting the willies, but when I looked back up the hill it occurred to me that at that moment I was the only person in the entire unimaginable vastness of space and time who knew that a fox or possibly a small dog had stepped in those spots that morning. Furthermore, any person or persons making the walk after me would see my size 10 footmarks mingled in with the pawprints and would likely bet their bottom dollar that the tracks were made by a man taking his dog for a walk. But, ha ha, they would be quite, quite wrong about that, because the tracks were made by a fox or possibly a small solo dog and by me at completely different times of day, so hard lines and put that in your pipe and smoke it you bloody know-it-all presuming fools!
Myths of the noughties
David points out some of the ways in which capitalism – usually viewed as the great enemy of greenism – co-opts green ideas for its own moneymaking ends. David’s examples: Hotels now try to guilt guests into reusing their towels, relieving the hotel of the cost of doing its laundry and Supermarkets now sell reusable grocery bags, relieving them of the need to provide bags, paper or plastic, and making the shopper do the work of schlepping their bags to the store.
If you prefer, you could say that these are examples of how businesses and greens can find themselves in a win-win situation (at the expense of the consumer). That capitalism and profit are the enemies of the planet and of all good in the world is, of course, one of the sustaining myths of modern times. But myths, usually driven by idealism or marketing or both, permeate everything we do, say, buy and think. Here, in no particular order, are a few notable myths of the noughties:
1) Organic food tastes better (“organic” is such a broad church that this can’t possibly be meaningful)
2) Blueberries (or whatever) are ‘superfoods’
3) Gordon Brown is the safe and steady one (obviously that one vanished as soon as he became PM)
4) Global warming will mean that by 2010 we’ll be wearing shorts and having barbecues in January. I don’t know who said this back in the early noughties but someone will have done. However, as Peter B has pointed out, our days of sniggering at such things are probably numbered, since the gradual slippage in terminology from “global warming” to “climate change” means that literally any meteorological circumstances will be consistent with millenarian predictions.
5) Anything that is normally expressed as a chemical formula is innately bad
6) Yes we can.
Got any more?
If you prefer, you could say that these are examples of how businesses and greens can find themselves in a win-win situation (at the expense of the consumer). That capitalism and profit are the enemies of the planet and of all good in the world is, of course, one of the sustaining myths of modern times. But myths, usually driven by idealism or marketing or both, permeate everything we do, say, buy and think. Here, in no particular order, are a few notable myths of the noughties:
1) Organic food tastes better (“organic” is such a broad church that this can’t possibly be meaningful)
2) Blueberries (or whatever) are ‘superfoods’
3) Gordon Brown is the safe and steady one (obviously that one vanished as soon as he became PM)
4) Global warming will mean that by 2010 we’ll be wearing shorts and having barbecues in January. I don’t know who said this back in the early noughties but someone will have done. However, as Peter B has pointed out, our days of sniggering at such things are probably numbered, since the gradual slippage in terminology from “global warming” to “climate change” means that literally any meteorological circumstances will be consistent with millenarian predictions.
5) Anything that is normally expressed as a chemical formula is innately bad
6) Yes we can.
Got any more?
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Fever-tree tonic water
After seeing Gaw’s shameless attempt to wangle some free pants, I thought I’d follow suit and try my luck with a bit of plugging.
Have you tried Fever-tree tonic water? I drank gallons of it over Christmas. Rather than copying other tonic waters, Fever-tree have taken the innovative step of not making their drink taste like hell. It is sufficiently delicious that you could consume it neat as a soft drink if you were so inclined, but for me it has elevated the G&T into one of Christmas’s great second-tier pleasures, ie. just below company, afternoon naps, In the Bleak Midwinter and brandy butter; and just above smoked salmon breakfasts, the bumper Radio Times and mulled wine. So on a par with pigs-in-blankets, eye-watering pickled onions and A Chistmas Gift For You from Phil Spector.
So, Fever-tree Viral Marketing Department, if you’re reading, my email address is on the sidebar and I want whatever’s coming to me.
(Will this work, do you think?)
Have you tried Fever-tree tonic water? I drank gallons of it over Christmas. Rather than copying other tonic waters, Fever-tree have taken the innovative step of not making their drink taste like hell. It is sufficiently delicious that you could consume it neat as a soft drink if you were so inclined, but for me it has elevated the G&T into one of Christmas’s great second-tier pleasures, ie. just below company, afternoon naps, In the Bleak Midwinter and brandy butter; and just above smoked salmon breakfasts, the bumper Radio Times and mulled wine. So on a par with pigs-in-blankets, eye-watering pickled onions and A Chistmas Gift For You from Phil Spector.
So, Fever-tree Viral Marketing Department, if you’re reading, my email address is on the sidebar and I want whatever’s coming to me.
(Will this work, do you think?)
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