ITEM: This is my 100th post at Trumpetville. Can I get a ‘Yay!’?
ITEM: Last week I stumbled across this thought provoking and somewhat disturbing opinion piece on the Madeleine McCann case and the influence of the media. The bit that I found most alarming was the discussion of why the tabloid press pack turned on Chris Jefferies (a suspect in the Joanna Yeates case) – ‘He looked odd. He lived alone. He was a book reading intellectual, a form of perversion tabloids enjoy sneering at. He didn’t look like the type to support a football club. He wasn’t attractive.’
Basically, what this means is, if any of my neighbours ever have the bad grace to get murdered in their homes, I’m screwed.
ITEM: At the weekend I had one of my periodic clear outs (I like to show willing, every ten years or so), and in the bottom of a drawer that hadn’t been opened this century discovered half a dozen antediluvian porn mags – Escort, Club, Parade etc – and that brought back to mind the circumstances in which they’d been purchased.
I went on a writing class and the tutor informed us that during a ‘slow’ period she’d made money, some £400 a month, by writing letters to newspapers and magazines, which they would pay to publish. I thought this was a splendid idea, and to test the waters immediately fired off a couple of letters to The Sun, which they published at a tenner a pop. It was money for old rope, and my mother was pleased as at last she had something of mine that she could show to her friends.
And then, years later, somebody else told me that porn mags paid £100 a time for the letters they published. Again I thought this was a splendid idea, certain that I could knock off a few sex fantasies and rake in some dosh. But I didn’t know which magazines ran letters (surprisingly, this information wasn’t in The Writers and Artists Yearbook), and I felt too self-conscious to stand in a newsagents leafing through top shelf magazines in search of letter pages.
So, I phoned a friend whose husband had a sizable porn collection, and she looked through some of his stash and gave me the names of the most likely titles, which I then purchased (never neglect to do market research), only to discover that the letters were supposed to be accompanied by photographs, something that had never occurred to me until then. I remonstrated with my friend, and she said that everybody knew that.
No, actually, everybody didn’t. And if I die unrecognised and in abject poverty, then I’m blaming it on the lack of a girlfriend willing to support my writing career.
ITEM: Staying with the issue of porn, its disposal is a problem. Ideally I’d dump these old magazines in the dustbin, but round here the bins get blown over or knocked over by kids on bikes at least once a month, and the thought of pictures of Sadie 40DD strewn across the street and seized upon by some porn loving eleven year old doesn’t bear contemplating.
In the old TV series Couples the guys had a ‘porn buddy’ who, in the event of their death or hospitalisation, would dash round to their flat and remove any potentially embarassing material before it was discovered by relatives. I need to make similar arrangements, and not just for porn. If I die, I’m pretty sure my surviving relatives will toss out all my thousands of comics and magazines five minutes after the funeral, and never mind how many times I’ve insisted they’re valuable collectables. To my family, they’re always going to be kid’s stuff, and a symptom of Pete’s failure to grow up. As for Mr Bruno, he’s toast.
ITEM: The friend I mentioned above, disappeared from my life a few years back. I got a Christmas card, with the message that she was leaving her porn loving husband and would send contact details as soon as she was set up in a place of her own; I’ve heard nothing since, and have no idea how to contact her, except through the husband and that doesn’t feel like an option. Every so often I do searches on her name, married and maiden, which is how I ended up on Facebook after deciding I’d never join, but that’s another story.
Hey T, if by any fluke of the internet, you’re reading this, then get in contact, cause I miss you. You’re my Bobby Jean (Springsteen fans will understand that reference).
ITEM: I love it that, while other online retailers have divisions concerned with shipping or dispatch, HMV have a ‘fulfilment centre’. I most definitely want to be fulfilled. Doesn’t everybody?