Real Men Write Long Copy

Adopt a freelancer

noreply@blogger.com (real men write long copy) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 14:07:00 +0000

Like everyone, I used to shun freelancers.

They are the nervous pale kid in glasses in the playground. If you talk to him, he’ll think he’s your friend and follow you around.

They are spirit beings. They walk among you but they are not one of you. Like Patrick Swayze in Ghost.

They are mercenaries. Every penny they get would have gone towards your bonus or Christmas party or a new Maserati for the boss.

I was the same. ‘What’s the point in learning a freelancer’s name?’ I reasoned. ‘In a week, or a month, or a few months, they’ll be gone and you’ll have used up that part of your brain unnecessarily.'

But, having freelanced for over a year now, I’ve realised something. Freelancers are humans too.

So today I’m starting a new campaign: Adopt a freelancer.

Given the success of my previous campaigns to Make planning history and Stop hiring art directors FULL STOP, I'm confident this will also capture the imagination of the industry and usher in a watershed of wholesale changes.

Think about it. In the history of humanity, has there ever been a more terribly oppressed people group than freelance creatives? (Other than fans of The Cure and they kind of deserve it.)

Freelancers are never offered a cup of tea. Never invited to the pub. They’re forced to use whatever broken furniture/computer equipment has been discarded by others.

And yet do you find freelancers writing long, whiney, self-obsessed blog posts about how terribly hard it is? Not a bit of it. They soldier on, courageously accepting their inflated pay each week.

Do you have any idea, dear reader, of the difference it could make to a freelancer if you said "Hello"? If you nodded at them in the corridor or even, dare I suggest, smiled? Once I sneezed and the person next to me said “Bless you” and I was so pitifully grateful I almost wept.

So please, for 2012, join my campaign and Adopt a freelancer. Because, remember, one day you could be a freelancer too.

Don't feed the data monster

noreply@blogger.com (real men write long copy) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 17:28:00 +0000

While we’re on the subject, this is a very good post on the data monster that Facebook has become.

It’s the sort of post I like to think I’d write if I was a proper blogger (although mine would include fewer typos and references to the Manic Street Preachers).

Drugs! Drugs! Drugs!

noreply@blogger.com (real men write long copy) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 17:11:00 +0000

I was interested to see this, by McCann Digital Israel – an anti-drug message using the new Facebook Timeline format.

However, I’m not really sure what the message is supposed to be. Other than perhaps to stay away from drugs or you’ll end up looking like Gaz from Supergrass.

It’s just not clear which life is better.

From a hair point of view, it's a close call. All I can say for sure is that if you've got stupid hair, a drug habit won't help.

Other than that, I would say the chap on the left does look a bit fed up.

But at least he doesn’t have to go to work in a shirt and tie. And he got rid of that annoying girlfriend (anyone who makes you take one of those ‘couple together taken by themselves’ shots and post it on Facebook is definitely a wrong ‘un – you're better off without her mate).

Of course you’ll all remember this thought-provoking piece I wrote a couple of years ago.

Even back then, I was warning we need to be careful what we put on Facebook because once you’re gone, you’ll be perfectly preserved forever in all your pointlessness.

Regarding the broader question of whether the timeline feature is an improvement or not I'd say it's proof, were it needed, that Zuckerburg is the anti-Christ.

Looking back at old posts hits a similar level on my Cringe-o-meter as rereading old diaries *SHUDDERS*. And now Timeline makes it far easier to do that.

Dunno about you dear reader but I for one am considering embracing hard drugs to escape from it all.

Advice for young creatives

noreply@blogger.com (real men write long copy) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 14:09:00 +0000

Keep a copy of everything you do. And I mean everything.

That includes the insert you did offering Buy 1 Get 1 free on Budget Mince. And the shelf wobbler for thrush cream you're not especially proud of.

Because sooner or later you'll be trying to get a bit of freelance, just a little something to tide you over before the Christmas break, and a recruiter will say something like:

"I see you've done lots of creative stuff. But can you write 50% off on a shelf wobbler?"

"Yes."

"Because I can't see any examples on your website."

"No. I kind of assumed anyone can do that."

"So have you got any examples?"

And you'll think, 'GAH! That Mr RMWLC is always right!'

Christmas preparations for real men

noreply@blogger.com (real men write long copy) — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 20:11:00 +0000

One of the worst things about freelance life is that you’ll be at home with your family more. As a result, your wife will give you jobs.

So many jobs, in fact, that you will consider turning this into a DIY blog. And actually write a post on How to install a Christmas tree.

How to install a Christmas tree

Once some chancer has fleeced you and you've spent £30 (£30!!!) on a tree that Charlie Brown himself would reject, you’ll need to stick it in a stand.

You may find the tree doesn’t sit properly in the stand because the cretin lumberjack or whatever his name is doesn’t know how to cut a tree straight and gave you a wonky bottom bit of the trunk that needs evening out. (You should have spotted this when you bought it but you didn’t.)

To saw it you’ll need a saw. You can borrow a saw from a man, most likely a neighbour. The man will look down at you for not having your own saw. He thinks he’s so much better than you just because he built his own extension out the back and he’s got a van but he’s not all that. I saw him drinking on his own down the pub once I think he and his wife had had a row.

Saw it.

Put it in the stand. (Take care when positioning the tree as the pine needles are really sharp. If one goes under your nail you are likely to yelp in pain and maybe swear in front of the kids.)

Stand back to see whether or not it's straight.

Wrong

Still wrong

Still wrong. What is up with this thing? I’ve been waggling it around for half an hour now.

Right

Congratulations. You have installed your tree. Now you can move on to the next job on her list and this will not end until you get another gig so you'd better get on to some headhunters or something.

At last!

noreply@blogger.com (real men write long copy) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 17:07:00 +0000

It's that time of year when I can wear this and look AWESOME for a whole month.

Are Man City the GoCompare of the football world?

noreply@blogger.com (real men write long copy) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 15:36:00 +0000

It’s crass. It’s unpleasant. But the fact remains that if you throw enough money at the media plan/players, eventually you get an uplift in sales/to the top of the league.

I will look for you. I will find you. And I will KILL YOU.

noreply@blogger.com (real men write long copy) — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 11:29:00 +0000

Has anyone got my oyster card?

Well I know someone has, because it was auto-topped up at Holborn Station on Sunday at 7:14am.

Whoever you are, I sincerely hope you were on your way to an early morning church service to repent. And that you’ve since handed it in to the relevant authorities.

It’s not about the money. I want it back for sentimental reasons.

Look at it.

Part of its appeal is pure patriotism. But where that ends (which is pretty quickly) pure kitsch takes over and just keeps on going.

Every time I took it out of my pocket it made me smile.

Well I’m not smiling anymore.

Hand it in by 17:30 tomorrow and I won’t come after you. Failure to do so will result in this.

(Just so we're clear, it’ll be me, not Liam Neeson. And I’m after my Oyster card, not his daughter.)

You don't have to be worthless to work here, but it helps

noreply@blogger.com (real men write long copy) — Wed, 16 Nov 2011 14:45:00 +0000

I've just expanded my list of 'dream jobs'.

As well as 'Copywriter that has won lots of big awards', rock star and winner of Big Brother, I now want to be Italian Prime Minister.

You can see the appeal. Along with Coach of the French football/rugby team and teacher, it’s one of those jobs that beg the question, ‘Just what do you have to do to get fired?’

Only now, as their economy is crumbling and falling into the sea have Italians stopped riding around on their Vespas, checking themselves out in the mirror while eating Gino Ginelli Tutti Frutti Ice Cream and begun to wonder “Hmmm… I wonder if this Silvio guy really is the dynamic visionary we need to lead our country?”

It's a right old mess and no mistake. And of course, as is so often the case, the real victims in all this are the comedians.

Faced with having to look beyond the gaffes of their nation’s leader for material for the first time in a decade, Italian stand-ups must be sobbing to their Mama Mias and comfort-eating their own bodyweight in homemade pasta.

Not that Berlusconi was all bad. I’m sure that when he wasn’t joking about Obama’s ‘tan’, embezzling millions or being caught calling Italy a ‘shitty country’ he did a stand-up job.

Some might find it depressing to see dishonesty and incompetence go indulged and even rewarded for so long.

But I find it only makes me more determined. If I really focus, I too can land a job where, no matter how inept I am, they’ll never get rid of me. I’ve managed to land those jobs every time so far, so there’s no reason I can’t do it again.

GO ME!

How to behave in an interview

noreply@blogger.com (real men write long copy) — Mon, 10 Oct 2011 12:46:00 +0000

It's been a busy couple of weeks.

First, I had the minor inconvenience of a few days work. Then the massive inconvenience of my children catching chicken pox – the older one’s given it to the younger one now! Why didn’t someone warn me that might happen?

Anyway, now I’m safely back in unemployment and the children are scabbing over nicely, I can turn my attention to wasting time on here once more.

I thought it’s about time I dished out some advice. On how to get a job.

You see, through traipsing around the streets of London touting my wares, I've honed my interview technique to a point so sharp, many interviewers cut themselves on my handshake alone.

Get a load of these pearls of wisdom and gems of insight.

It’s important to show how keen you are. So arrive a couple of hours before your appointment and stand outside, shivering and giving a pleading stare to anyone who goes in. You might also want to take a drink with you (Dutch courage and all that) to enjoy while you're waiting.
When you share your work, talk about the challenges you overcame to make that project happen. For example, I find writing sentences that go together really tricky so I always make a big deal about how I had to work really hard at that and most likely ended up getting someone to do it for me. This shows resourcefulness and tenacity.
Take breath mints. If the interviewer has bad breath, offer them one. EMPLOYERS VALUE HONESTY.
Think from the other person’s perspective. What would you want to see/hear if you were them? Perhaps they’d like you to bat your eyelids at them, or give a coquettish little laugh while playing with your hair? Then do it!
Sell yourself. When you’re talking about what you can offer, use words like ‘gamechanger’ and ‘maverick’. CDs love to hear that stuff.

Follow these tips and you're sure to land that next dream job. (Please don’t follow these tips to get a job I want though, okay? If you’re unsure, please call and check first whether I want it. Thanks.)

Shirking 9 to 5

noreply@blogger.com (real men write long copy) — Tue, 27 Sep 2011 08:20:00 +0000

I’m still here, it seems.

I’ve got lots of things in the pipeline. It’s just that my pipeline feels as if I’ve swallowed seven Imodium and an awful lot of red meat. What I need is some kind of freelance-contract colonic irrigation.

Of course, another week without work gives me chance to do lots of jobs around the home and spend time with my children.

So I lied to Mrs RMWLC and told her I have work.

I plan to spend the week sat on this bench between the hours of 9am and 5:30pm.

It’s not so bad, I’ve made a few friends.

This is Gerry. He’s actually dynamite in a brainstorm.

Of course, the really great thing is that I get to blog again. Great for you, I mean.

When I was working I didn’t have time to blog because I was giving my all for that agency.

Except for the times I did blog when I was working for agencies. If I blogged while working at your place, it’s because I found it such a stimulating environment that I wrote out of the overflow of my creativity which would otherwise have spilt out of me onto the floor and made a terrible mess.

So anyway, if you’re passing my park during working hours, do stop and say Hello. And bring biscuits, okay?

I've got a job. On a fricking building site!

noreply@blogger.com (real men write long copy) — Thu, 22 Sep 2011 16:38:00 +0000

I couldn’t blog yesterday. My confidence was at an all-time low.

It had been another bad day bellybutton fluff-wise and, having promised you all a bumper harvest, I couldn’t even bring myself to photograph the measly specimen.

I just can’t understand what’s happened. I think my bellybutton has been emasculated. Is that possible?

For certain, what hasn't helped has been the presence of hyper-manly men nearby, on the building site over the road.

Now and then I peek out of my bedroom window at the real men doing real jobs before shrinking back behind my net curtains and dolefully examining my body in the mirror.

Then this morning I had a brilliant idea! Why not get a job there?!

After all, have I not carried the weight of client expectation? Have I not shovelled barrowloads of clichéd prose? Surely this would be a mere trifle.

I skipped downstairs and over the road “Good day fine sirs!” I exclaimed to the group of burly types at the site entrance. “I wonder if you could use my services?"

There followed a rather confusing exchange. I can tell you I didn't appreciate the way they seemed to regard me. And many of my wittiest asides appeared not to register at all.

For a while I feared ANOTHER rejection. Then one of the big men thrust a hard hat and garishly-coloured vest at me and pointed me in the direction of a big heap of rather dirty looking soil.

Well, I tried. For several minutes I gave my all.

But a broken nail and hurty elbow soon told me that this sort of ‘menial’ labour is not for me.

I cast off the dreadful vest and hat and ran! For what? For freedom! For creativity! For me to be me, in all my glorious unemployed beauty!

Dear reader, I have never felt so alive. And now, back safe and warm in my room with my cardi on and a warm mug of Ovaltine, I feel more certain than ever of my destiny.

God has put me on this earth to sit in a warm and cosy office and push a pen around. I shall do this or I shall die trying! (Or, at the least, I shall sit alone in my bedroom blogging about it.)

Day two in the bedroom

noreply@blogger.com (real men write long copy) — Tue, 20 Sep 2011 15:18:00 +0000

It's been less than 48 hours but Mrs RMWLC has already resorted to communicating with me solely through text message.

In the absence of human contact, I’ve made friends with my pens and begun talking to them instead. Having spent quite a lot of time sitting in agencies with only developers for company, it’s actually not that bad.

They are (from left to right) Dave, Simon and Nicole.

Dave is helping me write a new intro to my CV. What do you think?

I am a one-man creative sensation. Give me a brief and I will spray you with a non-stop boiling-hot jet of media-transcending concepts.

Not sure about the ‘spraying’ bit? Maybe I should say that creativity spouts out of me? Or spurts? Which do you think is better, Simon? Of course, you’re right, 'spurts' is much better.

I'm afraid it’s been another disappointing day bellybutton fluff-wise.

I’m not making excuses or anything but I usually have LOADS more than this.

It may be a case of stage fright. Come on bellybutton, we’ve promised a bumper crop on Wednesdays! Don’t let me down.

I invite you all to come back tomorrow and see.

Eh? What do you mean you're busy?

The stench of loneliness

noreply@blogger.com (real men write long copy) — Mon, 19 Sep 2011 10:14:00 +0000

And suddenly, I find myself alone once more.

The merry-go-round of freelance life was making me giddy and a little nauseous and then, without warning, I was thrown off onto the grassy verge of no work. For a week at least.

So here I am, sat on the edge of my bed in my pants tapping on the keyboard, with only that pale, mournful-looking chap in the mirror for company.

Never mind. I shall meet this challenge head on, with my usual mix of despair and self loathing.

First off, I need to decide on the most effective use of my time.

I could go out looking for work, but I don’t want to seem needy.

I could spend more time with the family, but there seems little point. Both my kids are under three, which means they’re unlikely to remember anything I do with them.

So I thought the best thing would be to start posting my bellybutton fluff again.

You never know who might stumble upon this blog, see my impressive harvest and think ‘I want to hire this guy RIGHT NOW.’

Of course all this whole no-work thing is down to some bad choices on my part.

First off, I made the mistake of booking a holiday. Don’t ever book a holiday if you’re a freelancer. Every agency in London takes it as an invitation to offer you work. It's astonishing. Strangers will stop you in the street and offer you freelance for the duration of your holiday.

Then, once I was looking again, nothing. Except for a three-day gig I turned down because I was so convinced I'd have lots of better offers any minute. I spent the last day of holiday marching my family around the clifftops of Devon trying to get a signal and still nothing.

The important thing is to stay positive. This is a chance for me to learn lessons. Important lessons for life. It’s a chance to better myself and to replace that seal between the bath and the wall tiles. The mould there is getting worse and worse. I only did it a few months ago and I was so careful to make sure it was dry before I applied the new seal so why has the mould come back, WHY?!!

And of course, my loss is also your gain, as my newly unemployed status leaves plenty of time for blogging.

Each day I shall post my bellybutton fluff (you can expect a bumper crop on Wednesdays, I always get a lot on Wednesdays). These alluring images will be accompanied by some sage words from the world of freelance (my bedroom).

Tune in, folks, I'm here all week!

DeLootLondon

noreply@blogger.com (real men write long copy) — Fri, 12 Aug 2011 19:45:00 +0000

Having spent the last five days cowering under my desk, I just peeked my head out to find this rather brilliant idea from my former colleagues at Partners Andrews Aldridge.

DeLootLondon shows local businesses affected by the riots, so you can support them by buying whatever remaining stock they've got/managed to lay their hands on.

There's a natty little map with each vendor's story (which I'm sure will look a helluva lot more little red arrows by Monday) and a facebook page and stuff.

Let's go de-looting people!

"He once had an awkward moment, just to see how it feels."

noreply@blogger.com (real men write long copy) — Thu, 04 Aug 2011 11:50:00 +0000

Just came across a page of all the ads from The Most Interesting Man In The World campaign and couldn't resist sticking a few up.

More killer lines:

"He's been known to cure narcolepsy just by walking into a room. His organ donation card also lists his beard. He's a lover, not a fighter, but he's also a fighter, so don't get any ideas."

"His charm is so contagious, vaccines have been created for it. If he were to give you directions, you'd never get lost, and you'd arrive at least 5 minutes early."

"His reputation is expanding faster than the universe. He once had an awkward moment, just to see how it feels. He lives vicariously through himself."

Redundancy in da house

noreply@blogger.com (real men write long copy) — Tue, 02 Aug 2011 13:19:00 +0000

Obviously, this is purely fictitious. But if you want to read a post on the subject that isn't, or you just fancy reading a good blog for a change, have a look at one of my all-time favourite posts.

Once you’ve been working for a few years, you can usually feel it coming.

No more flowers in reception. No more chocolate Hobnobs in meetings. The CEO starts drinking Dom Perignon 67 rather than 66.

Any healthy agency has redundancies at least once a year.

As a rule, they only get rid of the good people. As Paul Arden said, "if you've never been sacked, you're probably not very good,"

In ten years I don’t think I’ve even come close to getting the boot.

Although several of my art directors have taken voluntary redundancy.

Of course, once your number’s up, there’s very little you can do about it. Not that that stops people trying.

The first thing you notice is that everyone covers their desk with photos of their children (or, if they don’t have kids, pictures found on Getty) in the hope the decision-makers will take pity on them.

If anything, this works against them, as the people in charge actually like to eat babies. They boil them. I’ve seen it.

Next, THE CRATES arrive. Oh, how we hate the sight of those crates.

Even though the bloke in charge of moving the crates obviously plonks them anywhere, all kinds of speculation grows up around where exactly the crates are placed. Some poor soul is left sweating as a huge stack is left hovering over him like the sword of Damocles.

Once the sword finally does fall, and your colleague’s head has rolled across the office floor and been popped in the bin by the cleaning lady, there follows a season of mourning. A respectable amount of time (usually about an hour) is left before the mourners grab the computer/monitor/window seat of the victims.

Then, after a week or so, the flowers return to reception and you have a sunny period of at least 3-4 months before redundancy hits again.

Now, all my riffing on the pain of others may seem a little heartless. But it’s worth noting that, more often than not, those who get fired end up happier for it.

I was going to stick that video up that was doing the rounds a while back, all about people being sacked going off and doing something more fun. I think it was called Lemonade or something. Anyone got it?

UPDATE!
Here it is. The mood's a little enriching and inspiring for this blog but I'll stick it up anyway (thanks @londonskirt).

Where I write bestest

noreply@blogger.com (real men write long copy) — Tue, 26 Jul 2011 12:53:00 +0000

It's not at work, obviously. And it's certainly not at home, where my children terrorise me.

I write my best stuff on my bike.

I dunno why, but there's something about sitting at my desk that actually gets in the way of thinking. Maybe it's the myriad distractions of the internet. Or the background hum of developers arguing over whether Spiderman could defeat The Sandman 'in real life'.

Whereas trundling home on my bike seems to free my mind.

The best writing is a string of ideas. And they just seem to flow on a bike. A gag or nice turn of phrase that would usually take ages to come up with suddenly comes so easily.

I don’t actually scribble words on paper, but I compose it all in my tiny mind. Then I type it up, usually the next day, and do the last bits of tinkering.

I wish it wasn’t this way. It’d be far easier if I wrote best sat in the office which is, after all, specifically for that purpose. Maybe I should nail an exercise bike to my desk and be done with it.

Yet I suspect I’m not alone.

What about you other writers out there? I’d love to hear where you write best. Is it at the kitchen table? Or down the pub? Or riding bareback across the desert at dawn?

And for once this isn’t my usual pathetic plea for comments to give me a sense of self-worth (well, it’s not just that). I’d be most intrigued to know.

Extreme dog grooming

noreply@blogger.com (real men write long copy) — Thu, 14 Jul 2011 13:03:00 +0000

Wow. Double wow.

Extreme dog grooming (from America, obviously) is an actual thing. You can scoop over £18,000 in prize money for a single event!

That's right, A FRICKING NINJA TURTLE!

There are even more amazing images here

(Apologies if this is old news but once I saw it, I just had to post it. I'm sure you understand.)

Via charlottegibling

Some of my work #1

noreply@blogger.com (real men write long copy) — Thu, 14 Jul 2011 12:17:00 +0000

This is the first in a new series.

Seeing as this is an industry blog, I thought I’d stick some work up here as a bit of self promotion. I’d love to hear your feedback – please be as honest as you like!

Toilet door – Poster

It's so cool when you first see something you've done in print and in the public space.

The idea popped into my head one lunchtime when my senses were assaulted by a blocked toilet. The idea was to come up with something that stopped people going into the cubicle and seeing THE HORROR in the pan.

It was created in Word and printed on 110gsm stock (white).

There was no budget or time on it (so what’s new?!) but the client LOVED it! What’s particularly pleasing is that it was only intended as a tactical one-off, but they’ve gone on to use it in subsequent campaigns, even getting it laminated!

It just goes to show what can happen when you keep your eyes open for creative opportunities and possess the tenacity to come up with work even without a brief.

Please can I have a job thinking up product names for Hotel Chocolat goods?

noreply@blogger.com (real men write long copy) — Mon, 04 Jul 2011 16:45:00 +0000

You can pay me in said goods.

Try telling Noah he can't cartwheel

noreply@blogger.com (real men write long copy) — Mon, 04 Jul 2011 12:50:00 +0000

One of the reasons I love this job is that I learn so much about writing. Mainly from suits who LOVE to give me pointers on my copy!

The other day, as one suity-wordsmith breezily handed me her improvements to an email, having inserted the word ‘great’ eight times and turned the subject header into a 17-word tour de force, this image popped into my head – my two-year-old nephew, Noah, teaching his peers how to cartwheel.

Look at his face as he gets up.

‘Now THAT is how you cartwheel, you shmucks’ he’s thinking.

And, depressingly, that same expression was writ large across my colleague’s face as she handed me the amends.

“Now THAT is how you write copy, Mr Realmenwritelongcopy”.

So please just bear this in mind next time you see a fault with someone's cartwheel.

Do not try to cartwheel for them. For you may very well cartwheel like a two-year-old.

My Dad's built a canoe. Has yours? Didn't think so.

noreply@blogger.com (real men write long copy) — Thu, 16 Jun 2011 12:52:00 +0000

Impressive, eh?

Sadly, the DIY gene seems to have skipped my generation. In fact, if you ask me, it’s skipped the entire writing profession.

You see, we writers are fragile creatures. Our delicate hands aren't meant for lashing things together with twine or cutting polyboard with a scalpel.

I’ve written before about how art directors tend to have better dress sense than writers. I think the same is true of them being more practical. They’re always fitting a new bathroom, or building an extension onto their house. Or cave.

Yet, have you ever known a writer who can hammer a nail?

Apart from my dad of course, who can write copy AND make stuff.

And he could take your dad with one bicep tied behind his back.

Happy Father’s Day Dad!

P.S. I deliberately posted this early to remind you morons to GO OUT AND BUY A CARD NOW!

How do they do this? Witchcraft?

noreply@blogger.com (real men write long copy) — Thu, 16 Jun 2011 12:41:00 +0000

Those were the best days of my life

noreply@blogger.com (real men write long copy) — Mon, 13 Jun 2011 08:50:00 +0000

It was the spring of ‘06.

I’d just left a job I hated. (I knew it was time to leave when I had a bad dream about my boss and woke up screaming. Although in retrospect it probably wasn’t helpful to mention this to him when I resigned.)

My art director and I pitched up at cmw and there followed the happiest few months of my working life.

I’m not talking about doing great work. Of course not. I’m talking about coworker japes. Office banter. Workplace high jinx.

That poky little office could barely contain all those big characters. Ricky Big Face. Gobby Sarah. Special Trevor. Hygienic Doug.

We were young and crazy and foolish and had our whole lives ahead of us.

Ah, good times.

Sadly, as Adams so powerfully wails in those faux-gravelly tones, ‘I guess nothin' can last forever’.

Whether it's redundancies or career moves or restraining orders, things change, groups fragment, people move on.

Nowadays, Ricky Big Face is back home in Manchester. Will and Liz and Lloyd are in Sydney – the three of them are now married with a little boy. And Special Trevor has returned to the Cape of Good Hope.

I’m thinking of them now because there's a reunion of sorts on Saturday. Only I won’t be there. I’m away and will miss it. And that makes me do a big sad face emoticon. ONLY IN REAL LIFE.

Sometimes I dream about setting up an agency with those guys. If any clients out there would like to sink your advertising budget into getting us back together just to see what happens, please get in touch in the comments section.

Or maybe you’re thinking of the happiest time in YOUR miserable working life and want to share? Go on, tell us about it. How did it end? Or maybe it’s still going on?

By the way, if you’ve worked with me in the past and are crying because I didn’t say that it was my happiest time, please don’t. It’s not your fault. I just liked those other people more, see?