T shirts

Redbubble 1

Having been literally* inundated with requests for J.O.D T shirts which I either cannot be arsed or have point-blank refused to make (mother, I am NOT making you a t shirt with Adam Buxton’s willy on it), I’ve decided to outsource the legwork (and almost all the dollar) to a charming little website called Redbubble. They’ll buy all the raw materials, do all the printing, handle the postage and packing, and only take almost all the profits by way of recompense! Kapow.

Redbubble 2

What’s more – dauntless, profligate fools that they are – they’re prepared to take on my seemingly unassailable customer care promise of ‘delivery within 30 years or go fuck yourself.’ Bold business model if you ask me. Please ask me. Someone ask me SOMETHING.

Anyway, as with everything I do, I’ve put some serious market research into this. By which I mean I’ve immediately embarked upon the path of very least resistance and fist-flailingly refused to acknowledge any ‘facts’ threaten to block it. I’m suddenly reminded of a GCSE history essay in which I dealt with an untimely mental block by stubbornly declaring that, contrary to popular belief, the UK’s representative at the 1945 Potsdam Conference was not Clement Attlee but former Holland manager Dick Advocaat (born two years later). Who knew.

Redbubble 3

Still, I reckon I’m now fully across what ‘the market’ wants this season. But the market is an idiot.

‘The market,’ for instance, may seek to impress upon you that the time to sell a T shirt with Sir Alex Ferguson’s face on it would have been either in May 2013 (when he retired from football) or in October 2013 (when he published his autobiography) and not in December 2013 when he’s probably not going to do anything.

‘The market’ may also try to persuade you that, no matter what time of which year it might be, nobody ever wants a T shirt with Gordon Brown’s face on it. Ever.

Redbubble 4



*I use the word’ literally’ here in the same way that Jamie Redknapp uses it when he confidently declaims in his youth, Michael Owen was literally a greyhound.”



Moz colour background

So Morrissey has written an autobiography. That’s hilarious.

I haven’t read it yet but given that it appears (from the reviews) to be a masterclass in compressing the greatest possible number of words into the least possible amount of thought, I reckon it should be pretty good.

And here’s what I hope it’s like:

“….As I stared silently at the Kellogg’s Frosties in the bowl, a belligerent sense of dread kneed me in the solar plexus. The milk was scarcely seconds out of the bottle but already the nethermost of those synthetic, saccharine slivers was succumbing to sogginess. Such senseless destruction. All is decay. Everywhere, the stolid stench of death.

I had been forcing down the tasteless gruel for four dismal, rain-spaffed days on the plod and this morning, there was only one consolation for the calamitous chagrin of finding myself, once more, alive. The one thing which gave me the strength to part pillow and head was the hope that today, the cereal box would finally yield up its prize – a collection of multi-coloured clickety-clackers earmarked for the rusting spokes of my bicycle. I ransacked the packet like a poet-laureate of the dispossessed possessed but to no avail. Just like the seeming eternity of days which parted me from the grave, all was a grey emptiness with bits of cereal in it. 

Later, I saw Johnny in the park with my clickety-clackers on his bicycle. FML….”