They have introduced a new kind of driving test. The new challenge for would-be qualified drivers is: navigation. At a certain point in their test, candidates will be asked to follow the road signs to a particular destination. Yes, really.
You might think this part of the test had already been covered by some element of the basic literacy education which most of receive. And no, it's not an anti-immigrant language skills thing - reading a road-sign is different to reading a newspaper. The reasons for this new element of the driving test are explained by Mr Trevor Wedge, who holds the unlikely position of Chief Driving Test Examiner. He was interviewed on the wireless this morning.
Mr Wedge said, and I quote him verbatim: 'We want to drive down casualties on our roads, and we know that new drivers, particularly, have difficulty especially in the first few months after their test.'
Drive down casualties on our roads? How reading direction signs helps drivers do that, I can't imagine. We might be better off if we lined up people, at random places on the carriageway, and scored the test candidates on the basis of how many they could 'drive down', like skittles.
And if we can't get Mr Wedge on a communications course very quickly, perhaps we should start with him as the first skittle.
Monday, 4 October 2010
Saturday, 18 September 2010
How not to American Express yourself
I try not to make individuals the target of my criticism. On the basis that we all make mistakes, I prefer to carp about collective conduct. But when somebody is described as an ‘Editor-in-Chief’, they’ve been set up as some kind of higher being, and deserve specific scrutiny. After all, might we not learn from someone who is a something-in-chief?
Christian Swalbach is Editor-in-Chief of a vain publication called Departures. It’s a magazine published by American Express. It’s supposed to make us feel affluent, and to encourage us to rack up more expenditure on our American Express cards. On the way to doing that, it publishes ads for ridiculous watches, daft motor cars, stupid boats, and silly fashion. It also wallows in what it evidently kids itself is mellifluous up-market editorial copy.
You and I both know very well that, these days, rich people can’t read nor write. They don’t need to. They have people to text for them. But it’s the way of those who promote conspicuous consumption – and I should know – to lard things up with oily imagery and pompous copy. They simply hate the idea that their target audience might be plumbers and plasterers and car-dealers. And sadly, though most of those who flick through Departures magazine may never note the shortcomings of Mr Swalbach’s careless copy, you and I will. And, you’ll agree, that’s enough to count.
In the Autumn 2010 issue of Departures, Swalbach plants his stake in the editorial high ground, under the heading Checking In. He opens thus:
The great American songwriter Johnny Mercer's haunting lyrics in The Autumn Leaves are among the most evocative of the season we now embrace: "The falling leaves / Drift by the window / The autumn leaves / Of red and gold." But the hallmark of the prose is the forlorn realisation that summer is over and winter will soon be upon us.
Prose, Christian? Song lyrics, verse, surely. Hallmark? Something by which we measure the provenance of something, a means of gauging quality, a proof mark? Ah, forget it, says Christian. Prose and Hallmark are words that sound nice, and ones which most people don’t use. Chuck ‘em in. And press on:
For many who holidayed on a cramped stretch of sand, elbowed their way past a myriad of other hikers on a particular trellis of trail or had to manoeuvre, cheek-by-jowl, through crowded pavilions and airport terminals, that recognition is a welcome one. And it's a wake-up call for us to rethink our next holiday.
We might decide it’s not worth worrying about when the noun holiday took itself a verb form. We may decide it would be tiresome to note that he means a myriad other hikers, rather than a myriad of. We’ll also ignore the cliché cheek by jowl, which suggests Mr Swalbach was either too tired or too lazy to bother with originality. But, for a man who evidently thinks he’s literate, the mis-spelling of pavillions is unforgivable. We might question whether he really means pavillions. But we're being hard enough on him already. That it takes him 41, count them - 41, words to get to the subject of a no-less-than-57-word sentence, tells us something. It tells us he’d never get a job on a proper newspaper.
Why is it, for example, that we happily join the crowded conga-line of holidaymakers for a destination, overflowing with the demimonde, when the very same place, region or locality is virtually uninhabited by the visiting gentry in the off-season, where you'll be rewarded by lower rates and great service?
Oh, what? Demimonde? Christian, what are you on about? The demi-monde is, literally a half-world. The term describes a society of kept women, mistresses, or the dodgy end of a trade or profession - private banking or fine-art dealing (for example). And what’s the point of the phrase ‘the very same place, region or locality’? Looks like inspiration was so short here, our Editor-in-Chief just decided to cut-and-paste his thesaurus. Gentry? The paragraph construction suggests the word is being used as a synonym for demimonde. Which it ain’t.
Perhaps it's human nature for us to congregate, but more and more of us, myself included, are now happily eschewing on-season travel for what can be colloquially described as, off-season sojourns.
Myself, Christian, in the way you’ve used it here, is a solecism popular with junior managers and local government officials. It’s frequently, but almost always wrongly, used instead of ‘me’ or ‘I’. Just say me, Christian. We all know what you mean. And don’t even think about using the word eschewing, ever again, unless you really are some Dickensian puffball. In this case, hardly anybody knows what you mean. Nor do we think anyone, speaking colloquially, would use the phrase off-season sojourn.
Are we beginning to wish Mr Swalbach would simply sojourn-off, here? I know I am.
Take a place like Florence, as an example, where in January, 250,000 fewer visitors per month crowd into its ancient streets than they do in August. That means, you won't have to elbow your way past day-trippers at the Duomo or the uber crowds at the Uffizi. Or the Mediterranean, where in late-autumn, you can have places like Southern Spain or even islands like Crete, Ibiza and Sicily all to yourself during a period when they are at their most flattering, agreeable and price-wise.
Christian, if you want people to read your editorial, use language they use. Please. Why say ‘as an example’ when you can say for example. It’s one-third shorter and faster. (In communications, pal, short and fast is good). And it’s what they say. The than they do in August should simply be than in August.
Elbow past? Hang on. We were elbowing past in the first paragraph. Repetition of that kind is simply sloppy writing. Stop it.
Uber crowd? Huge crowd. Enormous crowd. Big crowd. Mega-crowd, if you must. Or maybe he really does mean an uber crowd. One that's above all the others.
And the next question is…can anyone understand the last sentence of that paragraph?
Here it is again, for those of you who missed it before: Or the Mediterranean, where in late-autumn, you can have places like Southern Spain or even islands like Crete, Ibiza and Sicily all to yourself during a period when they are at their most flattering, agreeable and price-wise.
There’s no scope for debate here, except to ask: what the hell does that actually mean? Anything? Nothing? Is this why I have an American Express card?
And while most of us are unfortunately tied to the annual calendar of school holidays and half terms, nowhere does it dictate that we need to head to the usual destinations at the customary times.
Christian, Christian, Christian. Nowhere does it dictate. Nowhere does what dictate? Maybe you mean the annual calendar. In which case, you don’t mean it, you mean, that calendar.
Instead, if summer travel is a must, then make for locales usually associated with the opposite season. The Caribbean, for example, which is much less crowded in summer also offers competitive rates - on average of around 40% lower than those in its usual high season of December. July and August are also prime months for visiting the Maldives, where you can spot manta rays thanks to lower plankton levels and enjoy rates that are, on average, 44% lower than in January.
Yes, I hear you crying out for straightjackets and padded cells, already. We’ll gloss over the on average of around 40%. It’s likely he originally wrote an average of, then changed to on average, and forgot to take the of out*. But, as we’re already very clear, this is an Editor-in-Chief in a hell of a hurry. We understand.
But, guys, what’s with the lower plankton levels in the Maldives, and the visibility of manta rays thanks. Exactly how does a manta ray express its thanks to lower plankton? Does levels of lower plankton mean clearer water? Or are there more manta rays because there’s lower plankton? And these 44% lower rates of plankton. Should they be 44% lower rates of summer travel? Or 44% lower holiday costs? Please. Read that last sentence again, carefully, and tell me what, in the name of merciful God does this man actually mean.
With all that in mind, in this edition of Departures, we've showcased three regions that are ideally explored in late autumn and early winter. For those who travel to New York City often but rarely head out to the suburbs, indulge us by reading New York Escapes on page 30. You'll be surprised at what's on The Big Apple's doorstep. Similarly unexpected are the bevy of attractions in a quiet and picturesque slice of Wales, which when the Ryder Cup has come and gone will be an ideal region to repair to from London. Read about it on page 17.
Enough, enough. Forget the absence of commas in sentence two. Forget the failure to tell us which slice of Wales, more missing commas, more Pickwickian repairing from London. It all hurts much too much.
And speaking of Italy, and Tuscany in particular, we drop into Maremma - an unexplored and mostly unknown corner that demands your attention. We hope we've managed to capture yours with some food for thought and, as usual, articles that inspire you to enjoy life to the fullest.
No! NO! Stop this, now! Italy? Who was speaking of Italy? There was a mention of Florence, several paragraphs back. But, Christian, old boy, your prose simply isn’t that memorable. We forgot Florence. We lost Florence, in the fog of rambling illiteracy and stumbling articulation that would seem to be one of the hallmarks of your style.
Oh – and what do you hope you’ve captured? My mostly unknown corner? See what I mean …
CHRISTIAN SCHWALBACH
Editor in Chief - Departures Europe
God bless him.
*Probably the first and last time any of us will see a sentence which ends, correctly, with the words ‘the of out.’ Enjoy it.
Christian Swalbach is Editor-in-Chief of a vain publication called Departures. It’s a magazine published by American Express. It’s supposed to make us feel affluent, and to encourage us to rack up more expenditure on our American Express cards. On the way to doing that, it publishes ads for ridiculous watches, daft motor cars, stupid boats, and silly fashion. It also wallows in what it evidently kids itself is mellifluous up-market editorial copy.
You and I both know very well that, these days, rich people can’t read nor write. They don’t need to. They have people to text for them. But it’s the way of those who promote conspicuous consumption – and I should know – to lard things up with oily imagery and pompous copy. They simply hate the idea that their target audience might be plumbers and plasterers and car-dealers. And sadly, though most of those who flick through Departures magazine may never note the shortcomings of Mr Swalbach’s careless copy, you and I will. And, you’ll agree, that’s enough to count.
In the Autumn 2010 issue of Departures, Swalbach plants his stake in the editorial high ground, under the heading Checking In. He opens thus:
The great American songwriter Johnny Mercer's haunting lyrics in The Autumn Leaves are among the most evocative of the season we now embrace: "The falling leaves / Drift by the window / The autumn leaves / Of red and gold." But the hallmark of the prose is the forlorn realisation that summer is over and winter will soon be upon us.
Prose, Christian? Song lyrics, verse, surely. Hallmark? Something by which we measure the provenance of something, a means of gauging quality, a proof mark? Ah, forget it, says Christian. Prose and Hallmark are words that sound nice, and ones which most people don’t use. Chuck ‘em in. And press on:
For many who holidayed on a cramped stretch of sand, elbowed their way past a myriad of other hikers on a particular trellis of trail or had to manoeuvre, cheek-by-jowl, through crowded pavilions and airport terminals, that recognition is a welcome one. And it's a wake-up call for us to rethink our next holiday.
We might decide it’s not worth worrying about when the noun holiday took itself a verb form. We may decide it would be tiresome to note that he means a myriad other hikers, rather than a myriad of. We’ll also ignore the cliché cheek by jowl, which suggests Mr Swalbach was either too tired or too lazy to bother with originality. But, for a man who evidently thinks he’s literate, the mis-spelling of pavillions is unforgivable. We might question whether he really means pavillions. But we're being hard enough on him already. That it takes him 41, count them - 41, words to get to the subject of a no-less-than-57-word sentence, tells us something. It tells us he’d never get a job on a proper newspaper.
Why is it, for example, that we happily join the crowded conga-line of holidaymakers for a destination, overflowing with the demimonde, when the very same place, region or locality is virtually uninhabited by the visiting gentry in the off-season, where you'll be rewarded by lower rates and great service?
Oh, what? Demimonde? Christian, what are you on about? The demi-monde is, literally a half-world. The term describes a society of kept women, mistresses, or the dodgy end of a trade or profession - private banking or fine-art dealing (for example). And what’s the point of the phrase ‘the very same place, region or locality’? Looks like inspiration was so short here, our Editor-in-Chief just decided to cut-and-paste his thesaurus. Gentry? The paragraph construction suggests the word is being used as a synonym for demimonde. Which it ain’t.
Perhaps it's human nature for us to congregate, but more and more of us, myself included, are now happily eschewing on-season travel for what can be colloquially described as, off-season sojourns.
Myself, Christian, in the way you’ve used it here, is a solecism popular with junior managers and local government officials. It’s frequently, but almost always wrongly, used instead of ‘me’ or ‘I’. Just say me, Christian. We all know what you mean. And don’t even think about using the word eschewing, ever again, unless you really are some Dickensian puffball. In this case, hardly anybody knows what you mean. Nor do we think anyone, speaking colloquially, would use the phrase off-season sojourn.
Are we beginning to wish Mr Swalbach would simply sojourn-off, here? I know I am.
Take a place like Florence, as an example, where in January, 250,000 fewer visitors per month crowd into its ancient streets than they do in August. That means, you won't have to elbow your way past day-trippers at the Duomo or the uber crowds at the Uffizi. Or the Mediterranean, where in late-autumn, you can have places like Southern Spain or even islands like Crete, Ibiza and Sicily all to yourself during a period when they are at their most flattering, agreeable and price-wise.
Christian, if you want people to read your editorial, use language they use. Please. Why say ‘as an example’ when you can say for example. It’s one-third shorter and faster. (In communications, pal, short and fast is good). And it’s what they say. The than they do in August should simply be than in August.
Elbow past? Hang on. We were elbowing past in the first paragraph. Repetition of that kind is simply sloppy writing. Stop it.
Uber crowd? Huge crowd. Enormous crowd. Big crowd. Mega-crowd, if you must. Or maybe he really does mean an uber crowd. One that's above all the others.
And the next question is…can anyone understand the last sentence of that paragraph?
Here it is again, for those of you who missed it before: Or the Mediterranean, where in late-autumn, you can have places like Southern Spain or even islands like Crete, Ibiza and Sicily all to yourself during a period when they are at their most flattering, agreeable and price-wise.
There’s no scope for debate here, except to ask: what the hell does that actually mean? Anything? Nothing? Is this why I have an American Express card?
And while most of us are unfortunately tied to the annual calendar of school holidays and half terms, nowhere does it dictate that we need to head to the usual destinations at the customary times.
Christian, Christian, Christian. Nowhere does it dictate. Nowhere does what dictate? Maybe you mean the annual calendar. In which case, you don’t mean it, you mean, that calendar.
Instead, if summer travel is a must, then make for locales usually associated with the opposite season. The Caribbean, for example, which is much less crowded in summer also offers competitive rates - on average of around 40% lower than those in its usual high season of December. July and August are also prime months for visiting the Maldives, where you can spot manta rays thanks to lower plankton levels and enjoy rates that are, on average, 44% lower than in January.
Yes, I hear you crying out for straightjackets and padded cells, already. We’ll gloss over the on average of around 40%. It’s likely he originally wrote an average of, then changed to on average, and forgot to take the of out*. But, as we’re already very clear, this is an Editor-in-Chief in a hell of a hurry. We understand.
But, guys, what’s with the lower plankton levels in the Maldives, and the visibility of manta rays thanks. Exactly how does a manta ray express its thanks to lower plankton? Does levels of lower plankton mean clearer water? Or are there more manta rays because there’s lower plankton? And these 44% lower rates of plankton. Should they be 44% lower rates of summer travel? Or 44% lower holiday costs? Please. Read that last sentence again, carefully, and tell me what, in the name of merciful God does this man actually mean.
With all that in mind, in this edition of Departures, we've showcased three regions that are ideally explored in late autumn and early winter. For those who travel to New York City often but rarely head out to the suburbs, indulge us by reading New York Escapes on page 30. You'll be surprised at what's on The Big Apple's doorstep. Similarly unexpected are the bevy of attractions in a quiet and picturesque slice of Wales, which when the Ryder Cup has come and gone will be an ideal region to repair to from London. Read about it on page 17.
Enough, enough. Forget the absence of commas in sentence two. Forget the failure to tell us which slice of Wales, more missing commas, more Pickwickian repairing from London. It all hurts much too much.
And speaking of Italy, and Tuscany in particular, we drop into Maremma - an unexplored and mostly unknown corner that demands your attention. We hope we've managed to capture yours with some food for thought and, as usual, articles that inspire you to enjoy life to the fullest.
No! NO! Stop this, now! Italy? Who was speaking of Italy? There was a mention of Florence, several paragraphs back. But, Christian, old boy, your prose simply isn’t that memorable. We forgot Florence. We lost Florence, in the fog of rambling illiteracy and stumbling articulation that would seem to be one of the hallmarks of your style.
Oh – and what do you hope you’ve captured? My mostly unknown corner? See what I mean …
CHRISTIAN SCHWALBACH
Editor in Chief - Departures Europe
God bless him.
*Probably the first and last time any of us will see a sentence which ends, correctly, with the words ‘the of out.’ Enjoy it.
Wednesday, 27 January 2010
A pee for your thoughts
In Welsh, they know it as a senten, in Gaelic it’s a cheint, in Icelandic it’s a sent. In French, it may be called a cent, or a centime, or even a sou. In America, they call it a cent, or sometimes a penny.
In England, we call it a pee.
What’s going on here? The nation was agonisingly unhappy about giving up its shillings (we kept the pounds and – one thought – the pence). It wasn’t even a perfect duodecimal system. With 12 pence in a shilling, and 20 shillings in a pound, it was both batty and cumbersome. They still haven’t invented a calculator which can handle such a quaint counting system, and that’s exactly why we had to give it up.
The British loved their weird monetary system, and loved to show off to foreigners. You could bore them silly with smug explanations of florins, half-crowns, crowns and guineas. And that was before you got into slang like thruppeny bits and tanners.
But now, we’re all well-used to a decimal system. Our money works like everyone else’s. But, where everyone else bothers to pronounce the names of their currency, we don’t. At least, where it comes to one-hundredth of a pound, we don't. Why is it suddenly so hard to use words like penny or pence? The penny was invented in 790 AD, and we managed to call it a penny for the best of 1200 years after that. But then along came decimalisation, and we threw away a perfectly good name. Instead we use a name which sounds – and is – lazy and vulgar. And wet.
It’s probably the fault of us spivs in the advertising trade. Penny is two syllables. Pee is one. Your precious twenty-second TV or radio commercial is already overburdened by mandatory and time-consuming pointlessness like ‘your mortgage may go up or down only if it used as part of a calorie controlled diet which contains small parts and always read the label’. Then, when your client has insisted on the brand name being repeated eight times, in a carefully crafted script that only has room to say it three times, well, that’s when you start paring down the words themselves. ‘For less than a penny a day’ becomes for less than one pee a day’, which is one syllable less, and a godsend to a weak-willed agency team, when you’re still over length, studio time has run out, and the voice-over is already late for another gig on the other side of Soho.
It’s proof that advertising works. Kinda. Keep on defining hundredths of pounds as pee, and watch it fall into the language, where it inhabits the same world as legitimate words like ‘gallivanting’ or ‘jurisprudence’ or ‘perjorative’. All of those last three being delightful, roll-around-the-mouth-like-red-wine words, rich with style, dignity and sonorous texture. Oh, and syllables, too. In contrast, pee just doesn’t cut it.
Of course, brevity and clarity is often much more important than verbal felicity. How many times have I been told that? But there’s no call for ugliness in language, unless you’re German. Pee is a simply a solecism of the most stupid kind.
People don’t call cents sees. Goodness, even those Germans didn’t talk about pfees, when they had them.
We don’t have the Euro in the UK yet. It is, of course, unstoppably on its way. Across Europe, it’s pronounced airo or oiro or ooro, or something like that depending where you might be. In the UK we call it a uro, as in urological medicine. In which case, we could shorten that to wee.
And then, in our lazy, vulgar, brainless way, we can wee and pee all over proper English, no more now than a fast-shrinking dry patch in today’s sodden bed of our mother tongue.
In England, we call it a pee.
What’s going on here? The nation was agonisingly unhappy about giving up its shillings (we kept the pounds and – one thought – the pence). It wasn’t even a perfect duodecimal system. With 12 pence in a shilling, and 20 shillings in a pound, it was both batty and cumbersome. They still haven’t invented a calculator which can handle such a quaint counting system, and that’s exactly why we had to give it up.
The British loved their weird monetary system, and loved to show off to foreigners. You could bore them silly with smug explanations of florins, half-crowns, crowns and guineas. And that was before you got into slang like thruppeny bits and tanners.
But now, we’re all well-used to a decimal system. Our money works like everyone else’s. But, where everyone else bothers to pronounce the names of their currency, we don’t. At least, where it comes to one-hundredth of a pound, we don't. Why is it suddenly so hard to use words like penny or pence? The penny was invented in 790 AD, and we managed to call it a penny for the best of 1200 years after that. But then along came decimalisation, and we threw away a perfectly good name. Instead we use a name which sounds – and is – lazy and vulgar. And wet.
It’s probably the fault of us spivs in the advertising trade. Penny is two syllables. Pee is one. Your precious twenty-second TV or radio commercial is already overburdened by mandatory and time-consuming pointlessness like ‘your mortgage may go up or down only if it used as part of a calorie controlled diet which contains small parts and always read the label’. Then, when your client has insisted on the brand name being repeated eight times, in a carefully crafted script that only has room to say it three times, well, that’s when you start paring down the words themselves. ‘For less than a penny a day’ becomes for less than one pee a day’, which is one syllable less, and a godsend to a weak-willed agency team, when you’re still over length, studio time has run out, and the voice-over is already late for another gig on the other side of Soho.
It’s proof that advertising works. Kinda. Keep on defining hundredths of pounds as pee, and watch it fall into the language, where it inhabits the same world as legitimate words like ‘gallivanting’ or ‘jurisprudence’ or ‘perjorative’. All of those last three being delightful, roll-around-the-mouth-like-red-wine words, rich with style, dignity and sonorous texture. Oh, and syllables, too. In contrast, pee just doesn’t cut it.
Of course, brevity and clarity is often much more important than verbal felicity. How many times have I been told that? But there’s no call for ugliness in language, unless you’re German. Pee is a simply a solecism of the most stupid kind.
People don’t call cents sees. Goodness, even those Germans didn’t talk about pfees, when they had them.
We don’t have the Euro in the UK yet. It is, of course, unstoppably on its way. Across Europe, it’s pronounced airo or oiro or ooro, or something like that depending where you might be. In the UK we call it a uro, as in urological medicine. In which case, we could shorten that to wee.
And then, in our lazy, vulgar, brainless way, we can wee and pee all over proper English, no more now than a fast-shrinking dry patch in today’s sodden bed of our mother tongue.
Tuesday, 19 January 2010
How to tell when it really isn't good news
A classically-trained copywriter – and there are some still left, believe me – knows that three is a compelling number. Telling someone they’ll get ‘everything from green to blue’ is OK. But telling them they’ll get everything from ‘green, through red, to blue’ is much better. Telling them ‘dishes sparkle, plates shine’ makes it sound like an OK dishwasher. Promising them that ‘dishes sparkle, plates shine and cutlery gleams’ is a much bigger, more exciting promise. Three has been the balance-tipping number, the number of certainty, since at least the night of the Last Supper.
Maybe the classically-trained copywriters, most of them now moved on from the shallow pools of commerce, have taken their talents to the murky puddles of political speech-writing. Because you can hear the smithing of their kind of words on the dead anvils of falsehood, on a daily basis.
The more inexplicable the politician’s decision, the more it is touted as good news. The decision to bomb middle eastern tribesmen into extinction will almost certainly be described as ‘good news for freedom and democracy’.
A decision to pay a scrappage allowance on old cars will be announced as ‘good news for the car industry, and good news for the recycling industry’. It is, of course, terrible news for the environment, and anyone who’s just paid full price for a new car. But two good news counts makes the news good and right.
An increase in prescription charges could well be identified as ‘good news for pharmacists, good news for the health service, and good news for patients.’ Anyone who has trouble working out why more expensive medication is good news for ill people should stop and think. The government says so, so it must be true, silly. The government said it three times, so it must be unassailably true, good and right.
But good news has a way of speaking for itself. The classically trained copywriter knows that ‘Free!’ is the most powerful word in advertising. No need to add ‘This is really good news’.
‘New!’ is the second most powerful word in advertising, and adding ‘Good!’ doesn’t make it any better or stronger.
You’re right. We should smell a rat, any time anyone rushes up with news they describe as ‘good'. The word ‘good’ in such a context nearly always means ‘bad’.
‘It’s good for the taxpayer, it’s good for business, and it’s good for the country.’ Of course it isn’t. If it was that good, it’d be self-evidently good. Protesting too much is a dead giveaway.
‘This is good news for children, good news for parents, and good news for the food labelling industry’ simply means ‘we’re spending huge amounts of taxpayers’ money on an exercise nobody can actually justify or understand.’
As I write this, I am congratulated by coincidence. Today, Cadbury, one of Britain’s last, best and most dignified names, has just been acquired, against its will, by the lumpen greedy American coagulate (and I mean that) Kraft. And the evening radio news has just this moment reported that our Minister for Trade and Industry, or something like that, Lord Mandelson, has described this terrible loss of one of the last jewels in the crown, this kicking-and-screaming kidnap-for-cash as ‘good news for British manufacturing.’
Good news? Go figure.
Wednesday, 13 January 2010
The Last Bank of Scotland
Honourable Sir,
My name is Colonel Lord Jim Smithington-Smithington, GCSE, and I am the trusted deceased assistant to the Chief Executive of the Royal Bank of Scotland. I have a large amount of money which was greatly accumulated before, during and after the world banking collapse. The money was collected from taxpayers, and entrusted to my unfortunate predecessor Sir Frederick Goodwin, who has now tragically disappeared. Although when he vanished he took as much money as he could carry, he had to leave very large proportions behind him. This money, and lots more like it, is too much to be shared among my shareholders. My bank has already given a great deal of it to its employees and directors. I now need to place the remaining balance somewhere most safely secure where customers and businesses cannot get hold of it. I know you will think this is indubitably improper, but I can most rightfully assure you that my government says this is all perfectly legal and honest and most beneficial to all.
I now need your help in transferring the sum of £96,000,000,000,000,000.40 to a trusted individual, who will honourably guard the money until I can collect it after I have been fired for negligent conduct. I am writing to you because you are most honourable and decent proper person who can be trusted with such sums. In return you will be entitled to keep the 40p.
I am sure you will be thinking that this is a disgraceful and dishonest scam of the most untrustable kind, in which you provide us innocently with your banking information details, in order that we may then corruptly remove outrageous amounts of money from your bank account without your granting nicely permission or knowledge. It is not at all that kind of scam. At your Royal Highness the Bank of Scotland we already have your banking information, and have been taking the money from you on this basis for many years. That is where these large amounts are now coming from.
So I am sure you can see this is all very well indeed, and if you are interested please send me your useful details. The special sensitivity nature of this affair requires that you must be of more than 18 years old, unless you are a shareholder in or customer of the Last Bank of Scotland, which means we believe you must have been born yesterday but that is OK with us.
I am look forward to hearing from you,
Jim.
My name is Colonel Lord Jim Smithington-Smithington, GCSE, and I am the trusted deceased assistant to the Chief Executive of the Royal Bank of Scotland. I have a large amount of money which was greatly accumulated before, during and after the world banking collapse. The money was collected from taxpayers, and entrusted to my unfortunate predecessor Sir Frederick Goodwin, who has now tragically disappeared. Although when he vanished he took as much money as he could carry, he had to leave very large proportions behind him. This money, and lots more like it, is too much to be shared among my shareholders. My bank has already given a great deal of it to its employees and directors. I now need to place the remaining balance somewhere most safely secure where customers and businesses cannot get hold of it. I know you will think this is indubitably improper, but I can most rightfully assure you that my government says this is all perfectly legal and honest and most beneficial to all.
I now need your help in transferring the sum of £96,000,000,000,000,000.40 to a trusted individual, who will honourably guard the money until I can collect it after I have been fired for negligent conduct. I am writing to you because you are most honourable and decent proper person who can be trusted with such sums. In return you will be entitled to keep the 40p.
I am sure you will be thinking that this is a disgraceful and dishonest scam of the most untrustable kind, in which you provide us innocently with your banking information details, in order that we may then corruptly remove outrageous amounts of money from your bank account without your granting nicely permission or knowledge. It is not at all that kind of scam. At your Royal Highness the Bank of Scotland we already have your banking information, and have been taking the money from you on this basis for many years. That is where these large amounts are now coming from.
So I am sure you can see this is all very well indeed, and if you are interested please send me your useful details. The special sensitivity nature of this affair requires that you must be of more than 18 years old, unless you are a shareholder in or customer of the Last Bank of Scotland, which means we believe you must have been born yesterday but that is OK with us.
I am look forward to hearing from you,
Jim.
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