Those were the best days of my life

It was the spring of ‘06.

I’d just left a job I hated. (I knew it was time to leave when I had a bad dream about my boss and woke up screaming. Although in retrospect it probably wasn’t helpful to mention this to him when I resigned.)

My art director and I pitched up at cmw and there followed the happiest few months of my working life.

I’m not talking about doing great work. Of course not. I’m talking about coworker japes. Office banter. Workplace high jinx.

That poky little office could barely contain all those big characters. Ricky Big Face. Gobby Sarah. Special Trevor. Hygienic Doug.

We were young and crazy and foolish and had our whole lives ahead of us.

Ah, good times.

Sadly, as Adams so powerfully wails in those faux-gravelly tones, ‘I guess nothin' can last forever’.

Whether it's redundancies or career moves or restraining orders, things change, groups fragment, people move on.

Nowadays, Ricky Big Face is back home in Manchester. Will and Liz and Lloyd are in Sydney – the three of them are now married with a little boy. And Special Trevor has returned to the Cape of Good Hope.

I’m thinking of them now because there's a reunion of sorts on Saturday. Only I won’t be there. I’m away and will miss it. And that makes me do a big sad face emoticon. ONLY IN REAL LIFE.

Sometimes I dream about setting up an agency with those guys. If any clients out there would like to sink your advertising budget into getting us back together just to see what happens, please get in touch in the comments section.

Or maybe you’re thinking of the happiest time in YOUR miserable working life and want to share? Go on, tell us about it. How did it end? Or maybe it’s still going on?

By the way, if you’ve worked with me in the past and are crying because I didn’t say that it was my happiest time, please don’t. It’s not your fault. I just liked those other people more, see?

Non-fiction week! Cassandra

Our third and final example of dizzyingly wonderful writing is from The Daily Mirror. No, really.

In the days before they could fill their pages with Peter André 'exclusives', The Daily Mirror had to make do with writing about actual stuff. And no one wrote words about actual stuff better than columnist, Cassandra (real name William Connor).

His pen-name is a reference to the Cassandra of Greek mythology, some soppy bird who had the gift of prophecy but was cursed that no one would ever believe her.

Cassandra wrote in The Mirror for thirty years. The only time he took a break was to fight in the Second World War, when he famously returned with the words: ‘As I was saying when I was interrupted…’

He actually started out as a copywriter for JWT. The craft skills he picked up writing about baked beans and washing powder really shine through at times:

George Bernard Shaw is dead. The great dark gates of death that have been locked against him for so long swung open for a moment at dawn yesterday and the lean, derisive sage looked over his shoulder for a final twinkling trice and was gone.

And

He died in his bed. That was the last triumphant, exultant trick of Josef Vissarionovich Djugashvili – otherwise Joseph Stalin, the most powerful man in the world…

His seventy-three hideous years have been enough. In his time he did titanic things and the whole world was his chess board. No tyrant ever planned on such a scale, and continents rather than countries were his prey. Probably he was brave. Certainly he was shifty and cruel. His skill in power politics was unsurpassed.

But his purpose was evil and his methods unspeakable. Few men by their death can have given such deep satisfaction to so many.

This collection of some of his finest writing is a little gem of a book. I’ve spent many happy minutes with my nose in it, slack-jawed with admiration.




The two columns below will be the best-spent five minutes of your day, I promise.

First, an encounter with the loveable Joe McCarthy.

Then Billy Graham.

It looks like it’s been reprinted so it’s easy to get hold of a copy. You’d be silly not to. You’re not silly, are you?

Here endeth the increasingly inaccurately-named Non-fiction Week. I hope you enjoyed it. I must say, I rather did.

Non-fiction Week! John Peel, margrave of the marshes

In yesterday’s post I tried to attract a better class of reader with a terribly serious review of a PROPER GROWN UP BOOK on the English language.

Let’s be honest, it was a bit ambitious for a blog whose readership consists of barely-literate family members and washed-up, burnt-out industry has-beens.

(It did however did reveal one gem though. It turns out Adland Suit’s Grandad was no less than literary BIGSHOT, the late Robert Burchfield. This is a BIG DEAL. He wrote stuff like, you know, the Dictionary. Admittedly I did poo-poo his revision of Modern English Usage, but it was only a poo-poo in relation to Fowler which is in reality no poo-poo at all.)

So anyway, today I’m lowering my sights a little, with a modern classic that’s accessible to common people.

This is for all those of us who stayed up late (having school next day) listening to the first (and usually last) airing of songs by bands with names like Agraphobic Nosebleed and Serious Drinking.

Peel’s great achievement in this book is perfectly translating his voice onto paper. It’s uncanny, and lovely to hear again. As a homage, I’m thinking of writing my next British Gas bill stuffer in those dulcet Scouse tones.

Sadly, he was only halfway through writing it when he died in 2004. So his wife Sheila picks up the story. As a result, the second half is less delightfully Peel-y but still a worthy read.

As you’d expect, it’s got some cracking anecdotes, like how he wound up at a press conference in the Dallas Police Headquarters the night Kennedy was shot. To prove it’s true, you can see him at 5:08 here.

Now, for your reading pleasure, I include my favourite bit, the fantastically surreal Bay City Rollers appearance at a Radio 1 Roadshow at Mallory Park.

Non-fiction Week!

In a bid to actually write something again, I’m declaring this Non-fiction Week. Each day, I will review a non-fiction book until my enthusiasm wanes after one or two posts.

Because you’re not the brightest bunch, it’s probably worth explaining the difference between fiction and non-fiction.

Put simply, non-fiction has fewer unicorns and elves and is generally poorer for it. Also, the pictures are rubbish.

There are, however, a few non-fiction books that are okay.

Let’s start with this beauty.

Fowler’s Modern English Usage. Probably the most influential reference book on the English language of the Twentieth Century. It’s certainly my favourite reference book, along with the indispensable, 'What rash?'

It’s not often you get a guide that’s not only amazingly helpful but that you can also idly browse for amusement. That’s because Fowler is mad as a fish. And brilliant. Here are a couple of his most famously helpfilarious (that's right, I combined helpful and hilarious into a single word) entries.

paragraph. The purpose of paragraphing is to give the reader a rest. The writer is saying to him: 'Have you got that? If so, I'll go on to the next point.' there can be no general rule about the most suitable length for a paragraph; a succession of very short ones is as irritating as very long ones are wearisome.

split infinitive. The English-speaking world may be divided into (1) those who neither know nor care what a split infinitive is; (2) those who do not know, but care very much; (3) those who know and condemn; (4) those who know and approve; (5) those who know and distinguish.

1. Those who neither know nor care are the vast majority, and are a happy folk, to be envied by most of the minority classes.

Welsh "Rarebit". Welsh Rabbit is amusing and right. Welsh Rarebit is stupid and wrong.

Good eh? Much better than your average dry, dusty tome.

Another reason I really love this book is the beautiful and poignant preface.

PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION

TO THE MEMORY OF MY BROTHER

FRANCIS GEORGE FOWLER, M.A. CANTAB.

WHO SHARED WITH ME THE PLANNING OF THIS BOOK,

BUT DID NOT LIVE TO SHARE THE WRITING.

I think of it as it should have been, with its prolixities docked, its dullnesses enlivened, its fads eliminated, its truths multiplied. He had a nimbler wit, a better sense of proportion, and a more open mind, than his twelve-year-older partner; and it is matter of regret that we had not, at a certain point, arranged our undertakings otherwise than we did.

In 1911 we started work simultaneously on the Pocket Oxford Dictionary and this book; living close together, we could, and did, compare notes; but each was to get one book into shape by writing its first quarter or half; and so much only had been done before the war. The one in which, as the less mechanical, his ideas and contributions would have had much the greater value had been assigned, by ill chance, to me. In 1918 he died, aged 47, of tuberculosis contracted during service with the B.E.F. in 1915-16.

The present book accordingly contains none of his actual writing; but, having been designed in consultation with him, it is the last fruit of a partnership that began in 1903 with our translation of Lucian.

If you're after a copy, Burchfield created a third edition in 1996 which was in fact a complete rewrite and, by all accounts, guffier. But in 2009 the first edition was reprinted, so you're probably better off getting that.

Or just do what I did and nick your dad's.

My new product for the iPhone 4

From time to time I dabble in product design.

The other day, I was working with my friend Andy. We were trying to find an answer to one of the greatest challenges of modern life: How can I watch stuff on my iPhone 4 while eating?

I began experimenting with materials. I quickly found that wool was too soft, while seafood quickly went off.

Then Andy said what about trying a thermoplastic elastomer, a mix of plastic and rubber that won't scratch your iPhone and is really tough and a little bit bendy.

I knew instinctively that this was a terrible idea but didn’t want to discourage him as he’s a sensitive soul.

Anyway, here it is.






I’ll admit, it turned out better than I thought.

The Piolo is very light and neat. You can keep it on your keyring. Or in your pocket. Or on your keyring in your pocket.

It’s £4, plus 80p postage to anywhere in the world.

Look! Even Wired says it's brilliant.

Get yours today and support brilliantly creative, courageously entrepreneurial designers like Andy.

How to freelance. Lesson 3: a varied wardrobe.

Just a quick one today.

I’ve stated previously that the first things a prospective employer looks for are a winning smile and a cute ass.

But remember, it’s no good having a cute ass (which I have) unless you’re also wearing, say, tight chinos to show it off.

I'm not just talking about sex appeal. This is about LOOKING THE PART.

Only a fool underestimates the importance of clothing to their career.

As a permanent employee, you may be able to rest on your garment laurels. I used to wear the same jumper all week and just occasionally vary my t-shirt.

But now I'm a freelancer I really mix things up:

Monday: special shirt and blue jumper
Tuesday: t-shirt and special blue jumper
Wednesday: t-shirt and blue jumper
Thursday: shirt and special blue jumper
Friday: special shirt (odour permitting) and special blue jumper

In this way I keep myself fresh, exciting and dynamic. I suggest you do the same.

Having a baby is brilliant

Having a baby is brilliant.

Your friends make meals for you.

You get to sit up late at night watching old West Wing episodes while he snuffles and sighs asleep on your shoulder.

Your neighbours bake cakes for you.

Your other neighbours who are having a baby soon get to come round and practice holding your baby and you get to explain to them that baby poo doesn’t actually smell bad (if they’re breastfed). Just kind of smells like sour milk.

You finally have an excuse for looking so crappy all the time.

Your other other neighbours stay the night when you have to leg it to hospital because of some problem or other and they get your eldest child up and dressed and take them for breakfast with their own kids and they have a food fight and think it’s the best thing ever.

You get to administer the fantastically named Gripewater.

Having a baby is brilliant.

Sexy sax man

If you don't have 5 minutes and 3 seconds, I recommend you watch from around halfway. Time well spent either way.

How to freelance. Lesson 2: appearing competent

Welcome back, my apprentice. Obviously you’ve learnt a lot from my last tip and have come back for more.

Appearing competent is one of the toughest skills to master in this game.

It’s by no means essential. However, if you’re able to look professional, or even actually be professional, it’s a real bonus. Another string to your bow, so to speak.

You don’t stay in this industry as long as me without picking up a few things about feigning competency. Here are my top tips.


The silent nod

Silent nodding is one of the most powerful weapons in a freelancer’s arsenal.

It’s ingenious. Because you haven’t been around long enough for them to know whether you’re nodding because you're an imbecile or because you know everything. Be warned though, this one does have a limited shelf life. I try to move on every week or so.

Getting angry

Just because you’re new, that’s no reason you can’t kick off. In fact, CDs like you to do this.

It doesn’t have to be about anything big either. In fact, the more pedantic the better. The important thing is to go really mental about one tiny thing and let everything else sail by without a hitch. This way you’re not troublesome BUT it also looks like you really care.

Big words

Everyone knows that using big words makes you look really impressive and intelligent.

The big word I use most is ‘tautological’. This is the best one in the English language, as no one has any idea what it means, least of all me.

So, for example:

Suit: Shouldn’t you change this word to ‘and’ instead of ‘or’?
Me: It’s tautological.

or

Creative Director: This copy doesn’t make sense.
Me: It’s tautological.

See? You win the argument every time AND you look like some kind of genius.


There. I think I’ve covered everything you could possibly need for a glittering career. But I know some seasoned freelancers read this blog. So if you have any suggestions, please add them in the comments.

X

At last, I have created something of note

Believe me, I'm as disappointed as you that he didn't come out sporting a beard and tiny wrestling suit.

Dear readers, please welcome Newborn Baby RMWLC a.k.a. Jonah William Mance.

Well done me. And well done Mrs RMWLC, who also had a hand in it. And especially well done to God.

Toddler RMWLC (recently ousted from her position of Baby RMWLC) is somewhat less impressed.

I tittered when she got this card.



I love the upbeat note they've tried to strike here. It's a note that's currently ringing very hollow in her little ears. Clearly a planner has been involved.

You may wonder what the arrival of my blogging heir means for you, dear reader.

Well, it was around the last time I had a baby that I birthed this blog. I used to post every day back then, so perhaps this new life will usher in a season of prolific blogging? Then again, this isn't the first time I've made wishy washy half blog-promises.

Phishing with Moira

Yesterday I was happy. I thought I was getting a tax rebate.

Sadly, today that rebate is just another little bubble of happiness that has burst.

It was a scam!

I know what you’re thinking. How was a savvy real-man-of-the-world like myself nearly duped?

Three words. Moira “Shyster” Stewart.




The duplicitous minx! In all my dealings with her, I never dreamt she’d pull a stunt like this.

You expect this sort of thing from Trevor McDonald. But Moira?!!

It will never fly

Have you seen this rubbish?

What Spot Now shows you what's happening inside coffee shops, pubs, etc. in real time.

So you can decide whether you should pop in or whether it’s too busy and you should just go home because you’ll never meet anyone anyway and you’re destined to be alone forever.

Sadly, What Spot Now is the kind of missed opportunity that drives me crazy.

First off, it only works in Portland. That’s a 13-hour flight! By the time I get there, Starbucks could be busy again.

Worse than that, there are so many better uses for this technology.

Why don’t they have cameras in conference rooms at work, so you know when meetings are over and you can swoop in to hoover up the biscuits? Or even better, one at your local Greggs, so you know when they’ve baked a new batch of Sausage & Bean Melts.

Then there are the stalking opportunities. Cameras in houses of all the girls that ever dumped you, anyone? Yes please.

Have a look anyway. I guess it is pretty interesting.

Keepin’ it real like Kevin Costner in The Bodyguard

Is The Bodyguard the greatest movie ever?

I guess that when you’re forging a movie from the raw materials of Whitney Houston’s stardom and Kevin Costner sporting quite short hair, you could hardly go wrong.

But still, you’ve got to admit the director used this potent combination to full effect.

For me, the onscreen chemistry between Kevin and Whitney has only been matched by Frodo and Sam in The Lord of the Rings.

As well as solid movie gold, the film’s opening scene contains a valuable lesson for us.



After saving a client’s life, Frank Farmer (Costner) is begged to take a full time job, but turns it down. “I’m no good in a permanent position. My feet go to sleep.”

Which is true for YOU too.

If you stay at one place too long, you get complacent.

Pretty soon you’re taking lunch breaks from 11:30 to 3:30. And when you are at your desk, you spend the whole time collecting, collating and filing your bellybutton fluff. Then posting pictures of it online.

Inevitably the work suffers.

Next thing you know, you’re as stale as a Greggs steak slice.

Whereas for freelancers, you have to be useful ALL THE TIME.

That means every day I’ve got to bring my 'A game'.

This can be anything from filling out a timesheet correctly to looking attentive during briefings.

These days I even think of ideas, which I NEVER used to do. I guess nothing gets the old noggin going like the fear of not being asked back next week.

So to sum up. If you yearn to be edgy and sharp like me and Kevin Costner, you should definitely go freelance.

(Or I suppose you could just work harder. But that kind of blows my whole theory out of the water.)

Happy New Year!

I wonder if this is the most middle class way you could end yourself? Jumping from the top floor of John Lewis on Oxford Street?

I reckon so. Particularly if you managed to impale yourself on some Jamie Oliver-endorsed kitchen utensils.

This is the kind of thought that plops into my mind when returning an item over the festive period, that's all.

On a similar note, I’ve been thinking about writing a murder mystery around a fantastically middle class killer. In the opening scene, a woman lifts the lid of her breadmaker to discover her husband’s severed head rolling around inside, sprinkled with organic poppy seeds.

Maybe it’s time I got an agent.

Are we the most important people on Earth? (Answer: yes.)

I’ve spent the past few days doing my best Florence Nightingale impression, nursing Mrs and Toddler RMWLC back to health from the oinky misery of Swine Flu.

Thankfully, I was spared the same horrid fate thanks to a flu jab arranged by my agency.

Not so Mrs RMWLC who, despite being an NHS professional, was left jab-less.

This is as it should be.

Say what you like about the Western worldview, when it comes to esteeming those roles in society that deserve it most, we’ve got it pretty much bang on.

After all can you imagine what would happen if, in the event of a pandemic, marketing types were unable to work? It doesn’t bear thinking about.

With no one to produce a steady stream of pointless communications persuading people to buy stuff they don’t really need, our society would surely crumble.

Douglas Adams covers this theme with aplomb in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

The Circling Poets of Golgafrincham decided to rid themselves of the useless third of their population (including hairdressers, telephone sanitisers and, yes, advertising folk).

So they concocted a story that their planet would shortly be destroyed by a 'mutant star goat’ and sent them away in a giant spaceship, B-Ark, promising to follow shortly.

The other two thirds of the population of course did not follow and ‘led full, rich and happy lives until they were all suddenly wiped out by a virulent disease contracted from a dirty telephone’.

Now, I'm aware that Adams mistakenly lumped ad folk into the ship of useless people. But my point is this.

As another year draws to a close, let’s take a moment to salute how marvellous and important we all are.

And be thankful that, should a plague wipe out most of our population, we’ll still be around to propagate the human race with a new breed of shallow, self-obsessed halfwits.

Merry Christmas one and all!

Christmasjumper-off

Behold, earthlings! My snazziest ever snazzy Christmas jumper.

I know what you're thinking, "Dave, you look fricking AWESOME in that, where can I get one?"

But I'm afraid this is a limited edition, bought for me by the munificent Mrs RMWLC last Christmas. With the advent of, um, advent, I figure it’s now okay to wear it. Or at least, as okay as it can ever be to wear a jumper like this.

If you think you can rival my Christmasjumperness, I’d love to see what you’ve got. (Although I should warn you, the nose ACTUALLY SQUEAKS and the antlers have real bells on.)

If you'd like to challenge me to a Christmasjumper-off, please take a photo and send it to realmenwritelongcopy at gmail dotcom

Kim Jong Il looking at things

Well worth a look. Here are a couple of my personal favourites.

Looking at wheat

Looking at a radish

Looking at a kitchen cabinet

IRELAND UNVEILS BAILOUT PLAN – The Guardian. Or, to put it another way...

via Reuben, via Boing Boing.

How to freelance. Lesson 1, extorting money.

As I’ve been freelancing for a couple of weeks now I’m something of an expert on the subject.

So I thought I’d begin spouting out my vast knowledge, in a new series cunningly titled How to freelance.

Let’s begin with the first task for any freelancer, the distasteful business of negotiating a fee.

As we all know, more important than the actual work is how much you can get away with charging for it.

Now if you’re anything like me (an incompetent coward) then you’re not really cut out for negotiating. So the moment that haggling begins, you’ll want to fold like a cheap suitcase.

However you must resist that urge. This is the time to play hardball.

Whatever they say, double it and add a nought or two. Make sure you maintain eye contact and try to add some menace to your voice. If they dare to hold your gaze, don’t be afraid to bare your teeth.

(If you’re not actually negotiating in person, no problem. You can achieve the same effect over the phone by shouting. Or, if you’re communicating by email, simply write in all caps.)

At this point they may ask you to justify your fee.

This is nothing to be fazed by. If you think about it, there are all kinds of reasons why they should pay what you're asking. You might make excellent tea, for example. Or, like me, have a cute ass.

The only rule when it comes to justifying fees is that UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOULD YOU MAKE PROMISES ABOUT THE QUALITY OF THE WORK YOU'LL PRODUCE. Trust me on this one. It will lead to all kinds of difficulties down the line.

Once you’ve agreed a fee, you might think that's the end of it. But there are still a few cunning tricks you can pull.

A favourite of mine is to add an extra hundred or two when you invoice. Agencies LOVE this, as it shows initiative and tenacity. And if there’s one thing creative directors are looking for, other than a cute ass, it’s initiative and tenacity.

Hopefully that’s enough advice for you to be going on with. I’ll be spewing out more wisdom on the actual work of a freelancer just as soon as I successfully negotiate my first job.

This one goes out to the Paveys

This blog is many things to many people.

To some, it's a way to pass those annoying last minutes before 5:30. To others, a mine of information on how to undermine and belittle your colleagues.

But what it has never attempted to be, nor indeed succeeded at being, is a source of humour.

Or so I thought.

Upon visiting my sister-in-law at the weekend, she informed me that she had found it humorous.

[Only my own literary snobbishness prevents me from inserting a massive smiley face here.]

Rach's compliment was especially gratifying as she is currently undergoing chemotherapy, which apparently isn’t as much fun as it sounds.

She told me she’s spent many of her feeling-ill-est hours reading from these turgid cyber-pages.

Although she didn’t actually say so, I think it’s fair to say that this blog is a single shining beacon of hope and joy in her life.

It would also be COMPLETELY accurate to say I inspired Rach to write her own blog, Rage against the lymphoma, chronicling the non-stop-fun of fighting Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.

However, I must warn you: DO NOT READ IT.

I don’t say this because I’m intimidated by someone daring to take on a challenging and weighty subject and carrying it off with genuine wit and warmth. That’s not it at all.

I forbid you from reading it because she has TEN TIMES more readers than me.

Ten. Ruddy. Times.

Things like this make me wonder what’s the point of it all.

If people are more interested in reading an honest account of someone’s hopes and fears rather than banal observations on the shallow world of agency life, then I for one feel like giving up.

On the other hand, let’s not forget it’s ME that inspired her.

Which means they’re really my readers anyway.

P.S. I heart you Paveys XXX