The dog's bolluks

We've had a few comments on Bad PR. Nothing like the BBC's Have Your Say, granted, but generally speaking they've been fairly balanced, well considered and rather amusing.

Back in October we ran a story about some fairly 'ambitious' commissioning. It wasn't really Bad PR, but it was pretty funny, so up it went....

Well, the subject the post wrote in, clearly he'd Google'd his own name and seen it crop up on this blog, and clearly he was not best pleased.

If you want to see the original post - it's called Bolluk's and was back at the beginning of October. It's pretty funny, but nowhere near as funny as his response.

For those of you that don't bother reading comments or digging back into the archives, here's the response.....

Tembo says

I had thought of writing a long rejoinder citing my extreme distaste for petit bourgeois ignoramuses, but I think that this implied criticism of your general attitude and world view - as exhibited in your pathetic post - will suffice. I leave you to mull over two poems, plus a reference in the Bible, which describe amply where I stand; you may be sure that I will never revisit this site:

Living is no laughing matter:

you must live with great seriousness

like a squirrel, for example-

I mean without looking for something beyond and above living,

I mean living must be your whole occupation.



Yasamak sakaya gelmez,

buyuk bir ciddiyetle yasayacaksin

bir sincap gibi mesela,

yani, yasamanin disinda ve otesinde hicbir sey beklemeden,

yani butun isin gucun yasamak olacak

The Middle Kingdom

In those days we spent our time
sitting quietly in softly lighted rooms
designed for that purpose, trying not
to let any involuntary line of thought
arrive at its logical (and, of course,
regrettable) conclusion: namely
that our days were numbered.


We were all well-fed and warmly clothed, and
experienced no misgivings on this account.
The oceans were calm and shallow,
the rivers stocked with salmon. Each spring
brilliantly coloured birds passed over
on their way to northern lakes and hills.
Poems were often penned concerning
their brief and glorious transit. When
they returned in autumn we succumbed
to appropriate feelings of mild regret.

Our figurative art gave no hint of the fact
that male animals experienced erections,
nor were children obliged to light the match
that would incinerate their families.
Similarly it was not considered necessary
to rip your opponent’s lips from his face
or force him to digest his ears.

How slow that time now seems,
how sweet, how gradual every graceful gesture!
But it is impossible to regret its passing
It was not a time of truth and realism.
The passage of migratory birds
did not accord to the facts, nor
the coming of spring, nor a man’s respect
for women, nor courtesy, friendship, honour…

Regret is impossible
(and, besides, nostalgia
is an imprisonable offense) now
that every issue is as clear as blood,
bright as tears, and we live
in understanding even as we die.

John Ash


Mark 6:11 King James version.

Goodbye forever.