Every parent's worst fear – having an art director

I almost spilt my extra-milky ultra-weak Earl Grey this morning as I saw Baby RMWLC, focussing hard as she tried to walk, pulling an ‘art director’s face’.

You know the one I mean. That endearing one when they’re focusing every last brain cell on the task at hand (colouring in without going over the lines) and they stick their tongue out of the corner of their mouth and narrow their eyes in concentration. Yes, that face.

I couldn’t believe it. A child of mine an art director?! Talk about a cruel twist of fate.

Thankfully, a few soothing words from Mrs RMWLC coaxed me out of my despair.

She explained that behaving like an art director is a developmental stage that all children go through at around 12-18 months.

In fact, as a child matures they at one time or another possess the mental capacity of all agency types. It goes roughly like this:

Art director (12-18 months). Responds to simple instructions. Babbles 2 or 3 words repeatedly. Demands constant mothering.

Studio (18-24 months). Can put on shoes.

Account Director (2-4 years). Joins 2-3 words in sentences. Feeds self with spoon. Can count to twenty.

Account Exec (5-8 years). Speaks in sentences. Constantly asks questions.

Creative Director (8-12 years). Knows right from left (in most instances). Fluent with few infantile substitutions in speech.

Planner (teens). Awkward in social settings. Worry about being ‘normal’.

Copywriter (20+). Full cognitive development.

Pretty enlightening, huh?

You may be surprised at how developmentally advanced planners are supposed to be, but they do tend to be pretty smart. The point is they actually choose to say those things.

I'm just hoping Baby RMWLC grows out of this art director stage quickly – it's a bit much having to wipe away someone else's drool all day. Then come home and have to do the same.

By the way, if anyone has an Account Director that they've successfully potty trained, please do leave any tips in the comments section.

The tickets are now DIAMONDS

Nicked from The Denver Egotist

You weren’t there man

Yesterday, as I donned my muffler and balaclava to brave the trip home, a colleague joked that I looked like a soldier in the SAS.

He wouldn’t have been laughing if he knew the dark truth.

I've seen things that would make your irises pale in horror. Ooh the stories I could tell if I wanted (but I don’t talk about it because I'm the strong silent type).

Although my days in the special forces are now far behind me, it got me thinking about the similarities between my former and current profession.

Sure, I did some terrible things for Queen and country. I murdered men with my bare hands. And killed a wild pig by jumping out of a tree and stabbing it with a spear whilst wearing a bandana. A bit like this.


But that’s nothing compared to the things I’ve done since.

Unspeakable acts that haunt me.

I guess we've all done jobs in the past we're not proud of. But I just can't seem to get them out of my head.

Often I wake in the night screaming “Only 34.9%APR” or “Head along to our showroom now for your last chance to get low low prices!!!!”

Mrs RMWLC is understandably worried about me. She’s tried to get me to talk about it but how could she understand? I never want her to know about the things I've done to keep a roof over our head.

Occasionally I still see some of my old comrades. Copywriters who did some jobs with me back in the day. Men with dead eyes. Men with consciences so seared, they’d write a leaflet selling North Korean arms to the Myanmar government in UV ink on heavily bleached un-recycled paper as soon as look at you.

We nod silently at one another. A nod that says ‘Ooh the stories we could tell if we wanted (but we don’t talk about it because we’re the strong silent type).”

Sometimes I kid myself there might be some redemption for me. That maybe if I could write enough ads for lost puppies or endangered monkeys I might atone for all the wrong I’ve done. But I know it’s pure fantasy.

I should go back to killing. At least I was fairly good at that.

Irishman urinated on French bread in protest at Henry handball, court told

A true story from the superb newsfromireland.com

BY KEVIN BRADY

(ROSCOMMON, IRELAND) A drunken unemployed plasterer who was found urinating on the French loaves section of a large supermarket in protest at the infamous handball incident in the France vs Ireland World Cup qualifier, was this week given a suspended sentence, fined and bound over to keep the peace.

Frances “Smokie” Larkin, The Meadows, Killareagh, Co Roscommon pleaded guilty to the incident at Maher’s ValueStore supermarket, Killareagh, one week after the match which Ireland controversially drew after the French goal was deemed to have scored despite a blatant handball by French striker Thierry Henry.

Gardai Anthony Flanagan told the court that he had been called to the store at 11.15 on the morning of November 25.

“When I reached the shop, I was informed that Mr Larkin was causing a disturbance in the bread section and when I got there, he was urinating on the French bread section and stamping on a loaf. I later ascertained that the loaves were brioches, a sort of French bread.

“When he saw me, he tried to run away but I apprehended him and grabbed him by the arm. He said ‘that’s for Thierry Henry, guard. If you have any pride in your country, you’ll let me go.

“Then he said ‘that’ll teach them, the cheating French bastards.’”

I love the way the Gardai later ascertained that the loaves were brioches.

If there are any French readers out there, please could you confirm whether or not this did indeed 'teach you'?