I dunno. I’m away for a month or so and Jade Goody dies. That’s all I wish to say about her in particular. I’m not here to dwell on what her motives were for the gaudy auctioneering of practically every aspect of the last seven years of her life. All for the good of public consumption.

No, because what’s really unsavoury in all of this is:

A) The media circus willing to fork out obscene amounts of money for the exclusive rights to what is tantamount to watching a young woman die.
B) The manipulative scumbags lurking behind the scenes, creaming off their cut of each and every deal closed as the destructive force that is cancer tears somebody’s insides apart.
And C) The opportunist soundbite merchants jumping on the celebrity-grief bandwagon to tell us how sad they are at the death of someone they’ve probably never met, but most certainly wouldn’t give a flying fuck about were it not for the spotlight opportunity associated with such a media carnival. (Yes, that means you Mr. Brown, and all the other scummy politicians who came out to offer their insincere condolences. I didn’t see any of you giving statements for the other unnamed statistics who happened to die from cancer on the same day)

What manner of society is it that clambers across each other, chequebooks open, to buy the exclusive rights to another human being’s painful demise? Whether that person chooses to allow it or not, or even actively encourages it. Whatever happened to self-control?

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

Jeffman often thinks that the adverts they foist upon an unsuspecting public between the unprocessed sewer water they try and pass off as television nowadays, are solely created to wind him, and him alone, up. There is probably a small quality control department in every advertising agency who’ve been issued with strict orders to pass nothing off unless there’s more than a 70% chance it will drive Jeffman to smashing his face through a plate glass window whilst gargling with vinegar.

One advert in particular has recently been causing ructions at casa del Mann, simply because of its sheer audacity when it comes to degrading a once proud human race. DFS and their marketing agency should be hauled off to the Hague, post-haste, and tried for crimes against humanity. Not even Saddam would’ve sank to something this low.

For those who haven’t already seen it, take a peak at the vid above, one of three variations of the advert -- but be warned. Tis strong stuff indeed and not for the faint of heart. One would recommend a stomach nurtured on asbestos fritters and cast-iron curries.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

What follows is a cautionary tale on the dangers of a day’s work.

I’m sure there are as many satisfying jobs as there are satisfied jobees (made up word). One man’s shit-shoveller is another man’s “outdoor work, tools provided”. Unfortunately I’m not one of these jobees, nor have I been thus far in my illustrious career.

Without going into too much detail, my present occupation (in the Germany over France sense of the word) involves me staring at a wall for eight hours of the day, and making the occasional note on a computer should said wall show any sign of changing colour.

I assume it’s a very similar occupation to the one of watching paint dry, only minus the sense of satisfaction (my wall’s already dry). Therefore it’s an ongoing process without an achievable conclusion. There’s no ’scuse me whilst I kiss the sky’ moment for me. Just the same nut-numbing process day in, day out.

Suffice to say that Jeffman is making plans to extricate himself from such a terrible fate and possibly enter the realms of those that are satisfied with their lot in life. A satisfied jobee.

But until that fine day arrives I hang on by the teeth, to the extent that boredom threatens to place your favourite scribe into one of those comas you hear so much about.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…