Pointing North: Spanglox Sally the call centre robot takes a call

What this blog isn't

It's not a Leeds-based exploration of the joys and challenges of shaping the mortar between house-bricks so that the rain runs off without undue damage.
Nor is it about looking at, achieving, or maintaining erections of the male variety. That's what the rest of the internet is for.
It's also not about drawing peoples' attention to the beauty of the Aurora Borealis by indicating it with an extended forefinger
It probably isn't SFW[Safe For Work] either (especially if you work in a church) thanks to the liberal sprinkling of profanities, heresies and blasphemies.

Thursday, March 5, 2009

Spanglox Sally the call centre robot takes a call

Spanglox is always there to help you. That’s why we have a customer care line for all of our products.

Spanglox is constantly being sued for damages. That’s why you can’t have the number.

My profile page now has an audio clip that gives a brief glimpse into the hard work our call centre robots do to provide you with complete product information.

Below you will find any tenuous links to claptrap I already spouted and should have buried deep within my psyche alongside the memory of those terrifying days I spent wandering around Skegness that one time.

The ads they’d love to make – Spanglox dishwasher detergent

I tried to post this on my Posterous three bastard times. It doesn’t seem to understand that an outgoing Googlemail address is the same as an incoming Gmal address. Bah!

No comments:

Post a Comment

E-mail* Pointing North with comments, suggestions, and (no doubt) shit I can do without

Replace words in the address below with their correct keyboard counterparts to make this work

dullgreypallor[at]googlemail[dot]com

*Your e-mail address will never be used for anything, probably not even to reply to you...but if I do (or do not) reply then rest assured that afterwards your e-mail will be deleted, then emptied from the deleted items folder, then I will eat the mail logs and burn the resulting faeces in an incinerator. Whatever noisome ash is left after this process will be sprinkled into the Atlantic while I mumble pseudo-religious gibberish.

(Unless it's hate mail, of course. In which case, all personally identifiable information will be blacked out, and your missive will appear in a post. Then I'll laugh like a drain, and then do all the stuff above. Aren't I nice?)

[The nice bit may be why I have, to date, received no hate mail. I don't think I'm doing my job as a blogger properly. Someone (I think it was St. Francis of Assisi) said that

"blogging is a way for douchebags to have a job and a hobby and not have to commute between the two."

Now that I think about it, it was probably Lord Charles and not St. Francis. Puppets, eh? What fuckers they are.]

The product of hasty and sloppily researched legal self-education

All characters, events, locations and probably fundamental changes to the laws of physics contained within this blog are fictional and in no way intended to resemble in entirety or in part any persons, places or stuff that happens; like the dead coming back to life
(Not as shambling murderous zombies; that's been literally done to death. Maybe just as really helpful and easy to keep albino versions of themselves who need a top-up of embalming fluid and fake tan once in a while. That'd make a nice fucking change wouldn't it?

Available action hero stars in
'Nana comes back from the grave and just makes a couple of those fantastic pies she used to make, then babysits the kids for a couple of hours so our hero and Cheryl can have a quiet meal marred only by a bit of fight about him slurping his soup and her drunkenly attempting to pay the waiter in kind; but ends with them kissing passionately in a moonlit cove.'
In a moonlit cove, for fuck's sake!
Zombie Nana was the best thing that ever happened to them.

"She doesn't mind falling off the roof when she's cleaning the gutters. Which is great, 'cause she moaned like fuck about it when she was alive."

Quips the square-jawed protagonist to his neighbour and generic best buddy Fred in the film's opening scene. They sprawl in lawn chairs in his back yard as in the background Zombie Nana goes off to work in his stead. In a long shot that zooms slowly out we move away from them and see that Fred's garden is being tended by his Zombie Grandad who merely tuts irritably and kneels when he cuts off his toes with the spade. Fishing out superglue ('the zombies friend' - the jingle for that very product trills out from an old-fashioned radio sitting on the back step) he reattaches his pinkies, glues his wellington toe back on and resumes his toil, whistling cheerfully. Further up and everyone's house has a revivified relative or two happily filling their days until God clicks on that the apocalypse should have started ages ago and nips off to sober up the horsemen.)

I digress again to reinforce this point.
There are not enough imaginary things on the internet. There are too many blogs from the likes of

tanned smiling man and similar girlfriend/wife

Picture after picture of above on fully or semi-extreme holiday interspersed with bible passages and appeals for everyone to 'just get along'. If you're really unlucky there's a blow-by-blow account of the raising of their fucking children.
The next picture I want to see of this almost universal cunt is of him falling a couple of hundred feet into a fire full of swords...and tigers.
Armoured, flameproofed tigers so crazed with hunger that they are biting the dancing flames as they lick up past them.
All this beneath a sombre, but still juicily punning headline, about six pages into The Sun - under a piece about rising prices at the checkout with yet another picture of a loaf of bread with a price next to it. I know what a loaf of fucking bread looks like, even out of its bag. Oh God, look; you've gone and cut off about four thick slices now, just to show us that it wasn't full of speed cameras, paedophiles or asylum seekers; just spongy wholesome bread - just in case you'd never seen it before. Tell you what. I'm still confused. Why don't you toast it, butter it and fetch it to me so I can eat it and finally fully understand the bastard article.

If you don't believe me about the above people, open another tab (or some such technical process that lets you get back here without having to see the whole dreadful parade yet again, but in reverse this time) and click 'next blog' for a while. Go on, I'll wait, but please take precautions like having a firewall and up-to-date anti-virus running. Go on, its a chilling experience...

...after a while you begin to long for a foreign language site, just so you don't have to vicariously experience yet another fucking swim with dolphins or the climbing of a small mountain. Even better, the twat who has removed the 'next blog' button, thus halting your shrieking descent into the abyss that is the average real-life blogger, homogenized and plastered across the face of the internet like some awful digital bukkake splash. There should be more imaginary sites to break things up. Now there's one more.

This material is released under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial 3.0 Unported Licence
I have no idea what that means but here's a picachewer that's also a link to an explanation.

DISCLAIMER: I do not particularly want any Polish fraudsters, named Pavel or otherwise, to take up the challenge to steal my identity. I have a marked respect for the Poles, whose pilots played a very important part in the Battle of Britain, whose sausage products are second to none, and Lech Walesa's 'tash. So I don't want to start disliking them now. Cheers.

What this blog isn't

Thursday, March 5, 2009

Spanglox Sally the call centre robot takes a call

The ads they’d love to make – Spanglox dishwasher detergent

No comments:

Trying to impress the world, one person at a time.

Blog Archive

About Me

E-mail* Pointing North with comments, suggestions, and (no doubt) shit I can do without

Sites whose backsides I am frankly not fit to wipe. You should probably go and look at them instead

Want to know what I'm reading? Point and laugh.

What to know what I've read? Go ahead and mock

This is where Google ADSENSE links would be if I were a mercenary fuck, which I'm not

You're better off looking through the archive until I fix this thing

The product of hasty and sloppily researched legal self-education

What this blog isn't

Thursday, March 5, 2009

Spanglox Sally the call centre robot takes a call

The ads they’d love to make – Spanglox dishwasher detergent

No comments:

Trying to impress the world, one person at a time.

Blog Archive

About Me

Automagically receive stuff I spouted

E-mail* Pointing North with comments, suggestions, and (no doubt) shit I can do without

Sites whose backsides I am frankly not fit to wipe. You should probably go and look at them instead

Want to know what I'm reading? Point and laugh.

What to know what I've read? Go ahead and mock

This is where Google ADSENSE links would be if I were a mercenary fuck, which I'm not

You're better off looking through the archive until I fix this thing

The product of hasty and sloppily researched legal self-education