THERE are many amusing examples of items designed to be unfit for purpose – a chocolate kettle, the 2010 Lib-Dem manifesto, the Irish government.

I once had a plastic canoe with an integral gas stove to keep the feet warm while one sliced through the icy waters. Unfortunately, the first time I used it, the stove melted the plastic hull below the water line and the whole thing sank.

I learnt a valuable lesson that day: you can’t have your kayak and heat it.

The most obvious unfit- for-purpose item is, of course, the big winter glove. These bulky hand-shaped garments keep the hands toasty warm right up until the point at which the hands have to operate as hands.

If one needs to unlock a door, operate a touch- screen phone, or hold anything smaller than a rat for any more than a nano-second, the gloves have to come off. It is like having a pair of trousers which only work if one is standing still, and if one tries to walk or engage in any other leg-based activity (hopping, skipping, Kung Fu, etc) the pants transform into some sort of polyester man-trap and make one fall over.

I might as well put my hands in my pockets. At least I wouldn’t lose one of my pockets on the bus.

One would think the big winter glove’s position as “Most Useless Thing In The World” would be unassailable. But one would be wrong, wouldn’t one? Because such a reckoning does not take into account the new John Lewis TV ad.

I don’t know exactly who thought the commercial was a good idea, but I can imagine the thought process behind it. And here I am, imagining it . . .

JOHN LEWIS (EVIL GENIUS BEHIND THE JOHN LEWIS CHAIN) SITS AT THE HEAD OF THE TABLE WITH HIS MARKETING TEAM, A SNAKE WRAPPED AROUND HIS SHOULDERS.

JOHN LEWIS: Tell me about Waitrose .

MALFOY: Oh, it’s a corker, my lord. We’re getting Roger McGough to do the voiceover.

JOHN LEWIS: Ah, that will annoy the people of Liverpool at least, given that we refuse to put a Waitrose in Liverpool. Good . . . but not good enough. I want an advertisement which really winds its target audience up.

LESTRANGE: We did try, my lord. We did that very scary advert where the dark-haired girl grows up into an old woman while the outside world remains exactly the same, like a backward version of The Picture Of Dorian Gray.

MALFOY: Yes, my lord. And we even used one of Billy Joel’s most sour, some would say misogynistic, songs as the soundtrack. And a rubbish version of it, too, just to underline the horror. We have no idea why it did not work.

JOHN LEWIS: We need to be more subtle. You will create a heart-warming Christmas advertisement, filled with images of loving parents sneaking presents into their home, a gentle giant wrapping a child’s teapot, a dolls house placed in the attic . . .

EXTRA: That’s a rubbish idea.

JOHN LEWIS: Avada kedavra!

EXTRA SLUMPS FORWARD ONTO TABLE. THE SNAKE SWALLOWS HIM WHOLE IN AN EFFECT OBVIOUSLY INTENDED FOR A 3-D FILM.

MALFOY: But, my lord, I do not understand.

JOHN LEWIS: You fool. We are using tender images of homes where the children are expecting a visit from Santa . . .

LESTRANGE: Ah!

JOHN LEWIS: And what will happen if a savvy child sees these images of parents hiding away Christmas presents? And puts two and two together . . .

MALFOY:We will destroy Christmas in those households! We will alienate our core customers! Gasp! It is evil genius, my Lord.

JOHN LEWIS: I know. I’m ace, me.

This is the only explanation. You’re a shop, John Lewis, not WikiLeaks.

 

I WAS shopping. More specifically, I was waiting while somebody else shopped, which is not the same thing, as I was essentially purposeless. A dangerous state.

I wandered into the man creche, ie, the technology department, too warm in the big coat which I could not be bothered to remove, and started fiddling with things I would like to own but cannot afford, black, shiny things for producing content which I would never get round to printing out or uploading in any case.

And there was a lovely camera there. One of those new digital SLR ones with HD video. I think I actually drooled. I certainly had occasion to stroke my chin, which reminded me that I hadn’t shaved. I fancied that I looked rugged, but I probably just looked like a terrible old scruffbag who hadn’t had a shave.

Ginger and grey bristles covered my lower face, for I am afflicted with UGC – unexpectedly ginger chin. I do not understand how this happens, as the rest of my hair is a greying brown.

In any case, were I to forego shaving, it would look as if I had bought a novelty half Adrian Chiles, half Groundskeeper Willie mask and that would be rubbish.

I took my hands out of my old jeans, loosened my scarf and touched the camera, like Harry Potter choosing a wand. It felt so right in my hands. I picked it up. This was quite difficult, as the supermarket had attached the camera to the display with a powerful electro-magnet, but I was more or less equal to the task.

I looked at the underside of the camera. I don’t know what I was looking for. There were slots for things down there. But it was academic as I didn’t have enough money. Reluctantly, I attempted to put it back in its place.

I have to say that this was a singularly inappropriate time for the alarm to go off.

Really, what sort of alarm fails to go off when the item is removed and starts blaring when it is put back? If that is not a powerful disincentive for thieves to have second thoughts, then I don’t know what is.

It was at this point that I realised how this might look to the casual bystander. I am not mad. As a young reporter, I spent a lot of time in magistrates’ courts, and had I seen a red-faced unshaven man in scruffy jeans, a straggly scarf and a big coat in the dock accused of shoplifting, I would not have bet on his acquittal.

I looked up. I was surrounded by store employees. Either that, or there’d been a special on polyester trousers at Primark. I prepared my all-purpose excuse, something along the lines of “It wasn’t me. A scary duck did it and ran away” and waited for the inevitable.

But it did not come. There were half a dozen store employees within collaring distance, but none of them came to admonish or apprehend me. If anything, they turned away from me. I took my chance and scarpered into ink cartridges. I watched over the shelf. The alarm was still crying out.

And I realised that this alarm was even worse than I thought. Not only did it sound at the exact opposite of the time it should, it must do this several dozen times a day, so much so that, instead of prompting staff into battle-readiness, it just made them tut a bit and hope for somebody else to turn it off. 

It was the Gillian McKeith of alarms.

Eventually, a middle-aged assistant with a jingling ring of keys did the honours. She looked daggers at me. Embarrassed, I turned and started playing with something, anything.

In this case, it was one of those new tablet computers. I started a film playing, and discovered that those things are quite loud. But it was locked and I didn’t have the password. As gunshots echoed around electricals, I became desperate. I picked it up to look for a volume control.

This alarm sounded at a much more appropriate time. I dropped the tablet and legged it. This is how criminals are made.

IT’S always a pleasure to take the old FutureScope 5000 off the top shelf in the kitchen, next to the George Foreman grilling machine (or grill), and give it a whirl.

I rarely use it these days, as I have enough trouble keeping up with TV programmes which have already been on without worrying about programmes yet to be broadcast, but I couldn’t resist getting a sneaky peek at next year’s Royal Wedding.

You see, I missed the groom’s parents’ wedding in 1981 as I was away with the Cubs on the worst holiday of my life. I won’t go into detail, but I have not been able to zip a sleeping bag all the way up ever since, nor hear the words “corned beef hash” without running to the toilet.

So I was determined not to miss a SECOND of this Royal Wedding. And I’m delighted to share with you the transcript of David Dimbleby’s commentary, which I painstakingly wrote down. If you don’t want to know the result, look away now…

“And just look at the crowds outside the Palace. Some of these people have been there for days in their tents, camping out, just to get a glimpse of Prince William. Sorry? I’m just being… Oh, I do apologise. The people in tents are homeless. Familiar sight of course, in these days of austerity.

“And that spirit of austerity is reflected very much in the tone of today’s wedding, designed to be just like the wedding of one of the Queen’s subjects. Is that, is that? Yes, the Royal Family emerging from the Palace. The Prince of Wales leading out a horse. No, I’m sorry, that’s the Duchess of Cornwall.

“The Duke of York … The Princess Royal… The other one.

“Now the groom himself, with his best man, Prince Harry, the events of the stag evening, when the younger brother tied the naked Prince William to an actual stag and led him through the streets of Edinburgh, no doubt forgiven, if not forgotten.

“And here, Her Majesty, with the Duke of Edinburgh. Now, what are they doing just hanging around? Oh, yes. Here comes the minicab. An Asian driver. Charles steps in between his father and the driver, a fine diversionary tactic.

“Oh, but he hasn’t noticed Prince Harry, speaking to the driver good-naturedly. The driver is saying something back. He’s driven off. We apologise to our deaf viewers for that. They’ll have to wait for another cab now…

“Now, at Westminster Register Office, we’re just waiting for the bride. And she arrives, in her long white stretch limo. Out step the bridesmaids, the Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie. Beatrice’s dress has an exceptionally bulging skirt, most unusual. Four feet? Ah, the Duchess of York is hiding under the skirt. I dare say she won’t make it past security. Now the bride, resplendent in her Florence + Fred dress, donated by Sir Terry Leahy. A shame we won’t be able to go inside, but the BBC now only has two cameras and the other one’s being used for EastEnders…

“Now the Royal party emerges, the Prince and new Princess. A kiss… and then straight into the minibus to the reception at The Queen’s Arms, which is, at least, appropriate…

“The strains of Build Me Up, Buttercup echo from the pub as Queen Beatrix of the Netherlands arrives. The door opens. Ah, the Duke of Edinburgh, the Duchess of Cornwall and Prince Harry popping out for a crafty fag.

“And here’s David Cameron. What’s that in his hand? Ah, a bottle of lemonade and a packet of crisps. Proceeding to the Prime Ministerial car. The window winds down. He hands the lemonade and crisps to Nick Clegg. Then rushing back in for New York, New York…”

The FutureScope 5000 stops at this point, offering only the odd fragment about the unused party-poppers being gathered up and stored for the Olympics opening ceremony. Still, it’s good to know that we have something to look forward to in these straitened times.

 

I suggested on Twitter that people might send me pictures of their sunglasses, it being unseasonably warm. People did.

I like all of the pictures so in a way they are all winners. But in another way there can only be one winner. And that is the way in which I look at things, so sorry all those who did not win.

@Omnibusologist’s picture of a dog’s bottom was very good, but my eagle eye spotted that they were not really his sunglasses, so he does not win.

There were several pictures of adult sunglasses on the faces of children. All those children are smashing; well done, parents, your efforts in the marital bed have not gone unrewarded.

There were several pictures of adult sunglasses on the faces of soft toys. All those soft toys are smashing; well done, owners of soft toys, your efforts NOT TO BLOODY GROW UP AND NOT HAVE SOFT TOYS have not gone unrewarded. I particularly liked @Ooopsydaisy’s Flat Eric pose.

But the winner is @KetherBound, whose sunglasses, accompanied by his many facial piercings, made him look like some sort of steampunk character drawn by Kev O’Neill.

Well done, @KetherBound. I will furnish you with some prize or other.

I lost my first job as a reporter when the small weekly newspaper I worked on folded. I was 23 and about six weeks away from getting married. Try to contain your tears.

I wrote to every media organisation in the region asking for work, or work experience to prove my ability in advance of any jobs coming up. This was necessary because I was professionally unqualified. My former bosses were due to pay for my NCTJ certificate course the following September.

Regular readers of my Liverpool Daily Post column will be unsurprised by my timing.

But I included in my quest BBC Radio Merseyside. This took some gumption, because I have always had a lisp. Yes, glasses and a lisp – I had a great time in school, let me tell you. I couldn’t see how I would get on in radio, sounding, as I did, like Freddie “Parrot Face” Davies, but maybe I could work behind the scenes, as a researcher or producer. And, anyway, I was assured by various loved ones that my lisp was hardly perceptible.

About 30 seconds into my interview with the station editor, she stopped me dead and said: “You’re never going to get on in radio with that lisp.”

“Oh,” I said. “Not even researching? I could…”

“No, you’d have to do some broadcasting at some point.”

“Oh,” I said.

Since then, I have declined every request – admittedly not very many – to speak on radio, reluctant, as I am, to make people think their speakers have too much hiss. I have avoided public speaking for much the same reason.

Also, when I become aware of my lisp, it gets worse, in some sort of horrible lispy feedback loop. Essentially, Old Snakey Voicebox has held me back socially and professionally. I am embarrassed by my lisp and I hate it and the fact that I can touch the tip of my nose with my tongue is of little consolation.

One of my New Year resolutions was to just get over myself. I did a few – mostly disastrous – stand-up gigs to get over the “standing up in public and talking thing.”

And about two months ago, I swallowed hard and started to record my Liverpool Daily Post columns on Audioboo. This was huge for me – HUGE. I cannot adequately express how huge this was, so imagine the biggest thing you can imagine. See that? That huge.

And some nice people who I already knew on Twitter said it was all right, and, honestly, you can’t hear the lisp.

But I could.

And then I thought you know what? Stuff it. That’s what I sound like. It is my voice – possibly a bit deeper than my everyday voice, but my voice nonetheless. So I’ve carried on, broadcasting to a small, if incredibly intelligent and sexy, audience.

And today, Audioboo put my column on its front page and told me it was both “new” and “interesting” – not my words of hyperbole, chums, their words. It is a reflection of my pathetically low self-esteem that I am both delighted by this and telling you about it.

Anyway, if, after all this, you are desperate to hear a man in his late thirties pretending to be on the radio, you can find me at http://audioboo.fm/garybainbridge. But I am not worried if you listen or not.

Because I don’t think I care about my lisp any more.

This was a “news in brief” in the Liverpool Echo in 2000.

A BAKERY has come up with the ultimate in unhealthy eating – the chip pie. The slimmer’s nightmare claims to be a whole meal in one go. In a break from pie tradition, the pastry case is filled with home-made chips and served without a lid. Its creator Duncan Edwards, of Edwards Bakery in Wigan, said: “We’ll have to wait and see if they sell out. I’m hoping they might become as popular as our meat pies.”

I was in a situation in which I was unable to do any swears. Several people on Twitter took advantage of my inability to cuss like a sailor by posting various un-swears.

Inspired by @TimWallington’s “Nubbin! Furtle!” I asked the people who follow me on Twitter to tell me which words they use when unable to swear.

I discovered that the word “bobbins” is quite common. The word “fudge” crops up quite a bit too.

I had to disqualify two groups of people. Those in blue submitted non-swears used by other people. These were good, but, sadly ineligible.

Those in red are people who, when they feel unable to swear, either combine milder swearwords, employ spoonerisms or homonyms, or just, basically, cry out the word “bugger!”

THE LIST

@Ita99 Pooheads

@lefeufollet Nerts.

@adjgreenhalgh bobbins

@titianred Lawks a mussy

@MagentaTP four fishcakes and an iced bun!

@DarrellKMorris Flipping Henry

@Sigyn fruit cake

@dinnerintatura Buggeration!

@Lise_79 faderullan

@Badger5000 knickersknackersknockers

@glamlovinkitty rollicking flumps

@jamestuomey Kunstler!

@stephjl Shostakovich!

@Mcfarlmo Twunt Poop Snark

@magmiffycent Numpty

@MrBoffly Plop

@jacrats JINGS!

@OmHeartMother crappy-poos!

@jimbobwoof Fart Knickers in Your Mess

@gerrymulvenna YIKES BODYKES!

@Annabel_Giles Lawks!

@katbrown82 “sugar” (said by mother)

@nick241274 Cunnybajango (said by old boss)

@teflongrl fiddlesticks!

@Ooopsydaisy OUTSPAN!!

@CorporateTurtle Pants

@stevencox2 Clegg

@DanielNothing FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF

@arprice “Lawks-a-mussy, guv’nor!”

@talktoteens blimey

@kitschyanna pillock

@scaryduck ITV Player

@padster Oh, bumpers! (said by daughter, four)

@Paper_Polly buttocks

@miss_glor for faux sake

@Aitch_ess Scheisse mcflurrybum

@JimTheSG Jeezone

@LeanneBennett Frickety frickin’ frick!

@Jacquie27 Arsene Wenger

@duncanrpowell fish-hooks (said by mother)

@Underbundle Kinnell

@Shequeen Sueperkins

@BenedictFarse Womble batter

@Jon2T2 Flatubollygripstick

@beanobundle FIRKIT MIBBIX

@unthinkable27 he is a useless can’t

@Vivienneclore merkin codpiece

@Cornettofairy Fudgejanglingsquarkmonkeys

@Underted boight the boight?

@1755Dictionary Bumguts

@BertieBarber sugaration

@SimonSaunders77 BOBBINS

@Catherinelm fiddlesticks

@MadeUpDreamer oh bugger

@nickorton_ what the blinking flip!?

@possumpot Bumwinkle

@RobGilroy Jeebus Cripes

@TheMichaelMoran cocksocket

@RolandSparling Shog Off thou Custard Faced Loon

@Tokenpom God’s teeth!

@liese2711 fudge-mitten!

@twixtcupandlip Betty Swollocks

@mrpetermore Horlicks!

@Donut_Child Nurdles

@tweetwalia Bar Steward

@matriches Shirtbuttons

@fazeypie fudgewit

@richardkirke Swine Dog Pig Elephant Wombat

@QcattQ ballcocks

@Trancendance cucking funt

@oneeyednick jeepers creepers

@SlightlyCross Shine a light

@doonakebab Pants the size of Sussex with holes the size of Berkshire

@DribblingSidney Fargging Iceholes

@2wildniks oh poopy (used by sister)

@_amusebouche_ God’s HOLY TROUSERS (used by husband)

@titianred hells bells

@eskimummamosie tough noogins

@AndrewDipper Tinker

@Ukulesley monkey-fighting

@Mullies Bindlestiff

@TweetCashmore Fish Sticks!

@BazJitsu Fox ache

@alisongow Giddy Hump

@Mowgzilla bastroid

@marcpaterson Hillocks

@Orange_Monkey Sugar Puffs

@jo_the_hat He’s a wuckfit

@vivmondo Bumbags

@mtrh Ship ahoy!

@lydiajo Scrouth

@ScubeyToo Cheese ‘n Rice

 

THE WINNER

The winner is @Jon2T2, whose “Flatubollygripstick!”, fulfils the criteria of not being a swear word, while having the fricatives and plosives of a satisfying swear. It also has enough syllables to cover a period of clutching one’s thumb after hitting it with a hammer.

Prize to be advised.

 

I asked people on Twitter to post pictures of the mugs or cups they were using on Friday, September 2, 2011. Several people did, using the hashtag #fridaymugsorcups.

I have learnt a number of things as a result:

1) People are embarrassed by corporate mugs.

2) Some people do not know the difference between a mug and a glass.

3) Lockerz is the worst image-hosting site in the universe.

4) Do not ask people to post pictures of their mugs, because they will.

 

The mugs in the galleries above were sent in by: @_TomMcLaughlin, @Aerodynamix, @albiondumsday, @alparina, @andromedababe, @Andromz, @anfo_, @AnnOConnorITV, @arprice, @Badger5000, @benlarder, @Biltawulf, @carolinesweetie, @ClaraHara, @cork_head, @Cornettofairy, @cripesonfriday.

 

And @davverplatt, @DebsFurness, @DinosharkVsDom, @Donna_Gallers,@Donna_Tilling, @EddieRobson, @elbows_selbo, @ellaboheme, @emmyl00, @eskimummamosie, @EveVan100, @Finny23, @fluteman100, @frinster, @frizzychick, @gerryhayes, @gerrymulvenna, @GintyCarmichael.

And @hillyfoz, @JBBoardman, @JimtheSG, @jo_the_hat, @jokelly, @JTLovell1979, @KatyShuroo, @Kel2708, @KiddoLadyF, @lcdavis, @liese2711, @Lise_79, @littlemammy, @lola_spankcheek, @LordLard, @MadeUpDreamer, @maisiemaisie, @mandibles57, @Mark_Thomas, @mattfishwick, @mightytonka, @mike_rawlins, @moreMargot_more, @MuddledMama, @Mullies.

And @NickMB, @notthebad, @OldHallStrip, @Ooopsydaisy, @Orange_Monkey, @peacockpete, @PhilDaley, @philthD, @pixielation, @princessoinka, @RolandSparling, @sarahinrainbows, @sbl76, @scampinineteen, @serialfrenchies, @SharonMcG1971, @Shinybiscuit, @SHM5, @Sigyn, @snapperlane.

And @talktoteens, @teflongrl, @The_Trellis, @theglorymill, @TheMichaelMoran, @tilsit, @titianred, @TOther_Simon, @TreNightingale and @zanPHEE.