Valuable sponsorship opportunities

Mrs W was watching some absolute garbage on ITV1 tonight. The show was called Ladette to Lady and featured some common urchins who'd been sent to a posh finishing school. As per the usual reality TV format, one of the ladettes is shown the door each week, except the choice is made by a panel of severe looking headmistress types rather than by her peers. It's like Big Brother meets Strictly Come Dancing.

I won't dwell on the detail, but the girls are a little rough around the edges. Checking out the associated website, I was astonished to see a long list of prestigious sponsors. The paintings on display at Eggleston Hall - some country pile chosen for the social experiment - were delivered courtesy of Durham County Council. This seems bizarre enough, but at least you probably get to see the pictures. I'd be less confident that viewers would notice the fish utensils, sponsored by The Wheatsheaf Hotel in Swinton, Berwickshire. We'd all be too busy commenting on the fact that the finger bowls for make-up and flower arranging come from Lakeland.

Special thanks must go to The Little Shoe Shop, who kindly supplied the small shoes for daily wear and tests. And an honourable mention in dispatches to Optima Company for the picnic rugs.

Comments

A Fawlty Towers script? Si, senor!

Ok, so I gave ChatGPT the following scenario: "Imagine a theatrical script for a situation comedy set in a hotel in Torquay, England. The proprietor is called Basil, an eccentric man who believes the calibre of guests to be low. His wife, Sybil, is often frustrated by Basil's incompetence. They employ a Spanish waiter called Manuel, who struggles to understand English. Basil suspects that two guests, who claim to be married, may be lying." Here's what our favourite AI came up with: Scene: The hotel lobby in Torquay, England. Basil is standing behind the reception desk, looking at a piece of paper. Sybil is standing next to him, looking annoyed. Manuel is hovering nearby, trying to look busy. Basil: (to Sybil) I don't know why we get such low-calibre guests at this hotel. Look at these two - Mr. and Mrs. Smith. They claim to be married, but I suspect they might be lying. Sybil: (sighing) Basil, it's not our job to judge the marital status of our guests. Just m...

Becoming a Twister board

I spent yesterday evening in an old factory building off Brick Lane playing kids' games with an organisation called Fun Fed. The idea is that a bunch of adults get together and act like children for a couple of hours. We played tag and stuck big coloured discs on ourselves so that we could become human Twister mats. There was an awful lot of running around and I was thinking that I ought to get to aikido a bit more often. Being a child is very hard work.

It's been a tough year. Let's give ourselves a clap.

If something didn’t smell right about the UK handling of the pandemic, the British public was never going to notice. But they knew that if they couldn’t smell something, they really ought to get a Covid test sent to them in the post. There has been something incredibly British about the DIY swabs and their delivery via the gig-economy workers of Amazon, hasn’t there? Touch of corona? I’ll pop something in the post to you. Should be with you tomorrow. I suppose it was inevitable that we’d need some new kind of system. After all, the coronavirus outbreak was the first thing in the history of the NHS that couldn’t be cured by paracetamol, rest and plenty of fluids. This understandably left GPs flummoxed and anxious. The UK decided pretty early on that if you were ill with a novel pathogen – which proved deadly in maybe 1% of cases – you really shouldn’t go to the doctor. You should STAY AT HOME and spread it quickly to your flatmates or family members. And because they were now at ...

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