Barry Norman Pickled Onions

Coming into work this morning, I noticed a bizarre-looking poster at a bus stop: it was advertising Barry Norman Pickled Onions. I thought it was a joke of some sort, perhaps for a new show or game. But it isn’t. It’s a genuine product: you can find the official website for it here, and you can buy them (if you live in the UK) online here.

I’m still a little freaked out.

What the hell is going on in the world that Barry Norman is selling Pickled Onions? What is the grand man of British television reviewing doing plastering his not-attractive face on a jar of condiments? Are celebrity endorsed-products (Paul Newman’s salad dressings, Lloyd Grossman’s sauces, Frankie bloody Dettori’s pizzas) the only way to purchase food products anymore?

(By the way, if you are an American, it’s the equivalent of Roger Ebert Pickled Gherkins, if that helps.)

You see, Barry Norman (no relation) was the face of film reviewing to me (and probably the rest of the country) when I was growing up. He fronted the Film programme from 1973 to 1998 on BBC1, meaning he was the film critic for the nation. He was a former journalist, so he had served an apprenticeship on daily newspapers and treated the job with respect (unlike Jonathan Ross does as current front man for the show – the inclusion of action figures on his desk demonstrates vividly that it’s all a bit of a lark for Wossy, being paid to watch films and tell you his opinions).

Barry had an air of authority on the subject (his father was a film director) but without being poe-faced and aloof (e.g. Brian Sewell on the arts); you could tell he loved film and enjoyed talking about them and to the people who created them (although he found the directors/writers more interesting – he famously didn’t get on with Robert DeNiro, who was providing monosyllabic answers to questions while he begrudgingly went through the interview process).

I always felt that I could trust a Barry Norman review – not only was he spot-on his judgement, but he delivered his critique in a clear, concise and non-condescending manner. He even allowed his sense of humour to show through (although it took him some time to warm to his Spitting Image puppet, which gave Barry the urban myth catchphrase, ‘And why not?’, something he never uttered but eventually used for the title of his autobiography), demonstrating he loved his job, knew it wasn’t the most important job in the world, but treated it with respect and a sense of helping the viewers and hopefully the world of film.

I used to watch Barry Norman religiously; the same can’t be said of Ross’ version. I wanted to BE Barry Norman – who wouldn’t want to be paid to watch films – probably because he made it look so easy (it was only afterwards that I found out that he was reading from an autocue; he even made that look easy). I’ve even read his autobiography, for goodness sake. I missed him when he left for Sky (after the BBC annoyed him with inconsistent scheduling of the programme), but I’m glad that he is still working, still talking about film, still writing about film (he has a column in the Radio Times).

However, I don’t know if I want to eat his pickled onions. Apparently, they are his family’s recipe passed down generations – who persuaded him that the world would not only want to eat them but would want to pay for the privilege? At least Newman sells salad dressing for charity – Barry just wants the money (although he doesn’t make very much, according to this interview). I’m not completely convinced it’s a real product – I think it works better as a surrealist joke – but it goes to show you the strange things that happen to people you used to watch on the telly when you were a young lad.

Brain Dump: I'm Sorry For Finding This Sexy

I have seen this image, six foot high, adorning the walls of London Underground EVERYWHERE this week. In the short tunnel down from the District line platform to the Piccadilly line platform there are three alone. It's not quite the same as above; the author's name isn't so large on the poster (this is the paperback cover) and there's a little more space on the left side, but you get the idea.

And it's haunting me.

Now, I don't particularly find Posh that attractive. She's not ugly but she's not gorgeous. She's pretty in a plain way, and she looks good in photos. However, I find this image very erotic.

It's not her necessarily; she poses well, with the pout copied from the porn star look (which Greg Land will no doubt be using for photo reference some time soon) and the hair artfully falling down the face. But it's too do with the sensuality of the upper half of her body covered (and Posh must be one of the only thin women who can wear hoops and not appear fat; I thought women would only wear stripes ...) but the legs are naked to the high heels. That is damned sexy to me. The hint of knickers makes the image even more alluring, for some reason, even though the lack of underwear would be even more erotic. I can't stop looking at it when I see it.

The reason for this strange attraction is because the ensemble reminds me of my earliest memory of finding something sexy: the video for Denis by Blondie, with Debbie Harry in a red-striped bathing suit and a blazer. It stirred things in me at a very young age, and that connection has never gone away. (Tom the Dog recently did an A-Z of his Objects of Affection; it had Angie Dickinson in a top and shoes and nothing else, and I found her attractive for the first time ever.)

And for the last week, I keep seeing this everywhere I have travelled. It's very distracting, also because I don't want to feel that towards Victoria Beckham. Hopefully, by talking about it in this post, I hope to have cathartically removed it from my system. Or hope that they take the posters down soon (it's a bit early for the Christmas book rush, isn't it?).

Back to normal posting next. Thanks for indulging me.

Miscellaneous nonsense from my brain pan

I have some peculiar thoughts and notes floating through my head and I need to get them out:

Driving back from Norfolk, I noticed a sign by the side of the A14 saying, 'Public Telephone'. Now, I don't wish to reinforce stereotypes, but do yokels see public telephones as some sort of tourist attraction? Or, is it some kind of warning for locals to beware of the dangerous, new-fangled machinery?

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A genuine sign on a door at work: 'THIS DOOR IS ALARMED' (I wonder if there are lots of doors which inform people of their emotional state.)

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Strange thought: Presumably, due to his smalltown USA upbringing on a farm, Clark Kent, AKA Superman, must be a big country and western fan. So, I have this image of Supes line-dancing to Billy Ray Cyrus and Achy Braky Heart. Scary ...

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The Lesbian Five-Finger Guide to Restaurants (Well, I thought it was funny.)

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I remember reading that the enzyme Pig Lipase is not kosher but the cloned version of the same enzyme is, according to the Rabbi in the food industry. That freaks me out.

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Why does the expression 'Mammogram' conjure up the image of a topless woman at the door singing 'Happy Birthday'?

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I saw a postmen on his postman’s bicycle, with its little basket at the front, and he was smoking a cigarette while riding. Now, that’s what I call dedication – in fact, he’s a CHAIN-LETTER SMOKER (boom, boom.)

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Reclaimed Negative Space – the strange sensation of being able to see and move into space that has been occupied for some time. Most common is the removal of the Christmas tree, but also very strong in moving house.

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I would love to hear this conversation on a radio station:
'Hey caller, who’s you favourite station?'
'Paddington.'
'What?!
'Paddington station, west London. Nice mix of old England and modern terminal, not too busy, devoid of an excess of bloody tourists, quite clean and hardly any beggars or prostitutes.'

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Advice For Working: Always go for a dump at work. Try to synchronise your bowel movements for the midst of your work day. Not only will you pass the long hours in a non-work activity, you will also not have to pay for as much toilet paper AND you won’t have to worry about needing a plumber after blocking the toilet with a colossal log.

The Power of Warren Ellis

I admire the comics of Warren Ellis. His story sense and work ethic is finely tuned, and he writes stories that, for the most part, I actively want to read. I’ve mentioned my appreciation for his work in previous posts, even though I don’t enjoy everything he writes (Tokyo Storm Rising springs to mind). He isn’t blinded by a love for superheroes yet, ironically, he writes them very well. He has a desire to write different things, to own them and promote them himself. He makes sure he gets the best artists for the job and considers his career as a whole. He understands the business but, more importantly, the craft of comics, as well as wanting to understand it further. I have a long box full of his work, I subscribe to his Bad Signal and check out his website regularly for my dose of weird shit. What I didn’t expect to happen was that I would have a dream about the bastard.

Now, it wasn’t a sexual or disturbing dream, let’s get that out of the way for a start. Also, like most dreams I recall, it was odd and jumbled, and I generally feel that talking about dreams is completely worthless. However, it is vaguely connected to the world of comics, so I thought I would allow myself the indulgence of writing about it.

The dream seemed to be set among the bars and restaurants of Soho. The reason behind this, perhaps, was knowing of his trip to see Patton Oswalt at the Soho Theatre, and this photo in a restaurant afterwards (which I think could be Spiga, a restaurant I have eaten at, which is just down the road from the Soho Theatre).

(In looking for the picture on warrenellis.com, I typed Oswald instead of Oswalt – the reply for this was 'Sorry, no posts matched your stupid question and we have called the police.')

The dream is unfocussed, as most of mine are, but seem to involve an evening of drinking in various seedy bars in Soho. Sometimes it would be just Warren and myself; others would involve a group of people. Warren would be vivacious and gregarious in the social setting but more thoughtful and relaxed when just the two of us. This seems to correlate with his public persona and private persona, as one would expect from someone who has to portray the part of cranky old bastard to entertain the masses when he has a new book out, but is also a family man who has strong feelings about issues, as can be seen in his writing.

The conversations weren’t about comics; it was mostly about life in general: happiness, love, death, war, politics, religion, stupid jokes – basically, the type of shit that people usually talk about down the pub. This seemed particularly odd to me, as I have many questions about the ninth art with which I would annoy Warren if I was allowed within spitting distance, but made complete sense at the time.

I should point out that I don’t want to be friends with Warren, even if the dream can be interpreted as such. I get a kick out of his comics work, I appreciate his sense of humour in the Bad Signal and his website, and he seems like a decent bloke, but I don’t want to be his mate. I’m fairly anti-social as it is anyway, but it’s more to do with me not wanting to be a sad fucker who would go round annoying people saying, 'Warren Ellis? Yeah, I know him, he’s a good mate of mine.' That’s kind of pathetic.

I suppose that the dream possibly extends from the idea that the web-savvy audience of his work know so much about him, as he shares a lot with us in his various websites and his journal emails. Combine that with images of him, taken down the pub with his phone, and you have the basis for the possibility of inventing a dream in which you spend an evening with him drinking whisky (which is particularly odd, as I don’t drink alcohol.) I fucking hope so, anyway …

Warren Ellis. He will invade your mind and fuck with your head.