A clear mind takes a clear life.

 

Clear of the empty carcasses of the stuff of life. Its sustenance, maintenance, fancies, fripperies and last-minute wants.

 

Clear of spent boxes, empty tubes. Empty skins, weeks ago crafted by nature and for now we longer care. The cast-away, empty-bellied mothers of meals. The cheese-turned-something the fridge holds and the memory no longer does. The packet that just yesterday satisfied one last plain chocolate, caramel-filled morsel of desire.

 

Clear of the death that blots the sparkle of living. The dust, the fluff, the withered nail, the layers of cells that once were.

 

Clear of nagging letters, memos, red reminders, memories of errors, agonies, responsibilities and old loves standing in the way of fresh thoughts.

 

Clear of the nagging thought that what we create often just creates more to clear.

 

And clear of that pang of guilt that, even after clearing our lives of inconvenience, we still need to clear out every day.

 

Thank you, bin men, for stepping out, braving the miasma and the elements, and clearing it.

 

Clearing our head-space to try and clear the world of even bigger things.

While we sit and write, let’s remember the one who sits and sells.

 

Never shifting, just tapping. Eyes up, eyes down. Up-belt, down-belt. Four euros twenty. Eighteen dollars ten. Box, bottle, box, bargain-box, carton, special offer. Pack of six. Treat for just one.

 

Tap-tap. Thank you, and you.

 

The server of all. The short, the high and the mighty. Strutters, shufflers and soul-seekers. The swearers, the thinkers, the thankers and the mindless drifters. The charming, the rough, the unruly. The sprightly, the clearly sick and the maybe, maybe, sick-to-be.

 

Tap-tap. Take care.

 

The saver of faces. The condoms, the stain removers, the ladies’ things. The missing purse, the dollar short of the twelve. The blank looks ready for the rest of a blanker day.

 

Tap-Tap. Till later.

 

The sustainer of lives. Of life. Of normality. Of the peace and the odd, precious pleasure. Bless you, checkout girl, our regular, tolerant, eyes-up eyes-down daily saint, for braving the storm. To sit there, tapping.

 

Because you do it so well, we can all keep trying.

THINGS TO DO TODAY.

 

First, stand still and listen. No, it’s not squeaky brakes you hear outside. It’s the first sparrows of spring. Walk past an apartment block, look up at a second-floor window and shout I love you. If you’re a loudmouth, try the fourth. For the first time, nobody will think you’re weird. Look up at the sky, and love that it’s not streaked with vapour-trails like track-and-change on copy. Look at leaves swinging to a beat. Someone, somewhere, is making music. Buy three croissants, one for your morale, one for the lady at the till and one the guy in the blanket. Ring a client, any client at random and ask how the hell they are. How are the kids. Or the spaniels. Not where the hell’s my cheque. We all love surprises and we’re all in this. Call someone who was in your life and tell them they still are. The cousin in Minsk. The fell-walking godfather. The English teacher who gave you a way of making a living. The first CD who gave you a chair, a table, a brief and a roasting. The lover who nearly was. Or was just once. Add ten more headlines to the ones you’re just about to send. They’re called cherries on cakes. Ones you can’t just buy. Remember that news is just news. Work like the devil. After all, we’re all a bit closer to hell. Applaud the hospital teams till your arms ache. Theirs do. Then, when the day’s done, pour yourself a glass and make a list of things to do tomorrow.

This is for those who address nations and tell everyone to work from home.

 

It’s fine to say. After all, they can themselves.

 

And if you are right now, good for you. The world, the air and the oceans will say thank-you later on.

 

Meanwhile, you’ve every reason to say thank-you right now.

 

To the millions who can’t simply tuck a laptop under their arm, find a cosy spot, make an expresso, tap a key, sign in and plough on.

 

Yet plough on nonetheless.

 

Those whose everyday tools don’t move as easily as a laptop or a phone.

 

Like Conveyor belts. Gurneys. Reservoir valves. Turbines. Combine harvesters. Bakers’ ovens. Pylons. Scanners. Cash registers. Fork-lifts. Police cars. Buses. Fifty-ton trucks.

 

The people who populations count on. Not just bean-counters. Nations.

 

Those who don’t just turn opinions, but keep the world turning. It’s harder still.

 

And who very often make it possible for us lucky ones to tuck a laptop under our arm, find a cosy spot, make an expresso, tap a key, sign in and plough on.

 

Thank you.

 

 

This is for those of us who never really talk about what we work on.

 

There are those who do. And rightly so.

 

“I’m working on Nike”.

 

Good for you. Really. Those who can say, deserve to.

 

They’ve done the 52-hour days. Slept under desks. Eaten their millionth stale boardroom sandwich at sunrise. Suffered repeat rejections in front of whole departments.

 

Yep. All that.

 

But here’s a thing.

 

So too have the people who slave over brands the world has yet to see.

 

Let’s never forget that making a brand famous is harder work than keeping it there.

 

All mighty brands were tiny once. Apple started in a homebrew computer club. Nike was born on a running track at Oregon university. A Mr. Heineken borrowed money from his mum to buy an abandoned brew-house in 1864. And a Mr. Branson used to drive a vanload of vinyl down to Cornwall once a week.

 

Imagine the graft, tears, grit and bleary eyes that took them from there. Not just in garages and granny’s spare bedroom. But in agency back-rooms far and wide.

 

That in mind, maybe the ultimate accolade should go the growers, not the show-ers.

 

So, here’s to the hidden ones.

 

The grafters. The after-hours soldiers. The unseen heroes. The solitary anglepoises in the unlit corners. The planners, writers, art directors and designers who pass days, nights and marriages turning brands we don’t know into giants we will. They’re not fond of prima donnas. And they have no respect for the clock.

 

You can question their thinking, scrutinise their efforts, re-brief and re-review, but the only thing you can’t do is ignore them. Because they change things. They push brands forward. And while some feel they’re the hidden ones, they should all be worshiped.

 

Because the people who many agencies hide away are the ones who make them shine.

 

 

I’ve made a few promises to the world this year.

 

I say “promises” because for me, “resolutions” never stick.

 

Perhaps it’s my dopamine-hungry attention-deficient mind. It wanders like a dog off a lead. More and more, I’m halfway through a piece of work with a deadline on my back, seconds ticking, client whistling, and I think of another way to do it.

 

A piece of music on the radio, a bird singing outside, a phone call about not a lot and my train of thought goes into a siding like a train, and comes out looking like a plane. Or the inverse.

 

It’s an asset and a curse. Even that changes all the time.

 

Damn.

 

Anyway, I’m distracted. Back to promises. Yes. There are everyday life ones, and one big one.

 

The life ones are simple. Yoga once a week. If I don’t, I might not walk by the time I’m 65. Yes, I’m falling to bits already. Blame my genes and over-good French living.

 

Cello practice once a day. Scales, exercises, a bit of Bach.  Someone said I might be good one day if I do. It doesn’t help having a sister who’s brilliant at it and knows it.  But that’s life. I’ll at least be my sort of good. That’ll do.

 

A good deed every day. I’m already half-decent at this. Kindness towards other beings, animal or vegetable, is what drives this world and what will save it. From now on, someone will get something out of my pocket every day. Or help crossing the boulevard. Or encouragement or a well done. Something.

 

Which neatly leads me to my big one.

 

From now on, I’m no longer going to collect likes online. The like, once a valid online unit of merit, has become a devalued unit of nothing. Its downfall started when bot-faced data-based lifeforms thought of ways of generating them without any effort. Double your likes! Earn more! Yeah! Like endlessly printing a digital currency to counteract a rate of inflation we haven’t got a name for. Look at what happens to countries who over-print money.

 

Likes are like follow-my-leader in a darkroom. One likes, and others follow. If it’s liked, it must be worth liking. To link your number of likes to your search engine position overturns the very idea of a meritocracy.

 

We should just rename them Unearned Statistical Data Capture Points. Period.

 

No. Forget likes. From January 1, my preferred unit is now the thank-you.

 

People thank each other for real reasons. Not gratuitously.

 

For being genuinely enlightened. For being helped. With a piece of writing, an insight, with the shopping, across the road or a pram up three flights of stairs. For time. For sending me something out of the blue. For a compliment or a mention, and meaning it. For grace. For being frank and not just agreeing. For wearing a smile rather than a look like a dead walnut. For real tips. For being shown stuff that we genuinely never knew about. For being trusted. For the stuff that’s never asked for but thank God it’s in there. For being asked back the second time. The third. For being paid.

 

There are a trillion real reasons to earn a thank-you. It’s why I like them.

 

Happy 2020, and thank you for reading.

 

 

This is for those who believe we can communicate and build brands purely by design.

 

Ha.

 

Here’s a thing. To connect consumers to brands, first think how people connect to people.

 

When we meet, we eye each other. And we assume. Stylish. Clean. Suave. Intriguing. Maybe. Loaded. Modest. Mad. Honest. Professional. Maybe. Hard-working. Smiley. Boozy. Fiery. Maybe.

 

Good start. But love at first sight is a myth.

 

Only when they speak, you feel the tingle.

 

Because it’s what people say that affirms who they are.

 

Their attitudes, offerings, tastes, stupidities, opinions, loves and hates, passions, compassions and views of the world. Whether they’re generous, warm, capable, kindly, cold, understanding, arrogant, sympathetic, business-like, practical, blunt, systematic. Listeners or blabbers.

 

Or just bullshitters.

 

It’s the same with brands.

 

After all, today’s brand relationships are like human ones. A two-way dialogue. Not a come-and-get-me. Based on values in common. Not just needs.

 

In partnerships that develop and move on, both sides call the shots. One-siders end in divorce.

 

So, it’s easy to see why consumers can’t bond with a brand after just seeing its face. It’s not enough. It’ll get you a one-night stand, but never to the altar.

 

A be-with-me, not just a look-at-me.

 

To build a true, exploitable, bond with its followers, a brand needs to open its mouth. Just like us.

 

And say who it is. And more. In its own words, nobody else’s. Till the thing goes beyond the first date, the nervous first snog, the first fumble, the sex and the joint account.

 

A brand’s words are its inner self. Every time we read or hear them, in advertising, in packaging, in social, we’re assured that the one who’s talking is the one we first met.

 

Words sustain relationships. Period.

 

Forget the sharp suit or the haircut. It’s for life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I killed a dog once.

 

It was in a past life, in 1987. Before becoming a copywriter, I ran a fireworks company and we did a show for a big posh horsey wedding in the south of England. Lots of Jaguars, gin, blinis, chequered dance floors, little gilt chairs, real estate prices, that sort of wedding.

 

The show started, a thunderous crash of titanium maroons and mauve rockets (titanium maroons are wicked. The flash is very bright and the bang would waken your dead aunt). The sky was all mauve and silver, the horsey folk looked up, lots of ooh’s and aah’s. I hit the button for the next sequence, a volley of red star shells to follow the mauve. The ground trembled a bit as the mortars spat them into the sky. Ker-rrump. More ooh’s.

 

The rack of mortars made a little squeaky sound. But it was made of wood and wooden racks creak sometimes, nothing seemed wrong, so on we went. The silver fountains, the blue and gold comets (lots of aah’s and wolf-whistles at this point), the roman candle arrays, the big “M” and “T” in a big red heart (can’t remember who they stood for), then the finale shells, all colours, and strobe effect stars like static silver rain. Wham.

 

Applause. We started clearing up. The grubby bit, covered in soot and your clothes stinking of farty sulphur. Then my foot hit something. It was a Labrador. Handsome. Big black eyes. His neck was snapped. Stone dead.

 

Most dogs hate fireworks, but clearly not him. He must have leant over the mortar rack when it fired. He didn’t have a chance. I’d been pushing the buttons across the field, and saw nothing.

 

We didn’t go home that night and slept in our stinky van on the site, in the rain. Next morning, I reunited the dog with the owner. Grandchildren cried, and one threw up. Gregory, the terrier’s name was. And I said sorry. It was my fault. It needn’t have. I could have called them irresponsible, careless, horsey oafs for not keeping their pets indoors. Common sense, stupid. But I should have told them. Buy a box of amateur fireworks from a corner shop, and the safety note says “Keep Pets Indoors” in 50-point Helvetica. And us pros didn’t.

 

Right, roll the clock forward 32 years. Would a dog-murdering firework operator admit it today? Most likely not. Because now, we’re not allowed to be wrong.

 

It’s a crushing, cancerous 21^st century problem. We’re obliged to tell each other we’re perpetually right. Everything’s just great.

 

Ninety-nine percent of social media posts are such great news. Wins. Achievements. Celebrations. Lovely scenes. We’re all so, so perfect. So much good news, in fact, that, we’re terrified to voice our shortcomings. Even to our friends. What, you’re not infallible? Say that, and we’ll never win.

 

Truth is, keep our mistakes to ourselves, and we’ll never quite believe each other. We’ll never learn. Fewer of us will come forward with potentially game-changing, life-enhancing, planet-saving ideas. And more of us will be mentally ill.

 

Yes, we all have access to a seemingly endless source of inspiration. Fabulous. But with it comes a barrier to equally creative minds with different degrees of confidence. To see success of spurs others on. Brilliant. But equally, it intimidates. Even when it’s false.

 

As a way to encourage others to open up, why don’t we all admit, online, publicly every day, one little error we made the day before? Just as encouragement, here are some of mine from yesterday.

 

I put French stamps on some UK letters. La Poste is unforgiving. They won’t arrive.

 

I was 30 minutes late for a briefing with a new client. I got on the wrong Metro line.

 

I had to be told what a Geotag was. I had no idea.

 

I had to be told who Lizzo was.

 

I forgot my 6-monthly cancer scan.

 

If we shared our mistakes along with our triumphs, more of us would share. Then one day, maybe we might be all be truly great.

 

The horsey firework client had us back again two years later. To celebrate his divorce. We told him to keep all pets indoors.

 

Apologies again, Gregory.

 

 

I love martinis. Plymouth gin, shaken, very dry, with a twist. They’re harder to find in Paris than London or New York. That is, unless I’m prepared to raise a small mortgage, head for the George V or the Plaza Athenée, and jostle with the rich and silent, their alien earrings, Pierre Cardin shoulder bags and integral collagen. I’m not, sorry.

 

But then there’s Harry’s Bar, down the boulevard from Opéra. It’s about as Parisian as Cape Canavaral, but there’s something about the place. Sprint through the ground floor with its cockney accents, hot dogs and rugby shirts, scale the windy oak stairs to the basement and you transcend time. A low-lit, velvety, womb-like, phoneless cocoon. Here, nods replace words. Even Satan couldn’t track you down here. Bliss.

 

I work there sometimes. Never with a martini. Van Gogh, Tennyson and Mozart could do it, but not mortals like me. Maybe one when I’m done. But I’m really not there for the martinis, though they are good.

 

It’s just because I’m somewhere else.

 

I have to be. Working where I eat, sleep and wash my buttocks doesn’t work. My head needs another space. Even fifty metres away. Anywhere. Funny. I saw the importance of walking out when I stopped walking to an agency. It’s an inbuilt human thing, I think. Maybe the reason why rooms were invented. And why open-plan agencies are hard work.

 

And lucky for me, this is Paris. I’m spoilt. Co-working spaces with no air, just the smell of ambition and green tea. Bars where ambitions get born and drowned. Parks where poodles and thoughts stray at will. The Chinese place where the Christmas tinsel never comes down. The brasserie of the botulinum burgers. And all 100 metres away. It feels like 1000 miles.

 

And in other places are other people.

 

Not agency folk but builders, guitarists, spiritualists, grandmothers, non-toxic burger makers, grips, waiters, taxmen, activists, vets,  truckers, gawping tourists, organists, dreamers, dads, washer-uppers, carpenters, light-bulb sellers, coffee reps, runaways, hospital patients, war veterans. All with lives to talk about, to share. Touching, fascinating, inspiring, every one.

They are who we talk to when we write. Yet too many of us hole up with our own kind and never talk to them. Maybe it’s one of the reasons why advertising is spiralling out of touch, and commercial communications are seen as alien by everyone not in communications. We assume all folk live, love and talk like agency folk. Wrong.

 

Expand into other worlds, and your mind will follow.

 

And it’s Friday evening. I’m in a co-working space. On the next table is a crowd of students talking about how to build stone walls. Maybe I can put some of it in this car insurance work on mine. Anyway, I was waiting for some feedback, and it’s here. Track n’ change everywhere, as if some algorithmic spider had crawled all over it.

 

Monday, I think. It’s Friday night. And maybe, maybe, martini time.

 

Despite Boris Johnson I still go to London now again. There’s the odd briefing and brainstorm. Lunch with dad, brighter than me at 90. Cello duets, expletives and venison stew with sis and her three young genii, all brighter than me. And time with Misha, who’s brighter than us all. After an hour with her, I’m armed with phrases for a week and looking forward to living the next 40 years.

 

Misha lives in a vast and rambling Crouch End maze of kids, headless mannequins, kittens, disco balls, old pulpits, dumb-bells, an enviable collection of coffee tins, the occasional hundred-person Bar Mitzvah, a massage studio, fairy lights, mirrored screens, all things leopard-skin, a garden full of life-sized purple and green fibreglass cows and the products of impulse. Stuff that says nobody has designed the place out of a catalogue, but real people with real minds and desires live in it. Misha isn’t a neurosurgeon, galactic theorist or high court judge, though she might have eloped with a few. She’s a mother of five who just turns whatever life deals her into careers. Columnist, model, film extra, massage therapist, reading tutor, market stallholder, personal trainer, stand-up comedienne. And that’s since we met.

 

She’s the perfect lesson that there’s creative capital in anything. Love, life, divorce, trauma, fortune, childbirth, even hardship. I went there once and there was little to eat, but six kittens were playing on the kitchen worktop. We drank, invented a recipe for kitten pâté but mercifully never saw it through. I saw her the night before her massage therapy exams, and we spent it discussing the relative positions of the Tibia, Fibula, Patellar Ligament and Inferior Extensor Retinaculum under the stars and over a bottle and a half of Sancerre. She passed. You drop in for coffee, and stay two hours to fry chicken legs for twenty and whitebait for her.

It’s called real live life. As you’re talking the state of the world in the kitchen, a house-guest in slippers and a string vest shuffles in, makes himself a toasted cheese sandwich, winks at us both and vanishes. Kids dart in and out in fancy dress like psychedelic goldfish, waistcoats and strawberry pompoms, exploding into Bowie songs and reciting Shakespeare. It’s an atmosphere I need more of. I’ve regretfully never created a family, let alone one as scorchingly mad as this. But I write campaigns and content for families all the time. All thanks to people like Misha and the crew for showing and telling me the ropes, quirks and all.

 

Being with someone as madly real as Misha makes me re-evaluate success. It’s not just being a global CCO or a so-called influencer. Not about being read about every day. Not about affording a Leica or a Philippe Starck olive stoner. Real successes are the everyday triumphs that make others grin, weep, say thanks, look again or stop and think. That’s influence.

 

A few months ago, her daughter Delilah walked in from school and said “What’s for dinner? By the way, I saw a giant billboard poster of you down the road.”