#disappearing things

[robinsnest2111]

i can't survive without the fanfics i saved on that thing omg 

if it's gone i'm gonna die

(also the whole mtmte transformers comic is on there and i need to read that shit)

[theawkwardesturtle]

You ok tumblr?

[damatris]

The Guide: How to disappear things Put them down and look away.

[chimpsindung]

Chris Whitfield's Blog of Disappearing Things: No.9 - The 18 Hour Girdle

This is a series of entries in which I muse on the things that were once part of the mainstream but are now going, going, or gone! This week, 'The 18 Hour Girdle':

THE 18 HOUR GIRDLE:

In the days when the Ad Man ruled the world, there was a TV commercial that began with a number of passengers running up an airport stairway to board a flight, at the front of which is a middle-aged couple. When they reach the top, the wife stops abruptly in a moment of sheer panic. Her husband and the others behind are forced to a sudden halt and look surprised and alarmed. What has caused this poor woman to be struck down so tangibly by fear?

Is she a nervous flyer who has just seen the pilot downing another bottle of scotch? Is the thought of another holiday on the Costa Brava at the Hotel Infestedo just too much to take? Or is she concerned about the dramatic rise in oil prices and the consequential impact on the stability of the world’s nations?

All perfectly valid reasons to panic, but this woman’s moment of alarm has arisen because she has forgotten to put on her girdle. And since she’s not wearing her Playtex 18 hour undergarment, she simply can’t go on holiday.

This is really dramatic stuff. But wait a second. Our damsel in distress then realises she is wearing it after all. Thank goodness for that, and she’s not the only one relieved. Her husband is visibly grateful that all the money spent on their trip will not now be wasted, and their fellow passengers on the stairs vicariously share the couple’s joy. The final shot sees them on the tarmac at their destination airport, both wearing a Hawaiian Flower wreath and exclaiming how great she looks and feels. It’s a happy ending so beloved in the world of advertising.

So what were the indispensable qualities of the Playtex 18 hour girdle, as critical to life as a beating heart?  It was effectively a cross between a corset and a pair of knickers, holding in the stomach, narrowing the hips, and flattening the bottom. For the average middle-aged woman, it did a decent job of maintaining a good figure where nature was having other ideas. But if you were a fatso, the girdle simply dispersed your excess weight to other parts of your body, so that the price of a relatively trim midriff was a Pirelli tyre on each upper thigh and an inflatable lifebelt just below the bosom.

The product sold in the millions and continued to do so until magazine editors discovered cellulite and Photoshop software. Women responded by discovering the fitness video and the ‘F’ plan diet. The female gender were now coming under constant pressure to look like the manipulated airbrushed images on the cover of every gossip and celebrity rag. The old tricks courtesy of the girdle were plainly inadequate and sales suffered. But its final death knell came about when the mainstream female population decided to fully embrace the sexual revolution.

For as long as chastity had remained a virtue aligned to sainthood, it hadn’t mattered that a woman wore underwear that would protect her nether regions from unwanted male attention with the ferocity of a pack of hungry rotweilers. But what if sexual promiscuity had been prevalent at the time that girdle sales were at their peak? Would the garment have been as popular? Let’s go back to the early 1970s and see.

*

A couple meet in a hotel bar and are instantly attracted to one another.

‘I’ve got a room,’ he says.

‘Then let’s stop wasting time,’ she replies, maintaining eye contact but allowing her outstretched palms to travel from her waist to her hips so as to emphasise her feminine curves. She is thinking, 'I just can’t believe I’m wearing a girdle!'

The couple sneak past the repressed hotel owner at the reception desk who might otherwise insist on a copy of their marriage certificate. It takes two minutes for the key to open room 14 and, in their haste, they suffer carpet burns to their hands as they fall onto the threadbare Axminster floor-covering. The man picks up the woman and throws her on to the bed. She squeals, not in sexual ecstasy, but because a loose bedspring has almost given her an enema. Undeterred, the man joins her on the bed and gets a static electricity shock as he quickly removes her polyester dress.

But then he sees that she is wearing her Playtex and cries out in exasperation, ‘I can’t believe you’re wearing a girdle.’ 

‘I know, isn’t it marvellous,’ she gushes, the TV advert replaying in her head.

Half an hour later, and largely thanks to the steady hands and persistence of two neurological surgeons staying in the adjacent room, the girdle is ready to be removed. Unfortunately, the moment has passed, and the erotic charge of their initial meeting has withered away to be replaced by an awkward silence and a final, uncomfortable goodbye.

*

We don’t need Albert Einstein to explain why the twenty first century woman has rejected the girdle. The modern equivalent is something called magic pants, but you won’t see an ubiquitous advertising campaign for them, as there was for the Playtex girdle. The secret of magic pants, like any magic trick, is closely guarded, and their success relies on clandestine marketing. Even if they sell well, they will remain a niche product. The girdle is effectively finished.

The Ad Man is still at it, though he has given up the fight on behalf of the girdle, turning his attention instead to margarine and vegetable spread. However, don’t expect a TV campaign where a group of passengers are climbing an airport stairway to be halted by a middle-aged woman who panics and then exclaims in palpable relief, ‘I can’t believe it’s not butter.’

Copyright 2011 Chris Whitfield

Extract from the book, Chimpanzees in Dungarees (reviews below), which is available as an e-book from Smashwords(free!), the iBookstore(free!), Amazon (77p)  or in paperback (£2.99 delivered). 

 www.chimpsindung.co.uk

Twitter: @WhitfieldChris

[chimpsindung]

Chris Whitfield's Blog of Disappearing Things: No.6 - The Shellsuit

This is a series of blogs in which I muse on the things that were once part of the mainstream but are now going, going, or gone! All entries for the blogs are taken from my book, Chimpanzees in Dungarees, which is available in paperback (£2.99 delivered) or as an e-book from www.chimpsindung.co.uk, Amazon, the iBookstore (free!) or Smashwords (free!). This week, 'The Shellsuit':

THE SHELLSUIT:

A fashion craze inspired by Kris Akabusi and Sir Jimmy Savile was never going to have legs... other than baggy ones with an elasticated waist. Yet in 1990, the shellsuit was the thing to be seen wearing. A nylon, lightweight tracksuit in any combination of bright colours, provided they clashed with the vehemence of Celtic and Rangers football fans at a Glasgow derby, the gaudy garment caught on as quick as a comet, its success propelled by the keep fit obsession of the late 1980s and early 1990s.

Loose fitting and cool against the skin, the shellsuit was comfort wear par excellence, and most of the adult and child population were seduced into buying one. To a man, woman, boy and girl, everyone looked a tit. I had a particularly ghastly Gola example that was a few sizes too big for me. The bottoms made MC Hammer's trousers look like skinny jeans.

As well as being the epitome of naff, the shellsuit's material was inflammable to the extreme. Looking back, it might have been safer to douse our children in four star petrol rather than dress them in a lilac, orange, yellow, and turquoise monstrosity that was liable to shoot up in flames when exposed to the afternoon sun and a couple of twigs. It also makes you wonder how Sir Jimmy survived all those years when constantly smoking a smouldering, turd shaped cigar.

But as the saying goes, the higher they climb, the harder they fall. And no sooner had the shellsuit scaled the giddy heights of its expeditious popularity, that it plummeted back to earth, landing in the attics and charity clothing bags of the nation. Most blamed its rapid demise on the almost overnight transformation from must have sporting fashionista item to trademark uniform of the chav and the scally. Others claimed its end was brought about by Harry Enfield attaching the fashion faux pas to his curly haired Scousers with their 'calm down, calm down' catchphrase. But I believe it was simpler than that. 

We fashion criminals made the classic mistake of assuming that because an item of clothing feels good, it must look good. We took pictures of each and everyone of us in a shellsuit, developed the photos, and assimilated the results. There was a universal reaction. 'Christ, that looks a sack of crap.'

The shellsuit is now extinct. Kris gave it up as a bad idea many years ago, and even though Sir Jimmy kept the tradition going, his passing has finally said goodbye to the garment. The world's gain is heaven's loss.

Extract from:

Chimpanzees in Dungarees

(and other disappearing things)

by Chris Whitfield

Copyright 2011 Chris Whitfield

Sedbergh Publishing

www.chimpsindung.co.uk

Twitter:@WhitfieldChris

[chimpsindung]

Chris Whitfield's Blog of Disappearing Things: No.2 - The Deferential Working Class

This is a series of blogs in which I muse on the things that were once part of the mainstream but are now going, going, or gone! All entries for the blogs are taken from my book, Chimpanzees in Dungarees, which is available in paperback or as an e-book from www.chimpsindung.co.uk, Amazon, the iBookstore (free!) or Smashwords (free!). This week, 'The Deferential Working Class':

THE DEFERENTIAL WORKING CLASS:

  This section was nearly ‘The Working Class Tory’, but this individual survives, albeit as an aspirant who wants to climb the social ladder rather than accept a place on the bottom rung. So this chapter is dedicated to that lost breed of citizen, unfailingly content to demur to the ruling order. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Deferential Working Class.

  The zenith - and strangely the nadir - for the working class who knew their place was unquestionably the First World War. Millions of subservient Tommies took up the rallying call of Lord Kitchener to head for the slaughter in the fields of Belgium and France. Over three million members of the British Imperial Forces were either killed or wounded, as General Haig implemented his recurring plan to sacrifice every potty trained male civilian in order to advance as far he could spit the stones from his marinated olives, naturally fed to him by someone from the deferential working class. It was a strategy crafted with deeply unimaginative flair about five hundred miles away from front line action in a sixteenth century castle on a shiny walnut table with shiny leather upholstered seats, proceedings routinely interrupted for smoked salmon and Beaujolais dinners. Meanwhile, as a distraction from the horrors of trench foot and warfare, the troops endured a diet of bully beef and dry biscuits, encrusted with fragments of brain and guts from their splattered dead colleagues, all washed down with piss from the latrines.

  But by 1917, the Russians were revolting... I blame too much vodka and a lack of moisturiser to be honest. Famine and war had taken its toll on the peasants when Karl Marx - so much more serious than his brothers Groucho, Harpo and Chico - inspired the proletariat to overthrow the monarchy and seize power. The Russian working classes had done it, the question was, could the British conceivably to do the same thing? In a word, no.

  The 1920s saw the first ever Labour government, the General Strike and the Wall Street Crash, all of which shaped changes to the social hierarchy. But then a man with a little moustache introduced a brand of Fascism that galvanised the UK populous in opposition and ushered in a return to the natural order. Those less conversant with military and political history may be wondering how Charlie Chaplin made such a difference, and if this is the case, may I respectfully suggest you ask your GP for a lobotomy.

  The undoubted leadership qualities of Churchill further harnessed the one nation spirit during the Second World War thereby suppressing any class struggle, but with the celebrations of VE Day still ringing in the ears of revellers, the ordinary working class man and woman were ready for change. Deference was on the slide, and it was to diminish with the passing of every  subsequent decade. Today, it's as rare as a red squirrel singing Frankie Vaughan songs in a top hat with its tackle hanging out of bri-nylon pants.

  The last embers of deference may be smouldering, yet paradoxically, privilege is thriving. At the 2010 General Election, the masses elected two former members of the Bullingdon Club to run our country. To be invited to join this Oxford University dining fellowship, one requires more cash reserves than the Bank of England and a plum in one's mouth larger than the bollocks of Gulliver with mumps. One must assume that the ideal preparation for heading up our national government is to do the following:

Get pissed on a daily jeroboam of vintage champagne

Gorge on a suckling pig smothered in caviare and then vomit it over the head of a manservant

Destroy other people's personal property with the vandalistic fervour of the Millwall FC hooligans of the 1970s

Exercise the misogyny of Euripides

  And this is why I want to make a rallying call to the masses. Now that we have conquered the disease called deference, let us turn our attention to privilege. Why should somebody benefit so gratuitously as a consequence of their lineage? Is not every child born equal? How can it be fair that the wealth and status of your parents so affects the opportunities afforded to  our next generation of young people? Is it not time to affect a change for the better? A change that will see every boy and girl of this nation given the chance to succeed to the highest office in our land. A land where an education at the local state school is afforded the same value as that of an Old Etonian. A land where your social mobility is not dependent on your bloodline. A land that is fair. It is time to rise up. It is time for every hard working man and woman to say enough is enough and take the fight to the top. It is time for revolution. A revolution where, if necessary, we will spill our own blood and the blood of others to achieve the goal of creating a better, fairer society... hang on a minute, where is everyone? Why am I talking to myself?

  Oh dear, it looks like we've lost the deference but gained something else. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Indifferent Working Class.

Extracted from:

Chimpanzees in Dungarees

(and other disappearing things)

by Chris Whitfield

Copyright 2011 Chris Whitfield

Sedbergh Publishing

www.chimpsindung.co.uk

Twitter:@WhitfieldChris

[chimpsindung]

Chris Whitfield's Blog of Disappearing Things: No.1 - Football Mavericks

This is the first in a series of weekly blogs in which I muse on the things that were once part of the mainstream but are now going, going, or gone! All entries are taken from my book, Chimpanzees in Dungarees, which is available in paperback or as an e-book from www.chimpsindung.co.uk, Amazon or Smashwords. This week, 'Football Mavericks':

FOOTBALL MAVERICKS:

  The modern day Premier League footballer is a finely tuned athlete. He has to be, for there’s no hiding place now that the statisticians record every kick, header and fart in a game, producing a mass of performance data for analysis and review. Any player who has not run the equivalent of a half marathon during his ninety minutes on the pitch is highlighted as a slacker and called in for extra training with the spotty faced hoodies in the youth squad.

  That said, in many ways, today's top players are no different from those of yesteryear. They still love to drive a Ferrari at twice the national speed limit and crash into a group of senior citizens chatting about the price of cheese outside the post office. They still want to shag every female they encounter at a nightclub, or in Wayne Rooney’s case at the Age UK Christmas Party. And they still enjoy comparing and contrasting quantum physics with Einstein’s Theory of Relativity… or should that be betting on the 4.15 at Lingfield? But there are many old school footy fans who look back at the football scene in the 1960s and 1970s with a warm glow of nostalgia, ruing the uniformity of today’s soccer star while recalling, with nostalgic fondness, the football maverick.

  This fraternity included the likes of Rodney Marsh, Tony Currie, Alan Hudson, Charlie George, Frank Worthington and Stan Bowles, who shared a number of particular attributes. They weren’t great team players, preferring to do their own thing by not giving a toss about systems, formations and tactics. They were universally adored and revered by the fans of their team. And they were prodigiously talented footballers who lived life to the extreme.

  Even on match days, this might involve a cocktail of drink, drugs, and a contestant from the Miss World contest, preferably in one session, and preferably during the half time break of a mundane encounter against struggling Preston North End. Emerging from the tunnel for the second half and smoking a cigar the size of a submarine torpedo, the maverick would be as high as a kite, pissed as a newt, with a jizz stain the shape of Indonesia on the front of his shorts, yet he still managed to score a hat-trick, assault a member of the crowd using the corner flag as a spear, before getting sent off in injury time for head-butting the opposition’s terminally ill team mascot.

  When the careers of these football mavericks came to an end, and the sporting obituaries were being written, the common theme was one of unfulfilled potential and a lack of caps... that’s international appearances not ammunition for their toy pistols. But no footballers in the history of the game have ever given better value for money than these guys.

  They didn’t disappear overnight. The 1980s and early 1990s produced a hybrid maverick who, although a rebel at heart, still trained hard and accepted team orders. This included Gazza and Eric Cantona, probably the last of the breed before the financial rewards of the new Premiership ushered in the homogeneous, toned, multi-national robot soccer professional. If you want to relive the football maverick experience, I suggest you go to the local park this Sunday morning to see the chain smoking, inebriated footballer on show. You'll have no trouble spotting one. There’ll be twenty two of them on the pitch.

Extracted from:

Chimpanzees in Dungarees

Copyright 2011 Chris Whitfield

Sedbergh Publishing

www.chimpsindung.co.uk

Twitter: @WhitfieldChris

[efflorescentmusings]

I really like this article...

100 Things Your Kids May Never Know About

While I may still be young, I have experienced a lot of these...

Inserting a VHS tape into a VCR to watch a movie or to record something.

Playing music on an audio tape using a personal stereo.

MiniDisc.

3-D movies meaning red-and-green glasses.

Watching TV when the networks say you should. Tivo and Sky+ are slowing killing this one.

Wires. OK, so they’re not gone yet, but it won’t be long.

The scream of a modem connecting.(This is my own... but dial-up!!)

Blowing the dust out of a NES cartridge in the hopes that it’ll load this time

Having to delete something to make room on your hard drive.

Doing bank business only when the bank is open.

Shopping only during the day, Monday to Saturday.

Phone books and Yellow Pages.

Newspapers and magazines made from dead trees.

Not knowing exactly what all of your friends are doing and thinking at every moment.

Carrying on a correspondence with real letters, especially the handwritten kind.

Privacy.

The fact that words generally don’t have num8er5 in them.

Putting film in your camera: 35mm may have some life still, but what about APS or disk?

Sending that film away to be processed.

Having physical prints of photographs come back to you.

Getting lost. With GPS coming to more and more phones, your location is only a click away.

Rotary-dial telephones.

Answering machines.

Using a stick to point at information on a wallchart.

Pay phones.

Fax machines.

Vacuum cleaners with bags in them.

Taking turns picking a radio station, or selecting a tape, for everyone to listen to during a long drive.

Remembering someone’s phone number.

Not knowing who was calling you on the phone.

Actually going down to a Blockbuster store to rent a movie.

Toys actually being suitable for the under-3s.

LEGO just being square blocks of various sizes, with the odd wheel, window or door.

“Obi-Wan never told you what happened to your father.” But they’ve already seen Episode III, so it’s no big surprise.

Swimming pools with diving boards.

Having to manually unlock a car door.

Writing a check.

Looking out the window during a long drive.

Roller skates, as opposed to blades.

Cash.

Libraries as a place to get books rather than a place to use the internet.

A physical dictionary — either for spelling or definitions.

When a ‘geek’ and a ‘nerd’ were one and the same.

This is how I realize that my future kids are gonna miss out on A LOT of stuff.