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Oh please.

What is it with notices begining with ‘Polite Notice’ these days?

I can understand your average Joe Shmo painting it on his garage doors stating, ‘Polite Notice – do not park garage in useing’ [sic], but for it to actually be adopted in to officialdom makes it a very sad day.

Who on earth are they to tell me whether or not their notice is polite? I may find it bloody rude! Putting ‘Polite Notice’ in front of ‘Fukkertypissflaps’ doesn’t make it acceptable, and I resent the patronising effort that deems it necessary to decide for me.

By all means, make a ‘Polite Request,’ or (and get this for a concept) maybe even say ‘please’ at the end, but let me decide how I read the sign.

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That’s it. I’m officially old. The youth have spoken.

Well…’a’ youth.

Without giving too much away… dealing with a tearful young’un today, I strongly suggested that they brought to my attention any beef they had with their peers. At this point, the tears dried up and a smile broke across their face.

When I welcomed, but questioned, the smile, I was told that they never expected an old person like me to use the word ‘beef’ in this way.

The canyon has never felt so wide.

Sitting here, watching my 3 year old son tear around a colourful, padded, corner-free ball-park, I feel my inner retro hark back to a day when all we had was your traditional adventure playground comprising of coloured planks of splintered wood tenuously held together by 6 inch nails even more tenuously hammered in.

The clich√©d old fart in me wants to cry out how things were different in my day. How part of the fun was the threat of imminent injury lurking just around the next jagged corner, or the thrill of finally managing to get 5 of your mates on a single knotted swinging rope and come out of it with both legs still intact. I want to validate each and every terrifying near death experience as an example of character building development …but I can’t.

For those old things were evil; they scared me to death. Whether it was the tough kids that played there or the apparatus itself, I don’t know. Probably a combination of the two. I actually broke my arm on one of these things as a child when I didn’t quite make a jump from one platform to the next, landing 12 feet below on sun-baked dirt&stones with an audible snap! Those wooden behemoths emitted fear out of every platform, ladder and rope swing for good reason: they were lethal.

So, for once, my inner retro will happily relegate these memories to a dark corner of my psyche and proudly admit that the modern day explosion of padded colour, balls and obstacles are much better than the assisted suicide contraptions we had back in the day. Things weren’t better back then.

If the old fart in me needs an outlet then it can be one of trying to rubbish something I’m actually quite jealous of as, truth be told, I would have loved something like this when I was a kid.

So you tear away, son. I’m content with the knowledge you’ll be a kip before we hit the dual-carriageway, and that a trip to A&E won’t be necessary this afternoon.

I passed this advert at a bus stop today…

…beware of anarchists wearing suits!

I love this poster.

It’s a government information poster produced at the the beginning of World War 2.

keep calm and carry on

I don’t think it was ever officially released, but if it had been, it would have¬†panicked the bejezus out of me!

Panicking is for the masses; it’s headless chickens flapping about; it’s old ladies bulk-buying bread and milk to cover the 3 hours shops are closed on Christmas Day. It’s also something for governments to remain aloof of.

The second panic is acknowledged by a government, it gives it a credence no word-of-mouth rumour-mill could ever hope for.

It’s like telling a five year old not to lick the freezer trays! It ain’t gonna happen!

There’s something terribly British about this, and totally terrifying to boot.

Love it.

Hello.
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[edit: June ’10]I had a very clear idea for this blog when I started around a year ago and, who knows, I may even complete the odd post as I had originally intended: I like old stuff. However, moaning about things seems much more fun. Join me.
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I like retro.

I like the innocence of retro. I like the naivety of retro.

I like retro’s vision of the future, and the future’s need for retro.

I like the endurance of retro. I like the inevitability of retro.

I am a sad sad person. But hey, I’m happy.

:-/