Filed under: Agency Culture, Attitude & Aptitude, Authenticity, Brilliant Marketing Ideas In History, Childhood, Comment, Communication Strategy, Creative Development, Creativity, Culture, Design, Differentiation, Distinction, Effectiveness, Emotion, Football, History, Individuality, Legend, Nottingham, Nottingham Forest, Resonance, Respect, Sport
Over my career, I’ve had a lot of ‘annual reviews’ and in all that time, there’s been a couple of topics that have made regular appearances in my bosses observations.
I am sure you can guess a lot of them, but one is that I approach every brief like a chance to change or impact everything.
Sometimes it was said in a positive tone.
Sometimes it was said in a less than positive tone.
And they were right.
They still are.
Because whenever we/I get a brief, my starting point is ‘what excites me about the brief’ … quickly followed by ‘how insanely big could we make the idea’ … quickly followed by me getting ridiculous excited about the potential, totally ignoring the fact that all they wanted was a shelf wobbler. Or something.
You think I’m joking don’t you? Well I am, but only just.
My strength/weakness is I always dream massive. Proper massive.
Sometimes it’s paid off – creating the first 4×4 on 2 wheels for Peugeot Mopeds in Vietnam.
Sometimes it’s been a total and unmitigated disaster – trying to get Porsche to bring rally car culture to China.
But pretty much all the time I’ve been able to look in the mirror and know I gave them what they needed, albeit in bigger, more provocative ways than they may have wanted … imagined … or expected.
And you know what, I’m good with that … which probably explains why the quote from the KLF – ‘Don’t give them what they want, give them what they’ll never forget’ – resonated with me so hard.
Anyway, the reason I say this is because waaaaaaaaay back in 1973, this ad appeared in the good, old Nottingham Evening Post.
It was an ad to design the Nottingham Forest Football Club badge.
If that sounds strange, wait till you hear the reason.
Originally, the Forest badge was the Nottingham Coat of Arms … it’s the emblem featured in the middle of the ad.
After discovering they could not copyright it, they decided they had to come up with a new badge and – for reasons no one has really got a good answer for – they decided to run a competition in the local paper, recruiting two lecturers in art and design as advisers.
Despite this being before the glory years of the Clough era, and a prize of just £25, the response was massive.
There were 855 entries from as far away as Australia and Germany … with one man submitting 27 designs.
After a judging process, David Lewis was crowned the winner with this …
David was 29 at the time, working as a graphic designer and lecturer at Nottingham’s College of Art.
He was a football nut and fancied a shot at winning the cash, but there was one problem … one of the judges, a man called Wilf Payne, was the head of the department where he worked.
David said …
“I didn’t think that any design I entered could have been judged fairly if he knew it was mine, and I also didn’t want to embarrass the judges. I did want to enter, though, so I decided to use my mother’s maiden name to hide my real identity. My mother’s side of the family were Italian immigrants and her maiden name was Lago. So I submitted my design as Lago and it wasn’t until afterwards that the judges found out my real name.”
Thank god he did that, because otherwise he may not have won and football – not just Nottingham Forest – would have missed out on one of the most beautiful and distinctive football club logos of all time.
Simple, yet powerful.
Accessible, yet iconic.
Universal, yet truly Nottingham … thanks to the tree representing Sherwood Forest, the wavy lines reflecting the river Trent [where the City Ground stands next to] and the red/white colour formation to reflect the club colours.
Forest’s badge has remained unchanged ever since David’s design – except for the addition of 2 stars to celebrate Forest’s back-to-back European Cup triumphs in 1979 and 1980.
Hell, the club is known to fans as ‘the tricky tree’s’ thanks to the logo.
And a few years ago, an American magazine ran an article on the most memorable and liked sports logos across the world and Davi’d design was in the top 10.
THE. TOP. TEN.
The point is, David Lewis could have approached the competition ‘pitch brief’ as many approach real pitch briefs.
Giving them exactly what they ask for in ways they would expect or feel comfortable with … which in this case would be a badge that represents Nottingham Forest and takes design cues from the existing logo.
But David thought bigger than that.
He wanted to create a design for Nottingham Forest that would be known, respected and revered across all sports and across all countries. A badge that could play outside the lines of the game and into culture.
A designer badge. Literally and figuratively.
And he did it. Beautifully and brilliantly.
Which is why the next time you get a brief – whether for a pitch or an existing client – just remember this story, because the whole industry could do with being more David Lewis.
Filed under: Attitude & Aptitude, Childhood, Dad, Death, Family, Fear, Home, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, Nottingham, Otis, Relationships, Respect
I’m not back.
Not properly.
But today is the 24th anniversary of my Dad passing away and I couldn’t – and wouldn’t – let this pass without mention.
24 years means I’m fast approaching him not being in my life for half my life.
And yet he is always there.
Maybe not always in the spotlight of my life, but always on the stage.
A warm presence.
A secure presence.
And sometimes, a surprising presence.
You see there are times where Dad appears seemingly out of nowhere.
From deep in the shadows to centrestage of the light.
Anything can trigger this.
A song.
A place.
A situation.
But the most common of all is a pair of eyes.
Specifically these pair of eyes …
As the title of this post reveals, those eyes belong to Anthony Hopkins.
And while the life of him and my father could not be further apart in so many ways, his eyes could easily belong to my Dad.
Not just for their shade or shape, but their character.
They are welcoming. They are warm. Caressed by lines around each eye that shows they have seen and they have lived. A journey that has led them through fields of pain, fear, laughter and love. And while you’re left in no doubt they have the power to make you feel fear or guilt with just a glance … that the lines around the eyes curve upwards, reassures you their resting condition is to let you in.
And that’s what my Dad gave me.
The power to always be let in. Even when I disappointed him.
Yes, there were times later in his life – when he was ill – that became a little harder, but even that was just temporary.
Because his main focus was for me to feel his love and support not his fear or wrath.
And his eyes were his way of reinforcing that.
I still remember a moment towards the end …
Dad had had many strokes by that time which had robbed him of his ability to talk and walk.
One day I got a call in Sydney – where I lived – telling me he’d been rushed to hospital and may only have 24 hours left to live.
I caught the first flight home and after a traumatic journey from the other side of the planet, I was with him … relieved he was alive, devastated he may die at any time.
At some point Mum and I were told we should get rest and go home.
Their house was literally 10 minutes from the hospital and they assured us they’d ring if anything happened.
Reluctantly we agreed and as I was saying goodnight, we looked at each other.
A firm, focused gaze into each others eyes.
I can still feel the intensity of that moment.
How the feeling of love was almost breathtaking in its power.
Because I knew exactly what those eyes looking back at me were saying.
What those eyes looking back at me were saying for him.
He loved me.
He was proud of me.
He was so glad I was there.
But it was even more than that …
It was him trying to take in my face.
Every line. Every mark. Every detail.
To ensure he remembered how I looked in case what we both knew was going to happen, happened while we were apart.
I remember how I felt my eyes were overflowing with water as I looked down on him in his hospital bed.
Our hands gripped so tight with me kissing his over and over again.
Holding back the tears in an attempt to express what I wanted to say.
That feeling you’re trying to lift a huge weight in an attempt to not break down.
Massive pauses between words to not let any cracks take hold.
And I managed it.
I told him, “I know … I know … and I love you so, so much my dear Dad”
Then there was a pause as I wondered if I should finish what I wanted to say.
And then I decided I would, just in case …
“And you have to be here tomorrow. You have to be Dad. Please be here”
And as we walked out of that ward, with me constantly turning around to meet his gaze with my eyes, I hoped that was not the last time I would ever see him.
It wasn’t.
Despite us going through a similar rollercoaster 3 months later … a time where he would sadly not be able to find the strength to yet again surprise his Doctors, Nurses, wife and son … he did then.
And I still remember how we knew he was feeling stronger from the moment we walked into that ward.
Because my dad – that wonderful orator – had mastered another skill. This time, the ability to talk … through his eyes.
A million words and emotions passed perfectly through a look from his beautiful, blue, kind, warm eyes.
And while you may think that when I see Anthony Hopkins I get upset, you’d be wrong.
Because when he appears on the screen – even when I’m least expecting it – I am grateful.
Because he doesn’t reinforce the loss, he lets me feel like I’m close to my Dad again.
My wonderful, warm, supportive Dad.
Which after 24 years apart, is a gift.
So thank you Mr Hopkins.
And thank you Dad.
I miss you.
Give Mum a kiss from me.
Filed under: Attitude & Aptitude, Childhood, Colenso, Comment, Family, New Zealand
This is a photo of my home. Obviously taken at night.
I love this place.
It’s probably my favourite place of all the places I’ve ever lived.
Of course, being able to have any home is a total privilege … so having one you really love is bordering on obscene. I get that.
And it’s obscene how much I love this place.
The fact it’s built into the trees.
That it’s surrounded by nature.
That it has outside decks on multiple floors.
That it’s close to work and yet feels a million miles away.
And then there’s the fact we bought it without having seen it – or even being in the country – which just makes it feel like we won the lottery. Except we paid a shitload for the ticket, haha.
So knowing one day we’ll leave it makes it all the more difficult.
Of course we don’t know when, but it will happen.
And while we’ve talked about trying to build an exect replica wherever we end up next … we know even if it was identical, it wouldn’t be the same.
Because a home is more than those walls.
It’s the environment. The surrounding area. The community. The moment in time.
Which is why I especially love the top pic.
Because while it doesn’t show much, it shows just enough.
A big steel door that holds a warm, inviting shelter.
A place where my family could blossom again after the challenges of covid.
A building where my son, wife and cat could connect to the privilege of living in New Zealand.
In many ways, it’s the most ‘family’ home we’ve had.
I don’t mean that in terms of size, but in our connection to it … which given we’ve lived in other places for far longer is testimony to what it means to us.
What New Zealand has done for us.
What Colenso made happen for us.
Leaving it will be terribly, terribly hard.
And while people reading this may rightfully say, “stop wishing your life away” … the reality is it means we’re not taking anything for granted. We notice and embrace every detail. We remain thankful for what we have. And in my book, that’s an act of love … which may be the most mature thing I’ve ever said, let alone done, in my life.
Filed under: Age, Attitude & Aptitude, Childhood, Comment, Music, Nottingham
Recently I was reading the Nottingham Evening Post when I saw a pub I knew, was being knocked down.
To be honest, I was more surprised it’s taken this long, because it always was a shit hole.
The food was shit.
The decor was shit.
The service was shit.
The clientele was shit.
It was a venue with almost no single redeeming feature.
In fact the only thing that surprised me more was that it looks just as shit today as it always did … and I have not stepped foot in that place for 36 years.
THIRTY SIX. [So yeah, I was underage when I stopped going there, let alone started]
And yet, hearing of it’s impending destruction made me nostalgic and a teeny bit sad.
Because for all it’s horrificness, it played an important part in my history.
This was the place I played my first ever ‘grown up’ gig.
This was the place where the council told us we were too loud.
This was the place where a biker gang told us to play certain songs or face the consequences.
This was the place my parents first saw me perform.
This was the place that got me addicted to gig life.
This was the place that introduced me to new characters and friends.
This was the place that started – even though it lasted just a few years – a life and career that was beyond anything I could ever imagine.
This was the place I walked the bridge between kid and adult. From food to nightlife to feeling a member of a gang to believing – and seeing – a new life and world was possible.
So yeah … The Forester’s was always an undeniable, unmitigated shithole.
But it was also my university for life of adventure.
I’ll always be grateful for it.
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Age, Childhood, Comment, Culture, England
OK, so this only works if …
1. You grew up in England.
2. You’re of a certain age.
But assuming you are both those things, here’s a way to start your week on a low.
It’s amazing these 2 spent over 70,000 hours on television.
Of course, it was from a time when television was 3 channels and finished at midnight.
But still, that’s the equivalent of 2916 consecutive days … 416 weeks … eight years.
To be honest, I always found the young girl, Carole Hersee, a bit creepy – far creepier than Bubbles the Clown who is next to her … so it’s quite reassuring she turned out to be a ‘normal’ woman and not a psychopathic murderer.
And for those who don’t know what the hell I’m talking about … it’s the famous Test Card F, which was designed by Carole’s Dad and for British people of a certain age, is a reminder just how old they now are.
Happy Monday. Cue: Evil laugh.