Monday, 7 September 2009

China girl

We thought we were going to China to pretend to make a sequel to Chariots of Fire. Apparently one of the runners in the first one was from China and he used to catch hares for the hungry people and they all love him. We don't really know how to make films but we thought we'd blag it while we swanned around. It's gotta be a piece of piss to make a film. Apparently that was never the idea and there was some kind of mix up. So it didn't really work out, although our position is that promises were made and reneged upon by some unscrupulous types who we're not going to name but better might watch how they step. We had a good time though and even appeared on state TV for some reason.

We also met a bunch of these cosplaying Manga girls who liked not much better than miming along to popular cartoons.

Tuesday, 25 August 2009

Disney Diggling

Accusations of double-dealing and conspiring have dogged us ever since we gone straight, stopped shitter ripping and began wearing shirts and that. So to clarify, yeah we did and continue to double deal. We also threw some creepy kid from Disney out of a window because he was being a prick. We’re just not gonna smile while some shiny- trousered twat has a tantrum. Presumably that’s not what they got us in for.
Have you been to the Disney offices in London? They all dress like Mormons and have that yank earnestness, what they apparently learn in some brainwashy jebus-focussed bootcamp.
Still, their money is as good as anyone else’s. We’ve lined up a creepy happymeal deal with some consumptive rag and bone men who are gonna dish out suspicious pies on foggy evenings.

Alibi Service

We’re giving away weekends at the moment. It’s simple; we set up a not-so-chance meet with our likable stoolie/old school friend. He charms your girlfriend/whoever; a few drinks, some stories about the old days, and then, wonderful news, he’s getting married and everyone’s invited to a giant wedding in the countryside, but first, you must, must come on the stag do. He does the rounds among your friends’ wives and ker-blammo off you all trot for hilarity to ensue. Then, a few weeks later, disaster strikes! The wedding’s cancelled, or something. It is slightly deceitful, but are you not so steeped in blood that it would be easier to go on than to turn back.

Sunday, 26 July 2009

Attempted reservoir tampering

We’ve been advised not to mention it but we’ve been jolly well vindicated so we’ll give you the outline. We were employed a while ago by some creepy scientific christian group who looked like the BNP out for a day in court. They smiled and smelled like simpletons and made it pretty obvious that they were dodgy perverts with too much money and some mad plan to probably kill everyone. They were quite emphatic about being against sin and modern vice and that, but we reckon they probably spent their time bumming each other silly while crying and singing boring hymns. So these weirdos wanted us to do something to point out that the world is overpopulated and that their god is better than everyone else’s. We’re guns for hire, we can work for people and causes we don’t like. We’ve done black PR for some right baby-eating property developers, so we set about it with our customary vigour.
We ordered two tonnes of Citalopram, which, if administered correctly, has been rumoured to make men sterile, as well as anti-depressing them. We weren’t sure how to administer it correctly so we thought we’d just hoy it into a big reservoir near Birmingham. We figured that even if we got sent down all the bumming wouldn’t get us pregnant anyway on account of the sterility, haha, lol, etc. Our clients might be bastard psychos but we’re not. We knew when we ordered the stuff from India that the request would be monitored so we did it in a jokey way. Of course we knew it was just dyed flour or we never would have driven it up to the reservoir. The police, who it has to be said looked pretty sterile already, started off talking about terrorism charges and 10,000 counts of attempted murder before retreating, amusingly, to fly tipping charges even though they stopped us before we could dump the frikkin stuff, which we weren’t gonna do anyway. We suggested they might want to charge us with buying some flour and driving it around a bit.

Friday, 24 July 2009

Free Water

We've been asked to look at the bottled water situation and are happy to do it because this scam has been running long enough. We've had a think and come up with flatpack 1 litre bio-degradable cartons, which are sent out to our distributors/franchise dudes. They fill them up with tap water and put them in our provided extra-chilly fridge vending machines. They then charge, like, 50p for a litre of icy water. The money to pay for all the kit comes from advertising spots on the side of the cartons. So the water is an ad channel and will generate maximum exposure on trains and planes. We expect resistance and dirty tactics from the pirates in charge, i.e. airports and train stations. That's right WHSmith, your racketeering days are numbered. We're gonna plow our profits into expensive lawyers to fuck you if you even look at us funny. If anyone wants a franchise machine then holler to our client on this one, Tetrapack. Stay firm blap blap.

Wednesday, 22 July 2009

Time machine #4

Sinead Dockery from Saatchi an that, guest blogs here to tell us what she'd do if she had a time machine.
Ferron was a farrier, a wild boy from the wilds of Cork. He sang in a made-up language and rode bareback on his stolen horse through the rain. We met outside the SPAR and we drank his whiskey down by the misty shore. By the next week I was good and knocked up, which is still a dangerous thing for a young girl to be in Ireland. It made me though. It made me question all that shite. I defied those spiteful coffin-dodgers, enough to leave forever. And even though all the things I’ve seen and done would make the worn -out girls I left behind puke in jealousy, nothing has come close to that first night with Ferron. If I had a time machine I’d go back to then.

Sunday, 19 July 2009

Downtown Singapore;

beyond the gleaming discipline and the orderly streets of orderly hookers, beyond the turtle chop-shops and the yabba stands. Down among the alleys where it stinks of shit and food there’s this bar. Get past the gangsters, walk quickly past the cages. It looks like an abortion clinic, non; all halogen, disinfectant and sorrow. The staff all wear surgeon gear. Breathe deep and you’ll smell that old-school colonialism, when our boys went mad from the opium and the tropical fever.

The 4 Humour Bodily Fluids Christmas Coconut Lounge: a homesick, nihilistic fever-dream. Now get up there, because they’ll probably shoot you in the face if you don’t.

What’ll it be? Martini mixed with the tears of broken-hearted virgins, or something dryer, maybe squeezed from spastic ginger twins. Breast-milk and Benolyn? Don’t worry, smile. Chase it down with fermented bile. Watch the technicians screening the fluids, or pretending to. Have a bloody, bloody Mary, have it thick and positive. Nail a yellow pus monkey brain. Drink their cells and lives. Trust those little glassy-eyed students: you’ve come this far.
76 Robertson Quay, Singapore

Fake fake Barcelona tramps

Fresh back from Barcelona and the Swarovski thing. They wanted the authentic dirty street vibe. “The beautiful punks with the mohawks and heroin chic but without all the violence and stinky bodily fluids, yes.” Pussies. We just rounded the first lot of street junkies we found and bought a few cartoons of wine. Cheers to Fabrizio the fixer, stay firm.

Saturday, 16 May 2009

the vulva campaign

The_Vulva_campaign – they asked us not to, they whined a bit too like little bitches, then they threatened us with fiery litigation. Well you can eat shit Swedes ‘cos we’ve done it anyway. People will say that this is a ruse and that we’re guerillereos actually in the employ of Volvo after all, but we’re not. See you in court, they lisped. Still don’t get it do you, we are multitudes. Before you see some patsy of ours in court you’ll see your servers gutted and your factory commando-frazzled. Thanks to Nigel Oddy for some spanking project management on this one. 

Wednesday, 13 May 2009

PR mission

PR is a scam: desperate glittery-eyed, perky-voiced fucks peddling the excrement of exploited and deluded and doomed special-needs, provincial hair-gel freaks. Speak to a pr tramp, listen to the insulting lack of sincerity. There isn’t enough napalm in the world for these bottom-feeders.

So when we say we do pr, it’s not what you think. You won’t find us begging fake journalist to embed a clip from a reality show. No, we’ll cut those mutherfuckers, we’ll find them and see to it they never walk again, we’ll hire crackheads to bum their whole families. So we don’t do that, we do stunts and scams. We were the ones got rid of the Cambodian land mine and stray dogs in one fell dog food swoop. We made the pink Volvos. We ratted out Mark Thatcher. We honey-trapped the health minister. We bummed the priests. We wrote the forbidden ice-cream jingle. We poisoned the well. And we’d do it all again.

PR services - -

Hobo signs

We invented these signs back when the topsoil blew away and us and ours roamed the plains all free and hungry. We’d rut and take what it pleased us to. Times change though, as the streets got brighter so the shadows darkened. These are some of our hobo signs to guide our brethren of the firm through the wasteland.

Projected graffiti

The battle of the basin – we were there that night when the police, who we don’t much care for on principle by the way and after the fact which we’re getting to, came down to a party we were enjoying and beat everyone down. Did you think we were just going to take that meekly like good little townies? It’s not yours you see, all this here - agitators, thugs, fascist-order-following retards - it’s ours. So think about who you’re fucking with the next time and why. Which brings us to counter-surveillance feedback loops, which we’re spending a lot of time on at the moment.