Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Advertising, Agency Culture, Attitude & Aptitude, China, Creativity, Culture, Cunning, Mischief, Planners Making A Complete Tit Of Themselves And Bless, Relationships, Shanghai, Wieden+Kennedy
When I left Wieden+Kennedy Shanghai, I wanted to do something that was a mix of mischief and love.
OK, mainly mischief.
So I had 600 stickers [like the the one above] and hid them throughout the newly refurbished office, Nike GCHQ, restaurant and bars near the office and – just because I was spending so much time there – Wieden+Kennedy Tokyo.
I have to say, hiding that many stickers can be quite difficult, but it forced me to get very creative with it … which is why for months afterwards, people would message me to say they had found one in the most unlikely of places.
Apparently all this tomfoolery really, really pissed someone off there – which, I must admit, made me smile for a whole host of reasons – and they went through the office trying desperately to find and destroy all the stickers they could find.
Well, a couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine – who had helped with the hiding – sent me the above photo.
Yep, it’s one of the stickers we placed.
Yep, it’s one of quite a few they still haven’t found.
Which makes me so, so happy.
Not just because if the person it annoyed so much finds out there’s still some there, they’ll not sleep for the feeling I got one over on them … but because after 3 years since I left, it surely means I qualify as the official cockroach of Wieden+Kennedy Shanghai. Which would be wonderful, because I loved every second of my time there.
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Advertising, Attitude & Aptitude, Authenticity, Cannes, Comment, Creativity, Culture, Innovation
So recently I was reading a case study paper for a creative campaign.
I have to say, the way it was written was very good.
It sounded like they had genuinely created an idea that was driving fundamental change.
The paper was full of superlatives.
Full of audacious claims.
It was also full of shit.
Stripping things back, all they had actually done was launch a PR campaign with a big and exciting sounding name.
I’m not saying it wasn’t effective.
Nor am I saying it was bad.
But compared to what was claimed, it was pants.
But what made it really stand out was the following paper I read.
It was equally well written, but this was without hyperbole.
Don’t get me wrong, they weren’t playing down what they had created they just weren’t trying to insinuate it was the second coming of Christ.
Which was interesting, because it was genuinely using creativity in a powerful, effective and interesting way.
All wrapped up with a campaign name that was almost deceptively simple.
Having been on a lot of creative and effectiveness judging panels over the years, I’ve seen this time and time again which has led me to forming what I will call – for ego reasons and the novelty of it not being associated with being in trouble with the authorities – Campbell’s Law.
Campbell’s Law states:
The more grandiose or superlative-ridden a creative campaign name or description is given, the more boring and safe the reality of the execution.
I assure you, should you be invited to any future creative judging panel, it will save you sooooooo much time going through all the submissions.
You’re welcome.
Filed under: Comment
It’s the 5th of November.
The day – back in 1605 – some people tried to blow up the houses of parliament.
And failed.
And how do we celebrate this occasion?
By blowing up fireworks.
Does that seem a little strange to you?
It’s like celebrating losing the lottery by burning all your cash.
But anyway, this year it’s going to be a lot quieter thanks to our friend, Covid, so because I am going to be leaving these shores again sometime in the next few months, I thought I’d let you all imagine a time where we were all allowed to go outside and shout “Ooooooh” and “Ahhhhh” at fireworks while burning our mouths on crappy hot dogs that are at 10,000 degrees centigrade and burning our hands on even crappier sparklers.
FOR TEN HOURS.
You’re welcome.
Filed under: Attitude & Aptitude, Childhood, Dad, Daddyhood, Emotion, Family, Fatherhood, Happiness, Hong Kong, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, Otis, Parents
So it’s 5am on the day of the US election.
The results are far too tight than anyone would hope – which means the US population have far too little empathy for their fellow humans, given Trump is still in with a good chance.
I know. The lying, cheating, bullshitting, racist, hate-monger is still adored by around 50% of the US population. Nothing shows how sick that country is than that.
So because of this, I thought I’d write something that may momentarily take our minds off hate. One that is inspired by the post I wrote yesterday for Mum’s birthday.
It’s about death.
Yes, I know that sounds a terrible thing to do, but it won’t be.
Or I hope it’s not.
[I’ve turned the comments off so I’ll just have to assume it’s the case]
You see death is utterly horrible.
There’s a chance it might even be worse for the people left behind.
I’ve written how long it took me to get over Dad dying.
10 years. TEN YEARS.
And part of that is because I had been denying Dad was ill for almost the entire duration of his illness. Thinking one more stroke would bring him back to ‘normal’, just as quickly as that one stroke had robbed him of it.
It is what led me to talking about the need to talk about death.
I get it’s not a subject anyone wants to talk about, but as we’re all going to be going through it – it’s better to have a healthy relationship with it rather than a bad one.
By doing it, I was able to deal with Mum dying with far greater balance.
Of course I was devastated and ripped apart …
It was not meant to happen at that time.
But because the door to discussing death had happened when Dad passed, it meant we were in a slightly better place to deal with it.
The problem with ageing is that it happens more around you.
It will force itself into your life, whether you like it or not … so talking about it, as uncomfortable as it may seem, actually helps everyone.
But … and there’s always a but … it doesn’t mean you are able to just move on after the event.
It helps you deal with the event with more clarity, but the emotions never really go.
Even if years have passed.
And it’s normal.
In fact, it’s beautiful … because it means the people who mattered most to you still matter.
How wonderful is that.
There’s been a number of times this has happened to me.
And while in the moment it is an emotional tsunami, it’s something you find yourself treasuring.
Because for a moment, you’re back together.
And that’s when you realise that while you thought you had everything in control, the reality is you’re just trying to control everything around you – so when something comes from left field, your walls are unable to hold anything back and the raw emotions come out with a force that takes your breath away.
I’ve had these situations with both Mum and Dad.
With Dad, it tends to be people who have eyes similar to his.
He had the most beautiful blue, expressive eyes I’ve ever seen.
I remember when I was living in Singapore, I was waiting for the lift in the lobby of the building I worked in.
Suddenly this man I’d never seen before came around the corner and waited at the other end of the lifts.
He was older, dressed smartly but his eyes were identical.
I kept looking at him – trying to remind myself it wasn’t actually my Dad while feeling it was.
And then, as quickly as he appeared, he was gone … never to be seen again.
I have a similar sensation when I see the actor Anthony Hopkins eyes … not just the colour, but the wrinkles around them.
Whenever he is on TV, I stare at him because it feels – even if for a moment – it’s like my Dad is starting back at me.
But the experience that got me the most was when I was living in LA.
I was at the local Thai restaurant in Manhattan Beach … waiting by the till to pick up my order.
Out of my eye, I saw an elderly woman sitting down waiting for her food as well.
It’s not that she really looked like my Mum, but there was something about her energy that felt like she was there.
Like the situation in Singapore, I found myself stealing glances while telling myself it’s not her.
And as much as I knew it wasn’t, it felt like it was and as much as I tried to stop looking, I craved that chance to be close to Mum again.
It was such a powerful sensation that I felt tears in my eyes. It was both a mix of the sadness she was gone and the happiness she felt like she was there.
This lovely lady noticed and asked if I was OK.
I apologised and said I didn’t mean to make her feel uncomfortable, but she reminded me so much of my Mum and I miss her.
And that’s when she said something I’ll remember forever.
“Would you like a hug?”
Oh my god, I did … but I also didn’t want to look like a total weirdo so I thanked her for her kind offer but said no.
As I said that, her food came and as she left, she told me it was so lovely to see someone love their Mum as much as I did.
And she walked out.
And I watched her.
And then I went outside and said …
“Excuse me, would it be possible to have that hug after all?”
She put her food down and opened her arms and I rested my head on her shoulder and she hugged me and I cried my eyes out.
Seriously, I think about it now and I’m amazed the restaurant owners didn’t call the Police.
We were like that for a minute, but it felt like hours and it was liberating for me … a release of all the situations I had try to control to ensure I didn’t lose control.
And like the man in Singapore, I never saw her again, but I’ll remember her – and him – forever. Because while they weren’t my parents, they let me feel – for a second – they were still here and that was the best feeling in the World.
Filed under: Comment, Dad, Daddyhood, Family, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, Otis, Parents
Today would have been Mum’s 88th birthday.
Oh how I wish she was here for it.
I’d have gone to pick her up to bring her to our house.
I’d have a chair set up just for her so she could look at the garden.
I can see and hear her now.
Her face lit up, gently shaking her head as she said, “Oh Robert, it’s so beautiful”
We would sit and chat and she would tell me how happy she is that we are now in the same country.
Around 3pm, Otis would come bouncing in the house.
He would see Mum and shout, “Nona!!!” and run into her outstretched arms.
She would envelop him into a big hug and kiss his cheeks and tell him how much she had missed him.
Then they would chat and I’d see Mum’s eyes shine bright while worrying she may be distracting him from things he wanted to do.
But he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but with her. Nattering. Talking. Explaining what he had for lunch at school that day.
Eventually he would get on to Roblox and ask Mum if she would like to play it with him.
Mum would gently explain she doesn’t know how and then he would say she could watch him instead … if she liked.
And she would.
And I’d watch my Mum and my son have the sort of moment together I always dreamt about.
Eventually it would be time for presents and cake.
We would start with the gift Otis got her.
God knows what it would be … maybe a mug that he chose from Sainsbury’s or something and a home made card … and she would treat them as if she had been bathed in jewels.
Eventually it would be time for the cake.
She would tell Jill she shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble. Jill would respond by telling her not to be so silly.
And we’d have a load of candles and she would ask Otis to help her blow them out.
Then, as we cut it up, she would ask for a small piece and then proceed to tell us how delicious it was and how wonderful a baker Jill is.
Then ask for a little more.
Because – well – it is her birthday.
And as the day turned to night, the lights in the garden would start to shine and Mum would treat it like it’s an encore performance – marvelling at it’s beauty while I told her that it was because she left me our family home, that we were able to do this.
To have a place that was so perfect for who we are and who we will become.
To tell her to stop worrying that she wasn’t going to leave me much.
Because the love I was given and the encouragement I received was more than I could ever hope for.
But for her and Dad to leave me our family home as well …
Well, that’s an abundance of generosity and love.
And I’d kiss Mum and thank her for everything and say I hoped she understood why I had to sell her house.
There would be a moments pause before she would break into a smile and say, “of course and I am so happy it has helped you have this beautiful home” and I would kiss her cheek and tell her how much I loved her and missed her and how I wished she would stay the night.
And she would look at me.
Right in the eyes.
Her bottom lip would slowly curl into her mouth and I would see her gently biting down on it in an attempt to try and control her emotions.
Her beautiful brown eyes would gently glisten and say everything without speaking a word.
And I would be doing the exact same back to her.
Because we both know she can’t.
That she has to go. To return to Dad.
To hold his hand and feel safe in her other place.
A place I wish I could visit to see the parents I miss so much.
Happy 88th birthday Mum.
I love you so much.
Rx