Christmas shoppers. Mad, aren’t they? Crowding the shops in the three or four days before Christmas in order to buy last-minute presents for loved-ones and random tat for the forced jollity of the office Secret Santa.

Makes sense though. It’s Christmas. You’ve got to buy that stuff.

Likewise, the supermarkets are hell-on-earth for the duration of the run-up to Christmas. Full of people with trolleys piled high with meat, with cheeses, with vegetables and snacks. And a few more in case friends come around. And pensioners buying eighty-seven loaves of bread, because Doris might pop around and she likes a bit of toast and the shops are closed on Christmas day.

They’re open on Boxing Day though. And they’re packed.

With the same people.

They’re piling into the supermarkets to buy yet more food of the Christmassy variety, because although the cupboards and fridge are stuffed, this lot is all reduced! As it’s short-dated.

And there’s still room in the freezer for another loaf of bread in case Doris pops around. She liked a bit of toast when she was alive.

I don’t get supermarket shoppers on Boxing Day. Sure, if you NEED something, it might make sense to go. But if you can do without for another day or two, why would you leave the house for something as mundane as filling the coffers of Tesco and Asda on a day when by rights your belly should be the size of Piers Morgan’s lies? When you can barely move without farting in such a way that your anus sounds like Piers Morgan?

I can understand sales shoppers; people going for a proper bargain. Some massively reduced clothes, electronics or something. But you can do without five kilograms of sausage meat for 38p. Can’t you?

Of course you can.

There’s a good film on. Sit down and watch it.

Or go to the park and burn off some of the turkey and that. You’ve got to eat more of it later.

Scene: Interior. A trendy advertising consultancy. There is a giant glass table spanning the length of the room, and the walls are bedecked with picture frames containing nothing but white sheets of card, signed by the designer and bought for enough money to subsidise the Greek economy for a week. At the table, a group of advertising executives are in amiable debate over their current project.

Designer 1: So, it’s settled then. The client has asked for a multimedia approach, encompassing all relevant areas that the target demographic are exposed to in their daily lives, so basically we’re going to bung a bunch of banner ads on website, and put some full-page ads in some magazines.

Designer 2: Sounds like we’re going to be rolling in cash from this project, Designer 1!

Designer 3: Of course, at this stage in the process, we need to ensure there is a well-designed website, with amazing content on it to draw the punters in!

Designer 2: Can we have a lot of content created in Flash? With loads of animations, and a tiny bit of text explaining what the product is, does and costs?

Designer 3: Brilliant!

Designer 1: Now, hold on; such a project is surely going to stretch our budget to breaking-point, so we need to make sure the website is easy to remember and easy to get to. Any ideas?

Designer 2: Yep. You’re going to love it!

Scene: A man is reading a newspaper on a train. Turning the page, his eyes are attracted to a glossy advert for a product he is interested in.

Man: Wow! This product looks right up my street! I’d love to know more about it, and then perhaps spend some of my money on it, which is something I wouldn’t often consider in this economic clime. Now, how do I get to the website? I can’t seem to see a URL…

The camera zooms closer to the page. We see a speckled mass of pixels. It is a QR code.

Man: Bah, it’s one of those QR codes. A shame I have no phone signal, and that I don’t have a code reader on my phone otherwise I’d have gone straight to that site from here. It’s also a shame they haven’t just printed a memorable URL, because I’d at least then be able to bookmark it, or take a note of it, or just remember.

An announcement plays out.

Tannoy: This train has arrived in Busytown. All passengers please disembark.

The man stands up to leave, and in his haste leaves the newspaper behind.

Scene: The train station platform. The train is pulling away.

Man: Well, at least I still have the newspaper; I can scan the code when I get home and look at the product website.

He looks to his hands.

Man: NOOOOOOO!

He falls to the floor, crushed. And then goes to buy a similar product which he sees advertised on a poster at the station, which includes a memorable URL on the poster.

And this is how it always is.

It seems to be increasingly common that people involved in the promotion of websites want to make it as difficult as possible for people to actually visit them.

QR codes. Pointless. You need a phone capable of scanning them in the first place, which in many cases means downloading a separate app. Which I can’t be bothered to do, and neither can you. So you don’t visit the site, and the work goes unloved.

Sometimes though, an advert or some-such will contain a proper URL, if you’re lucky.

If not, it’ll include the URL of a Facebook fan page instead, which assumes that you have a Facebook account, and want to see a hastily-hacked together page full of moronic comments about the product added by barely-literate fools who’ll immediately make me think twice about being associated with your product.

And if you don’t have a Facebook account, you’ll never get to see the site, so you’ll not be able to learn anything about the product at all.

However, let it not be said that I am not willing to move with the times; just because I do not like this trend for using QR codes, it does not mean I won’t give it a go.

So, in the spirit of progress, scan the code below for a link to the remainder of this article.

Scan the image for EXCLUSIVE ACCESS to the rest of the page!

A charmingly British, yet entirely unused poster campaign originating from World War II. Isn’t it quaint? Isn’t it charming to see it everywhere?

EVERYWHERE.

It’s lovely to see it everywhere. Adapted to make interesting new phrases, which allude to the original but are HILARIOUS.

Absolutely HILARIOUS.

Here are some ideas for further HILARIOUS Keep Calm And Carry On parodies:

• Keep Cram And Carry On – A picture of Steve Cram with the Carry On gang doing something hilarious in place of the crown.
• Keep Naan And Curry On – A picture of a naan bread and some curry in place of the crown.
• Keep Balm And Greasy On – A picture of some lip ointment and a tub of Vaseline in place of the crown.
• Keep Brum And Curry On – A picture of Barry from Auf Wiedersehen Pet in places of the crown.

All hilarious, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Though by “hilarious”, obviously mean “uniformly terrible, why would anyone want to add to the seemingly never-ending list of Keep Calm And Carry On parodies? Fucking morons, that’s who.”

And you know what’s even worse? People who make these parodies and don’t even go to the effort of, well, making it look like they’ve made any effort.

I saw a poster the other day which used the original phrase and a generic crown. And the text was in FUCKING ARIAL.

At least it wasn’t Comic Sans, I suppose.

But FUCKING ARIAL.

It’s a weedy sans-serif font. IT DIDN’T EVEN EXIST BACK IN WARTIME.

At least if you’re going to make a limp parody, go to a LITTLE effort. Or just photocopy the original; it’s public domain anyway.

Or just don’t bother.

You lazy, artless cunts.

A man was wearing a beret.

At first, I thought he might be a twat; after all, who would wear a beret in a train station?

The only group of people who have any right to wear a beret under any circumstances are French men who wear black and white stripy tops while riding around on bikes with a load of cloves of garlic strapped around their necks.

Luckily, that’s what this man was doing.

In fact, I’m lying.

He was just a twat.

A BERET.

In ENGLAND.

In OCTOBER.

In a TRAIN STATION.

Tschoh.

I’ve bought some new pants.

Not trousers, Americans. Pants are underwear. That’s what pants are. NOT trousers. So stop it.

I like my new pants. They fit me nicely, and were not overpriced.

I’m not one of those men who can see the logic of paying a premium for a brand; they’re pants. I don’t care if Calvin Klein designed them, I don’t care if Hugo Boss has approved them, or if Jeff Banks has exhaled into each individual packet of pants. I just want cheap, comfortable pants.

It’s not much to ask.

Luckily, as it’s not too much to ask, it’s not too much to expect either, and I’m rarely disappointed as such. Hurrah!

Except!

Except.

Except now and then a manufacturer will decide that the most important thing their pants should have is not a pleasing design, a quality cloth, nor enough elasticity to cope with my fluctuating waistline (though frequently they have all of these things).

No.

Now and then a manufacturer will decided that the most important thing their pants should have is a size label which is made of a material scratchier than fibreglass. And to stitch it in along all four edges in such a way as to make it impossible to remove without all but destroying the waistband.

This material has a unique quality; it is able to tell when I’m in a public place and can pretend to be as soft as duck down for hours and hours until I am in public. As soon as I’m out there though, it changes.

I’m uncomfortable.

And I’m trying not to scratch my behind. If I do it too much, people are going to think I have worms. They’re going to worry that I’m going to sit dragging my arse along their floor, trying to get some release from the little worms sticking their heads out of my posterior.

I’m really suffering.

And it’s all down to underpants manufacturers.

Why do they do it?

My arse is clean.

You bastards.

LOOK AT ME. I HAVE A BABY. IT’S IN A BUGGY. THIS GRANTS ME SPECIAL POWERS, AND YOU WILL MOVE.

Why? Oh. I see. It does not, and I will not.

The thing is, I am pleased that you have bred offspring that you’re proud of. I really am. What I don’t want is you wielding your offspring’s buggy/perambulator as if it were a wheeled weapon. I’m not going to move out of your way if you cross my path when you could have gone around. You are the one causing the obstruction. I’m moving quicker. You can wait.

I’m not saying that when I’m walking fast that your buggy will end up pushed into the road. Not deliberately. It’s just that I do walk fast. Some say I stride. I’m a tall chap, a big fella. I can’t be expected to pay attention to you and your offspring.

I’ve got places to be.

Admittedly, those places are usually “home” or “work”, but the fact of the matter is that I can get there quicker if you’re not getting in my way.

It would also help if, when in a shop and you run that buggy into the back of my legs while failing to entirely successfully round a corner, you apologise to me, instead of look at me as if this is somehow my fault. My legs are bruised. It’s your fault.

Apologise.

Don’t complain if I look annoyed if you don’t.

It’s your fault.

The best places to stop for a conversation in a train station are evidently the places where the most people converge. This might be the entrance to the station itself, or the exit from a train. Stopping to have an inconsequential natter with a friend, travelling companion, or making a phone call is far more important than leaving others with the ability to enter or exit the area they need to be.

You are far more important than anybody else.

It’s not just the redundant conversations you may have. Perhaps you are confused by the station layout, and are unsure where to head. In these circumstances, stopping in front of the train doors with your enormous travelling bags is not only acceptable, but essential.

There’s no reason for you to move away; remember to block the exits. The fifty or so people behind you have no wish to get to their own destinations quicker, and are happy to wait while packed sardine-like on board the train, while you stand dribbling and looking confused, instead of moving to a clear area to check the departures board, or talk to a convenient and happy-to help guard.

You are far more important than anybody else.

Don’t know how to work the ticket barriers? Don’t worry about it. Just stand alternately staring at the gate and the ticket machine. Don’t consider putting your ticket in the slot handily marked with a picture of a ticket, just stand there.

It is essential that you do not ask for assistance. Just stand there. Just stand there.

Just stand there.

A guard will eventually help you, and will be only too happy to do so. Remember though, once you are through to the other side of the gate, this is an ideal opportunity to search through your bags for your house keys. Do this right in front of the gate. The fifty people you held up on the train can wait on the other side of the gate for you to move.

You are far more important than anybody else.

I hate you.