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…

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…

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…

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…

  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…

  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…

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…

  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,…

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…

  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…