… it’s Salmon pink, marshmallow roasted, Essex blonde, new potato, Elvis in a dress, marsupials breeding with mammals effluent. Available from your local Marks and Spanks for just a nappy or two.
I’ve realised a bit late in the day that one of my own heroes (or herrors, as I just tipped) has already written J-Pod. So, once again, I am back to the drawing board, although frankly, by the very mention of the buggers, you would think that half of the middle classes would be Leonardos by now. Similarly, there must be a lot of escapologists working in agencies if they have to think outside the box so often. Which is a very tired joke. Unless there was a Box religion. In which case it would become immediately edgy (ON TOP of it being boxy, badda bing badda box) and you know, street.
Although a street box would invariably be some kind of food container, and therefore not very big. I have always assumed that this ‘box’ that I am meant to think outside of is quite large. Positively big. Although not as big as Elvis. Or indeed, Eavis. Oh Glasto, let me count the ways that I hate thee. Although it is not, as yet, sold in a box.
Of course, street boxes don’t figure as high on the american express scale as DHL cartons or Ikea packing cardboard. Which makes it fair game for experimentation. Many’s the gruesome image we are force fed via our telling visions of boxes covered in grafitti or dipped in canola oil. Boxes covered in oil AND/OR onions are a regular feature of my local paper and OH MY GOD the irony, my local paper will inevitably end up as something covered in fat. Or poop.
Which brings us back to FA-ti-doh. Etc. At ease gentlemen, your pupils are no longer required.
