Dec 3, 2012

A creative meltdown means horrible bowls and don't you forget it

What the actual frigging actual?

I mean, SERIOUSLY to the max, uber-voltage SERIOUSLY, with some SERIOUS cherries on top?

While lazing around in my local Chinese takeaway, I spotted a stack of glossy magazines on a table just above a fiercely hot heater. It was actually dangerous. Being a sound citizen, I moved the magazines away from the heat source and, as you will understand, had to read them all in the process.

Among the bland hot OK air of thin people in their mansions was Take A Break, which had this gem of a "groovy idea" (pictured):
"I found some vinyl records in my attic and wanted to re-use them. I put a record on a heatproof bowl and placed it in a warm oven until it began to melt. Then I carefully moulded the warm vinyl around another dish and left it to harden.
"Now I have a retro bowl that's perfect for storing my keys and loose change."
As a house full of busybodies write letters to trite lifestyle magazines saying "look what memories I destroyed today to avoid putting coins onto the many convenient and robust shelves and surfaces throughout our well-equipped home", a poor dead uncle is looking down on his old classical collection as it is melted into warped plant pots, faux-trendy wall clocks and horrible dog bowls.

Because when I look at a record, I suddenly think my pockets are too heavy and maybe their scratchy contents would look good spinning at 33prm on knackered vinyl. I mean, SERIOUSLY. In other news, I now store all my Facebook photos inside a corrupted mp3.

We're a quarter of the way through an octuple-dip recession, so re-use and recycle by all means. But I am truly horrified.

I should never have moved those magazines away from the heater. That's right, reader: I would rather my local takeaway burn to the ground than have some enterprising creative make an old thing into a new thing because they want to. That's the kind of person I am. That's the kind of person this 'retro bowl' has made me.

Oh I'm annoyed. I'm going for a walk.

Now where are my keys?

Further Fats: Do you pay for your record collection?