Dolce et Gabbana est. Part 1.

Dolce et Gabbana est – Part 1



(Written with a sore head one Saturday morning in mid-March 2015 and kicked off by a news story about synthetic babies and IVF but then redirected elsewhere. Very redirected. Indeed roughly 98% of this blog is nothing to do with fashion house owners, Elton John or synthetic babies. Come to think of it very few self respecting blogs should be.)

So! I’ve just had a brief, opinionated and good natured set too (sic) with ‘the wife’ about Dolce and Gabbana and their spat with Sir Elton John about synthetic babies etc. Being a realist by trade and a cynic by nature I have a fairly blunt view on IVF and all that (not a huge fan to be honest, but then I have no plans for children). I am very prepared to admit I’m probably misinformed and being super harsh and why don’t I just shut my pie hole etc and of course ‘the wife’ is a fountain of warmth and good intention so she must be right, but there is a small part of me that insists that this is the kind of topic that needs breaching in sterner tones as it does have a massive impact on the way we do stuff. That’s humans by the way. An even more important topic that needs a super serious discussion by politicians with testicles is euthanasia, assisted dying (voted against on 11th September this year, oh well, let’s all wait around a few more years) and the common trend of keeping people alive for as long as possible. Almost every time I meet up with my parents I usually end up in a long chat with my Dad (invariably this will take place either on a long walk or in a kitchen) about how vital euthanasia is and why. At some point during this discussion it will dawn on me that we’ve been talking about assisted suicide for at least 90 minutes and that while this could be the most depressing subject ever we’re both actually enjoying it. Fantastic! If I could swap my brain for someone with an eternally upbeat mind-set I would refuse. Immediately and repeatedly.

Anyway I didn’t really want to start with that but I have. If you wish to learn more about these topics or anything else discussed in this forum then buy me a glass of wine and ask or send a self-addressed envelope to

27 Not Interested Cresent,

I Couldn’t Care-lessurbia,

I’m Openly Weepingville,

FU2 0FF.

I’ve just finished the hoovering. This is a stressful activity which usually involves me telling the hoover or James Dyson, or both, to go and fuck themselves at least four times. In our house there are many jobs and this is who does them:

  1. Hoovering (me)
  2. Distributing hair at a rate faster than that which can be credibly tackled by the average speed hoovering agent (‘the wife’ and ‘the cat’)
  3. Washing up (‘the wife’)
  4. Washing up without turning the kitchen into a water sports park (me)
  5. Hacking up massive hairballs onto the bedroom floor at three in the morning during a working week, necessitating ‘the wife’ to shoo them out but then neglecting to close the door so they’re let back in to prevent us getting back to sleep through the medium of scratching, licking and purring (the cat)
  6. Hanging out the washing in a manner which will help it to actually dry (me)
  7. Not cleaning so much except for when we have guests coming that evening in which case the house suddenly becomes cleaner than a Swiss surgical theatre (‘the wife’)
  8. Oh shit ‘the wife’ has just walked in
  9. Doing everything in a brilliant way (‘the wife’)
  10. Being amazing (‘the wife’)

I invite you now to just spend a few minutes seriously considering who does what in your house and establishing whether such a compendium would, on a very real level, create the circumstances which could eventually lead to a break up or a divorce. If the answer is yes then you need a good solicitor. Now. Go, go and get one!

Every day I wake up and find that before long something gets right on my tits. I don’t often open my eyes, after a deep and content sleep, and leap out of bed, rushing down the street half naked, full of the joys of fucking spring like Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas morning. After a handful of Opana. Even on a really good morning it usually takes only a matter of seconds for me to find fault with something or other. I can’t actually recall the first thing that got to me today but I can recall the first thing that I can recall. Obviously. It was the adverts. This should come as no surprise to anyone who hasn’t recently had a lobotomy. The adverts on the telly are one of the worst things ever. And not just on the telly (sorry, I nicked that from Chandler in Friends, possibly my favourite comedy character ever, certainly up there with Blackadder and Partridge). It’s quite handy that Friends has come up because whilst it is an untouchably brilliant programme its format represents the very worst elements of advertising. Here’s how the format goes on Comedy Central, a channel which, Friends aside, truly lives up to its name. If by comedy they mean shit. And by central they mean bucket.

  1. A couple of crap adverts, one of which is for an eye wateringly unfunny new sitcom or live show which will feature the only slightly funny (but the best nevertheless) bits, edited down into 10 seconds.
  2. Episode of Friends starts.
  3. Intro scene plays out then awful theme tune which needs strangling.
  4. Bit where apparently they have an ad break in the states during prime time.
  5. First half.
  6. Massive ad break which can last, seriously, up to eight years, because some unctuous, dead eyed toad has established that you’re already hooked and might as well see it through until the end. Oh, but hold on I’ve got a Sky box so I can flick over, but a-ha sorry mate it’s the ads here as well because we really are unspeakable bastards.
  7. Rest of Friends including break at the end where America would have endured more adverts before the little bit at the actual end (if I use the word actual too much then I apologise!).
  8. And repeat.

And still I watch them. The episodes that is. Got the whole lot on DVD but I can’t help it, even though I have a sneaking suspicion that soaking up all that advertising is in some way having a long term effect on my mental health. This is really just a side rant because I wasn’t watching Friends over breakfast. I/we, was/were, watching Everybody Loves Raymond and ‘the wife’ made a very good comment about an advert (more on that in due course) and that inspired me to rewind and voice-record (what a cock) the basic elements of each advert during that break in a conscious effort to get to the bottom of what makes advertising up there with estate agency in the all-time twat jobs (that would, and indeed shall, make up another episode of ‘G. B. gets some things off his chest’). My findings were as follows……………….

G.B Hewitt 20.10.2015 (revised)

Oh god no, the suspense is killing me etc etc

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