Alan Coleman

Advertising is consuming our lives. When the ad breaks come on the TV, I scramble for the mute button on the remote control before the assault on my ears starts. A sure sign, along with receding hair, that middle age is finally upon me.

The barrage is as relentless in the magazines we read. Okay, advertising gives us choice in as much as it creates an environment for these media to exist. But at what point does reading material simply become a catalogue of commercial goods? Take Wired magazine for example, apart from the tech stuff and environmental issues, every other page contains a smug advert for an SUV. Ironically, I find the Jeep adverts more interesting than articles on wind power! Not because I want to buy this shit, but because I’m somehow drawn towards the advert.

Advertising is addictive? Try watching the TV ads on mute and see how far you get. The only way to do it is to physically change channels.

As I talk to people I find that critisism of consumer choice is usually met with the same derision one would associate with homophobia or socialism. It doesn’t matter how many miles of our public space is taken up with enormous orange adverts, just as long as those flights to Provance remain cheap (Zzzzz).

There is a telephone box near my house. They used to be a defining symbol of what this country was all about: Welcoming and stinking of piss. Now, the windows are plastered with garish adverts for the latest Hollywood film, life size images of Sarah Jessica Parker and some incredibly self-satisfied bloke who makes me want to punch myself in the face. As a side show, now that phone boxes are visually private courtesy of SJP, people have taken to shitting in them. Nice.

There is a church that overlooks the A4 flyover in Hammersmith undergoing renovation. Their scaffolding has been covered in the biggest advert for the tedious iPod campaign that I’ve ever seen. It’s second only in size to that one that can be seen from the M6 outside Birmingham. The Church and Apple? Everybody has their price.

How have we allowed this to happen? Moreover, when did someone decide that it’s prefectly acceptable to invade public space in pursuit of the all important profit?

Banksy got me into this, and it’s something I’ll be coming back to in the next few weeks.

This morning FC reminded me of a funny story that happened years ago.

I used to know of this guy that everyone called Hooter, not an ugly bloke although he did have a fairly robust nose.

On one of those drunken Saturday afternoons in the pub during the nineties Brat Boy approached Hooter and said, “Alright Hooter? Why do they call you Hooter?”.

Hooter glared back and said, “Don’t call me Hooter you little shit!”.

Brat Boy smiled and nodded, “Okay Hooter”.

Chaos ensued.

We started watching a DVD earlier, Wolf Creek. One of the main characters is a dead ringer for a bloke we know called Graham Walker, who lives in Australia which is also where this film is set.

Wolf Creek is perhaps the most horrific thing I’ve ever witnessed on screen, so much so that I had to turn it off half way through. Life can be a scary place as it is, as such I can do without terrifying myself with the stuff of insanity.

A long long time ago I got to know this bloke who everyone called Clint. Then one day I found out that this was actually his nickname and not his real one, I can admit to feeling a tad disappointed.

One day after lunch I approached Clint and said, “Alright Clint, so why do they call you Clint then?”

He looked at me, went to say something then stopped himself, blinked twice in disdain and looked down and left at his chest. A label on his jumper read, EASTWOOD, in one inch high lettering.

“Why do you think?” He said back to me with a look of utter confusion.

“Errrm. I dunno. I’ve never really been able to figure out why people call you Clint when your real name is David. The others wouldn’t tell me and said I ‘d have to ask you.”

He shook his head in both pity and amusement, sighed and looked at the floor. “Maybe it’s because my surname is Eastwood. That’s just a guess mind you, I mean I couldn’t be sure. Why don’t you give it some thought and get back to me when you’ve figured it out?”

The penny dropped.

Okay, we’ve been skiing twice this year. Excessive and unnecessary? Maybe, but it’s also one of our few extravagances, a plus point to the continuous juggling act of credit, wages and debt.

In January we spent a week in the fantastic Austrian Skicircus resort of Saalbach. Record snowfalls made for some exhilarating skiing, on the Tuesday myself and Mandy managed to ski around the entire valley, which at the time seemed like a marathon effort, or even a mini adventure.

The mountain food in Saalbach is first rate, Tiroler Grostel with black pudding on a boozy Wednesday springs to mind. Also the nightlife in the quintessential Alpine village is pretty good, if a little rowdy. One point though, it’s not cheap.

I was glad that Becky and Roger had their first ski holiday here, and both coped admirably with what is essentially a steep resort. Many of the blue runs are easily red, and there is a general lack of long wide gentle slopes for beginners to tackle.

Last week we returned to the SkiWelt village of Soll with Mark and Sarah, where we spent a week in January last year. This time we stayed in a family run hotel down the road and two of Mark’s friends, Ian and Richie, came along for some board action, so to speak!

The superb snow we had in January continued and we spent most of the week messing about in knee deep powder, essentially, playing like children. Mand got hold of a pair of original Big Foot skis and proceeded to fall heavily give herself a black eye, which was thankfully the only injury this year. I was paranoid that people would think that I’d been knocking her about! Which I have, in self defence.

I can’t often forget about my general inability to cope with daily life and be genuinely happy with the task in hand. For me a winter holiday offers escapism, an opportunity to be surrounded by the beauty of a clean and inspiring environment. Okay so it’s a bit smug and middle class, but if it offers a bit of respite from the madness, I honestly don’t care.

Bring on 2007.