Things I won’t be doing this weekend.


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This weekend I won’t be cheering on my daughter at a Cross Fit open competition in Stratford.

This weekend I won’t be walking the canal at Hackney Wick.

This weekend I won’t be having dinner at The First Dates restaurant.

This weekend I won’t be sampling real ales and pizza in The Crate Brewery.

This weekend I won’t be rummaging through the Gods Own Junkyard in Walthamstow.

This weekend I won’t be enjoying a free historical photographic exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery.

This weekend I won’t be eating Peruvian at Cevicheuk.

This weekend I won’t be wandering hand in hand round the V&A with my wife.

This weekend I won’t be going to a jazz club (possibly Ronnie Scott’s).

This Weekend I won’t be giggling and acting like a doting father with my daughter.

This weekend I won’t be Eating crushed advocate on toast in a bijou flat in Stratford East.

This weekend I won’t be trying lunch at Goat.

This weekend I won’t be taking part in a musical singalong at The Pheonix Art Club in Soho.

This weekend I won’t be visiting the Columbia Road Flower Market.

This weekend I won’t be on a free street Art walking tour in Brick Lane

This weekend I won’t be sampling vegan food at Mildreds

This weekend I won’t be Touring the Houses of Parliament thanks to my local MP.

This weekend I won’t be eating lunch overlooking the Thames in the HoP members restaurant.

This weekend I won’t be viewing London from the Sky Garden in The Shard

This weekend I might be making ANOTHER FUCKING SNOWMAN.

#BeastFromTheEast

 

Lost false teeth are no laughing matter…


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My blog, Is this Yours?, has turned up another mystery.

Half a set of gnashers, unencumbered by their owners.

It reminds me of a story about my pal, Ian Sutherland, who once lost his teeth when he sneezed out the window of his delivery van half way down the A1 on the way to Berwick on Tweed.  His choppers lie, waiting to be discovered, on a verge to this day I suppose.

Maybe these are his?

I think it unlikely though, unless deliberate relocation has been actioned by a stranger.

So, who lost theirs on Dalmeny Beach?

Indeed was it on the beach itself that the loss initiated?

Were they vomited down a loo in Fraserburgh and made their way down the East coast of Scotland on tidal streams?

Were they the result of a violent orgasm in the darkness on that very beach, immediately interrupted by an approaching stranger as two middle aged adults sought gratification and had to scarper before they could retrieve their conjugal misappropriation?

Perhaps they simply slipped out of a mouth, unnoticed, during a gentle stroll.

They may have been overboarded by a passing trawler in high seas.

Are they male?

Are they female?

I’ve tried them on, but my own clackers made estimating size a tricky exercise and, besides, they tasted a little brackish.

Do we have any forensic dentists willing to carbon date them for me?

Can the media help me here?

 

 

 

1576 Advertising RIP


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On the 1st of September 1994 David Reid, Adrian Jeffery and myself put the last touch of paint onto the basement wall of our basement home in Tweeddale Court on Edinburgh’s prestigious Royal Mile (we always used Royal Mile in our address because it sounded better than High Street, which was the official postal address). I stood there, resplendent in green and white Y Fronts (I always painted in my Y fronts because it was easier to clean your skin than your trousers) and took a deep breath. This was it. It wasnt a dream or an adventure anymore. It was our livelihood.

At 9.23 the phone rang. Our only client, Spectacles, who one day become 20 20 Opticians.

“Oh Hi John ” I said ” I expect you’re phoning to set up a meeting…”

“No, I’m phoning to fire you.”

I’d never even met him. He was a complete twat as this, and future history (if there is such a thing) went on to prove.

We’d now gone from a prospective income of £12,000 pa to zip; nada; fuck all.

Eight days later Jeana gave birth to our second and third child (the third conception and pregnancy was not some form of record – we had twins).

We were right in the shit then.

Better get some business.

As luck, some would say talent, would have it though we did get some business (Holywood Bowl) and some more (The Blood Transfusion Service) and some more (Smiths Menswear) and some more (Sinclairs Criminal Lawyers) so that by Christmas we had our first six commercials on air. We made a handsome profit in year one and paid off our personal debts. We never drew down the start up capital and things just went from good to better.

One year, I can’t remember exactly when, we had nine nominations at the Scottish Ad Awards and every single one of them won a Gold, meaning that we tied with The Lieth Agency as the top award winners. They were lucky to escape with a tie because we were better.

At times we were cocky bastards. At times we weren’t. (I can’t remember when though.)

But gradually we got bigger and bigger. We won multi-million pound accounts that sucked the energy and, to be honest, the creativity out of us. We became like the establishment that we felt so superior about.

I got bored.

I left in 2003.

But, you know what, those times were, on the whole, the best. I made my bravest, and most foolish, clientesque decisions.

Picture the scene. David and Adrian, having been briefed by me to write a series of commercial virals selling 1576, present me with five scripts with a man dressed up as a six foot penis trying to perform office and day-to-day functions in the guise of a rubbish marketing director (most obscene of all was the penis going for a piss) and I said

“Fabulous, hilarious, it will really stand out!”

It did.

Not for good reasons.

Ruth’s Bar, the Friday night swalley, was a hoot – because it was a “free” night out with your mates – and believe me, 1576 were my mates. Every last bloody one of them.

I loved, really loved, the people I worked with. We all cried when I left. Many of us cried last night too (I’m sure) when we learned that cocky, creative, amazing, get it up ya, 1576 was no more.

A very sad day and my heart goes out to David and all the team that were there at the end.

In an ironic, but wonderful, postscript one of the undoubted heroes of 1576, Mimi, gave birth to a baby girl, her first, yesterday afternoon, almost to the second that 1576 shut its doors for the last time.

Life’s an odd thing is it not?

1576

1/9/94 – 7/2/08