I sit watching Time Bandits, which illicits no emotional response other than profound disappointment that the film, directed by Terry Gilliam, and starring John Cleese, Michael Palin and Sean Connery, isn't very entertaining. (I wonder when we're due for some Monty Python repeats on the TV - it must have been years since the last one, certainly I can remember watching it whilst at primary school - though it's rumoured that it's lost to a video deal. Maybe when Greg Dyke's plan for opening the BBC's Creative Archive comes to fruition....)
Nevertheless, this is not what has moved me to write (though it may be the stack of potential blog posts that I want to write over the next few days). I espied an advert for Cheestrings (abhorrent website, but apparently no popups), in which some brat affects calcium deficiency (by painting Tipp-ex spots on his fingernails), and suggests to his doting mother that Cheestrings might cure him.
All of which isn't in itself bad, since I think we've all accepted that children are bastards, but what riles me is that the mother falls for it, noting something like, "They're made with real cheese!" and complies with her son's wishes.
What a hideous payoff, subconsciously telling kids that their parents are stupid, and will do anything for you. I would move that we all boycott Cheestrings, but since I know that all the lovely visitors to this site are beautiful, intelligent people, they won't have gone near the synthetic snack.
Of course, there's always the risk that I've just pulled an Ed Gillespie, and you're all going to hell in a vacuum pack. That is a risk I am willing to take.
PS. The end of the film seems to be somewhat better than the middle, but I'm still not entirely enthused. Woo for Jim Broadbent, though.