The Consumer Category
We bring you the chic and unique, the best and most bizarre shopping offers both online and offline. We offer you tips on where to buy, and some of the less mainstream and crazy, individual and offbeat items on the internet. Anything that can be bought and sold can be featured here. And we love showcasing the best and worst art and design.
What did Roald Dahl taste of? We can soon find out becsaue the 40FT Brewery, in Dalston, north east London, and Bompas and Parr are creating Mr Twit’s Odious Ale. You don’t have to be Twit to buy the stuff, just a hipster or some other kind of fetishising tw*t.
And apparently it’s what Dahl would have wanted:
With permission from The Roald Dahl Literary Estate and The Roald Dahl Museum in Great Missenden, Buckinghamshire, swabs were taken from the authors writing chair, preserved for posterity at the museum. The beer is to be brewed in the Polish Grätzen style.
Get Bucks the beer has “a light golden colour with relatively high carbonation”- like a runny fart.
So give me a bug and a jumping flea,
Give me two snails and lizards three,
And a slimy squiggler from the sea,
And the poisonous sting of a bumblebee,
And the juice from the fruit of the ju-jube tree,
And the powdered bone of a wombat’s knee.
And one hundred other nasty things as well
Each with a rather nasty smell.
I’ll stir them up, I’ll boil them long,
A mixture tough, a mixture tough, a mixture strong.
And then, heigh-ho, and down it goes,
A nice spoonful (hold your nose)
Just gulp it down and have no fear.
‘How do you like it, Granny dear?’
Will she go pop? Will she explode?
Will she go flying down the road?
Will she go poof in a puff of smoke?
Start fizzing like a can of Coke?
(I’m glad it’s neither you nor me.)
Oh Grandma, if only you knew
What I have got in store for you!’
Why are you fat? Why are you not fat? Polly Tonybee knows. She writes in the Guardian:
The Tories must tackle the real cause of obesity: inequality
When fat meant prosperous and jolly and thin meant poor and mean, it was about inequality. Now that fat means you’re poor and thin means you’re on message, it’s all about inequality. The only thing that fits for all is that the rich and knowing want to school you.
Polly want to ban advertising of certain foods to youngsters watching telly.
Obesity is no one’s choice, as everyone wants to be thin: young children now worry about body image, and rates of anorexia – obesity’s evil twin – are rising.
The simple fact is that we eat more calories than we can burn off. When the poor had no cars and central heating, they walked and worked in manual jobs. They were thin. The rich with their hearths, carriages and desk jobs were fat.
To be obese signifies being poor and out of control, because people who feel they have no control over their own lives give up…
It signifies the post-war miracle of plentiful food for all.
It is inequality and disrespect that make people fat…
…the social facts suggest Britain would get thinner if everyone had enough of life’s opportunities to be worth staying thin for. Offer self-esteem, respect, good jobs, decent homes and some social status and the pounds would start to fall away.
This abstraction that being thin means you have more to live for and have higher self-esteem is bizarre, as is the news that being fat means you have psychological issues. Food isn’t eaten because you’re greedy, don’t walk enough, don’t do physical labour and it’s cheap. Food is State-sanctioned therapy. And you’re the victim.
Is the Guardian beyond parody? In “The highway to summer hell leads straight through the Hamptons” Emma Brockes moans about holidaying in the exclusive enclave. Damned is she forced to holiday at one of the resort towns on the Long Island coast, where the average property goes for over $1m.
The American summer tradition of clearing out of cities for the beach every weekend is at odds with an equally strong tradition of avoiding inconvenience. But for some reason the beach always wins.
Six hours on the road with small children in the back? No problem. A two-hour tailback? Just part of the package. A three-hour journey out of Penn Station to East Hampton, on a train so crowded you have to stand the whole way? Deal with it.
She then knocks the UK:
Granted, unlike in Britain, where you can stand up for hours on a train to get to a beach that looks like a large mudflat, at least the sand on Long Island is pretty. The dunes are pristine, the weather is hot and, if you trudge far enough from the path, you don’t have to see another human for hours.
Hell is other people with loads of money.
And Emma is earning out of her hols to the Hamptons, having on June 30 this year written more about her jolly hols:
The apartment complex was on a stretch of idyllic, empty beach and a five-minute drive from a town where a litre of coffee, a bag of pistachios and a small strawberry ice cream cost a fortune…
Pass the bucket. No, not to be sick in it. If you and the other 1 per cent can chuck a few coins in the thing, we and The Guardian (£173 pre-tax loss!) would be ever so grateful…
So how did CNN illustrate the story of the Islamist maniac who murdered scores of people on Bastille Day in Nice, France? With an advert for Falken tires [sic] that grip:
Native advertising is a horror, Whoever invented it should be taken from this place and forced to live in an echo chamber.
Know what time it is with this cuckoo clock in the form of the axe scene from The Shining. On the hour every hour Jack Torrance with menace you with a “Here’s Johnny!”. For added homeliness, Shelley Duvall’s character will scream her head off.
It’s made by Chris Dimino.
When I first saw the videos “things left behind at Glastonbury”, I expected to see Jake passed out in the mud and Sienna entangled in a huge dream catcher. What the video shows is tents – lots and lots and lots of tents abandoned by festival goers. It is mind-blowing to see. These tents cost a lot money. Why would you just leave it behind for someone else to pack away? Why not burn it and keep warm?
Ronald McDonald has been shot at a fast-food restaurant on the USA. Police need not round-up the usual suspect – Hamburglar, Jamie Oliver, France – because Telvin Drummond, 24, from Lumberton, North Carolina, is helping them with their enquiries.
Mr McDonald was shot during an argument behind a Sonic Drive-In restaurant. Reports say the two began shooting at each other and Ronald McDonald was hit.
He’s ok. It is very likely that Mr McDonald cannot be killed by conventional weapons.
Relive the magic of Raiders of the Lost Ark by setting fire to SS Schweinhund Arnold Ernst Toht. Watch his face melt, just like in the movie. Gestapo agent?
Melting Toht is from Firebox.
“It’s horrible to think about that now because it pooed everywhere and we were left wondering what we’d eaten. We decided to have the rest on Sunday but when I dropped the leaves on my plate I just saw this thing in my hand. I thought, ‘what on earth is this?’.
“It frightened me to death and my wife was extremely upset. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.
“I could probably have coped if it was something small, like an ant, but this was more like something from the Bible. I can’t believe it was still alive after all that time in the bag, first on the shelf and then in our fridge.
“It’s worrying because the bag says the salad’s ready washed but they obviously haven’t cleaned it that well. When the shock had passed we just had some cheese sandwiches… I’d like to think the locust might go to an insect expert who can find a use for it.”
That salad sounds revolting – even a locust won’t eat the stuff.
Travel news in the Daily Mail, with Georgia Diebelius. She introduces readers to a stunning Moorish castle built in 1605:
These are the haunting images of an Italian castle that still stands in pristine condition, despite being left abandoned for more than 20 years. The Castello di Sammezzano in Tuscany, Italy, was built in the early 17th century by Spanish nobles and was even visited by Emperor Charlemagne….
Would that be Charlemagne, aka Charles the Great (born late 740s – 28 January 814) or an imposter?
If only there was a resources, some kind of electronic database, for writers to look up facts on…
To New South Wales, Australia, where butcher Jeff Rapley from Naroomais talking about the sign in his shop window that promises, “Eating two strips of Rapley’s award-winning bacon for breakfast reduces your chance of being a suicide bomber by 100%.”
He fails to “or your money back!” but Jeff does add that he meant no offence and “no particular religion was mentioned“. “I’m definitely not a racist and didn’t mean for it to cause offence,” says Jeff.
The Vegan Militia has yet to respond.
Robert Clayton’s Estate is now on display in a major solo exhibition at Four Corners, 121 Roman Road, London E2.
The exhibition also sees the launch of his new short film about the work featuring Jonathan Meades. Large scale prints and a film are on show for free until May 29th.
Find out more here.
You can see a selection of Robert’s wonderful photographs on flashbak.
And then you can buy the book. Do so. It’s really terrific. Buy it here.
Kenneth Williams (22 February 1926 – 15 April 1988). His diary entry for the day before he died is a powerful read:
Every Push for Pizza “comes with a “Pizza Pipe”. Well, this is still a concept, but the idea is sound. You rip off a section of the cardboard box, pop out the ceramic stand that stops the box from crushing the pizza and assemble the thing ready for your post-prandial puff.
“No longer will one have to search for a pipe before or struggle to remember the telephone number of the pizza parlor after its use,” says Push for Pizza. “Equally important, the pizza is in hand before the munchies set in, leading to a more relaxed and enjoyable experience without the interminable delay of its delivery or the pain of gnawing hunger.”
File under: stone baked.
Adam J Calhoun stripped two books of words:
Inspired by a series of posters, I wondered what did my favorite books look like without words. Can you tell them apart or are they all a-mush? In fact, they can be quite distinct. Take my all-time favorite book, Absalom, Absalom! by William Faulkner. It is dense prose stuffed with parentheticals. When placed next to a novel with more simplified prose — Blood Meridian, by Cormac McCarthy — it is a stark difference (see above).
The beauty of good punctuation.