When Sunday felt like Monday

My favorite episode of Roobarb is called ‘When the day wasn't coloured in’. Roobarb wakes to find that everything is grey - even Custard - and he can't work out why the day hasn't been coloured in. Then the sun comes out and the colours of everything emerge and he realizes, eventually, that the day had started in a foggy haze. I had a Roobarb moment yesterday - had a bit of a wobble - when I realised that Sunday felt like Monday and that it woz the Sun wot done it.

You know that thing that happens when there's a Bank holiday. Your head doesn't quite register it because the routines, rituals and markers that define and signpost the beginning of the week are absent for one day. The telly is different, the shops are different and people are not where they should be or doing what they should be doing. So you find yourself a day behind - all week. Tuesday becomes Monday and Tuesday, Wednesday. Appointments are missed and dates forgotten because of a leisure quirk. So yesterday felt like Monday because the Sun came out on Sunday.

Sundays are different. They feel different. Their tempo is different to any other day of the week. For some Sundays are defined by faith, family or leisure. And for others it’s the total absence of routine, obligation and commitment that defines them. And we like it that way. Not for nothing is it called the weekend. And that’s why the Sun on Sunday got it so wrong. It doesn’t work. It turned us into a seven-day operation. It removed the very important veneer of difference.

Whatever your thoughts about News of the World, it and its distinct vocabulary was one of the things that defined Sundays for us. The tone of it, look of it and the feel of it: we like a bit of muck to replace the stuff we wash off the Sunday veg. So I suspect that there were lots of disappointed punters yesterday because it turned out to be a very tepid affair indeed.

To work it needs to be more 'Sunday'. It needs to adopt the visual vocabulary of the Sunday tabloids and its defunct predecessor. If it looks rushed and a product of convenience it's because it is. The title needs to change. Why not 'Sunday' as an extension of The Sun logotype? Or even The Sun on Sunday (ignoring the obvious nonsense about the SOS acronym, because you can take the piss out of anything if you want to) because that at least would be definite. 'The Sun' with a half-arsed 'Sunday' in a peeping sun at a size that renders it almost invisible doesn't. Either way it needs work, because at the moment it's just wrong.

Brand London

In one 50 minute walk through London - from Westminster to Regent Street - I just saw and experienced the following.


1. An elderly bloke sitting on a bench in St. James' Park and a big Pelican sitting at the opposite end - both totally at ease with each other.


2. I spoke to group of inner city school boys standing in a big queue outside a niche shop in Soho, all waiting to buy stuff they like. All had saved by working outside school hours to do so. So polite. So genial. So conversational. So nice. So not as painted.


3. The length of Oxford Street come to a stand-still to look at / take pictures of and touch (if possible) the horses of the mounted police. 


Forget the riots / war of avarice.
This is us.

It's about their economy, stoopid.

I'm digging their victory. Digging the brands that by accident, design or accidental design, have hit the spot - set the right tone in these nouveau times of austerity. For those brand owners - and us creators - who believe that bigger is better, that expensive is exciting and that flashier is fabulous, they pose an important question: is your spend really necessary? They highlight the need to get the thinking right…first. And underscore the rewards of investing in great ideas - and the futility of trying to 'make do and mend' by chucking money at 'it'. Here are a few examples of what I mean.

Walk into Covent Garden piazza and in the spot that used to house Ponti's you'll find an eaterie called, Canteen, stationed amongst the frou-frou cookie shops, boutiques and faux Parisian patisseries. Its utility distinguishes it from the gentrified. The signage is a mixture of Lilliputian Blackpool Illuminations and typography which takes its cues from seemingly everyone’s favorite wartime poster - Keep Calm and Carry On - and it is unambiguous in its proposition: Canteen: Great British Food.

The space is defined by hideous glass panels, the ugliness of which is disguised by homely and wholesome garden wickerwork. The furniture - reclaimed tables and chairs of tubular steel and bent plywood - is the standard fayre of work and school canteens the world over. All have seen better days; the chipped paint, eroded varnish and gouged ply chart the contours of a life in service.

The bar and kitchen are housed in sheds, which are a hybrid of beach huts and potting sheds. Condiments sit on the tables in their natural branded state and outdoor flame heaters and neon strings lights lend atmosphere - and there are sturdy but plain blankets for the legs of patrons should it turn a bit nippy. It's the adversity that appeals to a populace who will happily picnic in a lay-by, on windswept, chilly beaches and questionable, soggy campsites. We seem to find a touch of the uncomfortable comforting in our leisure.

It's all done on a shoestring - spend kept to a minimum - since theirs is a six-month tenancy, a stopgap until the new tenant takes up residence. Shame, because the concept is a good one, it's very different to their other outposts and in my view it's better. It's right by accident. It's timely. It captures the zeitgeist and they could have built on that by hosting tea dances, the performance element of which is in keeping with the location and the connectivity such activity demands and generates is very much in keeping with the spirit of this Olympic year. The tourists would have lapped it up.

But it all ends on 3rd March when the new tenant - who I now know to be Jamie Oliver - takes over the space. Great! Just what the world needs, another Jamie Oliver restaurant. It's all about the rents, of course, which currently stand at £250k pa and he's one of the few who can afford it. But is it the right fit? Since the vast majority of visitors I give directions to in that neck of the woods are looking for a sit down and a cuppa - a snack - in non-threatening surroundings. They'll miss the geniality of the Canteen.

A whole lot of next to nothing

The stage version of The Woman in Black is a master class in economy - it's both ahead of its time and of today - but there's nothing poor about this production. It's probably the richest play I've seen and no matter how many times I see it, it still scares the crap out of me. Essentially a two-hander with one set, brilliant lighting and goose-bump inducing sound effects, it's been playing in London since 1989 and the stellar performances have turned a 30 year-old novel into a global brand. There are no gimmicks, no wild distractions - there's almost nothing to look at - and so you see and hear more. Anyone who works in the realm of brand experience should see it, because just like radio your head fills in the gaps. This is how people really learn. They fill in the gaps. They join the dots. Putting it all on a plate will never do it. You don't stand a ghost of a chance.

More for less

Aldi similarly arrests because of the quality of the idea, the scripts and the sparseness of the end product in comparison to its competitors. The ads are a pitch-perfect embodiment of the Aldi proposition: economy without compromise on quality. It is their very stillness that sets them apart. There are no clebs, grand location shots with models from the 60's, or highly irritating chefs. (Back to you Jamie Oliver.) They make the extravagance of swooping helicopters and Busby Berkley routines look very poor indeed. It works because it's of us. We can identify with them and laugh with them. Eat your extravagant heart out M&S.

Upstairs Downstairs

Everyone talks about Downton Abbey. How marvelous it is - how wonderful. But I don't get it, because Upstairs Downstairs did it all so much better over 40 years ago. The original series is screened Saturday mornings on ITV 3. They show two episodes back to back. Joy! It's the economy of it that makes it so intimate. It was videoed rather than filmed so we feel that we're there, that we're part of the household. It was shot mostly in sets representing half a dozen rooms in 165 Eaton Place and very basic ones too by today's standards: certainly by Downton Abbey standards. It's more theatrical, more Play for Today than filmic. But the writing, characterisation and acting are superior in every respect. It is because of the economies of scale that we focus on the acting, the words and the story lines. You listen…carefully, because there’s so much less to look at. It's just better. Full stop.

So less is most definitely more. I'm not saying don't spend - just spend on the thinking. Feel and aim for the quality...not the width.

On the filthy, dirty naughty step

I bought a Valentine for someone today. It was a mucky, filthy and very well designed funny one, which was a fit with 'the person' and I - much more so than the roses, cupcakes and padded hearts also on sale.

I'm 50 but am told repeatedly that I look at least 10 years younger. I have my own teeth and I don't dribble when I speak. But I do have white/grey fantastically styled and gorgeous hair.

The twentysomething on the till looked at the card. Then me. Then the card. Then me. Her disapproval was palpable. I could see she was confused. I don’t look old, but my hair is white. I don’t dress old, but my hair is white. She was totally discombobulated. All she knew was that this bird with white (old) hair was buying a mucky card and her entire body language said ‘are you sure? Should you be buying this?’ because, clearly, when you’re older you don’t do ‘it’ anymore. So I held it up and showed it to the bunch of students behind me. Much laughter and an invitation for a drink ensued.

So can we please stop using those feck-awful classifications such as ‘grey power’, ‘silver surfer’ and so on. Because someday soon it’s going to apply to you and you won’t like that at all – being written off before you’re dead. And I have to tell you girls, you can spot a dye job from a mile away and it's not a pretty sight. Let's stop branding people as being half-dead when they’re still very much alive.

Whatever 'it' is it matters. Part 2.

You’ll think I’m a big fat fibber. 

But I promise I’m not making this up.

Yesterday - by accident - without design, unexpectedly 

and bizarrely, I met David Miliband. 

So there. I’ve done the double. 

It is. It’s true. 

And guess what. 

D. Miliband has ‘it’ too.

Whatever 'it' is it matters

You won't find many photographs of me. 
 

The few in existence sport beards, specs and blacked-out teeth courtesy of my friend Mr Bic, or measles and white eye shadow courtesy of his friend Ms Tippex. I don't photograph well. I am better in the flesh. "It doesn't do you justice." "You're much better than your photo." It was ever thus. So I avoid having my photograph taken at all costs. Of course it can work the other way around. The balloon-dog in a suit you were sitting across from on the tube this morning may be one of the lucky sods who turn into a Brilliantined Rank starlet c.1950 when in front of the camera.

Appearance matters. Perception matters.
 

Those of us who work in communications talk to our clients and each other about 'look and feel'. We set great store in it, forming likes and dislikes because of it. Research studies have shown that we respond more favourably to 'classically' attractive (symmetrical) faces. They are perceived as being more intelligent, kind, trustworthy, and healthy – they're even more likely to be paid more. We tend to imbue the 'attractive' with sensibilities and attributes they may not necessarily have. Those of you who are parents and footing the bill for your progeny's Heat or Now habit will certainly know this and will be used to reminding them that beauty is skin deep as a preface to "Get on with your homework."

Our personal brands are a minestrone of the tangible: sounds, smells, textures, attitudes, behaviours and reputations. And the intangible, the indefinable which defines us and draws others to us – charisma and presence. The 'feel' bit of us and it's this bit that matters.

How many times have your perceptions about someone been blown into a cocked hat on meeting them? Or have you ever experienced the sheer disbelief when having met the possessor of a gilt-edged CV it transpires that they have the presence of an empty Dairylea wrapper? Or found yourself offering a job to someone who you considered to be a B candidate because he or she lit up the room and was someone that people would want to spend time with?

Some professions and vocations are particularly harsh since by nature one is on continuous public display. So if you don't fit the 'classical' ideal and you don't 'come across', you're stuffed. Any facial irregularity or identifying feature is a gift to cartoonists and sketch writers. Their skill lies in using an exaggerated truth to encapsulate and often subvert an individual's personal brand. Thus John Major's perceived uprightness and limpness becomes his Y-front underpants worn on the outside of his trousers. While Tony Blair's wide smile becomes the Cheshire cat: always pleased with himself and ever so slightly sinister. Funny? Yes. But also worrying for the people and parties concerned, because if people say (or draw) something often enough it tends to be perceived as the truth.

Take Ed Miliband. The bloke is getting it from all sides at the moment. His undoubted intelligence has been subverted and is portrayed as geeky and spoddy – like Jerry Lewis in the Nutty Professor – he is hapless, a social misfit. His large unblinking eyes are portrayed not as a sign of focus, but as wide-eyed terror and gormlessness. He is Wallace. So maligned is he that certain sections of the press reported that Aardman expressed concern that Ed was 'tainting' the Wallace and Gromit brand. But it turns out that they actually think that it's a cracking wheeze.

Of course Gordon Brown had pretty much the same treatment, he is portrayed as a cold, authoritarian and damaged man. Although those who actually met him found that they came away with a very different view. Alan Bennett summed it up nicely in a press interview he gave some years ago. He said that he liked Gordon and thought that he was probably a nice man but his problem was that "He couldn't put it in the shop window like you’re supposed to." Sage. So where the tangible seemingly isn't enough, the indefinable becomes very important indeed.

I've met Ed Miliband and I was surprised, because even though I understand the machinations of the political press and the media at large, having heard it for so long I had started to believe it. But I can tell you that he is a very charismatic man. He has presence. But unfortunately this brand asset can only be experienced; it can't be printed, posted or broadcast, so perception remains the reality. But for how long?