I’ve got something to tell you.

I’ve started a creative agency. Full-time. I have no job. But I do have a brand new company, some big dreams, and a bloody good business partner.

James and I have been working on the creation of Condiment for many months. We’ve had to keep it quiet, though. Not only because of contractual obligations, but because these things take time. And half-baked isn’t a good taste.

But now we’re ready to shout about it. The lease has gone through; the keys are ours. Computers are humming and … we’re still waiting for BT to connect us to the internet.

The incompetence of monopolies aside, though, we’re ready. And happy. And I thought I should let you know. Because maybe you’d love to give us some business. That’d be nice.

If you can’t give us any business. Perhaps you’d like to wander over to our website. At the very least it’ll boost the analytics and make us feel loved.

Thank you.

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Sure enough, it wasn’t a fascinating journey. But I did bother to take some photos. So in order to make the exercise in some way worthwhile, here’s a blog post.

The photograph below is the back garden at my Ipswich home. (I don’t have any more homes, but I’d like to assume that someone who doesn’t know me might read this.) At this point, I thought it’d be a pleasant stroll to the railway station.

Of course, as soon as I had shut the front door, a few flakes began to fall.

And those few flakes of snow soon became a full-on blizzard. Bastard weather. So intense was this snowfall, that I nearly turned around and went back home. But I didn’t. There’s something about the thrill of starting a journey. Common sense goes out the window. I was almost enjoying the ridiculousness of it all. Onwards.

The snowfall had all but stopped by the time I reached Ipswich docks.

Part of the docks had frozen. I wasn’t the only one staring at this mini iceberg, which reaffirmed my faith in it being interesting. Or I was in the company of fellow idiots.

This car park is usually full. Just saying.

I reached the station in one cold piece. A man across the street was singing a song about snow. I didn’t recognise it, but it made me smile anyway.

I arrived as the train pulled in. Which was nice.

And there were loads of seats on the train. Which was also nice.

There was snow across every bit of countryside.

We got to Chelmsford in good time.

And finally to London. The skyline wouldn’t be the same without the Swiss Re gherkin. It’s a fab building.

And so to Liverpool Street Underground Station. I’d take the Circle Line and change at South Kensington. As a side note, why doesn’t the Circle Line refer to the trains as Clockwise and Anticlockwise at Liverpool Street? Up or Down, at least. When it’s right on the eastern tip, Eastbound and Westbound is useless.

This is South Kensington. I like this photograph. It has some nice lines.

And I like these Tardis-looking things.

I got to Fulham Broadway in good time, and with a long meeting ahead, I thought I’d refuel. I’ve just finished reading the rather wonderful Eggs Bacon Chips & Beans by Russell Davies. It’s about great little independent cafes. So I decided to shun the franchises and find a little gem.

And I did. Although I didn’t take a photograph of the outside, so I’m not sure what is was called. But it was good. Here’s my nice cup of tea.

And here’s my EBC&B.

Tasty.

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Kids have a reputation for losing interest in Christmas presents before the new year has even arrived. Bradley, on the other hand, has already shown more commitment to drumming than many adults show to anything in their entire lives.

↓ My nephew, Bradley, Christmas 2007.

↓ My nephew, Bradley, Christmas 2008.

↓ My nephew, Bradley, Christmas 2009.

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A word from The Master:

Hire people who are better than you are, then leave them to get on with it. Look for people who will aim for the remarkable, who will not settle for the routine.

There are many Ogilvyisms that float around my head, but this one has – until recently – sat quietly in the back of my brain, happy to be along for the ride.

After all, it stands to reason that if I don’t own a company, I’m not responsible for hiring and firing.

Yet without sounding too much like a corporate twerp, I think we ‘hire’ people all the time.

Currently, I’m responsible for a brilliant mega-leaflet we’re doing for a client in the education sector. The concept is supermarkets: the campaign is about communicating the range, convenience and simplicity – all in a trustworthy, affordable package. Because finding a course on Beekeeping should be as simple as buying a jar of honey.

It’s a good idea. But good ideas don’t make good campaigns unless they’re executed well.

So I hired a crack team.

Designer Rob came up with the idea for the front cover and inspired the lead headline. Creative Director James oversees the whole thing because he can visualise a good idea quicker than anybody. And Production Director Simon makes sure everything gets sent to the printers and distributors.

Today we shot the front cover image. Simon was behind the lens. James and I directed the shot. Simon even drove for miles to find that bloody metal shopping basket.

If the campaign goes well, the client will give me the credit.

I’ll happily take the credit, of course. For some brilliant hiring.

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Vague is the taxi that’s always “a few minutes away”.
Vague is the crashed computer that tells you “an error occurred”.
Vague is the supermarket website that informs you “delivery may be more than the price quoted”.
Vague is the restaurant menu that “may contain nuts”.

Vague is annoying, useless and surefire way to piss your customers off.

Accurate is the automated email that tells you “I’m automated, but if you need to reply, use this address”.
Accurate is the pricing structure that explains “there is no postage discount for multiple orders because shipping is automated”.
Accurate is the restaurant that tells you “we are not a fast food joint so you will have to wait”.
Accurate is the sign that informs you “occupancy by more than 499 persons is dangerous and unlawful”.

Accurate is sometimes annoying, but often useful because it requires attention and honesty.

If you have the need to explain yourself, I think it’s best to be accurate.

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“I want people to engage with our brand!” they say, all enthusiastically. At this point, I like to smile, nod and say things that you should say in meetings. Things like “absolutely”. This shows that you are 110% engaged with their idea of brand engagement.

Brand engagement is the marketing industry’s clever term for what mere mortals call ‘quite liking a company’. I quite like Ocado because they’re part of Waitrose (which makes me feel posh), they have an iPhone app (even though I’ve never used it), they text you the name of your delivery driver, call their delivery vans silly names, and bring your shopping straight into your kitchen.

Hardly ground breaking stuff. But they do it. And that makes me like them. So I use them again.

Now, of course, I am engaged.

But engaging little old me isn’t enough; we need mass engagement. So it’s time to measure all these people who are engaged in the brand.

Why? Well, numbers make people happy. Brand managers, marketing directors, online consultants – all of them need numbers. Numbers can be dressed up into KPIs or whored out as pounds and pence. But they’re still numbers.

Numbers fit nicely into spreadsheets. You can plot graphs with numbers. Numbers make performance reviews easier. If your numbers fit, you get numbers added to your salary. No one can question your pay rise – you’ve got the numbers to prove you’re worth it.

“How many people are on your client’s email list?” I was asked a few days ago.
“Just over 3,000.” I replied.
“That’s not very many, is it.” (That sentence shouldn’t have a question mark on the end of it because it was said very much as a statement. This person wanted no further dialogue – he wanted more email addresses.)

Permission marketing isn’t a new idea. But when the industry still ignores it, it feels like it might just be a lost one.

When you next hear a marketer tell you he or she has 150,000 email addresses, don’t think of how many people might read the email, click through and buy your product. Think of how many people don’t want to receive your email. Think of all the people whose trust you’re shattering with a few dollops of HTML.

Engaging people – if that’s what you really must call it – is difficult. Disengaging people is much easier.

Sometimes it’s the numbers you don’t count that are the important ones.

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I’ve been catching up with my Campaign reading. And with Adland currently welcoming its new breed of graduates, the 25th September 2009 issue is dedicated to the great unwashed.

I wish I’d known that advertising was for me back when I was a spotty 18 year old with a trio of okayish A levels. (Looking back, it should’ve been obvious: I liked business, media, art and psychology. Honestly, where was a good Careers Adviser when I needed one?)

Alas, I didn’t go to Watford or Central Saint Martins to learn about great advertising. No, I got a job at an American diner on a retail park on the edge of Ipswich. Not a brilliant decision. But to cover up such an arse-about-face choice, I’m going to tell you that regrets are silly things to have, and instead look on the positive side of life.

Here’s two good lessons I learnt whilst surrounded by microwaved meat and cheap salsa:

Sometimes you need to make a decision. Even if it’s the wrong one.

Because you learn a lot more about things when you make a decision and start. Thinking is fine. But doing is better. So start and, if necessary, adapt. And if you can’t adapt, just learn. And apologise profusely when everything goes tits up. Which occasionally it inevitably will.

If give you give people the opportunity to say no, they probably will. So don’t give them the opportunity.

“Do you want to wash up?”
“No.”
“Do you want to dry up?”
“No.”
“Do you want to do the ironing?”
“No.”
“Do you want to take the rubbish out?”
“No.”

See? It’s really, really easy. No. No no no. Oh it might be negative. But who cares? No. No no no.

Consider this rephrase: “Would you rather wash up, dry up, do the ironing or take the rubbish out? Choose two.”

You don’t always get the perfect result. But you get a result that isn’t “no”. Which is a good start, I think.

* * *

Of course, I could’ve probably learnt these pithy lessons from a business book at university. But at university you don’t have to empty freezers after a sixteen hour shift. And you don’t have to drain the dirty fat out fryers and then scrub the things so people can eat cleaner chips.

So, graduates to Adland: your qualifications make you the chip leaders. But when it comes to motivation – the motivation to not go back to that rather miserable existence where everything comes with a side order of onion rings – I’m all in.

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16 months ago, I flew from Las Vegas to Gatwick with Virgin Atlantic.

I wasn’t impressed.

And so I emailed them. I didn’t ask for a refund or any free stuff, I just thought they should know. Because if I didn’t tell them what was wrong, how could I be upset if they didn’t improve? My email wasn’t horrid (I like Virgin – they have some damn fine copywriters), more a plea for them to try a bit harder.

Here’s an excerpt:

It felt as if you’ve given up trying to be better, trying to stand out.  You could almost smell the apathy.

They had a chance to make amends last week – I made the very same flight.

But it was the same old story.

Virgin Atlantic is twenty-five years old this year.  The aircraft (a Boeing 747-400, enthusiasts) was probably the same age. And its “award winning in-flight entertainment” didn’t seem too far behind, either.

It was the system where all the channels are on loops. So only once the longest film is finished can everything start again. Granted, I was only in economy. Perhaps in First Class they were giving out Sega Game Gears to keep the patrons entertained.

Although limited, this poor excuse for in-flight entertainment would’ve been welcome in seat 48J. Because the only thing the poor sod in that seat could see is the image you see above. For nine and a half fucking hours.

No points for guessing who that poor sod was.

I did point out the problem, obviously. Three times, no less. And each time the member of Virgin Atlantic’s (award winning, no doubt) cabin crew toddled off and never toddled back with an explanation, apology or alternative.

Perhaps it’s time for another email.

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I hate supermarkets. But they do serve a purpose.

The purpose they serve isn’t, of course, that you can get everything in one place – you can get everything in a town centre or farmers’ market that you can get in a supermarket (nearly). And you don’t have to stroll around with the complexion of a heroin addict underneath all those fluorescent lights.

No, ladies and gentlemen. Supermarkets are brilliant because they allow us to form an opinion on the seven and a half million brands vying for our attention. Because in the throng of the supermarket (Side Issue: old people, don’t go shopping on a fucking Saturday. You’re not welcome. You’ve had all week to trundle around the aisles bemoaning the effect inflation has had on marmalade. Not in my time, please.) …

Where was I? That’s it: In the throng of the supermarket, I have neither the time nor the inclination to compare the average cost of a baked bean, sheet of toilet paper, or millilitre (there’s a word you don’t see written down often) of piss-weak lager. I pick Heinz, Andrex and Carlsberg.

Heinz because they probably invented baked beans. (And if they didn’t, I don’t give shit.) Andrex because a cute little Labrador might run in and cuddle me after a sweaty poo. Carlsberg because it’s probably the best lager in the world. (I find ‘probably’ is certain enough in most situations – except during marriage vows, I suspect.)

These opinions are etched into my minuscule, toxic brain. Every decision is a snap one when I’m in the supermarket.

So here’s an idea: Market Research Mondays. Because if the inane twerps who insist on compiling these silly brand indexes (or ‘indices’, if you’re being pedantic) really want some qualitative data, just ask opinionated twerps like me. And let’s make a night of it. I can grumble with like-minded miseries while performing this weekly dash of frustration. Bring a fucking clipboard.

Tropicana: Nice but expensive – I’ll buy it if it’s on offer. No, I don’t give a shit whether it’s ‘with bits’ or ‘no bits’; I’m not eight years old or a complete simpleton.

Kellogg’s Cornflakes: Every day of the week! Have you tried supermarket branded cornflakes? They’re revolting. I wouldn’t feed them to my cat. She’d disown me. And rightly so.

Heinz Tomato Ketchup: Of course. I never trust people with unbranded condiments. Would you feel safe getting into an unbranded car? It’s the same thing with condiments. Those unbranded viscous squirts could be anything.

And I could go on and on and on.

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Webfusion called me today, apologised for their poor service, and then did everything they could to resolve my issue.

We all make mistakes. But when you’re apologetic and genuine about them, they’re so much easier to forgive.

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