Feroglobular Evil

FEROGLOBIN

I have no idea what Feroglobin is, nor what it does but thanks to an advert on the tube, I can’t stop thinking about it. I don’t want any. Far from it. It sounds like some sort of drug you’d give someone to make them turn into a werewolf. Admittedly, that’d be cool if it did do that and maybe I would try it, but I’m sure what it actually does is make you slightly energetic for an hour before making you lethargic for life and at the same time having the side effect of retracting your nut sack into your abdomen. Either way, the reason its been dancing on my thought floor is because the tagline they’ve used for it on the advert on the Northern Line was this:

‘Great tasting gentle liquid iron’

That sentence just doesn’t work in my brain. It has too many things in it to make it make sense. Too much information for me to want to buy that product. Just put ‘you can eat iron like some sort of superhuman or that French dude that ate bikes then died of a heart attack’ and I’d be fine. I love the fact that you can eat metal. Only this morning I had a vitamin tablet with zinc in it. ZINC! I feel like I should have fists of armour. I should be like Iron Man without a suit. I should shit bullets! That’s how to market liquid iron. Stop telling me its both gentle and tasty. Now go and find a product that’s actually useful to someone.

 

ESTATE AGENTS

I hate estate agents. True story. If you are one and you’re offended by that, well sorry. But the fact is, you don’t have a heart, you are merely a machine who runs on the possibility of screwing people over. There is a small funnel somewhere in your back where unless you are having liquid schadenfraude poured into your back repeatedly then you stop functioning. Today Nat and myself went to renew our flat’s contract for 6 more months. This required popping down to the office on Hornsey Road, spending far too much to park there, and then signing and initialling 3 bits of paper. That’s it. A few squiggles of ink, the odd page turn and job’s a good ‘un. As we handed over all the bits of paper the white shirted man with suspiciously chiselled facial hair looked at us without remorse and announced. ‘Right that’s it. Now you just have to pay the admin fee.’ Admin fee? We weren’t told there was an admin fee. On enquiry this admin fee was £95 plus VAT. Yes. I know. I felt the same. For what? How on earth has signing and initialling three bits of paper taken up enough effort and time to constitute the paying of over a hundred pounds? What has the suspicious facial hair man done here? At most, some things have been photocopied and stapled. You can buy a box of staples for a quid, and photocopying is 4p a page at the place near us. HOW IS THAT WORTH £95? For £95 I want them to drive to us with golden parker pens in hand, give us Molten Brown lotion to soothe our palms after touching the paper and then pour us a glass of celebratory champagne to celebrate the resigning of the contract before a series of dancing girls sing us Happy Birthday. Instead we get a blank stare and the promise that even though its not in our contract that we can cut it short if the damp returns ‘the landlords are nice people, you know that, so I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

Of course neither me or Nat complained. Instead we explained that Nat left her bank card in a field on the Isle of Wight and I’m broke till next week so they’d have to wait. Wait for the payment they say needs to happen asap even though our contract doesn’t need renewing till November 28th. I hate estate agents.

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