Holibags

There’s going to be bare minimum posting over the next few weeks. I’ve got a handsome lad staying and I intend to show him all the amazing sights Edinburgh has on offer. I can’t wait to see his face when I show him such cultural gems like Beavertail, the world’s most pierced lady (she’s called Elaine) and Leith’s very own tribal warrior, the Spearman (no link but you Leithers will know who I mean). Tata!

I always thought an anus was a comfy place to take it easy

It's a deal. It's a steal.

Christmas is almost here, complete with depleted bank accounts and credit card statements bursting at the hilt. For those of you feeling a bit short until payday finally arrives, perhaps you could consider employing the services of wonga.com:



With a typical APR of 2689%, it appears that Ofcom, the FSA and the ASA have no problems with letting loan sharks advertise on the telly these days. Desperate times call for desperate measures, I suppose!

Another reason to love Glasgow

Christmas sniveling

Having managed to avoid sickness for most of the year, just as Christmas creeps up on us and the holidays doth approach I am struck down with snots and gobbers. Instead of lying in bed watching Jeremy Kyle, germ laden and miserable, I’m riding it out at work with my festive sneezes keeping colleagues at bay. Their faces are approaching the twisted sneers of the illustrated individuals in the swine flu leaflet I was given last week, so who knows, perhaps I’ve picked up a bit of bacon related illness.

Being ill at work doesn’t bring much in the way of benefits. I have shredded my nose with cheap bog roll from the bathroom in a vain attempt to stem the streaming flow of germs. I’d have probably been better off applying a cheese grater to my schnoz, as at least I’d have enjoyed the heady scent of cheddar whilst wrecking my sniffer. It’s like the mouth of the river Ganges, with my nose forming a silt lined delta of snotters. Staring at a PC screen for hours a day is doing nothing to alleviate a rather impressive headache. I feel like that gangster from Casino that had his head inserted in a vice, sans eye popping and grassing up a pal. The Christmas music playing consistently terrible tunes is doing nothing for my grumpy demeanour, except from when the Grinch comes on and I can sing along with my Christmas hating compatriot in a cackling, witchy tone that’s thick with the antiseptic funk of Stepsils. I’m not having fun.

Still, it’s the way it goes at this time of year. The bacterial infections, viral nasties and stomach upsets are doing the rounds without discriminating against anyone. The doctor’s surgery has been no help, as trying to get past the bitchtastic harpies that man the reception desk takes more energy than keeping yourself alive. They truly are the least helpful and most infuriating of all the people that are supposed to provide aid and support (beating BT call centre assistants hands down). When I walked into the surgery I swear I saw one woman’s eyes glow with a red hue and burn a hole in a haemorrhoid prevention poster behind me on the pinboard.

After standing in a gargantuan queue for about ten minutes I finally managed to try and book an appointment. Of course, I wasn’t able to negotiate the reception etiquette gauntlet in order to see a doctor, due to the fact that surgery staff members were fully booked, on a lunch break, having a team motivational meeting, drinking cups of tea or sitting with their heads inserted up their arses.

I have decided just to sweat, sneeze and snuffle it out. Anything’s better than trying to bargain with a receptionist to secure a visit with the doctor, just to be told that I have a virus and there’s nothing I can do anyway except be grumpy at work and moan about being under the weather on my blog.

Oh. One more thing in order for this post to have a tenuous link to advertising, I will be sure to CATCH IT, BIN IT, KILL IT.

Onlinefoliophobia

I don't like posting my creative work and ideas online much. Mostly, it’s a reaction thing. I like to show my book to people and watch their facial expressions and listen to their tone when they comment on the work. It reveals a lot. Seeing how others perceive work is enlightening, whether it’s a dismissive flick through a campaign or deep, furrowed brows and a hand resting on a chin in thought.

I like to listen to feedback and try to assimilate creative directors’ advice. I like to hear commentary and mumbles and laughter and groans. I like to gauge reactions from agency to agency. In short, I like to try and see what folk feel about my stuff.

You can’t do that with an online book.

It might be time to overturn this odd phobia of mine, though. I know how useful an online book is. I know it can be a great tool.

Watch this space. Maybe.

Rare long copy ad spotted in its natural habitat

Its natural habitat being the weekend mags, where you can leisurely peruse various vacuous editorial sections discussing wrinkle creams made from sheep placenta, read about the latest talentless celebs and the contents of their handbags, and marvel at the previously neglected merits of the scarf (it keeps your neck ever so warm, dahling).

Anyway, the ad.

You might need to click on the image to read the copy if you've not got bionic eyes, but my, I think it's well done. When you read it you get this sense of urgency coupled with faultless expertise from a mother that could be one of millions across Britain. It's very funny too - I especially like the quiet dig at the lazy husband.

Whether or not people have the patience to read an ad like this is debatable, but it's a ballsy move to squeeze in so much and its unusual to see a long copy ad done so well. Nicely art directed, too. Lovely stuff indeed.

Read more gushing from me over a previous B2B Ford press ad here.

Gift advert manages to avoid being an Xmas turkey

That's a really rather lovely print ad. I am particularly fond of it because it doesn't mention Christmas anywhere at all - it's not hinted at, nudged towards or referenced in any way. Thank you. If I see another ad shoving Christmas gluttony down my throat I may very well be sick (that means you Ocean Terminal, Princes Mall, Livingston Designer Outlet, Buchanan Galleries et cetera with all your shopping centre TV ad fodder. When will you realise you are ALL THE SAME AND YOU RUIN MY AD BREAKS DURING CORRIE?!).

The fickle nature of opportunity

What did you want to be when you were a youngster? I wanted to be a farmer. I had a whole animal inventory prepared, my wellie boots chosen and dungarees earmarked. My short lived love of agriculture blossomed when I lived next to a farm until I was about eight years old. However, it all came crashing down to reality when I was introduced to one of the farm hands… that didn’t have a hand. He’d lost it in a tractor, or a combine harvester, or some such piece of appendage-munching machinery. I soberly decided I liked my ability to grasp items more than making hay bales so that was the end of that.

I considered a variety of different careers after my false start with all things rural, including town planner, astronaut, vet, fine artist, geologist, teacher, graphic designer, German person, and last but not least, volcanologist (the obvious choice for an eleven year old child). Looking back on it now, I think I was always a writer and I just didn’t realise it, as my reams of childhood journals, diary entries and high school art portfolio probably evidence. It’s a shame nobody spotted my interests and married them together (including me) and I was left to dither around for years before the penny dropped and I found what I wanted to do.

The reason I’m rambling on about this is because a young work experience student has been in and out of the office for the last few months. They’ve already decided they want to work in the creative industries as a graphic designer. They are lucky indeed, because now they can spend the years so many people fritter away chasing that dream. The pursuit of a dream is always a good thing in my mind, because it is a thrilling goal to attain and a kind of happiness that is self made and more rewarding than anything material.

I wonder if this young student understands how lucky they are to have an idea in their head of where they want to end up, because for me that’s a priceless opportunity that I wish I had when I was their age. Knowing what you want to do with your life is an elusive thing, so once you have it figured out you should hold on with both hands (or one in the case of the farm worker) and never let go.

Potatoes

There's some lovely McCain's stuff doing the rounds at the moment. The press ads are beautifully illustrated and work very nicely with the telly executions. After a quick neb at Campaign, I can attribute the work to Beattie McGuinness Bungay.

I am absolutely convinced that there are no elements of mass food processing procedures utilised in the actual making of said tattie delicacies. I have it from the oven glove mitted machine itself that only love, affection and gratuitous amounts of encouragement go into making McCain's products as wholesome as they are. Advertising doesn't lie about things like that.

I'd just say that the press reminds me of the Newhaven Border Biscuits campaign from 2007. Anyone remember that? I can't find an example of it. Anyway.