Heinz Meanz Inconsequential Answerz

I have received an unimpressive response to my email of complaint to Heinz, (see Mayonnaise for Gays, June 2008);

Dear Southern Fairy

Thank you for your recent email regarding the Heinz UK commercial for Deli Mayo. Consumer feedback is very important to us and we appreciate the opportunity to respond.

Heinz pulled the ad in the UK because our consumer research showed that the ad failed in its attempt to be humorous and offended people on all sides.

Heinz apologises for its misplaced attempt at humour and we accept that this ad was not in accordance with our long-standing corporate policy of respecting everyone's rights and values.

Again, our sincere apology to anyone who felt offended. We appreciate you taking time to contact us to express your opinion and allowing us to address this issue.

Liz Pickstock
Consumer Contact Department

My housemate received the same stock answer too, and I'm unsure whether Heinz even paid too much attention to our sentiments as it seems their emails apologise for the advert causing offence. However it does make clear that we won't be seeing the advert on our televisions in the future, and the bigots have won the argument. But it has opened the gates for discussion on how far the rights of the British LGB society have come. Even with Civil Partnerships legalised, it seems same sex relationships are still not given the same acceptance, and Heinz for one won't be leading the Pride revolution.

Mayonnaise for Gays

You could be forgiven for thinking that I am campaigning for gay rights after my last post (see Big Brother, June 2007), but yesterday my housemate drew to my attention the current media news about Heinz's withdrawal of an apparently offensive advert:

"Heinz has withdrawn its Deli Mayo TV ad that featured two men sharing a kiss and apologised to viewers after the advertising regulator received about 200 complaints that it was offensive and inappropriate." View the full article (and advert) here.

I'm astounded that Heinz didn't think that rather more than 200 people - i.e. the gay population, and basically anyone with an open mind and creative intelligence, would be either be offended or bemused by the withdrawal of the advert, and instead decided the minority rules. My housemate started a Facebook group - quite rightly, because Facebook has pretty much taken over the world and I truly believe it is a powerful tool to turn things around. If you're interested, join it here.

So, I thought - since I usually stay politely quiet about most things, I never like to get involved in politics, I usually come out feeling sheepish because I'm basically shite at arguing - anyway, I thought I'd do my bit to fight the cause too. Well, less fight the cause and more offer a tongue-in-cheek 'telling off'... I wrote Heinz an e-mail (forgive grammatical errors, it was an incensed email of quiet passion and I had no time for accuracy):

I just wanted to let you know I am troubled by the withdrawal of your advert.

The 200+ complaints received about the advert would pale in comparison to the number of people who, a) are offended by staunch bigots stamping their feet about 1950's 'values' or, b) don't care about the apparent homosexual connotations of the ad and actually appreciate having a decent, funny ad on TV, instead of crap like Barry screaming about his Cillit Bang.

Heinz stands for variety, doesn't it? "Heinz 57..." and all that jazz. So, celebrate the variety the advert offers - be it variety in sexuality or mayonnaise. Grow some balls and reinstate the advert. Don't let some old, grey, right wing, misrepresentation of our modern, cosmopolitan society, dictate what goes on our television screens. I find it hard to comprehend their ignorance, let alone Heinz's compliancy in their anti-gay tirade.

I will keep you posted if I receive a reply.

Big Brother

I'm getting reeled into Big Brother and I can't seem to help myself. It's definitely out of sheer boredom and laziness to get off my derriere and away from the television, which is increasingly burning my eyeballs. But I've tasked myself with three, four mile runs this weekend and apparently my dire fitness levels can't cope with any level of activity above this. I'm dead from the waist down - my legs are lead, so I'm stuck with Davina and her house of numpties.

Actually, truth be told, I'm *slightly* enjoying this series of Big Brother. Kathreya is "hilar-wious" and Luke's dry narration in the Diary Room of the daily activities is amusing. Mario is another story... HOW does Lisa humour his constant drivel about himself? Is she secretly deaf, another addition to the quota of disabled housemates? The ability to switch a hearing aid off when Mario starts talking about his fan club or military excellence would definitely be the answer to a successful relationship between the two - otherwise, I just don't understand how anybody could be that tolerant to insane levels of egotism.

Don't get me started on slagging off the token stereotypical gay housemate. It's no wonder that 99%* of the heterosexual population still come out ignorant quips like "oh my god, he doesn't look gay," and a look of utter surprise if a homosexual male isn't prancing about in hipster jeans and a sleeveless top, wearing either one of a cowboy's, policeman's or builder's hat or Indian head-dress; if BB is the only insight into the variety of people in the British populus. (* Please note, % are based on complete exaggeration and no research was undertaken for this post).

Anyway, this post is about as pointless as Big Brother itself. I just had to get it out of my system. Garrrgh.

Carving Out My Niche

I think I've finally found my niche in life. Couldn't imagine working nine to five, day in, day out, in a job that doesn't fulfil me mentally or creatively. Fortunately I found a job in a design agency two years ago. Neither myself or the boss were entirely sure what my job role would entail when I started - I was just stoked I bagged a 'real' job straight after graduating, and his exact words were 'come in, and see what you think needs doing.' I started off as a call-girl - now don't be filthy, I'm talking telesales here, trying to bring in new business - well, not exactly telesales - more telemarketing. And there is a subtle difference between the two; telesales involves a lot of haranguing and loud bull-shitting until the other party gives in to whatever you're offering, so they don't have to listen to your voice anymore or try to filter your endless phone calls. Telemarketing involves a bizarre conversation, dancing around no particular subject, after which both parties hang up, questioning exactly what the point of the dialogue was. The frank point of differentiation between telesales and telemarketing is the ability to sell... I didn't have it. Not over the phone anyway. What it turned out I did have, was the ability to blag my way into winning contracts with the power of the pen (well... keyboard).

From writing proposals, tenders, case studies and any number of internal documents, the boss was suitably impressed and set me to working with clients on ad copy, websites, brochures and anything else that's thrown at me. I'm finally embracing the role of official copywriter, doing a creative job in a creative environment. My perfect job, and I love it. But knowing I'll be leaving the job I've carved out for myself has made me question exactly how employable I am in what I thought was my niche. Turns out I may have underestimated the task of a copywriter. I have a lot to learn - proofreader's marks, copy editor's marks, SEO, NLP and all sorts of marketing psychobabble to enable me to write commercially effective copy to entice consumers.

I'm studying for a marketing accreditation in my 'spare' time outside work, so I'm on a step in the right direction, but it seems as though this further education route is a long and winding road. What next? Do I take a proofreader's course, a copywriting course, a publisher's or journalist's? Do I want to do travel writing, press articles, technical documents, fiction or children's books? The answer is, I want to do it all. I want to be a writer, and I want to dip my nib in every inkwell. And although I know I can turn my hand to anything I want to; without the qualifications will employers take a chance on me? I'll just have to take a leap and see. It's too late to worry about it now - however much I love my cushy little career, I'll never choose it over the chance for an adventure and of course, my life with Kiwi.

World Headquarters

After consuming two bottles of Absolut Raspberry and Vanilla vodka, (which is unrecommended drank with lemonade - it's reminiscent of cherry drops and dispersible aspirin in some god-awful, medicinal tasting fusion), and a drunken half hour spent dancing with three men to The Best of Whitney, I tottered into town to carry on the frolics at World Headquarters. It took a while to get the aforementioned men (Kiwi and our housemates James and Conor), out of the house first. Kiwi spent the most part of the night plying James and Conor with alcohol to 'seduce' them into clubbing with us, then the three of them spent an hour fannying around ironing outfits and styling each other's hair in some scene from a parallel universe where men have become, well...women.

The occasion was my good friend Roseann's birthday. We caught up with them some three and a half hours late in a little wine bar called The Vineyard. It's barely the size of my front room but it's got a great atmosphere - playing salsa music that you can't help but have a little gyrate too. And if you've nobody to gyrate with, there's always the token Latino ladies-man nearby to help out. Some of the said Latino men are a little greasier than others unfortunately - Kiwi and I watched two pretty ladies being hauled about the bar like salsa puppets by a couple of the greasier ones, look pleadingly at James and Conor to save them. The sentiment was lost however, as James and Conor were too engaged in each other... They picked the wrong type of men to bat their eyelashes at.

When we finally arrived at the affectionately known 'Worldies', I for one was busting to get onto the dance floor. Usually an ecletic mix of reggae, jazz, soul and funk, Worldies plays the likes of Bob Marley, Lionel Ritchie and Stevie Wonder and the DJ has been known to say 'we only play black music.' Bizarre for a club which is based on the likes of Northern Soul - bringing white and black communities together for some international love and dancing. But I like to think the DJ refers to the style of music, rather than the artists' ethnicity. Last night, it was a surprising mix of not only the usual sweet tones of Stevie, but bizarrely some 90's R&B and I think what's known as Garage (or something just as chavtastic). It made a nice change though for the old school classics to be interspersed with songs that I last heard at a school leaving party and could happily bump and grind to. Usually Worldies intersperses the classics with 'hits' only the over 30's would recognise, and if I don't know the lyrics, my dancing shoes don't seem to work.

All in all a fantastical night was had, and I'm typing this from my bed, at nearly 1pm, having not left the arse-shaped crater in the mattress yet... Kiwi tried to for half an hour earlier but he's here next to me now, having crawled back under the duvet mumbling something indiscernible about his head. Time for me to go for a run though. It's a beautiful day outside and as I'm not a big drinker (drunk to me is two vodkas), I haven't got a hangover to excuse me from wasting an entire morning. Today was supposed to be a 'rest day' in our training, but we slacked off yesterday's run, so guilt is dragging me out from Kiwi's side and a day of laziness.

The Great North Run

After getting frustrated with my complete lack of self control when it comes to chocolate and biscuits, I decided to start jogging a few months ago. This is a miraculous feat considering I once ran across the street before collapsing and crawling home for a nap. For once in my life I'm motivated to take myself out for some exercise. I'm loving the fresh air and freedom to run all over Newcastle - from Leazes Park to Exhibition Park, across the Town Moor, or to Ouseburn and up into Jesmond Dene. Obviously I'm not running the whole way - there's a fair bit of walking in there too, but I'm working on it.

Seeing me all motivated has sparked off Kiwi too. He started jogging with me, then got a bit carried away and signed himself up for the Great North Run. He's got to raise £250 for it too - if that's not motivation for sticking to a new running regime, I don't know what is. I think he's insane, but I'm really proud of him too and together we've started the BUPA training programme - which prepares you to run a half marathon in 12 weeks. If I surprise myself with my abilities, I might even try to find a spare GNR entry and run it myself.

And I have been surprising myself. Today, Kiwi and I did the furthest run we've managed, all in one go - no stops, and neither of us died. We have to run 3 miles on Sunday. In 10 weeks time we'll have to run 10 miles. We've got a long way to go, but I have faith we can do it! Thinking of me toned up in a bikini in New Zealand is the incentive, and for once I am going to stick to something I'm trying to achieve.

The Green Festival

The Green Festival took place in Leazes Park over the weekend. I took a little look around on Saturday, it was all very family friendly with market stalls selling handmade, hand woven, hand stitched, generally all-round hands on clothing, jewellery and accessories. Food stalls were organic, locally sourced, dolphin friendly, non GM modified, no air miles and freshly picked or ground 5 minutes before sale. There were tents and stalls dedicated to people fighting causes internationally, all doing their part to save the world (and making me feel guilty as I skulked past without signing any of the numerous petitions). If I'd wanted to ease my karma from the stresses of this guilt there was a 'healing area' complete with yoga mats...

... You get the picture, if it was tie-dyed, it was on sale; if it did the tie-dying by hand in Peru at the age of 5 unpaid, it had a petition form; if it involved sun salutations or downward dogging, it was an available activity throughout the day. For the sake of getting Kiwi out in the heat wave on Sunday, I took him along with me and was in for a surprise, as although all aforementioned aspects of the festival had carried through to the second day, instead of families flitting about lazily, the entire park was inundated with thousands on thousands of people. There was a music stage (solar or wind powered or similar I think - or perhaps they had a man on a bicycle), plus circus entertainers, steel drummers, and more importantly beer was flowing. The people were pretty colourful - goths, emos, hippies - all the stereotypes were present. Festivals are the kind of place where they're at their most beautiful, from make up to clothing, tattoos and piercings; they take the opportunity to completely immerse themselves in the atmosphere which in turn wouldn't be the same without them.

Unfortunately the atmosphere was short-lived for me and Kiwi as we both had work to do, and I'm gutted I didn't get to chillax in the sunshine with some organic ale and a group of friends. Would like to say maybe next year, but I'll be down-under, and it'll be mid winter. *Sigh*.

My Sentiments Exactly...

As though fate knew I needed some inspiration in my desire to find a body confident self (see The Great British Body, June 2008), I turned my ipod on 'shuffle' this morning, and India Arie 'Video' came on. It should be my mantra - next time I decide to stick myself into a bikini, I am making no apologies (see A Summer Rendezvous, May 2008). I'll just remind myself 'I ain't built like a supermodel, but I learn to love myself unconditionally because I am a queen'... or something like that.

The Great British Body

I'm watching The Great British Body and am increasingly concerned with how preoccupied I've become with how I, and the people around me, look. My concerns have never been related to hair, makeup, clothes, shoes - but with size and shape. I follow form over fashion when it comes to clothing - I love to look at pretty dresses and tops but for some reason I begrudge spending money on something so trivial. Nothing new gets bought until I've worn out the stuff I already own, and then I replace it with something similar. I've got to get in touch with my feminine side, god knows I could make more effort to make it look like I didn't just roll out of bed and crawl into work. But I've always been too lazy to bother getting up early enough in the morning to apply face paint, and about a year ago I gave up my straighteners to embrace my natural bouffant, and with 'hippy' hair comes a couldn't-care-less attitude.

On the other hand, it seems I could care less... Until a year ago I loved my body. I felt comfortable in my curves and confident I looked great. Well, if I didn't love me then who would? But now I can't stop looking at women who have amazingly toned figures like the ones projected in the media with disdain. Yes, it's a case of the green-eyed monster and I'm not sure where it started and why. 'The Great British Body' is imperfect - just ask Trinny and Susannah. Nobody is happy with their body and everyone wants to be more toned, tanned and cellulite free. But it's no surprise I feel the way I do, because let's face it, how many real naked bodies have we all seen, really, to compare ourselves to? The only measurement of my naked self is based on women on television and in magazines, and they aren't of the GBB mould. They are preened and photoshopped to perfection. If we all walked around the streets in our birthday suits, we would develop a healthier and more realistic perception of the way our bodies look. But thousands of years of clothed society aren't going to burn their threads in favour of a nudist community. So that's why I love programmes like The Great British Body and How to Look Good Naked. Anything that gets Joe Bloggs and Jane Doe in the buff to be scrutinised in all their fat to thin and morbidly obese to curvy glory. I love the naked body and I think it needs to be seen more, if anything to stamp out the concerning increase in young girls and women who are so under pressure to be perfect they starve or purge themselves. Bodily perfection should be based on mindset and the ability to come to accept the figure you are born with, completely and positively. And when I finally achieve that glorious state of mind in which I love my body and all its kooky imperfections, I'll do my bit and put it to good exhibitionist use to show off how beautiful my Great British Body really is.

Blu Bambu

Kiwi has never been to Blu Bambu, and it had to be done before we leave so last night was the night we chose. Bigg Market is colourful on a Saturday night. Just as we were arriving outside the club, a man flew in front of us. His eyes were glazed and staring, his mouth open, drooped and drooling, much like something from Dawn of the Dead. His body flew right by us and thumped horizontally onto the pavement, having hit a wall. He was one of the most sober specimens out that night...

Inside the legend that is Blue Bambu, the music is awesome, love to go dancing with my Kiwi and I wasn't disappointed. It's guaranteed tunes to bump and grind to - old school anthems, R&B and chart, without the cheese. The Blu Bambu crowd is a mixture of chavs, inebriated stags and hens, the 'over 40, gonna relive my youth' and the 'under 18 but got in cause my skirt's up my arse and the bouncer wants to bang me'. But everyone is out for a good night, just to drink, dance and be merry. I'm not one who much loves uber cool clubs where the music's so good you've never heard it before, and the crowd resemble mini Kate Mosses, Pete Dochertys and Amy Winehouses.

We boogied into the early hours, but the more beer Kiwi drinks, the slower his dancin' shoes get. So at the point where I was dancing against a man-shaped wall, we left for home, via a dirty burger bar. One of the benefits of living in Newcastle's centre, you can walk home which leaves spare pennies for greasy food, and a brisk totter home makes you feel like you earned the extra calories. All good - until this morning when I woke up and the taste of garlic sauce was as though a skunk had farted in my mouth. Tasty.