A fitting tribute

It doesn't happen often in the hard-nosed, cut-and-thrust, dog-eat-dog-eat-dog's-dog world of agency life, but just occasionally you really connect with someone.

You discover a common vision. They help you to be the very best at what you do. And, in some small way, you help them to be better too.

That kind of office chemistry is a special and rare thing.

Which makes it all the more upsetting when the powers that be decide that person is deemed surplus to requirements. Over the hill. Redundant.

I'm talking about my friend, Barney.

Barney is a printer here at Partners Andrews Aldridge. Or at least he was, until recently.

For he has printed his last copy doc.

As a tribute, I've created this video of our final moments together, set to James Blunt's stirring vocals.

Perhaps you've had someone like Barney in your life? A stapler. A ring binder. A laminator. If so, this video is for you.

Real Men Write Resignation Letters

The walls of Partners Andrews Aldridge are resounding to all manner of unseemly sobbing and wailing today, as news reaches the girls in account management that the agency's most manly hunk of throbbing masculinity is leaving.

That’s right, I’ve decided to go freelance.

Given the way the UK economy is stuttering along like an Austin Allegro on a cold Winter’s morning, and the fact I’m soon to be flattened by the financial haymaker of having a second child, I thought this would be a super time to cast aside all financial stability.

As you’d expect, everyone here at Partners is distraught at my departure. Although I must admit they’ve managed to mask their disappointment extremely well.

My art director in particular has been so supportive about the whole thing. Right from the moment I first floated the idea he’s been incredibly enthusiastic and helpful.

He's left articles on my desk about how great freelancing is. He even started posting encouraging motivational notes, like ‘Who dares wins!’ and ‘Be all you can be!’

Equally, my CD has tackled the toughest brief of his life with a passion bordering on relish. These are enormous shoes he has to fill. Shoes so big, they could almost be described as clown shoes. And yet, the way his eyes light up when he talks about ‘getting the upgrade’ is a sign of a man unfazed by the gargantuan nature of the task.

Now, you might be wondering why I’d leave a brilliant creative place like Partners. These are some reasons why I’m going freelance:

• I want to meet lots more people and experience loads of different stuff.
• It’s good to be scared. Sometimes.
• It feels like the right time in my career to do this.
• I believe I can fly. I believe I can touch the sky.
• If I don't get any work, I might finally get around to painting Baby RMWLC’s room.

This has never been a very comment-y type blog. Mainly because no one cares enough to comment. But this seems like a good topic to collect your thoughts on.

So tell me blogosphere, how should one behave on freelance? How do I stay employed? And what’s the etiquette with eating the staff biscuits?

And by the way Yes, leaving was my idea and No I wasn’t fired, thank you very much.


P.S. Why not have a look at davemance.com and tell me what you think of my work? Because I really could give the first one about your opinion.

Awesome 80s ads

If you're not interested in watching me making a right benny of myself on national TV, you might prefer to watch the adbreak.

Some real classics here.



Those teeth. I still have nightmares about those teeth.

Me, child superstar

In the olden days, there was no X-Factor. During these dark pre-Cowell years, people were instead served up dodgy quiz shows hosted by middle-aged men in velour sweaters. One such show, called Child's Play, featured megastar contestants such as Christopher Biggins, Jeremy Beadle, Lulu and Suzi Quatro, along with nauseatingly cute children. The premise of the show was that the aforementioned cute kids would describe a word, but without saying it. The contestants then had to guess the word. With hilarious consequences. You won't be at all surprised to hear I was one of those cute kids. Even at that young age, I was pretty ‘gifted’. As a result, they rarely featured me in the main part of the show. Instead, I was confined to the little bit before the ad breaks, known as the 'this is what happens when the kid's a bit simple' slot. To put it bluntly, I was a figure of fun. To six million viewers. This week I have finally had the celluloid footage converted to electro-bytes and stuck it on YouTube. I realise there’s no reason why you should find these clips remotely interesting but I’m sticking it up here anyway. Enjoy! (Or don’t, I don’t care.) To explain, I’d seen a model of a baby in the womb and when I asked my dad what the umbilical cord was, he said, “That’s how they eat”. Thanks for that, Dad.

Rise of the Machines at Sainsbury's

That’s right. My local Sainsbury's is the latest to turn from a shop into a MACHINE.

Look on in horror friends, for this is how it begins.

One moment, a till is politely asking you to insert your card.

The next thing you know, a T-800 is pointing an Uzi in your face and asking if your name’s Sarah Connor.

These machines don't feel pain. Or remorse. They are relentless. And they WILL NOT STOP until you have scanned your item and placed it in the baggage area.

I remember a time when humans would serve you. They would exchange items for real actual money you know.

But a day is coming when my little girl will ask me "Daddy, what's a human being?"

And I will answer, with a tear in my eye, "They are extinct, my child".

Damp squib

Last week I celebrated my birthday.

Because I am so insanely popular, my colleagues insisted I have a few lunchtime drinks to mark my special day.

It was pretty mad. Here are some pictures.





Actually, if I’m honest, the turnout was a little disappointing.

In fact, it’s possible not all these pictures are really from my birthday.

Naturally, this is my art director's fault.

I had asked him to invite people for me. Unfortunately, this basic task proved too tricky for him.

First of all, he emailed just the creative department. I had specifically told him not to do this, as they’re too boring.

Regrettably, the eighth or ninth time I slowly and loudly recounted these instructions, my creative colleagues overheard.

As a result, there was a departmental boycott of the event.

Although he did eventually manage to send an invite to the whole agency, it seems I’m not as popular among other departments as I’d hoped.

The upshot was the kind of attendance you'd expect if you were hosting a three-hour brainstorm without snacks.

I can't complain. I always knew that being FANTASTICALLY SUCCESSFUL would involve sacrifice.

But I guess this moment really brought home just how lonely life is at the top.

***VIRTUAL SIGH***

Look on the bright side though. Here is a video of a dog riding a bike.

Snubbed by Al Gore

Last week RMWLC Towers hosted an event starring none other than VP Al Gore.

I first met Al on the campaign trail back in ‘88 (he was just a kid back then, wet behind the ears and crying for his mommy every night). So I was looking forward to hooking up again and reliving the glory days.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I turned up and found myself denied entry by one of Al’s burly bodyguards.

It seems the powers-that-be didn’t want me there on account of I am too edgy and dangerous and also I have offensive body odour.

Big Al did a talk, followed by Q&A, covering topics like The use of interactive media in the democratic process , the role of the media in the fight against climate change, Why Americans talk funny, and How to lose an election to an autistic cowboy.

It seems his latest mad-capped scheme is to run a TV station where he gets other people to make programmes for him. For FREE!

He's obviously had enough of misconstruing data as the basis for wild speculation (I think he used to be a planner). He’s now pedalling reality TV.

It. Will. Never. Fly.

Personally, I always had a lot more time for that other fella – you know, the funny one with the cowboy hat. I just loved the way he seemed to really hate terrorists, especially EVIL terrorists.

Anyway, I digress. The point is, I had Al Gore in my building last week. Did you?

Didn't think so.

Good cop (writer)/bad cop (art director)

Although we creatives like to think we’re unique and a bit special, the reality is that all teams fall into one of two basic categories.

Good cop/bad cop

In my experience, most teams fit this mould. Generally because the art director is so deeply unpleasant, the writer is forced to try to compensate.

Art directors may not be the sharpest scalpels in the studio, but they do have one rather cunning trick up their sleeve.

I'm talking about the one where they pass off their fantastically irritable temperament as ‘really caring about the work’.

So what is in fact an almighty sulk because they couldn't have Coco Pops for breakfast, or because someone moved one of those stupid little action figures on their desk, they manage to pass off as a passionate crusade for creativity.

“Aggghh! Can’t the client see this will completely ruin everything?!” they rage, pointing to an amend in the kerning or leading or whatever that is invisible to the naked eye. Of course the poor hapless suit is obliged to stand there passively nodding until his little art director spleen is fully vented.

I must confess a certain grudging admiration for their little ruse though. They get to let off some steam AND look really creative. It's ingenious.

And of course it’s a trick that writers, in their timid-voiced bespectacled puniness, could never pull off.

Instead, we good cops are stuck with the role of trying to make light of their latest hissy fit, grinning and rolling our eyes in a 'don't worry about him, he's always like this' kind of way.

The wacky one/straight one

This second archetypal team dynamic follows in the footsteps of great double acts like Morecambe & Wise and Cannon & Ball.

The wacky one is creative and demonstrates this by wearing T-shirts with muppet characters on. The straight one is the foil – the solid, workmanlike type that never lights the place up, but gets the job done. Think David Batty for Leeds circa 1990.

Now you may be wondering which profile my art director and I fit. Well, we’re a variant on the wacky/straight formula.

You see, I’m wacky. But I’m also very sensitive. I may look like a bristling hulk of masculinity, but beneath this rough exterior is a little scared child who just wants to be accepted and loved.

The result is what I like to call the fragile flower/patient gardener dynamic.

I see myself as an orchid or perhaps a very rare variety of pansy. I must be nurtured and encouraged by my art director in a warm glasshouse of love and unconditional acceptance before I feel able to express myself fully.

Once I feel the warm sun of validation beating down on my delicate stem, I open my leaves, bud, then bloom with creativity.

Then the flowers drop off and that’s it for another year.

And so, dear readers, I’d encourage you all to take the time to study the teams around you. You’ll find they each fall into one of my two categories.

Of course, as I said, the categories are broad. Within each one are many other variants – Beauty and the Beast, Dumb & Dumber and Torville & Dean to name just a few.

Which one are YOU?!!!!

Panic over. I'm back

I’m feeling refreshed from my time away, thanks for asking.

I have now returned my nose to its customary position on the grindstone while keeping my head above water yet below the parapet.

With all the stresses and strains of being a butch copywriter AND blogger, you may wonder what this real man does to unwind.

Well, the reality is, this real man spends seven days sitting in a gîte, eating his bodyweight in cheese.

I did go out once. Some local Frenchies took a day off from striking to have a market so I went to check it out.


Looks like someone needs to grasp the concept of ‘broadening your target market’. What’s the French for ‘diversify’, anyone?

**snicker**

I could post more stupid pictures but you don’t read this blog to find out about my holidays. You want a witty and acerbic account of agency life. And there's about as much chance of finding that here as there is of a Frenchie saying “Excusez moi” as he elbows you on his way to the front of the cheese queue.

Ooh, before I go, let me offer belated congratulations to Grunders, our resident guest blogger, on the birth of his daughter Amber last week. Beautiful.

As is so often the case, I started off with the intention of writing something short and succinct

You must be as delighted as I am to hear that, next year, I shall be a dad again.

I’ll tell you why you should be so nauseous with happiness.

Last night, the mystery singer made another of his little visits outside my home. He performed an original composition that actually managed to rhyme “black coffeeeee” with “Do you want meeee?” which, as far as I’m aware, is a lyrical first.

Unfortunately I couldn’t quite muster the strength to get out of bed (it was 3am) to record any of his ONE HOUR set. But of course, once the stork delivers my latest miniature insomniac, I’ll be up at that time anyway and able to record this nocturnal one-man-talent show. All for you.

In the meantime, you can make do with an excerpt from this fantastic article wot says having kids is good for art.

Reading it made me cry. Except I didn’t, right, cos I am a REAL MAN.

We were still students when we got married and had our first baby. It must have been hard work. We didn't have a washing machine and we couldn't afford disposable nappies – but mostly we were drugged with happiness. Our only conversational gambit was: "Isn't he amazing?" Friends were mostly delighted, but also slightly appalled. From the first they'd take me aside and commiserate. "That's it now, Frank, the pram is in the hallway."

The full quote – from Cyril Connolly – is: "There is no more sombre enemy of good art than the pram in the hallway." In fact, we didn't have a pram or a hallway, but in the dark watches of the night I would sometimes look at the Maclaren Dreamer buggy in the corner of the tiny kitchen and think, is that it then? Will I have to go and get a proper job and never write again?

Happily, I had married a woman of terrifying courage who, the day I was offered a proper job, said: "Don't do it, Frank. Go to the library, write something for us." I didn't produce a work of precocious genius, but I did get myself started as a TV hack. Ever since then, fatherhood and writing have been inextricably intertwined for me.

I'm not the only one. The most commercially successful British writer (JK Rowling) and the most ferociously inventive (JG Ballard) were both single parents. Edith Nesbit had three children of her own, and then adopted the two that her feckless husband had with his mistress. She founded the Fabian Society, precursor of the Labour party, and still had time to write 60 novels, among them the most purely funny pages in the language.

My children have been a crucial part of my work in ways that I find hard to account for or anticipate. If I need to go on a research trip for a book or a film, we'll usually go as a family, and I find that – apart from the fact that it's useful to have extra eyes and ears – people and places tend to open up to you more.

It's worth reading the whole thing.

On another note, they've finally done a great follow-up...



to this, one of my favouritest ads ever



Right, that's it. Sorry for banging on.

I'm off on my holidays.

Zut alors! Mange tout!

Monday morning emotional rollercoaster

We're privileged to work in an industry where you wake up some days and can't wait to get into work. Today was just such a day. That's right, my art director is off.

On top of this, I’m going to France next week, effectively making it a glorious two-week break from him.

I bustled in at 8:30 (it turns out the doors are open at that time) whistling 'Happy days are here again'. However, my chirpy tune came to an abrupt and off-key end as I caught sight of next week’s workflow.

There has been a horrible holiday-booking mix-up. It turns out THE ART DIRECTOR AND I HAVE BOTH TAKEN NEXT WEEK OFF.

That’s right, I could have had the same enjoyable break by staying at my desk. Instead I have thrown away a week's holiday.

And this is only the tip of the horror-iceberg.

The art director has gone to France, THE VERY COUNTRY I’M HEADED FOR. He is in fact only a few miles from me, a realisation that made me do a sick in my mouth.

Mrs RMWLC is dead against cancelling the trip even though the travel company said we could get some of the money back.

This just goes to show that no good ever comes of getting to work before 9.

The Littlest Hobo lives

I invite you all to sit at your keyboard and weep at this story.



Then relive this awesome programme intro and let the trickle of tears turn into a flood until you are a blubbering bawling wreck and have to be led away from your desk.

The day of fun

Last Friday was our annual allocated day of fun here at Partners.

It’s always a big date in the agency calendar. Last year we went to Thorpe Park, so expectations were high. And we weren’t disappointed, as we rolled up at a lake in Milton Keynes.

Bryan ‘Fun’ Grundy, Head of Fun at Partners and erstwhile guest blogger quickly made us at home with bacon sarnies and cups of tea all round.

But even with this aficionado of fun at the helm, it’s only fair to say things got off to a rocky start.

That’s right. Team building exercises.

Every team building exercise I’ve ever come across is carefully designed to make you cry tears of frustration at your colleague’s inability to perform the simplest task like tie a knot or outmanoeuvre a traffic cone, causing you to snap at them childishly. These were no exception.

Our first challenge was The Matrix. Clearly the organisers have picked up a few tricks from the suits when it comes to the old ‘give it an exciting name and they’ll think it’s brilliant’ strategy.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you… The Matrix.


To be fair, I'm not sure this photo does it justice. It's hard for a single shot to convey the drama and excitement of stepping on office carpet tiles that have been laid out on an astro turf pitch while your boss directs you on an imaginary course. The final ignominy was being laughed at by some passing schoolchildren.

But then things brightened up considerably with Blindfolded Giant Jenga, an opportunity to get felt up by colleagues under the pretence of ‘finding my team’. I still haven't managed to identify Mr/Mrs Roving Hands in my team but whoever they were, they certainly spiced up my day.

From here it was brilliant fun all the way.




culminating in a drunken dragon boat race. As you can see, Carole here won at both drinking and racing.


As if that's not enough to call it a successful work excursion, casualties were also down this year, with only one member of the studio walking into a metal pole and cracking his head open.

Although I also sustained a hurty elbow in Dragon Boat racing.


By the way, me and a couple of other lonely people have decided to play Blindfolded Giant Jenga here every Friday lunchtime. If you fancy it, please get in touch.

Newport

*Wipes away tear of pure joy*

Thanks to Dickie the planner.

Changing behaviour, one wizz at a time

Someone recently stuck this up as a case study.

It’s the dispiriting tale of how a company dramatically reduced the number of cases of men weeing on the floor by painting a fly onto the urinals.

While I respect their achievement, I can’t help feeling humanity is poorer for this story.

It's depressing on many levels. Not least that men can’t manage to hit what is, after all, a pretty big target without a carefully reproduced insect to focus on.

Also, I feel sorry for the poor bloke who had to paint them all on.

But worst of all, that faintest of nagging memories that I too, guided by some primal fly-dousing instinct, have aimed carefully at that fly. I seem to recall vaguely wondering why it was there and why I couldn’t stop aiming at it.

I wonder how far they went in testing the efficacy of a fly above all the other options? For example, did they experiment with other insects, a wasp or bee perhaps? Or even an invertebrate? I for one would welcome the opportunity to wee on a millipede.

And of course there's no reason to restrict ourselves to small creatures. Why not stick a picture of ITV's World Cup pundits in there? Or the entire cast of Hollyoaks? The mind boggles at the glorious weeing possibilities.

Just one of the ways in which I'm like SuperTed

A few weeks ago, our Head of Copy was taking his usual holidays, sitting in a dark room reading Dostoyevsky.

As luck would have it, my art director was also off so I went and sat in the Head of Copy's BIG SPECIAL CHAIR next to the Head of Art.

It's hard to describe the feeling as my butt nestled into that hallowed leather throne. But let's just say that I now know how Bilbo Baggins felt after he'd worn the ring of power.

I've had a taste and I want more. I just can't get the thought out of my head. The way account girls spoke to me with a straight face. The nod of vague acknowledgement from my creative peers. A heady mix indeed.

Not that it was all Champagne lunches and celebrity status. If there's one thing Spiderman taught us, it's that with great power comes great responsibility.

For example, when an account person asks the Head of Copy which side of the 's' the apostrophe goes, they expect you to KNOW. That kind of pressure is terrifying and takes some getting used to I can tell you.

But I like to think I bluffed my way through it with aplomb.

So it's pretty hard to take that I find myself back at my wobbly desk in the cellar, stripped of my position and cast aside like a piece of rubbish.

A lot like SuperTed before he got his special powers.



Sometimes it's only SuperTed's example that keeps me going.

I yearn for the day my own Spotty man will arrive from outer space to sprinkle me with cosmic dust and transform me into the heroic Head of Copy I know I'm destined to be.

When will you come, Spotty?

Bryan’s left but that doesn’t mean you have to

Regular readers will be as surprised as me to find my blog has become both funny and popular in the last week. Less surprising is the fact that this happened in my absence.

Bryan ‘Grunders’ Grundy, our man from finance, took my place while I had a week off to recover from the strains of writing the fourteenth most popular UK-centric long-copy-based blog written by a hirsute man in a wrestling outfit.

I’ve got Bryan to crunch some numbers on last week’s stats. The results made for some sobering reading.

It turns out he is 29% more popular than me. And 307% funnier.

Whatever. I’m back at the helm now to steer this blog back into the impenetrable fog of my inane and humourless babble.

Here are some things I can tell you right now:

• While I was away the guy who replaced me lowered my chair and also lowered the left armrest. But not the right. Curious.
• Today I’ve been asked to edit a pub menu. This is not a joke. Has anyone been asked to do a more humbling writing job than this? If so please let me know in the comments.
  
• On my holiday (near Bath) I went to a country park and saw some llamas. I hate llamas because touching one as a child triggered an allergy to ALL animal hair. Again this is not a joke. Has anyone else experienced or heard of this phenomenon (your experience might not be with a llama but another animal)?
• I think that is all.

It’s amazing, I can almost hear the new readers leaving with each word I type.

Ah well. Only 8 weeks to go til Grunders takes over again.

The Supreme miss

realmenwritelongcopy - out. Grunders - in.

I realise RMWLC is not a football blog but as the World Cup has yet to fully start motoring, let's re-visit the best moment from the 1994 finals in the US of A instead.

In fact, this is possibly the best moment of any World Cup finals.

Clean sweep

realmenwritelongcopy isn't here. Grunders is.

Wow, what an suspense filled 24 hours that must have been for you all. Will RMWLC ever have me back after this dumbing down 'take a break' style quiz ? Did any of you get it right ?? (Yes actually - Rob, Jane, & Louise). Did the rest of you care ??

Yes RMWLC fans, I saw the legend of the high pitched squeak yesterday - Sweep.

Lord only knows how he manages to carry his Oyster card round with him, negotiates 'the gap' and gets round the whole 'dogs must be carried on the escalators' rule.

Watch, he's kind of like some kind of one man dog puppet vuvuzela band :-

RMWLC becomes Heat Magazine

realmenwritelongcopy is still away somewhere. Grunders is here instead.

I've noticed before that one of the ways that RMWLC has got his weekly Campaign mentions has been to blog about scintillating subjects such as his journey to work (or something).

I intend to follow this tradition, and blow it to pieces with my star celeb spot on my District Line train this morning. Baron's Court has never seen anything like this before.

Being a fan, I was naturally too nervous to approach them but did get a sly shot on my iPhone of them minding their own business. Can you work out who this TV legend is ??

Study the photo and see if you can work it out. If there a significant level of interest (ie at least one visit to this blog on the stats), I'll reveal tomorrow.