Tyronne (brother) and Teresa (super hot almost sister in law) are in a Canon advert.

It’s one of those light and airy mobile phone-ish bits of marketing; relaxed good-looking people do silly things while someone who sings like a sweet yet vacant airhead does the overlay music. One of those adverts that appeals to your sense of “good times” before you realise that yours are completely unlike the ones immitated by quirky, loveable waifs.

Here’s the longest advert I could find

and in case you blink, Tyronne is the guy who chucks himself over a log and Teresa is the girl photographing him. There’s more on the site.Here’s a still for your viewing pleasure:

Yep, yep. I reckon as far as landing your first ever telly ad without actually trying to elbow into the industry is concerned, that’s very good shit. My folks definitely had some good genes up for grabs.

I reckon my only hope of snatching some glory would be to push a few kids out and hope that the hottie gene skipped me but gets passed right on.

Here’s another drawing of another bunny; it may look a lot like Death in Death Finds Chloe, but while Death wears horses on her dress, this bunny does not. It wears ears and heart socks.

Today Ideal Brown had to deposit money into a friend’s account for an upcoming stag do. The Stag, organised as he is, asked that all his fellow boozers put references on their bank transfers to avoid confusion and the subsequent pesky personal administative errors.

In an effort to be funny, Ideal Brown chose to neglect his own initials in favour of “gay-men.com – refund”. And while that is a little bit funny (ha), what’s funnier is the fact that Ideal Brown’s bank froze his account because the transaction flagged so many security warnings.

Funnier still is that he had to phone the bank to authorise the transaction and reactivate his account.

Double ha.

He’s 30. Triple ha and a tiny snort of glee.

Ages ago Lyndall and I booked tickets to go and see the Yeah Yeah Yeahs play in Newcastle.

That was ages ago, but the gig was Thursday. We got there just in time according to our tickets, but super early according to just about everybody else; bought any t-shirt in any size closest to ours and drank those red alcopops that stain your tongue and make the back of your throat feel like gravel.

We were also just one row from the front, what with being super uncool and arriving on time and all.

The great thing about being in the second row was being closer to Karen-O. Of course. Especially when she stomped on mini canons that fired shiny bits of paper and confetti over us. The annoying thing was the fact that just about everybody in the front row insisted on keeping both feet on the ground all the way through the gig. The fuck? I don’t want to jump around carefully and considerately and on the same spot. I mean, sure it gets scary when you get accidentally-on-purpose stuck in a particulalry geared-up mosh pit. Sure. Sometimes there are only 6 foot tall guys around you and you’re moving around without your feet touching he floor. That’s a bit unnerving, especially if you’re just a sober girl and not a big drunk guy chewing his face off. But going to a gig, landing a front row place just to stand still and just stare like a gormless sack of shit really upsets all the people in the second row. The people in the second row expect to come home with their bras on backwards and other people’s sweat in their hair.

Aaaaaaaanyway, I caught come confetti, stuffed it in my bra and it stained my boobs, whatever. Now it’s in my makeup bag looking a little lacklustre but still choc full of great memories.

Here’s Karen O being my ultimate hero, and just below her are some punchable dickheads: