Someone suggested yesterday that the logical progression for this project would be to give up buying entirely and go forage for sustenance in the countryside. Hmm, one step at a time, one step at a time. Besides, there is an extremely brave and iron stomached gentleman who has beaten me to it.

Click here to find out which tasty weeds can be eaten from hedgerows and roundabouts. Makes Ray Mears look like the amateur he really is.

From The NY Times. Thanks To Erin At Idea Generation

Despite the initial crashing depression/ withdrawal/ panic, I've managed to reach the end of the first week brand-free and you know what.. I'm still alive, and I actually feel much better about the whole thing. The new patterns of life are getting slightly easier and more familiar… its early days but I think I can get used to all this lifestyle, barring the odd slip up).

People may doubt the ethics/ politics of this project but one fact that is indisputable; this new lifestyle is by far cheaper and infinitely more healthy (physically and mentally) than my normal regime.



1. It's cheaper: my outgoings have dropped substantially. With no retail therapy as a leisure option, I've only bought stuff that I actually need, which isn't very much beyond food and cleaning supplies. All those bottles of Evian, packets of Marlboros and the odd impulse purchase on the high street add up. As long as I plan my day carefully, I don't really miss those 'luxuries' much at all. Well, not much.



2. It's healthier: the chemicals in all my cosmetic and cleaning products are gone since I have started making my own. Formaldehyde, phenol, benzene, toluene, and xylene (chemicals that are cancer causing and toxic to the immune system) are found in most household cleaners, cosmetics and processed food. A study by the Yale School of Medicine revealed that people who are exposed to cleaning products regularly have a significantly higher risk of brain cancer. Need I say more?



3. Its more fulfilling: with no TV to fill parts of the day, I am starting to read much more. I'm having to re-learn how to entertain myself… read a book, get out of the flat and do something. After a normal working day, the missus and I would both slump in front of the TV until we fell asleep; that’s all changing. Saturday morning would normally be spent roaming around the high street looking for things to buy that I couldn't afford and didn't really need. Now I'm forced to do something less boring instead.

Like I say, its early days; perhaps this is the honeymoon period before I start to feel completely paranoid and disconnected and start to grow dreadlocks and listen to Chumbawamba. This week, I pick up my generic mobile phone and switch contracts from Orange to the Phone Co-Operative. Giving up the fags has been hell, so I'm off to the hypnotherapist. Has anyone out there managed to kick the habit using hypnotists? It would be useful to know.

If there were five words to sum up the post-burning feeling in the Boorman household, they would be: numb, exhausted, quiet, bare and calm. No phones going off, no TV drone in the background, no piles of stuff clogging up the corners of rooms. There is perspective and clarity! Unfortunately, there is also minimal communication, even less entertainment and absolutely no SunPat crunchy peanut butter. My drain blocked this morning, and I'm wondering what to use instead of Mr Muscle.

In these early stages, the things I miss the most are Extra chewing gum, Evian water (or any bottled water when your caught thirsty in the street), The Simpsons, Marlboro Menthol cigarettes, and my Orange Treo phone. Stuff like chewing gum and water cost so little, that they don't appear to have much value, but when they are gone, you realise how much comfort they bring. Still, life goes on.

I'll be keeping this blog going until the book is out next year, but mostly as a resource page for non branded alternatives plus news and views surrounding advertising etc. If I write too much of my diary here, Google/ Blogger will claim ownership when I publish and screw me for the little cash I'll be making.



A quote from last week's Guardian article on the withering value of the FCUK brand…. basically, when the brand is weakened and the ads aren't so persuasive, people start to notice that the product is, well, a bit shit.

Rita Clifton, chairman of brand consultancy Interbrand: 'As the [FCUK] joke wore thin, it no longer had that type of emotional hold over consumers and when the emotional hold becomes weaker of course things like product inadequacy or lack of perceived value, all these things come into play'.
Guardian 13.09.06

If you'd have told me five years ago that the last branded thing I would buy (for a long time at least) was the Adastra 952 Megaphone, I would have laughed. But here it is… my aspiarions to Arthur Scargill chic finally realised with a loudhailer for my speech on Sunday.

If anyone has any good lines from famous speeches (Churchill/ Gandhi/ Chuckle Brothers) do please post some here, as I never took a course in motivational speaking. I'm told that finger wagging, shouting and fist shaking works well.

Hopefully see you at Finsbury Square, 7pm Sunday.

For reasons known only to Blogger, this site has been frozen for two weeks, so apologies to anyone that wanted to find the location of the fire/ wish me well or ill / tell me to give my stuff to charity.

Anyhow, the fire takes place on Finsbury Square, London EC1 at 7pm sharp this Sunday 17th. Please pass by if you're in town. There's a free bottle of (non-branded) water in it if you do.

Oops, we apologise for the technical difficulties. No I haven't had second thoughts and done a runner.. I was just trying to move this blog to another site, and it all went a bit Gucci thong.

Anyhow, not much longer to go. I'll be announcing the bonfire venue on Monday, and if anyone's in the area, I would very much like to see you come down, even the people that have left nasty comments… any heckling will only add to the proceedings.

I am now in panic buying mode… clothes and food mainly, and trying to enjoy the non-replaceable branded stuff one last time; especially the TV. When you know something's about to be gone for good, the thing somehow takes on a special meaning… even Hollyoaks was watchable yesterday on E4.

The other device never to be replaced is the cursed Blackberry; good riddance to this instrument of torture. Though it looks like someone's already ahead of me on that one….

Baking Soda. Who knew this competitively priced, common household object could hold the key to cleanliness? Trawling through the web for alternatives to Mr Muscle, Cif and Cillit Bang, I have come to understand that this simple item is the solution to all my cleaning demands. Seriously though, why is my cupboard full of expensive cleaners and detergents when this stuff (added to a little white wine vinegar) does the same job?



The bottles under my sink are over-priced. I knew that when I bought them, but I didn't think there was any alternative. Looking at the ingredients, I'm sure they are potentially harmful/ polluting. And they don't get the job done that much better. In short, it is a rip off. Which is one of the arguments I'm starting to come around to more and more re this project. The plain and simple truth is that branding artificially inflates the value of the product that it is attached to. We pay over the odds for products that are often only marginally better than the non-branded alternative; some of the time I think we know these things are overpriced, yet we are compelled to buy them anyway. I think it is a con.

I'm amazed that so many of the angry people who've visited this blog and the BBC site have missed this point. We are being ripped off on a grand scale. And to top that, we are so entrenched in the culture, we place so much of our time, energy and faith in it that we get upset when someone rejects the value of these things and decides to throw it all away. As an anonymous visitor to the blog posted yesterday, the likes of Elton John throw more money away on flowers in a month than the sum total of my entire bonfire's worth, and he is congratulated for it, as are all the majority of the wealthy who throw money away on luxury before our eyes in the papers each day.

Despite what some people might think (party-going media w*anker) I currently spend 70% of my waking life sitting in my flat writing and reading, the other 30% looking for brand-free stuff in markets; so stepping into the eye of a publicity storm as I did yesterday was the most dramatic change of pace I've ever experienced. The following account plays right into the hands of people who posted/ emailed to tell me that I'm only in this for the publicity (to which I reply there are easier/ cheaper ways of getting press), but yesterday happened, there's no point denying it, so if you're interested in what its like, read on.



7.40: picked up by a cab (nice Audi) and taken to the Television Centre to be interviewed on BBC1's breakfast show. I'm plonked in a waiting room on my own with half an hour to spare before I go on… half an hour to try and maintain anxiety levels, which are already sky high, as I've never done live TV before. Gulping down some water I start to relax a little, only for the TV in the room to spring to life, playing the show I'm about to go on; 'Coming up, former Eastender Michelle Collins, REM's Michael Stipe and a journalist who is about to burn ALL his brands.' Jesus Christ, I hope the other guests don't come into this waiting room. what am I going to say to them.. 'So Michelle, did you really kill Ian Beale' as I quietly soil my trousers.

8.30: ten minutes to go, and I'm pacing outside the studio trying to hold it down. Michelle Collins is stuck in traffic apparently, so I might have to go on for longer. Or they'll rush the REM guy on early.

8.40: I'm sitting on the sofa in front of the cameras, waiting to go on. This is my last chance to make a run for it. What would they do, go straight to news and travel? I might never work on telly again, but who cares? Suddenly my gormless picture flashes up on a big screen behind me and we are away.



8.45: The interview is over. Didn't corpse or stutter thankfully. Completely buzzing with adrenalin, I cross the studio floor and bump into Michael Stipe, who's waiting to go on. 'Hey dude, good piece. I read your blog yesterday, I think it’s a cool thing that you're doing'. I'm lost for words. He continues, 'I bought these shoes from Prada yesterday, but only because they are the most comfortable I can find'. I'm still stood frozen. he shakes my hand and says 'I'm Michael'. 'Yes, I know. Pleasure to meet you. Err, thanks very much Michael... nice jacket, where did you get that from?' 'You don't wanna know' he shakes my hand and walks on to the set.

9.30: having been torn to shreds on Radio 5 Live the night before, it has been decided that I need two hours of intensive media training. I am now sitting with an ex news editor of the Daily Mirror, who is has turned his trade to coaching businessmen, politicians and celebrities how to talk themselves out of a crisis on the TV/ radio. Fascinating stuff, learning how to control the flow of conversation, crush arguments and make points. Though somehow, it all feels rather sinister. This is hardcore.

11.30: Mum, fiancé and a close friend call to say well done on the telly.



12.00: do a radio interview with an Irish radio station. They don't really ask me any tough questions, so it's not as stressful as before.



1.00: do a radio interview for a station in New Zealand. Again, the questions are reasonably fluffy, so not too many problems. Can't quite believe that this project has spread from my front room in London across the world to New Zealand.

2.00: speak to fire officers/ health and safety people who are concerned that I asked punters to throw their gear on the fire alongside me on the TV this morning. That was a big mistake. Must not do that again.

3.00: Do an interview with the Independent On Sunday, which is more demanding than the rest, plus I'm tiring of the sound of my own voice and feeling completely knackered. Still, I try and remember some of the training I had earlier in the day: DON’T TELL ME, SHOW ME.

5:00: meet with some more people from the Beeb about doing some sort of programme. Running on vapour now, a wired feeling of exhaustion and adrenalin that I can imagine can become quite addictive if you keep it up for long. For most of the meeting, everyone round the table picks holes in my project, though it is relatively well humoured. So far it's only been the BBC that has picked up on my story, TV-wise. Is that because they are the only broadcasters in the UK that are ad-free, and can afford to take the risk of me spouting on about the evils of advertising? Probably not, but it makes for a nice conspiracy theory.



6.00: I stumble on to the street from the meeting feeling a bit faint, and spark up a Marlboro Light (started smoking again due to the stress… going to a hypnotist next week to get that nailed). The smoke stings me eyes and as I rub them better standing hunched in the street, the adrenalin gives way and I'm crashing. Out of nowhere, a complete stranger on a bike stops and yells 'Oi, I saw you on telly this morning. When are you going to burn your stuff' 'Err, September 17th'. This day cannot get any more bizarre. 'I don't buy any brands if I can help it, have you heard of the Greenfutures website? They do loads of stuff that would be good for you.'. 'Err, ok, cool'. I'm so taken aback that anyone recognises me that for the second time today, I'm left stuttering and lost for words.

8.00: Go to bed. Start worrying that I've created a monster that I can't really handle, but before the though is even processed I fall asleep.