Sweating like a pig that knows it's dinner

We've all done it. Don't pretend you haven't. You've organised a party and then sweated wondering if anyone will show up. And if they do will they find a forgotten cotton bud lurking behind the radiator; will they be running their fingers over your shelves; taking the piss out of your record collection (insert CD, cassette, whatever) or be Twittering sad pics of the Capodimonte your parents / equally sad mates bought you.

I'm sweating like a pig that knows it's dinner because the world has been invited to our party...and they're coming. That is an unassailable truth. They’re already here. Our reputation…our collective reputations are at stake: no pressure then.

It seems like forever that London has been imitating your gran when involved in a competitive cleaning competition having been given notice that the hated or viewed with suspicion long-lost rellie / sibling / perceived competitive anyone, is coming round, and they embark on a massive clean-up: roads, pavements, painting, signage. Even new street thingys had plastic wrappers, just like your gran’s sofa. And just as you’re doing the final hoovering and you’ve even got the right marks in the carpet, some fucker puts his oversized muddy boots all over it: G4S standard issue natch.

To be continued…

A new strategy for Tesco

I don’t claim that it’s a panacea or anything daft like that. But it will help to stop customers deserting you and trotting off to Sainsbury’s et al, and it will certainly increase your customer satisfaction stats. It’s very simple: make sure that your stores open when they’re supposed to and stop your employees making up their own opening hours. Yes – Farringdon Road Metro store – I’m writing about you. You couldn’t make it up; but the weekend manager at that store does.

It’s supposed to open at 7am on Saturday and Sunday, but for the past four successive Sundays it has opened at (in chronological order) 7.30, 7.25, 7.20 and 7.17. The first time the place was totally deserted, with customers waiting outside. The last three have seen me banging on the window and pointing to my wrist and being met with blank stares for my pains. The ‘manager’ doesn’t seem to be concerned that there are customers waiting outside, or that they wander off to the nearby Sainsbury’s Local. I’ve spoken to him and to his manager on the day shift who was totally unaware of his creative timekeeping, but to no avail.

Last Sunday I ‘made’ him open the doors. (Which he did only after having made a derogatory remark about me to a shelf stacker, probably along the lines of “it’s her again” or worse.) I then told him that I would not be buying anything but would be writing about him. He is arrogant and dismissive to the point of naked contempt. His manner is truly breathtaking. And for the avoidance of doubt; there were no signs or reasons for this this other than the whims of the individual concerned.

So Tesco. Better stores. Better-trained staff. More staff. Fewer robots at the checkout. Competitive pricing and greater choice. And a branded wristwatch for your Farringdon Road workforce.  

Because every watched big and little hand will help…me.

When a 'right' becomes a wrong

One of the best brand innovators, strategists and managers of the past 30 years committed brand suicide last week.

Madonna, or Madge, as we like to call her here in Blighty, got her breast out in support of women’s rights in Turkey. She was on stage of course, otherwise she probably wouldn’t have done it.

It was sad — truly sad. A sobering and unedifying spectacle and not the outstanding and inspirational gesture she obviously thought it was. Here was the death of a brand.

I’m a few months short of 51 and she’s 53. So I thought, 'put it away'. It was the wrong kind of ‘still got it’. She should have been watching the Jubilee concert. More specifically, Grace Jones, who at 64 was no less dressed in ‘otherness’ as she has always been, but made headlines everywhere by virtue of her hula-hoop. That’s brand extension.

Madge. You’re not such a great strategist after all, are you love.

Four days in June

We just presented the biggest mood board in history as part of the largest ever revelatory workshop.

“I’m trying to understand you.” Those were the words of a South Korean PhD and visiting lecturer at UCL whom I had befriended some six months ago. Trying to explain the "phenomena" as he put it, was useful to me because it helped me to crystallise my thoughts regarding ‘it’ and what it all meant. In brief, this is what I said.

1. We don’t feel the need to proclaim what we are or how we feel about being what we are as a nation on a daily basis, because we’re sure of that. But on these occasions – royal weddings, world cup successes and so on – our feelings and patriotism come to the fore. It’s like a cork being let out of a bottle.

2. The Queen, that is to say, the monarchy, represents stability and continutity. Not just for us, but for the majority (still) in the Commonwealth and others around the world who seemingly have no connection with the UK other than their like of us and our traditions, as evidenced by the interviews conducted amongst the crowds this weekend. Tellingly, many were from countries where republicanism rules.

3. Our flag is a beautiful one. But it was not so long ago that we were ashamed of it, it having been hijacked by the far right. It was symbol of hatred and bigots. It was only ten years ago that I worried about wearing my white Savage t-shirt, which bore a small Union Jack. That now seems incredulous.

4. That the difference between his neighbours in North Korea and us (in case he was confusing the two) is that we choose to react in this way. It’s what we feel. But I can understand how it could seem state-induced to others.

5. That I’m always flattered when people choose to become British citizens. Yes, Clinton, I cited you.

The past few days have been about us reminding ourselves about the essence of our brand – like it our not. We’ve been reminding ourselves that we’re all in this together. And that’s a very different interpretation of the phrase than the one spouted by our (temporary) inept collation government.

Two year-olds wearing red, white and blue ribbons; little kids draped in flags and wearing crowns made by their dads – and loving it. Dogs wearing Union bow-ties and grannies sporting face paints. “Are you proud?” he asked. "Oh, yes. Unashamedly." Even David Starkey was blubbing on the telly. But I have to say that I’d like to kick the shit out of the so called ‘commentators’ and writers who opined that having seen the projections on the Palace (which were great) that we can have hope for the Olympic opening ceremony. HOPE! Fecking hope! Do they not understand the country they’re living in, or recognise that creativity is at its very core and is as inextricably linked with us as the monarchy is? 

The biggest laugh of the weekend? That had to be the massive paper Corgi sitting on the ballroom floor at the Royal Festival Hall. I explained to a group of kids that the Queen’s first Corgi was called, Susan. And then they asked me what my name was.

I fell in love with an alien being

He is the one-man brand who was largely responsible for branding me. My life is contained and encapsulated within his prose. He is, and not just in my view, a wordsmith without peer.

I thought I was “the post-war glamour girl who was never alone.” I totally understood “the altogether ruder readers wives” having found ‘mucky’ mags under my uncle’s bed when making it.

John Cooper Clarke. He may mean nothing to some of you, but he means an awful lot to me. He showed me how words paint pictures and how to use words to bring those pictures to life. He taught me the importance of authenticity – both in delivery and what you are to others. His 1978 album Disguise in Love is the Scalextric of my life, professional and otherwise.

BBC4 are doing a thing on him tonight at 10pm. 

Watch it. You’ll learn a lot.

The art of stupidity

Remember the four minute warning? If you’re my age or perhaps the wrong side of 40 you will. For younger readers, at the height of the cold war, this was a mixture of sounds and warning films, which were designed to tell us that a nuclear attack was imminent and what to do to "protect and survive" – as if. It may have more significance for you if you were a Frankie goes to Hollywood fan and you remember the intro to Two Tribes.

Flash forward to today when the threat is less nuclear but terrorist orientated and the threat in London is ever present – especially since we are a few days away from the Jubilee and weeks before the Olympics and it is increasing by the hour.

The Southbank Centre is hosting the Festival of the World and this afternoon I have discovered that that, in part, means that if you’re unlucky enough to be on the Riverside Terrace you’re going to be subjected to a loop tape of multi-lingual chanting, rabbiting and other rubbish on multi-speakers, each of which is playing the same thing but at different times. It’s dementing. And hurrah! There’ll be four whole months of it. But the killer (no pun intended) is the mother-speaker. This is a Klaxon-type affair that sporadically emits a god-awful sound which is very, very reminiscent of the aforementioned 4 minute warning.

I spent a few hours there this afternoon and I can tell you that there was a lot of concerned and worried people around. People who were having a drink, meetings or having baby-dates who did stop what they were doing and assumed, judging by their their body language, that this was some kind of public warning. Many recognized the similarity that’s for sure. What should they do? Was it an alarm? Was it a disaster rehearsal of some kind? Should they leave? Many complained, that I do know, or asked what was going on. How very, very stupid, Southbank.

This is what happens when people have a "great idea" without thinking about the audience or the context they are working within or audiences they're playing to. It makes me angry: very angry indeed. For me it’s on a par with the (well known) sportswear company who named their trainers Zyclon B. Stupidity beyond comprehension.

As I left today all had gone quiet. Will tomorrow be, like this, a Brand New day? I hope not.

Never tyre of it...

It isn't often that you see an ad that makes you do what it's designed to do, namely, make you stop whatever you're doing, keep your digits hovering over the remote and watch it. 


DLKW have managed just that with their Halfords "best trips last a lifetime" ad. In fact I find myself channel surfing to catch it playing. That hasn't happened before.


It's like they've plugged a scart lead into my noggin and harvested the memories in there. The casting. The clothes. The bikes. The fields. Buggering about in woods. The feel of it. Everything about it is perfect. And as always god is in the detail and the sign-off playing card on the spokes is sublime, although I used a Topps footie card of Kevin Keegan. He was, at the time, the most desirable bloke in the UK. He even had his own range in Grattan's catalogue to prove it. It is. It's true.