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Ok, got that, but now what?

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I’m pretty disciplined.
I’m actually on the obedient side of servile.
So when a shopping trolley (no, a dozen shopping trolleys!) tells me to visualise the in-store media specialists, you can bet your arse that I nearly burst a neuron trying to visualise them!

What do in-store media specialists look like, you may ask?

I start easy. It’s specialists with an S. In a desire to embrace plurality, and gender equality, I hastily visualise two.
A man and a woman.
In their mid-thirties.
Not quite burned out yet by the rat race that the world of in-store media specialisation is bond to be.

Next. What do they look like?

Pretty pale, I’d say. Since they spend most of their time in store.

Specialists. Experts in the domain. SMEs as we like to call them these days.
With a clipboard? Nah. That’s so last century.
A laptop? Nah. Last decade.
A tablet? Nah. Last year.

Oversized smart watches. That’s it. They are expertly monitoring media in store on their smart watches.

How are they dressed?
Like this, on the right?
Yes!

But a nowadays version. Fast forward 27 years.
Lumberjack flannel shirt for him, with rolled up jeans to emphasize the secondhand Danner boots.
50s patterned dress for her, with army boots and shit loads of colourful tattoos. For him too.

That’s it. I’ve visualised them. I’m clinging to the visualisation.

I’m in there with them. In-store. Loving media of all types. On my smart watch. I’m so close I hear them bounce concepts off each other. On media specialisation.

I visualise them.

What now?

Please tell me, shopping trolleys.

What now?

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Me! Me! Me!

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No, me! Me! Me! Vote for me! No me! Me!

Ok, elections 2016, quick recap.

 

Maria: 

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Maria: I just need to double-check one thing, the make-up artist fee, for the photo shoot, it’s a flat rate, isn’t it?

Photographer: That’s right Maria, it’s not based on quantity, it’s a flat rate

Maria: LASH IT ON GIRL! The what? The cracks? When I smile? No worries. Get ready, I’m going to hold it there. Get your trowel. No. 4. Get ready to fill the cracks. I think we all agreed on the Mandarin Marvel plaster

Carrie: 

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Photographer: A symphony Carrie, let’s go for a symphony. In white and red. Like a vanilla ice cream with a cherry coulis.

Carrie: Are… are… you sure?

Photographer: Are you kidding?! The electorate will lap it up. A vanilla/cherry symphonic ice cream.

Shane: 

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Photographer: Shirt and tie? So what’s the occasion Shane? Marriage, confirmation or court appearance?

Shane: Stop taking the piss, will ya. It’s for the electoral posters. I don’t look like a gurrier in a suit trying to buy instant respectability, do I?

Photographer: Not at all Shane. You don’t look like a gurrier. You look like a trainee investment banker. Or an insurance broker.

Shane: And the difference is? Oh shite…

Mary:

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In spite of the disappointment of failing the Aer Lingus Air Hostess exam back in 1982, Mary always knew that she would find another use for the outfit at some stage.

Frank: 

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Photographer: Smile Frank, give me your best winner’s smile. Ooze confidence, for fuck sake.

Frank: I just can’t do it, Joe. I know we don’t stand a shaggin’ chance. Can we settle for the half-arsed grin and I can go back to bed?

Joan:

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Photographer: So Joan, have you thought about how you want to approach this election? What image do you want to project? Bright, confident smile? Or serious, “I’m not in politics for the craic” straight face?

Joan: Well, Brendan, I thought that this time, I’d go for the Grimace.

Brendan: The Grimace?

Joan: Yes, the Grimace. The rictus is so last decade. I want the Grimace. Show teeth, but without smiling, and hemorrhoidal pain etched on my face.

Enda:

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Ok, guys, take him out of the sarcophagus. Slowly. Slowly. Very slowly. He may be wooden, he is delicate nonetheless. Very delicate. Ok, apply a bit more Death Warmed Up make-up. Gentle strokes, with the soft brush.

The other yoke whose name I have forgotten

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The Yoke: How much to make me look like an energetic, smiley, approachable, cat-who-got-the-cream, born leader, at the elm of an Ireland for All?

The photographer: 2.3 million. We’ll shoot it in the studio, and outside, before and after sessions on the sun bed, with and without make-up, with a dark suit, and a light coloured suit, with and without tie, we’ll take 27,000 shots, over 7 months, in the hope of bagging one where you look like a half-palatable individual.

Richard: 

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In natural light, without a screed of make-up. No trace of chemical enhancement in the hair. Quite sure of who he is, and what he is about. No toothy grin. A guy. Just a guy. With his feet on the ground. 

Ah bollix, I’m just beginning to wonder if I am not just a touch biased here.

It’s a good thing I don’t give a rat’s arse about politics…

 

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mememe in the Park

On a rare night out with Mrs mememe2U to support the launch of a new the album (the one that took 15 years to make – but it was worth the wait) by her cousin’s band Me in the Park.

Being hopelessly French, we arrived there at 8 PM. Because I am disciplined, punctual and I will never learn…

The first chords were not struck until 9.30 PM.

But it was well worth the wait. Last night was an occasion when supporting the family is just about the contrary of a drag.

These three dudes are very talented musicians. The sound is incredibly tight. Water tight. 5 average musicians wouldn’t be able to hold it together the way these guys manage to fill a room with sound. Full, but not over-saturated.

In a word tight. Tight as a Frenchman at the end of a low-cost holiday.

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We left on a high.

With our own coats and bag (still laughing at the over-anxious women who was convinced that we were going to try to nick some of the incredibly precious stuff that had been deposited in the pile of clothes that she was jealously guarding – the Holy Grail perhaps).

And then we made a quick detour on our way out through the end of the Kila concert, who were also releasing an album (that didn’t take quite as long to make), and with an audience that we less concerned with the whereabouts of their rags.

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Snug as a bug with a bug

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Only a few days ago, he was green with envy at seeing his siblings prevented from going to school with the vomiting bug.
Now he is green… with the vomiting bug.

The expression that we tried to teach him today: be careful what you wish for .

Still, when I asked him what was the best, between being in great health at school or sick at home, he picked the latter without hesitation.

A morning of watching Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith is well worth the stomach cramps and vomiting green bile.

The program for tomorrow is quite exciting too: diarrhoea and Raiders of the Lost Ark.

I’ll have to remind him to write his thank you cards: to Finn who passed it to him, to Mimi who passed it to Finn, to Martha who passed it to Mimi, and to Auntie Phlegmina who passed it to Martha.
That’s as far back as we could go back in the bacterial family tree.
I am designing a family crest of a crossed plunger and gall bladder on a vomit-encrusted duvet background

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That awkward moment

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when your boss suddenly appears, as you catch the last few rays of the Great Summer of 2013 during your lunch break… 

Not as embarrassing as bumping into the principal of your kids’ school, topless on the beach in Barcelona. But almost. 

It was a wise move for this sun worshiper to indulge in a last spot of binge-tanning (the sun exposure equivalent of gulping 9 pints of cider outside the Barge Pub between 8 pm and midnight) because the Great Summer of 2013 is now defunct. 
I hope that he remembers to apply generous lashings of after-sun cream (the sun exposure equivalent of a visit to Abrakebabra after the 9 pints in the barge) or he could feel each grain of sand on his bed sheet tonight, burn through his tender freshly irradiated skin like dozens of vengeful little laser rays (the sun exposure equivalent of a raging hangover after the 9 pints in the Barge and the cold half-eaten kebab found in the side pocket of his Bermuda shorts in the morning)

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Only in Ireland…

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… will you find a theme park for kids centered around… potato crisps! 

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I took Luca to Tayto Park today for a birthday party today. The weather was once more stunningly good (5th day in a row!) and the place was teaming with activity when we got there

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Inside the enclosure, there were hundreds of kids and their overheating (and overeating in a lot of cases) parents)Image

There were many cases of binge-tanning (cram it in while the sun shines) and I saw a few babies in buggies on the verge of being burned to a crisp (in keeping with the Tayto park theme).

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The birthday party coordinator took us through the mini zoo. We just missed the Amur tigers being fed. A pity, since I am left to wonder how the mighty felines manage to open their bags of crisps, and which flavour is their favourite. Cheese and onion or salt and vinegar? 

Anyway, besides milking parents for all they’re worth, Tayto manage to manufacture 2 million individual packets of crisps a week. 

The highlight for Luca and me was the round trip on the zip cord at the end. Twelve euros well spent it was. I had to change my underwear afterwards though. 

Good thing that they were selling Mr Tayto boxer shorts in the souvenir shop. 

Tayto Park is a proud sponsor for the Irish Society for the Prevention of Juvenile Obesity

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Did they? Didn’t they?

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The rumour this evening around the mememe2U home was that the kids went straight to the beach after school today, on what turned out to be another scorcher of a day (4 consecutive days!!! As, in a row!!! AS, one after the other. With no clouds. And just sun. IN IRE-LAND!!!!) 
Or at least that is what 66% of my kids would have me believe.
I’m not so sure, they’ve been telling loads of fibs lately (Mimi’s a natural, Finn is learning fast, Luca… well… bless, he would not make a great poker player…) 

I don’t know what to believe, the jury is still out on that one.

Today’s weather: unusualImage

Today’s colour: blue. Definitely. With moppets. For a muppet.

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