Filed under: 2026, A Bit Of Inspiration, Airports, America, Emotion, Empathy, Human Goodness, Humanity, Relationships, Relevance, Resonance
Despite being a sentimental bastard, I’ve always looked forwards.
I love the possibilities of what is ahead of us.
The new. The unknown. The what-if-we-could-do-this sort of stuff.
But when I was in NYC, I came face-to-face with a few things from the past that reminded me how their impact on me remains in the present.
I’ll be writing about a few of these over the next few weeks but the first was this …
Yep, a bank of payphone at JFK.
In a smartphone driven world, I have no idea why they’ve left so many of them there – but even accepting some people must choose to use a payphone over a mobile device, there was something lovely about seeing them all sat there.
A reminder of a time where the darkest corridors in the oldest airports were possibly where the most pure expressions of humanness could be experienced
People queuing up to talk to loved ones … friends … colleagues … or companies.
A rollercoaster of conversational emotions …
Happiness, Sadness. Curiosity. Despair. Hope. Calmness. Longing. Love.
Every payphone, a different story …
Each one interpreted by the voice, words and mannerisms of the person in front of you.
So even though airports send and bring millions of people to every corner of the globe each and every year, that row of payphones reminded me how rarely we now glimpse others lives in their raw and unfiltered state.
Social media certainly isn’t that.
In fact, I can’t think of many current situations where we witness masses of people all crammed into the same space, trying to live and deal with their individual lives in public.
Maybe that’s a good thing, but for all the convenience and freedom that tech gives us, this bank of payphones made me think that maybe the cost of this convenience is our ability to empathize and relate to the realities each of us lives in the shadows.
Filed under: 2026, Advertising, Airports, Attitude & Aptitude, Birthday, Brand, Brand Suicide, Creativity, Culture, Customer Service, Effectiveness, Experience, Loyalty, Management, Marketing, Marketing Fail, Privilege, Professionalism, Reputation, Travel, Trust, Uncommon, World Cup
The next few weeks are big for me.
My birthday.
Jill’s birthday.
Paul’s birthday.
The World Cup starting.
Trips to LA, Milan, Berlin, London and Amsterdam.
Meetings and dinners with legends of film, fashion and music.
And a bunch of lovely planners in Germany, hahaha.
I’d love to pretend I’m nonchalant about it all, but that would be a massive fucking lie as I’m exited to fuck about it all – bar my birthday.
But this post isn’t about my impending weeks of mega-madness, it’s about the madness of dealing with British Airways.
I am in the incredibly lucky situation of having someone pay for all my flights.
Better yet, they are paying for them to all be Business Class.
I booked on Air New Zealand, who – because of the flight itinerary – also scheduled some of the flights on BA.
So far. So good.
Having chosen my seats on Air NZ, I went to BA to do the same with them … except my booking reference didn’t work.
I then tried logging into my British Airways Frequent Flyer account, but got the same response.
No problems, maybe they use a different booking reference, so I contacted Air NZ to ask – and they told me, they use the same number and so it should work.
So I tried again. Nothing.
So I tried calling. No answer.
So I tried their chatbot. No reply.
It was getting frustrating so I went on the website to see if there was another way to contact them and there was.
A customer service contact button. So I clicked on it and what did I find when I did that …
A postal address.
A fucking postal address!
They want me to write – from New Zealand – to work out why my booking reference number doesn’t work. Mind blowing.
But it gets worse …
You see, I went back to Air NZ and told them the situation and they said they would talk to BA on my behalf. And they did.
So after 3 attempts for the website to accept my login details, I go on there to choose my business class seats and what do I find?
Yep, they want to CHARGE ME for choosing a seat.
This on top of the fact it has already cost a fuck-ton of cash.
Now I appreciate this is a first world problem.
I totally get I’m incredibly fortunate to be able to experience this.
But it blows-my-fucking mind that BA wants to charge me even more money to choose which seat I fly in – especially when airlines like Air NZ, let you do it when you fly economy.
Now I should point out BA have said once check-in is open – ie: 24 hours before the flight leaves – I can choose my seat for free, but apart from that still being bollocks, I am pretty sure when I try to do it, they’ll tell me I have to mail in my request by post.
Uncommon have done some amazing work for British Airways.
They have elevated their standing and prestige with some beautiful work.
And the line they created – A British Original – sounds great, until you remember that the British Leyland Mini Metro and also one of those and was a fucking shit experience as well.
Filed under: 2025, A Bit Of Inspiration, Airports, America, China, Creativity, England, Experience, Great Ads In History, Legend, New Zealand, Planning, Respect, Royalty
So this is my last post for just over a week.
I know, I know … I just did that a few weeks ago.
But while any trip overseas is a privilege, this is almost indescribable in its beautiful madness.
Or it would have been, until plans got slightly changed.
ARGHHHHHHHHH.
I must admit, I was devastated when I first got told because as I hinted on my 1st Oct post … it was going to be one of the most insane, wonderful, special, magical and utterly, utterly bonkers trips and experiences of my entire life.
ENTIRE. LIFE.
And I was happy so say that, even if it turned it into a total fucking disaster.
But alas, things got changed and delayed so while I am going away, it’s to a different place for a much shorter time and to meet a rep of the individual – rather than the actual individual, which will now happen in late October and then a big event thingymajig in early 2026. So while that’s a bit disappointing for me, it’s still great news for you because while I’ll now be back in NZ for some of next week, there will only be a few posts over next week.
You’re welcome.
So with that, I wish you all a good weekend … and to say goodbye, I can’t think of a nicer way to do that than leave you with the great Dolly Parton singing a song that perfectly sums up my week ahead.
Have fun. Take care.
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Advertising, Airports, Apathy, Attitude & Aptitude, British, Business, Cars, Corporate Evil, Crap Products In History, London, Luxury
Recently, while walking through Heathrow Airport, I saw this:
Put aside the fact these airport shuttles seem to be for either the elderly, the late or the self-important … why the fuck do they need to have one that looks like the bastard lovechild of Liberace and Elton John’s cars from the 1970’s?
Is it a special edition thing?
Is it an business class, collab thing?
Is it a alarming lack of taste thing?
Or is it a tourist thing?
I could kinda understand if it was for tourists as I can imagine it would be very appealing for Americans of a certain age.
But even then, it’s still pants – exemplified by the fact it has a number plate that represents the name of the company who made/drives it.
And that’s before I point out the British Car Industry – that this thing is probably trying to leverage – is, at best, on its knees or, at worst, owned by everyone other than the Brits.
For fucks sake, is there no end to what we will make ‘status’?
What next … lifts?
I’d rather have a lifetime flying Ryan Air than one trip in that pile of gold shite.
Hell – to paraphrase a very old joke – I’d rather be seen coming out the back of a sheep than the back of that, which not only captures just how ridiculous I find an ‘upper class’ milk float at an international airport but also how too many companies confuse charging a ‘premium price’ with being a ‘premium product’.
Or as my friend, George, calls it, ‘corporate status delusion’.
I’m turning 55 this year.
WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?
How the hell did that happen?
The good news is that while I may look it, I don’t act it.
I’m not saying that, I was told it.
By managers of Rock Stars who said, ‘I was immune from maturity’.
And while they probably meant it as an insult, I took it as a compliment. I’m sad like that.
But the reality is, regardless how stupid or annoying I can be – or as young as I sometimes really think I am – I’m still closer to getting a bus pass than I am getting inside a tour bus which may explain why I often look at people and can’t believe how young they are.
Pilots.
Doctors.
Footballers.
Police Officers.
Hell, not that long ago I got on a plane that I swear was being flown by a child.
Seriously, they looked like they weren’t even old enough to fold a paper plane, let alone fly a massive real one.
Which is why recently – while reading about Nottingham Forest in the Evening Post – I saw an ad that has made me question whether it is more evidence I’m an old bastard or actually just another example of marketing bullshit.
It was this.
No, I don’t mean the funeral insurance – which was depressing enough – but the ad next to it.
The one that features an attractive woman who apparently is a ‘single senior’.
Now maybe my eye’s deceive me. Or maybe the woman in this ad is the recipient of South Korea’s finest plastic surgery. But how the fuck is she classified as a senior???
OK, it’s marketing and their track record of shaming women knows no bounds … but come on, when the hell did ‘senior’ become anyone over 30?
Sure, for a 15 year old, 30 is ancient-as-fuck.
And yes, the health industry labels anyone becoming a parent over 35 as ‘geriatric’.
Then there’s Chanel, who classify anything over 40 years of age as ‘vintage’.
But all those examples come from people and industries known for being fucking lunatics.
Whereas I – on the other hand – am not one.
Not really.
Which is why I can categorically state the woman in that photo is absolutely-not a ‘senior’.
Or I hope she isn’t.
Because if that was the case, not only would it mean I’m pre-historic, it would make me think the real reason Otis lives at home is not because he’s a 10 year old little boy, but because he’s actually an adult taking care of his decrepit old man in the last days of life.
Jesus, as Monday’s go, this one has gone especially dark.
So thank you Nottingham Evening Post. Asshole.