Any time, any place, anywhere...
Hey guys, remember those old Martini ads, where swingin’ jet-setters luxuriated on yachts on the Cote D’Azur’, kicked back after a glamorous day on the alpine slopes, or landed their private helicopters in some equally exotic location before emerging in full evening dress to dance until dawn in between quaffing said eponymous libation? Yeah, so todays postcards are the very antithesis of that. In fact they contain scenes so pedestrian and so irredeemably glum that one can’t help but wonder what was going on in the minds of whoever thought they’d be a money-spinner. I mean who do you hate enough to want to send them something like this? Unless of course they’re an aficionado of abysmal postcards too.
I know you’re wondering. The caption on the reverse reads, “Mrs Newton, Presiding Member of the Canadian Mothers Union leaving St John’s Church, Halifax”. I’m presuming Mrs Newton’s the one in the gargantuan fur lapels since she’s the only one looking at the camera with anything approaching a smile. Don’t they look like they’re having a super time? And speaking of super times, my fellow Brits can certainly show the Canadian Mothers Union a thing or two.
Doesn’t that look fun? One can only imagine the soundtrack.
But now it’s time for lunch; packed of course.
Published by Middlesex East County Girl Guides, just in case you couldn’t tell by the natty uniforms. And now gird your loins for the full horror of the postcard on my masthead.
Published by the Northamptonshire Federation of Women’s Institutes. I particularly love the use of parentheses around the word “clowns” and the miserable interloper hiding behind the one with the blue hair and the red ruff.
I think it can be safely assumed that the only people who could possibly have bought these cards are the women who appeared in them. As for who they sent them to, remember those TV and radio quizzes in the pre-internet dark ages, where they’d say, “answers on a postcard please?” All four of them ended up in the offices of Future Publishing in Bath in 1991, where my friend Steve was working at the time. Though they could have been languishing forlornly in sideboards for decades before finally fulfilling their destiny.
Laters!