You called the speaking clock recently? I did. Not so long ago in fact. We had a power surge in NW Lunnun, everything flashed on/off/black/white and the clocks went ape (sat on their hands and ate bananas). So I picks up the boneo and dialled the ol’123… I’s serenaded by the dulcet tones of that rather posh bint that told the time sponsored by the accurate wrist. Reassuring and clear, job done. But then the clocks went back (not all by themselves, y’unnerstand), and there’s that simple manoeuvre you can do. Or so you might think for a man of my advanced years (and I would’ve agreed with you) but I made an error and kept getting my kids to school too early and they began to get increasingly pissed off. So, today I dialled the posh bint again, before wringing the hands, and awaited the… some bloody fairy from under the wing of the newly elected Barack Obama! Calling herself ‘Tinkerbell’ of all bloody things.

      I’m well aware that, in the C21^st UK, it might seem a trifle redundant to be told the time by a posh bint with cut glass vowels and super-duper consonants but, why-oh-why do we need some cross pond Yank screeching down the dog to tell us what time it will be when she’s rung her bloody bell thrice? I’d wring her bloody neck, ring her sodding bell and spawn a coven of sprites, if it didn’t conjure images of a thrashing, flailing Julia Roberts on her death-bed. And that bleeding film! Reason enough to call an abrupt and long-lasting end to the ‘special relationship’ that we supposedly ‘enjoy’. But I digress (a little). This latest encroachment into our hallowed heritage is surely but a triple jumper’s toe over the line of cultural exchanges that must bring about an immediate cessation to all familiarities.  I mean are we so irrevocably entwined with the Behemoth that we cannot even hold onto our own beloved cultural icons without yielding to them the whining tone of the Eternal Complainers? Did Mr Barrie not habituate Hyde and not Central Park? Did the Darling family not live over the Bayswater Road, rather than over an Ocean? What possible connection does Neverland have with the Disunited States of America beyond attempts at Marketing, Commerce and Imperialism?

      And yeah, obviously, that was but a book that travelled and any reader has the right to interpret the story as they see fit, equally obviously, over there, that Perve had his own Neverland, that has since gloriously fallen into disrepute and disrepair and yes The Deppster made a fantastic and beguiling Barrie, BUT… are ye not fed up with the preponderance of the yank tones all over our waves, appropriating our tongue, our written word and our consciousness? The use of those cadences to lend gravitas to stories that bear NO relation to that distant land mass? That belligerently pleading voice demanding that we spend whatever we can borrow? One sits watching kid’s TV and the tsunami of ads fronted by the bleating voices of the Empire winds one beyond any reasonable limit of self-control. It’s the voice of the Oppressor smugly reminding us that we’ve been had; that we surely are the 51^st State and that they can do whatever the bollox they want with our tongue, our culture and our history.

      The greatest pity is that while they persist in urinating and defecating all over the same, we applaud and ape them while eating their junk, watching their crap and obsessing about their bloody elections. (All the while our democracy is being sold down the Swannee in slavish dependence to the mighty dollar). Weapons of Mass Distraction indeed! They dropped one right in our midst, way, way back, and we cradled it into our emaciated and weary bosoms in the hope of  succour. But now its stuck there and we’re too frightened to rip it off and start again. And we’re the Suckers. Clever trick.

      So then you put yr investigative boots on and trawl the wwweb for a little insider info on The Tinker Bell and hey nonny nonny… first up? Those world wide purveyors of Yankee Dreaming, the Disney Corp, are about to present us with an animated piece of tripe that further removes us from the intended idea that Tinkerbell was in fact a rather mean tinker fairy, good with pots and pans and not much else and was but one of a band of sprites bonded by the love of Pete at that. And a frightmare looms, those of us who’ve fallen under the narcoleptic spell of the Dream of Acquisition are about to be overwhelmed by the glories of a Super-cheeky sprite who keens away in that irritating tone, akin to nothing so much as the nail and blackboard, all over the Festive Period. (As they are so fond of calling the Mass of He who came). I dunno, mebbe you quite like The Voice, mebbe you’ve grown accustomed to it, can tune it out. I pity/envy you.

      And then the realisation dawns… we here, upon this Sceptered Isle, are become naught but a bright shiny billboard flashing at the world flogging the wares of a civilisation that cares not two hoots, as long as the billboard is operational and unobstructed. The Clear Channel, my arse! Time for a little obfuscation methinks, at least a complaint or two. Better still a suggestion. How about we ask for the ribald tones of Ian Dury on the talking clock? What would he rhyme with clock? Hard I know from the grave, but modern technology and all that? Or, or, or some crazed loon like Miranda Richardson to give us a definitive and very English Tinker-sprite! Even bloody Bjork with her mad Icelandic/ Bristol accent would be truer to the ideal. But some air-brushed squeak with opalescent graphix? Puh-leeze! Let us agree now, those of us who might be tempted or tugged in the direction of a cinema by recalcitrant children, that we will NOT invoke contamination by this invasion of the Septic Ideal.

      Instead I invoke in you the spirit of Peter Finch in the fillum ‘Network’. Are we gonna be ‘Mad as hell and not take it anymore’? Are we? Or are we just gonna roll over and take it any way that Uncle Sam feels like rendering it unto us. As he maintains and wipes clean his billboards/screens/broadsheets/advertising opportunities. No! Let us further agree that we will appropriate the surfaces that are used to lie, cheat, steal, and deceive and make humourous the walk to work, the moments of idle waiting , the escalator creeep; with messages of hope and wit, integrity and joy! Come on! Y’know it makes sense. All that acreage being used to part you from the cash you’ve only borrowed anyway. Why not borrow a corner to pass on the message of love? Or take the whole bloody thing and dispel confusion with a simple slogan: EAT LESS or GIVE MORE THAN YOU THINK YOU CAN? Tink would be proud of you! Tinker that she was before Walt’s Wankers coated her in their saccharine. There’s a whole bunch of kids gonna grow up thinking that that wicked/anarchic sprite was sweet and positive, a helping hand in times of trouble. Read the bloody source material! Tink was a right pain in the arse and should stay that way. Certainly shouldn’t be trusted to tell us the time!