fish, chips and disaronno
Such was the implausible swiftness of my conversion to Get Selling that I completely failed to deal with the events of last weekend, which was Mat's birthday weekend. We went to the Sea Life Centre in Southend. Our presence was largely a matter of indifference to the fish, who opened and closed their mouths without giving anything away, although a 'shark talk' was advertised. Only the rays seemed really happy to see us, rising to the surface of their tanks to flap a greeting. Or a warning to get the hell away from them. It really is hard to tell with these things.
Afterwards we insensitively went to eat fish and chips in Funland. It made you wonder if we'd learned anything at all.
It was, of course, raining. The next day it wasn't. At Mat and Amanda's barbecue Rhys was talking about a place in South Wales he's been to called Bargoid (it's Bargoed really, but I prefer the more Doctor Who spelling), where the only nightclub is called Blisters. You can tell it's the only nightclub: competition would have encouraged them to change the name, possibly to something not associated with pain. Inside, says Rhys, everything was sticky. 'Is this going on the blog?', he asked, noting my amusement.
'Only if I'm desperate', I said.
Ross was at the barbecue, occasionally shouting 'Horse', and drinking from a giant bottle of aftershave - Disaronno, in fact. Disaronno - which sounds like it might be Italian for 'disoriented', or 'dishevelled' - is a form of Amaretto, and very nice too. The ad for it features - and I hate to bang on about Get Selling (no I don't: I love it, I love it!) - anyway, yeah, the ad features the best example of 'affirming the buying decision' I have seen.
An hunky barman coolly dishes out glasses of Disaronno (they don't appear to serve anything else at this bar, which is definitely not, I think, in Bargoid). It comes in various forms ('Disaronno sour... Disaronno Martini'), but then a glamorous woman orders Disaronno on the rocks. 'Disaronno on the rocks', the barman repeats, his look and tone clearly saying: here is one classy lady. She does not dilute the purity of this mass-produced and heavily-advertised drink with vulgar mixers. His look and tone goes on to add: I am going to shag her - but we'll overlook this because, sexual overtones notwithstanding, this is some kind of masterclass, and I'm definitely going to try it. 'Hard Bastards 2', I will say, arching my eyebrow at the book some surly guy has handed me, and fixing them with a gaze that suggests that at last I have found my intellectual equal. A process which will serve equally well for Maeve Binchy, a manual on budgerigar care, and The Day My Bum Went Psycho.
Afterwards we insensitively went to eat fish and chips in Funland. It made you wonder if we'd learned anything at all.
It was, of course, raining. The next day it wasn't. At Mat and Amanda's barbecue Rhys was talking about a place in South Wales he's been to called Bargoid (it's Bargoed really, but I prefer the more Doctor Who spelling), where the only nightclub is called Blisters. You can tell it's the only nightclub: competition would have encouraged them to change the name, possibly to something not associated with pain. Inside, says Rhys, everything was sticky. 'Is this going on the blog?', he asked, noting my amusement.
'Only if I'm desperate', I said.
Ross was at the barbecue, occasionally shouting 'Horse', and drinking from a giant bottle of aftershave - Disaronno, in fact. Disaronno - which sounds like it might be Italian for 'disoriented', or 'dishevelled' - is a form of Amaretto, and very nice too. The ad for it features - and I hate to bang on about Get Selling (no I don't: I love it, I love it!) - anyway, yeah, the ad features the best example of 'affirming the buying decision' I have seen.
An hunky barman coolly dishes out glasses of Disaronno (they don't appear to serve anything else at this bar, which is definitely not, I think, in Bargoid). It comes in various forms ('Disaronno sour... Disaronno Martini'), but then a glamorous woman orders Disaronno on the rocks. 'Disaronno on the rocks', the barman repeats, his look and tone clearly saying: here is one classy lady. She does not dilute the purity of this mass-produced and heavily-advertised drink with vulgar mixers. His look and tone goes on to add: I am going to shag her - but we'll overlook this because, sexual overtones notwithstanding, this is some kind of masterclass, and I'm definitely going to try it. 'Hard Bastards 2', I will say, arching my eyebrow at the book some surly guy has handed me, and fixing them with a gaze that suggests that at last I have found my intellectual equal. A process which will serve equally well for Maeve Binchy, a manual on budgerigar care, and The Day My Bum Went Psycho.
posted by martin at 1:53 PM
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