Filed under: Augustine, Bassot, Birthday, Bonnie, Cannes, Jill, Love, Nottingham, Paul, Paula, Relationships, Tattoo
So today is the last post for about 3 weeks.
No, it’s not because I am still upset about the loss of my ring – I am, but I’ve found a way to move past it which I’ll write about when I’m back – it’s because I’m about to go on a mass of travel, including talking at Cannes with Paula.
But in addition to all that, I feel I’ve reached a point where I have nothing to write about.
If I think about it, that’s stupid … because I NEVER run out of things and right now – with things like Dream Bigger – I’ve got more good things to write about than I have in years.
Which means I really need a bit of a break … and while the next 3 weeks will be the opposite of that, a change is as good as a rest so expect me to come back fizzing with stuff to shout about.
Of which 86.32% will be my usual pants.
The rest may be pretty good.
Talking of pretty good, I should highlight all that’s going to happen while I’m away.
First – of course – is my birthday. My 55th fucking birthday, which is nothing to celebrate whatsoever, hence it’s pretty convenient that’s the day I fly out of NZ.
Secondly, it’s Jill’s birthday on the 15th … which, yet again, I am missing. I could say that is my gift to her, but I’m gutted to be missing her special day. She is a truly special human … and the longer we are together, the more I appreciate all she is and all she does. She deserves so much more, but I hope she knows I love her with all my heart, even if I somehow seem to always be away on her most special of days. And then – as the final birthday fuck-up – I get to miss my mate Paul’s birthday.
What is even more ridiculous is I’ll be in Nottingham 2 days before his big day and yet – in another demonstration of my terrible planning skills – I’ve managed to make sure I’ll be gone just as he celebrates his double 5 day.
Bloody hell, I’m missing so many important dates, I just hope I make it in time to be on stage with Paula.
[Not just because we have a speech to do, but because I’ve not seen her in the flesh since we spoke at Cannes way back in 2023!]
Given the last few weeks have seen people leaving [Martin, Augustine and Lizzie]. lost wedding rings [me], broken toes [Otis], COVID [also Otis] … I’m quite nervous about getting on the plane, so to ensure you don’t miss me too much – you can listen to me blather-on the OnStrategy podcast when Fergus came to New Zealand.
At the very least, it will help you sleep … and maybe, just maybe, you’ll wake up in time to see a brand, spanking new, exciting blog post from me.
But I wouldn’t bet on it.
And if you don’t like that, you can marvel at the latest ridiculous tattoo I’ve had done.
I say ‘ridiculous’, but every one of them is personal to me.
This one is for Bonnie, our pooch.
You see, when I was growing up, my favourite biscuit in the whole-wide-world was the Bourbon biscuit.
It was nothing fancy. In fact, it was probably a bit pauper – I think you could get a pack from Asda or Glens for 10 pence, albeit that 10 pence back then was probably like 10 quid now or something. Anyway, the Bourbon was 2 chocolate rectangular biscuits sandwiching a chocolate creme filling.
And it was fucking yum.
Or so I thought …
You see I had one recently and I have to admit, it tasted more cardboard than chocolate.
But regardless, when we learned our dog was chocolate brown in colour, I rallied the family around the idea of choosing a name inspire by my fave Bourbon biccie … which is my long way of explaining this.
I know. I know.
So with that, I’m off to offend the stylish South of France residents with my speech and tattoo. So until I see you in a few weeks, have fun with the peace and quiet.
Given it’s my birthday a week today, you’d think I’d be in a good mood – but I’m not.
Not because of the age I turn, but because of the part of me I’ve lost.
You see a few weeks ago, I was at work when I realized I had lost my wedding ring.
Obviously, this would be devastating to anyone, but to make matters worse, my ring also incorporated my Dad’s wedding ring – which was the only thing of his that I still had.
I have no idea how this happened or where this happened.
I checked everywhere, spoke to everyone and revisited everything.
I went through office bins.
I went through every inch of my car.
I walked the streets, talked to passers-by and visited every place I’d been to that day.
But nothing.
To say I am still devastated is a massive understatement … because I am also angry and upset at myself.
I feel I was irresponsible in some way, even though I don’t know how.
But what I do know is that it was not only one of the only pieces of jewelry I have – not to mention the most important piece of jewelry I own – it was one of the only tangible connections to who I am and where I’m from.
Part of the metal had been wrapped around my Dad’s fingers … which always let me feel he was with me, even though he obviously was not. And my wife’s heart had chosen the other part of the metal that was wrapped around my finger … which helped me feel she was with me, even when we were apart.
Losing it – for me – feels like an act of disrespect and disregard to some of the people who matter most to me and I feel a real pain deep in my chest when I think about it.
I have tried to relive the day a thousand times.
Where I was.
What I did.
Who I was with.
And what makes it worse is that I feel the memory I need is there, but just out of reach …
So I push myself as hard as I can in an attempt to bridge the final gap and finally get the information I need.
Except I can’t … so I punish myself again and more.
I feel so sad and so sorry.
Sad for the situation but even more … sorry to my wife and sorry to my dad.
Sorry that they gave me something that symbolized how important I was to them only for me to go and lose it.
Worse, lose it but not realise it immediately.
It feels like I have just taken them – and all I am to them, and them to me – for granted.
It’s a painful feeling.
It’s one that I don’t know I will ever get over.
Because it wasn’t made of precious metal, it was made from precious people.
Filed under: Australia, Emotion, England, Family, Love, Loyalty, Mum & Dad, Music, My Childhood
Someone recently asked me what I was proud of.
Specifically, what I had done in my life, that had made me proud.
I took a long time thinking about it.
Not because I had to run through a cavalcade of possible answers, but because when I took away the things that made me proud by association rather than personal involvement – like family and friends – there wasn’t a lot left.
After what seemed about an hour, I said 3 things.
That I had got healthy.
That I had managed to have a career.
That I had stayed true to who I was in pretty much all I did and do.
Take away the fact I only got heathy in the last 2 years and maybe that’s not a lot to be proud of for almost 55 years of life. But then, how many things should there be? What are the sort of things that can even be considered?
If the question was, ‘who are YOU proud of’ … I’d be here all week, rattling away names of people directly in my life or in my consciousness. But when it’s about what am I proud of doing … there’s not much.
It made me wonder if this means I’m hard on myself, down on myself or just a bit thick?
I’m sure if I was to ask Jill or my parents, they’d highlight a bunch of things I should be considering. But I must admit, I quite like that there’s not much that springs to mind. Not because I’m a sadist, but hopefully because it means I’m a realist.
You see over the years, I’ve met countless people who told me – with full sincerity – that they ‘knew’ they were going to be rich/successful/famous. And when I’d ask why – or how – they’d just reply with, “I just know”.
I always looked at them with a sense of awe.
I found their confidence of conviction amazing.
Because while I loved the idea that maybe one day, I may be successful at something, I never for once thought it was preordained. Shit like that didn’t happen to kids from Nottingham – oh no. If I wanted to stand a chance of achieving anything – however small – it would need me to graft for it.
And yet I distinctly remember my parents once worrying I didn’t have a good work ethic.
To be fair, I did go through a phase where I liked to stay in my bed. A lot.
On the other hand, I was about 14 years old, so did it really matter?
Well to my parents it did and while they didn’t give me chores around the home, they did have expectations of how I would behave.
That I’d go after the things that were important to me.
That I’d work hard to learn and experience all I could.
That I’d give my all in all I explored.
That I’d chase fulfillment over easy contentment.
The older I get, the more I realise how brilliant they were in how they raised me … because while they placed these expectations on my behaviour, they did it without ever making me feel pressure to ‘achieve’. In fact they were perfectly fine if I failed … the main focus was that I never phoned it in.
To them, laziness was an act of disrespect.
Not just to those who were giving you the opportunity, but to yourself.
I get why that was the case … because they had to work for every little thing they got.
Like, proper work for it.
In every part and period of their life, they faced trials and tribulations … which explains why it was so important to them I went into the things that mattered 100%. And when they sensed I was doing that, they would back me 100% … even if they didn’t really like what I was doing.
It’s why Dad backed me to become a musician, even though he wished I’d become a lawyer. It’s why Mum encouraged me to still move to Australia, even though Dad just had a terrible stroke. It’s why they supported me when I told them I didn’t want to go to university, even though it had been a dream of theirs.
For them, graft was a demonstration of taking something seriously … so maybe that’s another thing I can feel proud of because I never took the opportunities Mum and Dad created or sacrificed for me, for granted. I loved them far too much for that.
Thanks Mum. Thanks Dad.
Filed under: 2025, Birthday, Childhood, Dad, Death, Immaturity, Mum, Mum & Dad, My Childhood, My Fatherhood, Old, Parents
So it’s June.
That means we’re 6 months into the year already – WHATTHEACTUAL?!
It’s going to be a big month for me …
I’ve got a bunch of big meetings, a bunch of big travel, the small matter of giving a talk – with Paula – at Cannes and turning FIFTYFUCKINGFIVE.
Jesus Christ … I am now, proper old.
I appreciate the difference between 54 and 55 doesn’t seem massive, but let me tell you it is.
You see over the past few weeks, I’ve been receiving letters from the UK about my pension.
I’d never really received these before so it seemed a bit strange … strange enough for me to call them to find out what the hell was going on. And that’s where 2 things happened that shook me to my core.
The first was that they were letting me know that I was approaching a time where I could either ‘cash them in’ or move them into a different scheme. Given I’ve not lived in the UK for most of my adult life, there’s not much in there so I’ve never really paid attention to it.
It was at this point I asked how could I cash it in if I chose to … to which the very kind woman on the end of the line said:
“You just contact us 6 weeks before you turn 55 and we make it happen for you”.
I paused for a moment before replying,
“We are 6 weeks before I turn 55”.
And let me tell you, she was as shocked as me with that news – albeit her shock was because she hadn’t checked my date-of-birth whereas my shock was I could cash in – should I choose – my fucking pension.
How was this possible?
Pensions are for when people are ancient.
A 1000 years into the future. How the hell am I eligible for mine now?
But I guess I am … because I am ancient.
So ancient, I’m only 5 years off when my Dad died – which is terrifying for a whole host of obvious and less obvious reasons.
Except I don’t feel 55.
In fact, I feel younger than I have in decades. I am healthier too.
But despite that – and the fact my maturity level still resides around 14 years of age – you can’t stop getting older however hard you may try, so no doubt I am on the path to playing bowls each afternoon, complaining about the kids in the neighborhood ‘for making too much noise’ and smelling of wee. Or something.
And just remember before you all take the piss out of me.
You’ve got all this coming … so don’t be too cocky, because the one good thing about getting old, is you don’t give a fuck about keeping your mouth shut.
Not that I’ve ever had a problem with that – which I’ve literally just realized why Rupert Howell used to say I was the youngest old person he had ever met.
Oh God, as Monday’s go, this one sucks balls.
Happy fucking June.
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Advertising, Attitude & Aptitude, Awards, Birthday, Bonnie, Cannes, Cliches, Comment, Creativity, Culture, Jill, Otis, Paul, Paula, WARC
So, I’m back.
And I survived.
Better yet, the family … pooch … and my colleagues seemed relatively happy to see me, which is a massive win.
Plus the people with the birthdays, had good ones. Albeit maybe because I didn’t get to share it with them.
Anyway, Cannes was interesting.
I have a very weird relationship with it because while I love hearing great people talk … looking at some incredible work and seeing old friends, I do hate a lot of ‘the scene’.
The indulgence.
The egotism.
The excess.
That said, so much of that is now coming from people and companies who work in consultancies, tech, research or big multinationals – rather than ad agencies or companies who practice creativity in the truest sense of the word. Part of that is because they’re the only ones who can afford it … but it also reveals a chink in their ‘armor of confidence’. Evidence that for all their smarts, they’re desperate to feel admired, liked, wanted … without ever realizing their American Psycho approach to life attracts derision more than attraction.
At least for me.
I often wonder if all industry conference get-togethers create this sort of energy.
Do dentists/analysts/publishers [delete as appropriate] start to convince themselves they’re the Masters-Of-The-Universe when all packed tightly into one room?
As I said, Cannes is brilliant for the talks, the creativity and the ability to reconnect with old friends.
It’s nice to see a celebration of what we do when so often it faces a barrage of abuse from people who wouldn’t know creativity if it smashed them in the face.
But the vulgar displays of excess are less attractive to me.
As are the giant ads from tech/consultancy companies which are trying to position themselves as creative but end up demonstrating they’re the total opposite.
At least that’s slightly amusing, especially because you know it took them 6 months of board approval/design to make it happen.
But I digress …
I’m back.
I had a good time.
I’m thankful to WARC and Paula for making it happen.
I’m very happy to have seen some old friends after years.
But – unfortunately for you – I’m ready to write more blog bollocks.