Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Planners Making A Complete Tit Of Themselves And Bless, Planning
The last few days have been pretty emotional and sentimental – excluding the podcast, which has probably made you pretty emotional in ways no one wants to be – so to get this blog back to the absolute rubbish it normally spouts, I thought I’d shock you with a topless photo of me.
Enjoy.
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Advertising, Agency Culture, Attitude & Aptitude, Communication Strategy, Creative Brief, Creative Development, Creativity, Culture, Emotion, Empathy, Imagination, Insight, Planners, Planners Making A Complete Tit Of Themselves And Bless, Planning, Point Of View, Positioning, R/GA, Relevance, Resonance, Wieden+Kennedy
So recently, I got an email from a guy called Fergus at On Strategy.
He’s a planner, but more importantly, he’s a planner who wants to help all planners get better, more confident and more capable in their jobs.
Not in terms of giving them models or processes or other stuff that often takes the creativity out of strategy, but giving access to the stories, conversations and people who are often only accessible to those with a very expensive subscription to various industry platforms … which is ironic given most of these platforms claim to exist to raise the bar for the industry as a whole.
The reason this is so important is there’s a distinct lack of investment by agencies in training and industry events/membership – not to mention most of them don’t have a philosophy on how to look at the world of planning and creativity – so we end up with way too many planners thinking the only way they can learn the stories and craft of the discipline is by following the ego-filled rantings of various people on twitter.
While I’m definitely one of them, you’ll soon have another reason why this is a terrible way to ‘grow’ for most planners. Existing or wannabe.
So while Fergus is doing a very good thing – exemplified by the huge range of truly great planners he’s had on his show – he made a fatal error by [you guessed it] asking me to rant about the state of strategy and what I think we’re doing wrong and right.
While I’m sure Fergus won’t make that mistake again, I’m grateful he did and you can pick fault with all I said by listening here … though if I were you, I’d check out the much better and smarter stories from either my old mate Britton at W+K Portland, the brilliant Lucy Jameson of Uncommon – whose shadow is smarter than most planners brains combined (Fact!) – or ex-R/GA London’s Simon Wassef who explains how this office helped design, build and create the brand, story and system for Beats By Dre.
Much better uses of your time.
But then you already knew that.
The building above is called The Chateau.
But this wasn’t in rural France – oh no – it was in deepest West Bridgford, Nottingham.
It was also a Berni Inn.
For those not of a certain age, a Berni Inn was a restaurant where you could get a steak main with a strawberry and cream dessert for £4.99
Sounds cheap doesn’t it?
Well it was, but they still made it feel like it was posh.
Hence restaurant names like, ‘The Chateau’.
We didn’t go there much.
In fact we didn’t go out for dinner anywhere really – except for the odd birthday.
But that’s not the reason I am writing about it.
It’s because it’s also the last place I ever went out for lunch with Mum and Dad.
I was living in Australia, but had flown back for Mum’s birthday.
Dad had had a stroke, but even though he couldn’t talk well, he was still able to walk – albeit with a wobble and a stick.
To be honest, I don’t remember much about the lunch, but I do remember it was lovely.
A gentle time as a family.
All together.
Enjoying a moment that we probably all secretly knew may not happen again.
There’s some things that stick in my mind …
Getting a taxi to the restaurant as we no longer had a car.
The surreal moment where I had to go to the bathroom with Dad to make sure he was OK [he was], which brought home the severity of his illness to me.
Dad managing to utter the word “knickerbocker” to the waiter/waitress when he was asked if he wanted dessert and he absolutely loved it.
For anyone who saw us that day, they would have just viewed a family – like the countless other families around us – having a nice lunch.
But to us, it was so much more.
A moment of normality at a time our lives were in chaos.
A chance to enjoy the privilege of the mundane.
An opportunity to be a typical family once again.
It was the last time it was to happen for us.
I miss it.
I miss them.
I’m so glad I have a photo to remember the day by.
Oh Mum.
5 years.
It was the worst day of my life.
The hope. The love. The nervousness. The concern. The fear. The confusion. The horror. The prayers. The goodbye.
A lifetime of emotions run over the space of 12 hours.
I remember every minute. Literally.
And while I try not to think about it, I will. I will go back to that place so that I can feel close to the last time I was next to you.
Holding your hand.
Whispering words of love and hope.
Telling you how I would ensure Otis would know you and that I would always honour you when the tragic events of the day played its final act.
Oh how I still wish it ended on a positive.
Everything was set up for that … we had plans, big and exciting ones … but no, a rare condition put paid to that.
I still feel there was some weird circle of life stuff going on – from the conversations we had in our last 6 months together to the fact Otis was born 3 months before your operation [so I’m extra grateful that the doctor agreed to delay the operation to ensure both things didn’t happen at the same time] to the tragic reality that you died in the hospital where I was born.
And while that all fills me with sadness – even now – it also let’s me feel things were done to completion. Where the things we needed to say or show were done right. Where I could say goodbye to you in a way where I have no regrets.
Of course I am sad that we have not been able to share and talk about the adventures of the last 5 years. The moves. The madness. The wonderfulness of your beloved grandson … but given Dad’s situation changed so quickly, leaving us in paralysis and so many things frozen in time, it is a ray of light in an abyss of sadness.
That said, I miss you.
I miss you so much.
I would give anything to have one more chat … one more hug … one more kiss.
I always felt it, but now you’re gone I’m even more thankful you were my mum.
Honoured even.
Everything I am is because of something you – and dad – did for me.
The support and encouragement.
The lessons and the ideals.
The patience and forgiveness.
You were the one that taught me the importance of caring. You were the one who taught me to be open with my feelings and emotions. You were the one who created the foundation for me to build myself upon.
Believing in me in ways – and at times – that seemed madness.
Offering your gentle confidence.
A quiet shelter.
The time, space and attention for me to grow, explore and share.
Nourishing and nurturing me.
I cannot put into words all I am grateful to you for, other than to say my life is filled with memories either created with you, designed by you or encouraged by you and that is the greatest gift anyone could ever receive.
I miss you.
Give dad a kiss while you’re holding hands.
Rx
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Advertising, Attitude & Aptitude, Comment, Communication Strategy, Cunning, EvilGenius
So over the past few years, my good friend – Jacob – has been sending me a set of notebooks he’s made that he scarily calls, ‘The Campbell Collection’.
While they are meant – I assume – to scare people away, they have actually had the opposite effect and encouraged people to start a conversation with me.
What’s even more interesting is that while they probably [as much as I hate to admit it] do reflect how I feel about certain people or meetings, they have allowed me to talk about my ‘issues’ with people in a way that is not combative … almost constructive.
Which all goes to show people are weird and Jacob has failed in his twisted way to honour me.
[For honour, read: ridicule]
Apparently you can now buy them on Amazon, so get your own piece of the Campbell Collection, safe in the knowledge you are taking the piss out of me and not one cent of the cost goes to me. Damnit.
