Dear Franchiser,
As you may have noticed there have been a lot of product recalls in the UK due to the inclusion of potentially carcinogenic compounds, such as sudan iv and para red, included as food dyes.It is with great regret that we have to recall one of our products: Orange Age Exfoliator.
Sourced from our far-eastern subsidiary, Nixcong, we have discovered that due to an error of translation the product is not in fact a "melange of citrus and rare tropical oils, guaranteed to restore the healthy glow of an eight year old" but is war surplus defoliant.
We therefore ask franchisers to return all stock (usual credit rules apply), and to advise customers that they should refrain from using the product and return it directly to us when we will refund monies reflecting the unused portion of the bottle.
Nixco will stringently deny any health problems associated with the use of the above.
Coming soon from Nixco, "Rite 2 Lite Leylandii Destroyer".
Friday, May 12, 2006
ttmffttm 5
It was one of those things that my father failed to tell me about like keeping abreast of the changes in rail franchises.
My father as a young man was a keen cyclist, the sort of cyclist who would heave his ungeared bicycle up hills by dint of thew, or failing that, by walking. There are photo's of him dressed in long loose shorts, sensible shoes and socks and short-sleeved shirts, usually staring quizzically at a map, hair windblown and unkempt, occasionally a pipe will be clamped in his jaw, though how you cycle with a pipe without a; blinding yourself, or b; setting yourself on fire, is beyond me. Behind him, out of focus, will be other young men, similarly dressed, standing astride their bikes, arms akimbo. It seems that it was always my father's lot to find the route, guide the path of others, direct traffic, ironic that he himself rarely strayed from the beaten path of "should", "duty" and the "stiff upper lip".
It was my father who taught me how to cycle, the usual round of running behind a low bike holding onto the saddle, 'til, one day, the mantra of "keep pedalling", usually close to my ear, fades, becomes distant, becomes suspiciously distant! I turn, legs still flailing, to see - no one, the vast ocean of my confidence and competence becomes a Sahara of insecurity, the wobble sets in, a random harmonic of involuntary steering. I still have a scar from that bike.
It's hot, so I opted for cycling shorts. Now while I am usually a fan of wearing underwear, I believe that under cycling shorts it's counter productive, something to do with all that rubbing, heat and extra seams. So I sorted myself out a nice pair of briefs to add to the trousers already in the pannier. Therefore imagine my surprise, when, upon investigation, they were nowhere to be seen. Consequently I am writing this commando style.
Moral: whilst you may think you have packed your underpants, always double check, a few seconds now may save a lifetime of chafing later.
My father as a young man was a keen cyclist, the sort of cyclist who would heave his ungeared bicycle up hills by dint of thew, or failing that, by walking. There are photo's of him dressed in long loose shorts, sensible shoes and socks and short-sleeved shirts, usually staring quizzically at a map, hair windblown and unkempt, occasionally a pipe will be clamped in his jaw, though how you cycle with a pipe without a; blinding yourself, or b; setting yourself on fire, is beyond me. Behind him, out of focus, will be other young men, similarly dressed, standing astride their bikes, arms akimbo. It seems that it was always my father's lot to find the route, guide the path of others, direct traffic, ironic that he himself rarely strayed from the beaten path of "should", "duty" and the "stiff upper lip".
It was my father who taught me how to cycle, the usual round of running behind a low bike holding onto the saddle, 'til, one day, the mantra of "keep pedalling", usually close to my ear, fades, becomes distant, becomes suspiciously distant! I turn, legs still flailing, to see - no one, the vast ocean of my confidence and competence becomes a Sahara of insecurity, the wobble sets in, a random harmonic of involuntary steering. I still have a scar from that bike.
It's hot, so I opted for cycling shorts. Now while I am usually a fan of wearing underwear, I believe that under cycling shorts it's counter productive, something to do with all that rubbing, heat and extra seams. So I sorted myself out a nice pair of briefs to add to the trousers already in the pannier. Therefore imagine my surprise, when, upon investigation, they were nowhere to be seen. Consequently I am writing this commando style.
Moral: whilst you may think you have packed your underpants, always double check, a few seconds now may save a lifetime of chafing later.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Dear Nixco Franchiser,
Firstly thank you for your order for 5000 of our Spirit Bangles, we enclose the official Nixco insert that should be included with the bangle. Nixco can also provide packaging designed to enhance the giftworthiness of the product in a choice of leatherine or vegetarian options, just order from the warehouse as normal.
Due to the uniqueness of our manufacturing process please remember to check the product for metal flashing before dispatch. Any flashing can be removed with a standard jeweller's file (Franchisee product 558. $5.00 or 1500 Nixcopoints).
We look forward to your next order.
Nixco
THE NIXCO SPIRIT BANGLETM.
Dear insert name,
You are now the proud owner of a “Nixco Spirit Bangle”TM, this bangle is specially designed to harness the Power of The Ancients for the use of the elderly.
Nixco realise that people like you insert name, people who are of a “mature aspect”, may need that little bit extra help with their bodily systems. So after years of extensive research we are proud to present the “Nixco Spirit Bangle”TM. Yes! Our team of professional charlatans has been scouring the texts and beliefs of the Ancients. They have spent time in Sioux sweat lodges attuning themselves to the Great Spirit Manitou. They have spent years studying the flow of Chi with renowned Oriental Practitioners. They have sojourned in the deserts of Egypt, sifting the sands of knowledge. They have thrown runes, yarrow stalks, and crystals. They have dealt tarot cards, looked through telescopes and visited bookshops in California, Glastonbury, Alderley Edge, Findhorn and Tintagel. They have eaten Peyote in Mexico, smoked Ganja in Jamaica, snorted Yoppo in the Amazon jungle, drunk tea in Bath, all to bring you the “Nixco Spirit Bangle”TM.
“But…” we hear you ask insert name, “how does it work?”
Firstly a core of pure copper is extruded from the East/West aligned smelter in our Feng Shui workshop, this is then enfolded in pure Ayurvedic Quality Silver by our Dwarf Smiths who can trace their line back to the Nibelungen. The “Nixco Spirit Bangle”TM is then stored in our Rune and Hieroglyph inscribed Pyramid for one Lunar Cycle before being taken in our Bathyscaphe to the site of Mythological Atlantis!!!
As you can see insert name , we don’t take your future lightly! So, wear your “Nixco Spirit Bangle”TM secure in the knowledge that we have done our best to instil within it the mystic powers that will ensure your older years proceed in a Natural Course!
Nixco make no claims that the “spirit bangle” can cure illness or will prevent the natural degradation of the human condition.
TTMFFTTM 4
It was another of those things that my father failed to tell me about, such as scanning the path at the bottom of the hill for indisposed farm animals before you actually descend.
The other Saturday having cracked a bleary eye and cursed at the weather ("Good! Bugger! Better do something then."), I hoist myself aloft, leafed wearily through my various biking trail leaflets and decide to head for "The Great North Way" in reality 32 Miles of National Cycle Route 12 ( and, amazingly, a nearly straight route; Sustrans, the people responsible for the National Cycle Routes, have managed to make the route between Birmingham and Oxford about 112 miles despite the fact that they are only 60 miles apart, hence, "amazingly") running from Letchworth in the "North" to Hadley Wood/Potter's Bar on the outskirts of London. It has several stations on the route to decamp to, plus one at either end, I made my final check by firing up the TV to check for the dread "Engineering Works" (a sort of mechanical plague that affects the British railway system, chiefly at weekends and during the holiday season. Trains are replaced with buses which have to drift tortuously over swathes of countryside before calling at all the stations that the train isn't, naturally they are full of the either extremely angry or semi-comatose, what they aren't full of is cyclists, as they don't take bikes), WAGN (the Company) was clear, I double checked, leaped into the saddle and pedalled for the station.
An hour later I detrained at Letchworth, carried my trusty steed up the stairs and ,after a brief perusal of the Engineering Works notice, began to roundly curse. The franchise for my particular length of track was now owned by First Capital Connect (some distance down the alphabet from WAGN), my route, which paralleled the main line, was bereft of trains from points south of five miles away, it was, in fact, also bereft of power lines. I decided that I should, at least, do some exercise and review the situation (plus the condition of my perineum and/or knees) at Stevenage where the branch line that was open, dived into the backwaters of rural Hertfordshire. Thus it was that I found myself on the Letchworth Greenway, a countryside access track circumnavigating Letchworth and uniting places of interest (including two power stations, Stotfold sewage works and Letchworth dump, it also offers several unparalleled views of the A1). However, I persevered and was rewarded with a lot of countryside, a good selection of butterflies plus several encounters with other flying insects ranging from the ballistic interaction of bumble bees to an ocular episode with some sort of long, small and, apparently sharp beetle (probably a staphylinid), the latter causing me to exit from the road stage left and weep profusely whilst waving on the somewhat baffled stream of traffic behind me.
By this time I had arrived on the outskirts of London (having succumbed to a fit of stupidity and a willing suspension of self-awareness in the Stevenage area) sadly with no real idea of where I was, however I spotted a view, pointed my front wheel in the direction of Canary Wharf (it's tall) and arrived home about an hour later, having done a few extra miles, well about 50 percent extra miles actually. Sunday dawned with pain, and hobbling.Moral: Keep abreast of changes of franchise in the National Rail System or your legs will ache.
The other Saturday having cracked a bleary eye and cursed at the weather ("Good! Bugger! Better do something then."), I hoist myself aloft, leafed wearily through my various biking trail leaflets and decide to head for "The Great North Way" in reality 32 Miles of National Cycle Route 12 ( and, amazingly, a nearly straight route; Sustrans, the people responsible for the National Cycle Routes, have managed to make the route between Birmingham and Oxford about 112 miles despite the fact that they are only 60 miles apart, hence, "amazingly") running from Letchworth in the "North" to Hadley Wood/Potter's Bar on the outskirts of London. It has several stations on the route to decamp to, plus one at either end, I made my final check by firing up the TV to check for the dread "Engineering Works" (a sort of mechanical plague that affects the British railway system, chiefly at weekends and during the holiday season. Trains are replaced with buses which have to drift tortuously over swathes of countryside before calling at all the stations that the train isn't, naturally they are full of the either extremely angry or semi-comatose, what they aren't full of is cyclists, as they don't take bikes), WAGN (the Company) was clear, I double checked, leaped into the saddle and pedalled for the station.
An hour later I detrained at Letchworth, carried my trusty steed up the stairs and ,after a brief perusal of the Engineering Works notice, began to roundly curse. The franchise for my particular length of track was now owned by First Capital Connect (some distance down the alphabet from WAGN), my route, which paralleled the main line, was bereft of trains from points south of five miles away, it was, in fact, also bereft of power lines. I decided that I should, at least, do some exercise and review the situation (plus the condition of my perineum and/or knees) at Stevenage where the branch line that was open, dived into the backwaters of rural Hertfordshire. Thus it was that I found myself on the Letchworth Greenway, a countryside access track circumnavigating Letchworth and uniting places of interest (including two power stations, Stotfold sewage works and Letchworth dump, it also offers several unparalleled views of the A1). However, I persevered and was rewarded with a lot of countryside, a good selection of butterflies plus several encounters with other flying insects ranging from the ballistic interaction of bumble bees to an ocular episode with some sort of long, small and, apparently sharp beetle (probably a staphylinid), the latter causing me to exit from the road stage left and weep profusely whilst waving on the somewhat baffled stream of traffic behind me.
By this time I had arrived on the outskirts of London (having succumbed to a fit of stupidity and a willing suspension of self-awareness in the Stevenage area) sadly with no real idea of where I was, however I spotted a view, pointed my front wheel in the direction of Canary Wharf (it's tall) and arrived home about an hour later, having done a few extra miles, well about 50 percent extra miles actually. Sunday dawned with pain, and hobbling.Moral: Keep abreast of changes of franchise in the National Rail System or your legs will ache.
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