Music

Lee Hawtrey’s comeback from the dark days of How Soon Is Now continues. Since he guested with the Mild Perils earlier this year on “Holy Books”, they’ve returned the favour by producing the brand new Some Good.

Meanwhile, fans of Euro technopop might like to know that those lovelorn scamps Plasma Kiser have knocked out a new one, Say It Out.

Judge a DVD by its cover

What other film titles compete with this one for communicating sheer awfulness so concisely and bathetically? I say it deserves a special mention for conveying the greatest amount of suck in the fewest words, but if you can think of worse in fewer, please let me know.

Reclaim “Reclaim The Night”

My esteemed colleague rang me on Saturday night. “I hate women,” she said. I told her to come for a pint.

She had just finished her duties as a steward at the Reclaim the Night march in central London. One of her jobs was to ensure that the marchers stayed together and no gaps opened up. “Could you move up to the people in front, please,” she said at one point. The woman in front of her turned round angrily. “Feminists seek consensus,” she snapped. “They don’t tell each other what to do!”

The event was women-only. If any men wanted to show their support they were very welcome to accompany the march but they weren’t allowed among the actual marchers, as my esteemed colleague had to gently explain to one young woman and her grandfather. As they ducked out of the march she said, “I’m really sorry, but those are the rules.” A woman next to her hissed, “Never apologise to a MAN!”

The march started in Trafalgar Square. Before it began, people were coming over and asking what the event was, many of them men. One of the organisers said bitterly, “Why do men always want to know what women are up to?” My esteemed colleague’s reply was, “There are a thousand of us standing in Trafalgar Square holding banners. Enquiring what we’re doing here doesn’t constitute patriarchal oppression.” The organiser ignored her.

There were many banners, but they were poorly made and rapidly fell apart. As the march progressed, banner after banner collapsed and disappeared from view. My esteemed colleague was highly amused by this and couldn’t resist saying to another organiser, “We should have got a man in.” Whatever the diametric opposite is of the funnybone in the human body, she hit it squarely. It’s tough out there for a feminist with a sense of humour who doesn’t automatically hate men she has never met.

A warning from history

Everyone who knows me personally already knows this story. However, there is a pressing need to share it now.

Years ago, a slightly silly drunken conversation led to a simple idea. This idea is, according to no definable criteria in the respondent, either one of the best or the single worst idea you have ever encountered. Here it is in full:
Sanitary towels featuring removable—and collectable—pictures of pop stars.
All right, so in the original conversation there had been no “removable” element, and we had enjoyed the thought of the expression on, say, Ronan Keating’s face when he discovered what his image was being used for. But it struck me later that there were actual possibilities here; specifically, the chance to demystify an entire area of adulthood for kids just emerging into it. To this day there are still girls whose parents have decided they are too young to be told “the facts”, and consequently when they have their first period they think they’re dying. A product like “Pop Pads” [presentation here] would make that scenario all but impossible.

My friend L was working for a marketing company in the States. One day in central London—not long after 9/11, I see from the emails—I bumped into the boss of his whole company as he sneaked a crafty fag outside their London office. “Hallo, webofevil,” he said. “Hallo, [name withheld],” I said. “How are you doing?” he said. I told him that I had had this idea about Pop Pads, and I was mulling over whether there was any possible mileage in them. “Sounds interesting,” he said. “I’ll talk to some people and see if we can get any interest.” “Thanks, [name withheld],” I said. “See you later.” “See you later, webofevil,” he said. He went back inside and I took about 40 minutes to trundle home. When I got there I checked my emails. I had one from L in New York that began:

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE YOU FUCKING MUPPET?????????

His boss had gone straight back to his desk and sent a company-wide email entitled “L’s mate webofevil has an idea” telling everyone all about it. Unfortunately this boss had a reputation for being good at assembling teams of people to work together, but for being a bit of a flake himself. It was generally understood, though not by him, that if he ever showed signs of tipping over the edge, it was probably time to jump ship. His Pop Pads email was taken to be that very sign, which was why L went on to say, “I could swing for you, it has produced endless derision and a distinct sense of unease in the office”. People started surreptitiously updating their CVs. By the end of the following week some had started to go for the odd job interview. Soon key people were leaving. By the beginning of the following year the firm could not stem its personnel losses and was starting to suffer. Finally in June the British office filed for bankruptcy, while the American office went the same way a month later. Pop Pads turned out to be a torpedo direct to the hull of what had previously been a successful company.

L eventually forgave me for pretty much directly losing him his job, as he went and found a better one. What’s more, a couple of years later his wife was delighted to find a brand that made Pop Pads look classy: Dittie’s relentlessly cheerful approach to menstruation seems designed to induce tension headaches. On their site you can play Tampon Bowling or subscribe to their newsletter, “The Monthly Cycle - Sign up to make your period more fun!” The first I knew of this was when I walked into the bar of a London hotel that L was staying in; he pulled something out of his bag and threw it at me, yelling, “You were right, you bastard!” It was a box of Dittie tampons, each of which had a different empowering message—a “unique Girl Code”—printed on the wrapper, such as, “A real friend talks to you, not behind your back”, “Today is the day to tell the mean snotty girl that if she really liked herself, she wouldn’t be so mean and snotty” and “It’s not my Aunt Flow, it’s not my special friend – it’s me, it’s all beautiful me!” Also: “Who puts the secret in my secret sauce? I do!”

Still, Pop Pads remain a highly potent idea, capable of inciting inspiration but also of wreaking great destruction. So why am I bringing them up now, especially so soon after lunch? Because flaneurette has brought to my attention this article on Make-It-Yourself Menstrual Pads:

By my calculation they have very nearly achieved awareness of Pop Pads, and will probably have reached full Pop Pads capacity in a matter of months, if not sooner. For the good of companies across the world THEY MUST BE STOPPED. We’re through the looking glass here, people.