Corleth the Fey


Corleth the Fey, 2000.
Painted on the upstairs landing, with some oil paints from Wilko, and old tester pots my folks gave me.

From the classic spectrum video game, Lords of Midnight. If you look closely at the uncompressed image you can see where I didn’t press the masking tape down hard enough, so the paint has seeped underneath, leading to rough, jagged edges. The colour clash has been faithfully rendered.

TV licensing, or saving 40p a day

TV licence begging letter

There are two things you can tell about someone within five minutes of meeting them. Firstly, their pallid visage will race their mouth to inform you that they are a vegan. Secondly, every insufferable who doesn’t have a TV licence will proudly proclaim it.

I had a TV licence until space year 1999, when I changed banks, and the BBC was the only group of nonces I was giving money to who couldn’t quite cope with the huge organisational demand of a direct debit instruction change.

Since then BBC has been; sending me letters, telephoning me asking me what my favourite TV show is – then gravitating towards questions designed to scare me about non payment, and once they even showed up at my front door. If they had only sorted that direct debit out, they could have spent all that time and effort on rigging more Blue Peter animal naming competitions instead.

By messing up this direct debit, the BBC has maybe cost themselves around £2761 so far (16 years of missed tax and inflation).
The maximum fine for non payment is £1000.
The average fine for non payment is £400.
The actual fine if you don’t let leather clad thugs roam your house is £0.

I am also a vegetarian, but I wear leather shoes, so I don’t talk about that much.

Real life mail spam

Coopers of Stortford catalog collection

Around a year ago I ordered a lovely telescopic ladder from the awkwardly named “Coopers of Stortford” catalog pictured with the senile neardead on the cover, thanks to a heads up from my “we actually read whatever is pushed through our door” parents. The ladder cost me £65, much fun has been had tottering about precariously and slamming my fingers in it.

Since then, in Coopers apparent attempt to make me buy even more crap to cram into my house, I have had around one catalog through my door every month. Coopers is like a gambler trying another roulette spin, because “13” is due now, and remember the high we got last time it landed? I am not entirely sure how much these cost to print and distribute, but it must be at least £1, so eventually they will have wiped out any profit they made from the ladder. Perhaps they own the printing company too.

If they ever stop sending me my little packets of attention, I will be sure to order something else, like that woman who isn’t interested in you except when you start ignoring her.

Wear that old fur coat

Red fox sleeping in the snow

Back in the good old days you could bang the secretary as long as you gave her a fur coat, because as we all know the female heart grows fonder when exposed to the factory farming of mink/rabbit/puppies/whatever.

Then around the 1980’s onwards a gentlemen had to resort to jewellery to win affections, due to secretaries viewpoints being twisted by various animal rights groups/Signet Group propaganda.

Now however, the notion of wearing real fur is so far removed from acceptability, that a casual “It’s fake fur, obviously” is hardly needed to avoid a can of red paint being unloaded on you at the opera. So dig out that fox fur wrap from your wardrobe of shame that your auntie had to debase herself for, and wear it to those god awful free Chopin recitals that the CBSO puts on in order to remind itself that 95% of all music ever written is trash.