Where do you go to my lovely? Well, I’ll tell you, (though I suggest you stop being so forward – a simple ‘Mr Tweedthwack sir’ will usually suffice) the Gindylow management in the form of Mrs Tweedthwack and myself have been on our hols, far away from the steaming grey cauldron of the city; away amidst the rolling green and the boundless blue of the yorkshire dales, staying at a small, ever-so-la-di-dah establishment with the unlikely name of the Austwick Traddock; a name out of MR James if ever there was one!
Of course whilst we were bathing in fine Moulton Brown shower-gel and eating locally-sourced organic sausages (though of course at different stages of our visit, approximately on a rotation of five minutes: wash – sausages – wash – sausages etc) the Gindylow ethic of furious industry seemed to be on vacation also!
It seems that whilst Mrs T and I were away, my weak and scrawny, whey-faced staff that clutter the tiny, oak-panelled Gindowlow office had a holiday of their own; or it would seem so from the knee-high pile of paper-aeroplanes and towering piles of photocopied posteriors that greeted us on our return, not to mention the total lack of a blog entry for nigh-on an age!.
Still, as I type this, the inquisition is on, heads shall roll; but only after the paper aeroplanes are shovelled up first. Meanwhile, to you out there in the grey, soupy blogosphere, fortunate enough to have opened our bright yellow Gindylow envelope, we send another beam of brilliance in the shape of one of Mr Bove’s Ministry of Disinformation posters. It is a strange and purple offering and may serve to warn others of your own purple patch to come, following yet another wasted hour or two spent in an interminable office meeting. Click on it, download it, print it out (handily tying up office resources) and place it on your partition wall as a kind of ‘V’ sign to the cheeriness of your co-workers.
The meaning of Mr Bove’s poster is at once unambiguous and mysterious in equal measures. Perhaps, I should take it as a cry for help by the artist? Or perhaps I should just take it as the normal, self-pitying, self-obsessed offering I always seem to receive from him? Who knows?
I do however feel it my duty to point out that Mr Bove is rather less svelte and certainly not as youthful as the depressed lad in the picture, which rather leads me to the opinion that it is a work designed merely to point out the ambivalent nature of both the depressive and those more jaunty folk who interact with said mentalist, as well as an opportunity for Mr B to play around with Corel Paintshop Pro. Of course, in the long-run, as with all works of Art, great or small and even smaller (like those of Mr B) the choice of meaning is up to you. I can only offer you my conjecture, especially as I try to avoid conversation with my staff as much as possible.
Anyway, I’m back, and don’t you forget it!
Slippery (on account of the lavish applications of Moulton Brown bath products) but oh-so sweet-smelling, Mr Tweedthwack.
