Tony and Sandy's Christmas Address to the Nation

http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/8138445/

Smote across the water

This is the Alt Wrap That Time Forgot. Originally written for How-Do, Mr J either bottled it in terms of advertiser-unfriendliness or just thought it was shit, either point of view is sustainable. (We're still mates by the way - my interview with David Bell, CEO of CheethamBellJWT goes on-line this week. I'm just winding him up. Nick that is. Not David)

It's smoting time

And lo did he emerge from the mimsy borogoves and return to Manc Ad-land. He gazed across its new-found principalities, minor fiefdoms and array of freshly installed moustachioed villains and thought: “Blimey, there’s a lot of smiting to be done here.”

So, let’s smite

Granada TV what are you thinking of? Not only was your announcement about launching a new service in Hong Kong a little mendacious (it’s actually just an extension of your existing broadcasts in Thailand etc), it’s also crap. Granada TV bosses can you not get BBC Entertainment (the BBC’s overseas arm) where you live? Surely you have a holiday home where you can see it at least once a year? They do it properly.

A bit shit really...

As ITV’s main (only?) overseas entity, Granada TV is an embarrassing shambles. Whereas BBC Entertainment showcases the fact that the BBC is a world class broadcaster – Spooks, Doctor Who, Sherlock and Waterloo Road (okay maybe not the last one, but it always brings a tear to my eye when the kids spontaneously take to the playground to salute the outgoing headmaster, largely an actress who had a better offer to appear in The Bill, as was), Granada TV highlights the fact that ITV largely produces shite. It is a 24/7 argument for keeping the licence fee. Neighbours from Hell, Drivers from Hell, People You Didn’t Much Like on Your Holidays from Hell – utter shite. I want to see Channel Controllers From Hell, a fly-on-the-wall documentary about senior Granada TV staff who failed to get a job at the Beeb and who are now condemned to producing an endless roster of mimeographed crap in the hope of finding a low-budget Ratings Winner from Hell.

I’ll give you this for free, Granada TV bosses, so have a pen and paper handy – or get a grown-up to help you:

-        Provide sub-titles. BBC Entertainment even drops in Cantonese just for the HK market. This is a must if you want more than just a few ex-pats to subscribe. I reckon I am the only Granada TV subscriber in HK.

-        Think about your material. The Asian market is vastly different to the domestic or US market. The Beeb highlights its best stuff, you’re just hawking in any old crap no matter how inappropriate.

-        Remember you are also in something of an ambassador role. Anybody who watched the first night of Granada TV here will assume that all children in the UK are fathered by surrogate gay parents, everyone in the UK is a vain, talentless driver who says ‘wanker’ every 14 seconds and all UK hospitals are shite and likely to remove your leg if you go in for a tonsillectomy. Although this may be true, do we really want the world to know?

-        Spell check your idents: “Hill’s Kitchen”. You really don’t care do you? Your licence in Hong Kong will be revoked within six months. If you have any aspirations about getting into mainland China, forget it. You have no chance. 

Smote. 

Nice pool, shame about the creative

Manchester has long been a second string city in terms of London outfits being able to handle clash brands through its M1-postcoded offspring – MediaVest Manc is perhaps the primest example of that. That’s all starting to change, but not in a good way. Both BDH (sorry), I mean TBWA Manchester and whatever McCann’s in Prestbury is calling itself this month, are in danger of just becoming big production sheds. Here experienced regionally-salaried creatives are now expected to toil away on implementing the DM, sales promotion and point-of-sale initiatives that support some London-based 24 year olds’ latest TV campaign. Financially, the logic is undeniable – why pay London rates to produce this join-the-dots crap, when you can pay some gormless bugger in the provinces, on a third of the salary, to do the same? Both BDH (sorry TBWA Manchester) and McCann Bonis Hall Communications House (BH) – I thought these guys knew about branding? – are guilty of this. Both have disposed of (or parted company with) senior creative staff in favour of ceding creative control to their London counterparts. The shorthand for this is – from the appropriate London offices – “You don’t need creative staff. Just make sure you do the DM on time and in keeping with our guidelines.” It’s a sad finale for two of the region’s finest agencies. Memo to Nicky at BJL – don’t sell, the next generation will be doing brand extension post-it notes and sending them to Soho to be signed off. 

Smoting 

Blimey, this is a good pic

Okay, let’s really smote now. I am sick and tired of websites desperately seeking visitors by whatever underhand means possible. Including content about any topical event – “Raoul Moat ate my Iphone whilst watching Toy Story 3”. It just means you get a lot of Google hits and then you can claim you are, globally, the twelfth most popular website in East Anglia. Unique visitors are a facile way of measuring the success of any website. The unwary, ill-informed casual browser can be lured to any site by inserting any nonsensical phrase. Just by saying “Scarlett Johansson sucked my knob whilst we listened to a bootleg version of the forthcoming album from former Oasis frontman, Liam Gallagher,” has today trebled my traffic. But how many come back? It’s time we stopped playing this puerile game of luring in readers and started properly building on-line brands. Sites should be focussing on ‘doing what it says on the tin’ and not diluting themselves to the point of irrelevance or meaninglessness in some mad Subbuteo-style league of utter shite. Provide quality, meet target readers’ expectations and make sure you give them what they come to the site for. Give them what they want and they’ll come back, time and again. Quality not quantity, as I told Scarlet. And she doesn’t swallow. Often.
You heard it here first. You all come back now. 

Smoted

Popping your Cherry at a 1980's Blake’s 7 Convention

Jenna

This is going to be the porn edition of the blog so, for those of a delicate nature, look away now. I didn’t actually lose my virginity at a Blake’s 7 convention, but that was where I met my first girlfriend. I was 16. Obviously entranced by my cowboy boots and wide-collared yellow shirt, we stayed in touch after the event. We eventually got round to doing the deed after watching Caligula at her local cinema. She wasn’t the best-looking bird and, I have to confess, during the consummation, I spent a lot of time thinking about Jenna. And occasionally Cally and Servalan. Sorry.

Floozy in the Jacuzzi
In the early years of this century – blimey sounds like words which only Richard Burton could get away with – I was living with a girl in Yorkshire. Saying the relationship wasn’t fraught would be like saying William Hague doesn’t take it up the Gary Glitter. We split up every morning and got back together every evening. We did have one golden afternoon though. (If her kids are reading. please stop now as this image will stay with you for the rest of your lives) .Guys, if you’ve never had a blowjob in a private Jacuzzi whilst drinking champagne, well you really ought to…

It’s life Jim…

Sorry Jim...

In the late 90s, with the marriage in tatters, I had to go to Scotland on a business trip and see all the Edinburgh agencies. The cheapest option for accommodation was a short-term serviced apartment, so I took my then girlfriend with me. She was a statuesque black girl and obviously well out of my league – some of you will remember her. Marcus Leigh, former creative director of BJL, actually knocked her out at one of the Cream Awards. One morning, before I had an interview with Jim Faulds, then MD of Faulds Advertising, Scotland’s biggest agency, we spent the morning lingerie shopping. Just before I was due to go over and meet Jim, she showed off her new gear and, sinking to her knees, asked: “Are you sure you need to go?” Sorry I was late Jim. And sweaty.

The Van Morrison Game
In about 1999, I was seeing a married woman. I’m not terribly proud of this, but it just happened. On one occasion when she was staying with me she boasted of her extensive knowledge of Van Morrison (I’m not making this up). We then had a semi-drunken bet that unless she could name every track on the Best of Van Morrison, she had to take it up the tradesman’s. Ironically, the one track she failed to identify was Brown Eyed Girl…

Allo, I am Fifi

I wish...

Perhaps the most bizarre relationship I ever had was with a girl in Stockport. She was the former PA to the head of a big PR group and positively barking. She was the only girl I ever knew whose only interest in sex revolved around giving blow jobs. No interest in reciprocation. You’d think I would have married her, but it was actually kind of weird. It all came to a head – pun most definitely intended – one morning when she decided to show me her party piece. This involved her dressing up in a nylon French maid outfit as her alter-ego, Fifi. “Allo my name is Fifi,” she said in a Stockport accent whilst tickling my knob with a feather duster. Perhaps predictably, I just pissed myself and we split up the same day.

Nobbin’ of Sherwood
One of my earliest girlfriends went on to be a big player in northern DM circles. She had a penchant for lingerie, which of course delighted me. She once fell down the stairs at Oxford station and flashed her stockings and suspenders to the world – which left me feeling both concerned but, admittedly, also a little bit proud. She also had a distinct interest in Robin of Sherwood, the eighties TV series starring Michael Praed. One evening she invited me round to her flat in Moss Side and opened the door in full regalia and insisted we had sex whilst watching Robin of Sherwood. On reflection, I don’t think she was thinking about me.

The bugger....

As a postscript to that, I didn’t see her for years after we split up in the mid-80s. During the Adline years, she contacted me and we arranged to have lunch. I was quite nervous about this as she’d been one of the best looking girls at the sixth form college we’d both attended. I thought: “Blimey, she’s going to still look perfect and take one look at me and think – ‘Christ, you’ve let yourself go’.” Waiting in the reception of the agency where she worked, this huge arse suddenly hove into view as, for some reason, she backed out of the corridor. Punch the air moment. And she ate my chips.

Bike-u-like
My moral compass has always been a bit shite. At one point, when I had just left university, some mutual friends told me that an ex-girlfriend was now being viewed as the college bike. Bristling with indignation – and a degree of concern – I took the train from London to Oxford. I arranged to have lunch with her to give her a serious talking to about her moral decline. I reckon there’s no-one out there who can’t see where this is going. Predictably we both got pissed and I ended up sleeping with her. In my defence, I was too drunk to do much.

I’m sitting on the station

Possibly my only mid-70’s style comedy experience was being caught in bed with a woman by her husband. He was understandably unhappy about this and I had to do the proverbial runner. Unfortunately this took place at 5am in the morning and then resulted in me sitting on the platform of an East Midlands station for several hours whilst waiting for the first train home. Hardly my finest hour. Or three.

Token, mature reflective bit
I am much better behaved these days and look back on these old days with a mixture of shame and pride. The notion of “Blimey – what a boy I was!” always emerges unbidden, however. Wouldn’t do it now – mixture of maturity, commitment and a lack of energy, with the last, arguably, the most compelling. Don’t tell the missus.

We Can Watch and Have a Wank

Following on from last week's celebration of the Adline years, this is a kind of celebration of the Marketeer years (1999-2002). They weren't all bad..

Park and deride
Graeme Park was a mad bastard ten years ago when he was the editorial assistant at the Drum as an 18 year-old. He’s someone I’ve stayed in touch with over the years and he’s now joined us in Hong Kong and, without boosting his ego, he’s doing a pretty good job. For some reason, in the Glasgow days, I thought it was the height of hilarity to hide Graeme’s mobile phone in my boxers or lick it. It’s no wonder he was so keen to come and work with me again.

Mr Lindsay

The best Graeme story, though, involved Andrew Lindsay, creative director of the Union, one of Edinburgh’s most successful agencies to this day. Graeme, at the time, being the lowest on the food chain, was charged with the unrewarding job of sorting out Ads of the Month, our regular review of the best advertising coming out of Scotland – a lot of which, to be fair, was pretty good. Most of it seems pretty shite these days though.
Andrew, a fairly serious individual, had agreed to be that month’s – or fortnight’s – ad reviewer. His comments were the last element required for one particular issue, so GP was under pressure to get the copy in. Somehow I’d come across a website that allowed you to forge website addresses, so I sent GP an email, supposedly from Andrew, which basically said: “Can’t do Ads of the Month this month. Big changes happening here. Call me later, but don’t say you’re Graeme from the Drum, say you’re an old friend of mine called ‘Duncan’.”
GP got the email and duly reported back to me. Telling him he was potentially on to a big story, I suggested he immediately call Andrew back. Brilliantly, he got Andrew’s voice mail and left a message saying: “Hi this is an old friend of yours called Duncan. Can you call me back?”
The rest of the office was in on this, so the spectator sport of Graeme explaining to Andrew Lindsay, when he eventually called back on Graeme’s direct line, that he wasn’t really an old friend called Duncan, but actually Graeme from the Drum was quality comedy. Makes me wonder why I got sacked.
He believes, by the way, that somewhere in the US, there is a home for celebrity monkeys where they watch their old movies all day. I wonder how much the Drum misses him.

Divide and unconquer
The Marketeer launched in August 1999 and got the best reader feedback on any Carnyx launch ever, according to a market research survey I was only informed about 12 months later. Mendacious bastards. They also doubled the costs of the printers’ invoice in the monthly management accounts in a bid to convince us we were losing money. Despite, asking several times, I never got to see the original printers’ invoices. God I hated those bastards (in the interests of clarity, I am not referring to the printers here).
The Mark I Marketeer family was mad, bad and dangerous to know, but creative and successful. We made 15k on the first issue and started to build a recruitment and classified base, essentially aping the Adline model. Billy Anderson, the platonic ideal of a fuckwit, then decreed that we would no longer pursue either classifieds or recruitment. The magazine never recovered.
In Jan 2000, the Manchester office had a rare visit from Gordon Young, Diane Young’s token bitch. He went out for dinner, on separate occasions, with me, Jim (deputy editor) and Larry (head of sales). On each occasion, he asked his dinee how they would they feel if he sacked the other two. Stupid twat forgot that we were all mates (at the time) and subsequently immediately compared notes, leading to a confrontation between Mr Young and the three of us, one that he squirmed unconvincingly throughout. Inevitably, Larry and Jim took this as a cue to leave – Larry successfully suing Carnyx at an employment tribunal – and the Marketeer declined hugely in term of both editorial quality and revenue. At its nadir, it bought in two grand, largely in terms of advertorial. A sad end to a bold venture.

Happy Heather after
Despite my preference for the Adline years, the Marketeer years were not entirely lacking in fun. An unsung hero of this time was Heather Cairney, Laurissa’s sister who came into work on the classified section – and did a pretty good job. Heather had a knack for one-liners, which I hope she uses in her new job as a radio journalist. Two instances in particular made the Marketeer Quotes Book.
On one occasion, Jim was out buying pizzas to sustain a late night office session. Heather said verbatim: “I hope Laurissa gets back soon. I can’t handle 12 inches on my own.”

Heath

On the occasion of my 36th birthday (Jan 2000), Heath said: “It’s your birthday mate, I’ll buy you a pint.”
Being a bit louche in those days, I quipped back: “ I think I deserve a bit more than that. I’m 36. How about anal sex?”
Heath: “I’d love to mate, but I don’t have a dick.”
2-0 to Heath.

Blackpool Tools
I’ve not learned much in life, but I do know this – never trust number plates or Blackpool clairvoyants. Bit of a shit claim frankly. In the early days of me, Jim and Larry jumping ship from Adline and joining the Drum, we had a series of meetings to thrash out the deal – a complete waste of time as none of the terms were ever adhered to by Carnyx. This saw us meeting in a number of out of the way places, Berwick-on-Tweed on one occasion and then, finally, Blackpool.
Jim, as ever, was our chauffeur on the trip from Brum to the ‘Pool, whilst Larry and I necked champagne in the back. Hey, it was the 90’s, well just about. We were still riddled with doubt about doing the deal – on one hand we had Lee Newton, who was obviously a useless cunt but in charge of Adline’s fortunes, on the other we had Gordon and Diane Young, hardly the most trustworthy of individuals. On balance, we should have bought a McDonalds franchise. I might have had three stars by now.

To pass the time on the way, we invented the advertising agency number plate game. This saw points awarded to whoever spotted a car numberplate with agency initials (in our defence, it was a three hour trip). So if we spotted a JWT, BBH or BJL it was cheers all round. On the final approach to Blackpool, when the subject of “Are we really going to do this?” finally came up we decided, being balanced, mature individuals, we‘d only commit if we saw an agency-related number plate in the next five minutes. At that point, a red Ferrari with a number plate containing “GGT” cruised by and our fate was sealed. I bet it was Trevor Beattie, the git. Larry later consulted a Blackpool clairvoyant who told her: “You are here to do a business deal and it will be very successful.” I still reserve the right to sue.

Dying Young

Smelly shoes

In the dying days of my time in Glasgow when they employed an expensive lawyer to help them break my contract, one of the accusations levied at me was that I got pissed at industry do’s. Everyone got pissed at industry do’s. The Drum had even carried an account of previous (and subsequent) Drum editor, Richard Draycott, getting so pissed at  a Glasgow Pub Club event that he threw up on his own shoes. I always tried to throw up on someone else’s.
As I sat there listening to this, the image of Diane Young pissed out of her tree in a lift at the Roses and clearly on the prowl came unbidden to mind. I said nothing and just took the settlement
.
It’s the real thing

Not that I was always that well behaved. There was one Media-Link do at castle near Edinburgh in 2000. I was kind of obliged to go, as was Scott Seeley, probably the best sales person the Drum ever had. Realising how dull this event was likely to be, we (well I – Mr S was perennially skint due to his proclivity for having too many babies) invested in a few lines of coke. We wandered around this magnificent castle completely out of it (hardly the only ones). I think Media Link may have made some kind of announcement. Would love to know what it was.

Scott – land of the brave
Talking of Mr Seeley, still one of my best mates from the Carnyx days… Every Monday morning, the Carnyx group staged a sort of Nuremburg rally where each department head would have to give a brief summary about what they’d been up to. This saw twats like Billy Anderson lying about how much they’d achieved in the last week and the production department simply looking bemused. I regularly had to make something up about progress on Unlimited or Prospect, which there seldom was.
On one memorable occasion, Scott was called on to comment on progress in the sales department. Deadpan, Mr Seeley said: “Not much really. We’ve been sat on our arses all week.”
He left soon after, but I wish I’d had the bollocks…

Black-eyed T
In the war which was immediately sparked by the launch of the Marketeer, Adline was determined to shut us down by cutting rates and offering guaranteed editorial etc. One of the things we both pitched for was the EMAP Big City campaign. We won it, largely, I bet because Jason Munslow, then head of PR for EMAP, fancied Larry more than he fancied Debbie Brown, head of Adline. To be fair, we were also enjoying our brief honeymoon period of being sexy and talked about.
The campaign saw us working with Communiqué, Love and EMAP to produce a series of photo strips, featuring such industry luminaries as Ray Sale (then chief exec of CIA) and several others which I forget. The last one we ever did was December 1999 and featured a photostory dps including the Marketeer team. Unfortunately, a few days before I’d split up with a fairly robust girlfriend in Birmingham. Crucially, I forgot she’d studied judo and I ended up with two black eyes. Panda-like, I headed for the two-page shoot. Memo to self – split up with people by fax or email.

Heavens to Jupitus
I am slightly amazed that anyone has entered the Carnyx Best UK Events Awards. It’s like entering the My Family Sitcom of the Year Awards. I remember one of the first Roses Awards managed by Carnyx, after buying it from Ray Sale et al for 40k, the compere was Phil Jupitus (who got 18k for his trouble, although he put bugger all effort into it). At one point, he got heckled by some pissed bloke in the audience and Phil replied: “I’m getting paid 18k for this and I wonder who is at home fucking your wife.”

All sort of settled down, until the chairman’s prize when the creative director of Channel Four reignited the whole thing by calling the bloke a “cunt” and offering him out. He was straight up on stage and nose to nose with Mr Jupitus, before being manhandled out by the bouncers. He was chucked out of the building, but tried to sneak in the back way. Where the bouncers were waiting. Later at the front entrance, still trying to get back in, he accosted a bunch of students and got a right kicking before the bouncers, eventually, intervened.
He later sent an apology blaming it on his medication. Yeah, right, four pints of medication and a whisky chaser when you’re ready bar man.

We can watch and have a wank
Amidst the madness that surrounded our decamping from Adline, the writs, threats and general unpleasantness, one story still stands out as a beacon of bizarreness. We’d just arrived in Manc and the Chase had pro bono agreed to design the new mag. We went over to see them and the designs were brilliant – the Drum uses them to this day. A bit lost, we decided to go and see a few agencies that we knew. I’m not going to identify these guys as they are still mates, but it’s too good a story not to recount.
We bumped into to the two most senior figures from this agency on the way back from a birthday celebration, both clearly pissed. We explained we’d left Adline etc and they hurrahed in a way that didn’t entirely convince me that they had a fucking clue what we were talking about. Predictably, we headed off to a local bar.
Here one of the two started to take a particular interest in Larissa, complimenting her on her arse. Later said agency MD pressed his home phone number into my hand and said: “Come over next Wednesday. There’ll be plenty of Charlie. My wife will go down on Lauriss and we can watch and have a wank…”
I never went. Larry? Who knows? Toodle pip.

Last year I got socks

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After having some less pleasant memories stirred up by the vile-smelling troll who featured in the recent Cunt of the Week article, I thought I’d share a few happier thoughts, all from the Adline years (1993-99).

1. Big Night Out

I had a number of memorable nights out with agencies, but this one sticks in my mind. Big was a relatively new agency, but obviously had a lot of attitude and self-belief, something in short supply among many of its Midland counterparts. After a lot of banter, we eventually arranged a night out for them to demonstrate the delights of Leicester – their base - perhaps the most challenging brief they have ever had to work on.
The evening didn’t start well. Booking into my hotel, selected for me by the Big boys, I noticed a familiar aroma, one which reminded me of home. It was cat’s piss (we had three of them at the time).The whole hotel stank of it. To this day, I can’t smell feline urine without thinking of Big Communications.
From there we progressed to the pub and then to a Chinese restaurant, where the proprietor insisted on serving us chilled red wine, which, pissed as we were, we found hilarious. We even sent the third bottle back as it wasn’t chilled enough. Then it was off to a local club where I had the unique experience of giving a disco piggy-back to a future plc ceo. Ah, happy days. Perhaps unbelievably, we oft said we’d repeat the experience, but sadly never did. I’m still up for the re match.

2. Arthur Bitter

Aside from nights out, the 90’s were a great time for lunches. My most memorable occurred with Arthur Porter, late of the late Crains. At the time he was new business director of TMD Carat (now Feather Brooksbank). We met in some Italian restaurant on Deansgate and man did we go for it – at least three bottles of wine (possibly more), then on to the brandies. We started at 1 and finished around 6, by which point I was so pissed I had to book into a hotel as there was no chance of me getting safely back to Brum. Arthur, however, drove home to Macclesfield on the basis that he was “too pissed for public transport”. He didn’t last long at TMD, but a top bloke nevertheless.

3. What Boys Like

Another memorable evening involved a now senior figure at a NW PR outfit, when she outlined to a beguiled male audience “what boys like”. This seemed to largely involve considerable oral sex expertise and a willingness to take it up the shitter. Suffice to say, none of the blokes at the table was able to get up and order the next round due to a sudden outbreak of unwanted “stiffies”. I think she may have had to do the honours. Drinkswise, that is.

4. Drifting…

One of my favourite people on the Manchester scene was the late Ray Sale, chief exec of CIA Manchester. Ray had a gift for making an entrance and was deliberately late for any event he was meant to be attending. I was sat next to him at one of the MPA Christmas lunches, when he was the chairman, and Mick Miller was the compere for the event. The main act for the day was the Drifters and their backing band duly turned up on stage and launched into the intro for “Under the boardwalk”…about five times, much to the bemusement of the fairly pissed crowd. Later I managed to intercept a note from Ray to Mick: “Can you do another five minutes? The Drifters are stuck in the lift.” Maybe you had to be there.

5. Gathering little Moss

David Moss is one of the forgotten heroes of the NW ad scene. He ran Quadrant Advertising in the mid-90s when the agency was entirely propped up by – allegedly – part owners Lada and Proton. They pissed all the other agencies in town off by recruiting when the others were on the verge of closure as part of the 90s recession. Their big thing was integration and something they banged on about remorselessly in their brochures and mailings (this was pre-web site days). I bumped into Mr Moss at the NW IPR awards in 1995, when he was pissed out of his tree. He always had a thing for red wine did Mossy. He took me aside and said: “Tony, this integration thing, complete and utter bollocks. It never works.” Martin Newman, then his head of PR, looked on aghast.

6. Browned off

It wasn’t only Mr Moss who misbehaved at public events. There was one Birmingham Publicity Association summer event which took place on the eve of Debbie Brown, managing director of Adline, going into hospital for a major elective surgical operation. She is and was the bravest person I know. One of our sales girls had a load of coke on her, so the three of us ducked into the handicapped toilets at the ICC. God knows what they made of Deb’s blood tests the next today but, to be fair, being coked off your tits is the only way to enjoy BPA – now PACE – events.

7. Condomania

Back in the late 90’s when my first marriage was coming to an end, I had an affair with one of the girls in the Adline office. She had a partner, I had a partner, so rather shamefully most of our illicit trysts took place in the Adline office – once or twice on the boardroom table, which made board meetings a little hard to take seriously – I was constantly on the lookout for an odd stain or a stray pube. The very first time this took place the two of us arranged to be in the office early, well before anyone else was due in. The deed was done and we, of course, practiced safe sex. Debbie Brown then arrived unexpectedly early and we stood in the reception office with a durex wrapper on the desk between us and me and the partner in question praying she wouldn’t spot it. Longest five minutes of my life.

8. Wam Bam, Thank you Mam

Slightly after this, during the point when the trial separation had proved it worked, I was seeing another girl who was fairly senior in the Leeds office of an international PR company. She was married. Through various ploys she managed to arranged to spend the night with me in my then home of Kidderminster, although officially she was meant to be in London. As she left to go back to hubby in her company car, we joked about the consequences of her crashing. Sure enough, five mins later she calls me and tells me she’s crashed the car. I assume this is a joke – until I get there. The car is completely written off in a town she had no reason to be in. We spent the next three hours working out two timelines – one for hubby and one for work – and we got away with it and also invented the Van Morrison game, but that’s another story.



9. Last year I got socks

Eleven years ago, when I was 35, things were not going so well. My marriage was finished and I had a few relationships which really weren’t going anywhere. Out of the blue, on my 35th birthday, I was invited over to the home of one of the Adline sales girls. She took me in to the dining room and said: “There’s three lines of coke here. Let’s do them and then you can shag the arse off me.” “Blimey,” I thought, “last year I got socks…”

All New Cunt of the Week

Clearly a twat....

Niall Kennedy is going to prove an exception to my normal rule. I’m going to revisit the twat and what a twat he is. This is largely provoked by his recent postings here. If ever anyone was condemned from their own mouth…
Some people brighten up a room just by entering it, some by leaving it and some by being the star of I Was Impaled On A Pole And Nibbled At By Lepers playing on a continuous loop on a widescreen plasma TV. Such was Niall. I worked with him briefly – but not briefly enough for my liking - at a school in West Beijing. My first inkling that things were going to go tits up was a reference from his tutor, which basically said he was a tardy, unreliable cunt. By that point it was a bit late. The reference basically had to be dragged out of the tutor in question as she obviously didn’t want to say what she really thought. At the time, I reckoned it was probably a bit of a personality clash. As it turned out, that was unlikely. Niall didn’t really have much of a personality.
He arrived in Beijing and went through the usual introduction to life in the PRC and his responsibilities as a teacher. He was noticeably bored and twitchy throughout the entire induction process which made me wonder if he was having ketamine withdrawal symptoms. With hindsight, I reckon that – or something similar – was pretty much exactly the case.
The first Saturday of term – weekends were our busiest period – there was no sign of Niall (he pronounces it ‘Neil’), so I had to take his class. He eventually arrived 20 minutes late, which didn’t impress the kid’s parents. They basically demanded we change the teacher on the spot, which we duly did. Niall was delighted as it basically meant he had to do less hours whilst still getting paid the same. He had no concept that it basically meant someone had to do more work. Self-obsession and a virtually sociopathic disregard for others were something I came to realise characterised Niall.
There was one occasion when he was working at one of our off site-schools alongside another teacher, Muriel. As his classes finished after hers he had to wait 30 minutes before being picked up and brought back to the school. He tried to insist that we changed the classes around – ideally that Muriel would do both classes and he would do even less work. By this time, we pretty much had his number, so we largely ignored him. The principal of the school did, for two weeks, personally pay for a taxi to pick him up. Ken, deputy DOS of the school, and I soon developed amnesia about this arrangement and left the twat to stew.
He shared an apartment with Tom, another fresh recruit to the school. Tom, to be fair, just wanted to be in China and didn’t really want to teach. We had a series of complaints about Tom’s lack of preparation for his classes and it was obvious he would have to go. To be fair to him, Tom told us he wanted out and we agreed an exit package. Part of this agreement was that he could stay in his company-funded apartment in West Beijing. We then started to get complaints from the other tenants in the block and the landlord about late night drinking and generally anti-social behaviour. We duly asked Tom to leave. The complaints persisted and it turned out it was Niall not Tom who was the source of the problem. He had, however, blithely allowed his flatmate to take the blame for his own behaviour in order to secure the apartment for himself. Yes, he was that much of a cunt.
As the summer school loomed – halfway through Niall’s contract – we had a bit of a dilemma. We had a new off-site school we were opening up in Daxing, a suburb of Beijing. Niall obviously wanted to go, but it was impossible. Not only was he completely irresponsible and untrustworthy without direct supervision, he also had distinct personal hygiene issues which would have made it completely impossible for him to share a room with any of the other foreign teachers. One teacher made a point of coming to see me and telling me if he had to share accommodation with Niall he wasn’t going and would rather quit than be obliged to. We didn’t send Niall who took this rather personally, which I must admit rather made my day. I’m nice like that.
This was also the time of the Sichuan earthquake and there was a move to send some of the foreign teachers over during our downtime as part of the relief effort. One thing we all agreed on was that Niall was not going to be part of the delegation. We felt the region had suffered enough.
Summer 2008 saw a new initiative at the school – we were going to produce end of term videos featuring the classes we’d taught. This was a bit of a ball ache, but we all rallied round to get it done – with one notable exception. The Chinese teachers – our partners in all of our classes – were under no illusion that unless these videos were finished on time they would face financial penalties, this was even though finishing the videos was actually the role of the foreign teachers. All of the foreign teachers finished their videos on time – except for one. His Chinese partner teacher was Janice, a teacher who I was very fond of,  who was heavily pregnant at the time. She laboured over this video – not her role – tears literally streaming down her face and was very worried about getting into trouble if it was late. Niall, meanwhile, lay in bed despite making promises he would come in.
I was livid and when he got in we had the long overdue showdown and I suspect every word rings in his ears to this day.
Good.
It is also noticeable that Beijing’s pollution problem has substantially reduced since Niall left. Every time he left his bedroom window open during the Olympics a Canadian athlete fainted.
He also claims he went to Oxford. I find this enormously hard to believe. Culturally, socially and even in matters of punctuation, I mean really… Standards have fallen since my day.
The one thing I have taken away from this is the importance of both taking up references and taking them seriously. This is particularly important in the TEFL industry when people are coming from disparate territories and where disputes are common. The fact that people like Niall can continue to get  jobs in this sector will only continue to bring it into disrepute. Parents, kids and colleagues are shortchanged by people like Niall. Any potential employers reading this, do your kids a favour and avoid him like the plague.
One other thing I should add, in all conscience, as a word of warning to anyone considering employing Niall as a teacher, is this - early on in Niall's time with us there was an 'incident', one which involved inappropriate behaviour. This was reported to us by several concerned Chinese teachers. As a result, instructions were issued that on NO ACCOUNT was Niall to be left alone with the younger children, particularly girls. This was a policy that was maintained until the day he was sacked. To be fair the incident was never repeated, but then we made sure the opportunity never arose. To potential employers, I would say this - inflict him on your adults if you're desperate, but keep him away from kids or at least make sure there's always another adult present at all times, especially during level testing...
As a curious PS to this, this link (http://www.citizendia.org/European_Universities_Debating_Championship) demonstrates he didn't actually go to Oxford at all but to Glasgow University. Presumably the facts were changed to stop us getting a reference from his university. Degree certificates are easy to forge in the digital age. I wonder if he actually graduated. The more I look into this, the more, like Kennedy himself, it stinks to high heaven.

Niall eventually got round to responding. He's not known for his repartee or ability to complete projects. It's the expected mixture of whinging, self-serving, delusion and outright lies. It largely goes to prove that his writing abilities are every bit as poor as his teaching ones. A few things need addressing, but they can wait - until it's recruitment time in the TEFL industry again. http://therealtonymurray.blogspot.com/

This made my day - http://therealtonymurray.blogspot.com/2011/03/something-to-think-about.html. Here Kennedy accuses the school of mismanagement for not sacking him when suspicions about his innapropriate behaviour toward young girls first emerged (this is despite the monitoring and containment protocols that were put in place in line with our policy and as outlined above). His defence amounts to: "What kind of school wouldn't sack me for being a paedophile?". I hope no other academic institution proves so remiss. In light of the number of hits on the original posting from non-english speaking countries across the world, I doubt Kennedy will be in close proximity to young children any time soon, which is just as it ought to be.

As an intestesting addendum for would-be employers, this strikes me - Kennedy's employment as a teacher has largely been in places like Venezuela and China. The thing these places have in common? Unlike some other countries, such as Japan and Korea, they don't require incoming english teachers to sumbit to a criminal records check in their own country prior to taking up an appointment. Why do you think he's only targetted countries with this policy?

When i still had pretensions of being a proper writer...

I wrote this back in 2005 when I had pretensions of being a proper writer, I still think it's pretty good....

“Did I ever tell you about the time I found that magic paper handkerchief?”

Dermot Kennedy studied Saul, his drinking companion of many a year, sourly.

“I don’t believe you did,” he said eventually.

Saul took another swig from his pint, as though the subject was closed.

Dermot took another gulp of his own pint. He was not a man to be easily out-nonchalanted.

“Saul,” he said, at length. “I must admit, Normally you don’t interest me. Normally, you sit on that barstool and you talk about your Marjorie, little Sean or Ursula. You might make a remark about the footie. You might even express a view about the weather. But you’re not what I’d call an interesting man…”

Saul nodded in a not particularly interesting manner.

“But today, Saul, today you interest me…?”

Saul looked up questioningly, richly puzzled at this turn of events.

“Today, Saul, you sit on your bar stool as normal – but then – in a very un-normal way – you ask me if I’ve heard about the time you found the magic paper handkerchief…and suddenly you interest me…”
“

Ah,” said Saul.

“Not to excess, you understand Saul. But I would say my interest is piqued. Somewhat.”

“Ah,” said Saul again, abstractedly sipping his pint.

“So, Saul, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d be grateful if you had a mind to elucidate me further…in your own time, of course.”

“Well,” said Saul, “there was this time I found a magic paper handkerchief…”

“I think,” said Dermot, “that we have established that and indeed my once piqued interest already feels a hint of the wane…”

“Well,” said “Saul, “I had one of them colds…”

“One of what colds would that be, Saul?”

“One of them colds that people catch when it’s cold. A great snuffling, snot-nose of a cold, a great runny head full of mucus sort of a cold…

“Ah, one of them colds,” said Dermot.“And I was at the airport…”

“And what was a man like yourself doing at the airport then, Saul, what with you having one of them colds, an all?”

“Well our Marjorie…”“Ah, Saul, I can tell the details of the necessity of your visit to the airport are not necessarily what you’d call pertinent to your relating…”

“Right you are Dermot, pertinent they were not, never less so,” said Saul, tapping the right-hand side of his nose meaningfully.

“Anyway, there I was on this strictly non-pertinent visit to the airport with one of them colds and the snot was streaming out of me like one of them rivers….Dermot nodded.

“And our Marjorie said that I needed a paper hanky,” said Saul

“She wasn’t wrong there Saul. Smart woman your Marjorie, if not a particularly interesting or pertinent one.”

“Very true Dermot. Never a truer word. Anyway, as luck would have it, there was one of them shops there…”

“One of them hanky shops?” asked Dermot.Saul looked doubtful.“No Dermot, I don’t think it was strictly a hanky shop. They sold newspapers and books and magazines and I think they had some of them DVDS. And I think there was some of those NOBO magic markers on special offer, too.”

“Ah it was one of them John Menzies,” said Dermot.

“Or…” said Saul thoughtfully, “it could have been a WH Smith, now I think of it…”

“Aye,” said Dermot, “most likely…”“Anyway, I went in and asked them straight out for a packet of hankies.”

“And did they oblige?”
“Dermot, they did. So there I was, at the airport, with one of them colds and a packet of freshly purchased paper handkerchiefs, nasal relief for the use of.”

“Not a situation I would be envying you of.,.”

“So I opened the packet and blew my nose on the first hanky, all crusty it were. After that is, not before. And I was just about to throw it away, when it spoke to me…”

“It never…”

“Sure as I’m sat on this stool sipping this pint that you kindly provided, it spoke to me.”

“And you never thought to mention this before…”

“Well, Dermot, the moment has never seemed right.”

“Well what did it say to you, you there with that cold an all?”

“It said: ‘Don’t throw me away….’”

“It never…”“Sure as I’m sat here on this…”“I think I gather how sure you are Saul. What else did it say to you in that airport there?”

“It promised me riches, Dermot. Riches beyond the ken of mortal man. It promised to give me that Claudie Schiffer for a wife and it promised to make me irresistible to all women and make me the happiest man in Christendom…”

“And what was to be your part of the bargain, then Saul?”“All it wanted in return was that I didn’t throw it away, cast it aside, like a…”

“Like a used hankie?” Dermot proffered.“Very true and very apt,” said Saul.

“So what did you do?”

“Well Dermot, I did what any man would do, I kept it. It was that Claudia Schiffer that swung it, ever since I saw her in the Magic of David Copperfield, I always thought there was a certain…”
“Chemistry?”

“Yes Dermot, chemistry and, I thought, it would be wrong for either of us to fight it further…”

“So you acquiesced?”

“That I did Dermot. And I treasured that used hanky as though it was my own. Which, in many ways, it was.”

“Well what was the outcome then, Saul? I’m sure it was your Marjorie that was down for the Pub Quiz Tuesday and not the lovely Ms Schiffer and that’s not a mistake a man would make easily…”“

Well, you Dermot. I was sorely misled. I treasured that snotty hanky, gave it everything a slightly-used man-sized ply-fold nose receptacle could crave. It wanted for nothing, but in the end…”

“In the end, Saul?”

“In then end, Dermot, it didn’t deliver. Women still found me largely resistible and the gas bill still goes largely unpaid. I was deceived, cruelly deceived by a Kleenex that was no better than it should have been..”

“You mean...” said Dermot.

“Yes,” said Saul, “it was nothing but a tissue of lies. Same again?”

Duff by Name, Duff by Nature

Sometimes you have to call a cunt a cunt. Sometimes they are a cunting cunt. Into the latter category basically falls Ian Duff, the man who killed Scamp, the best magazine about regional marketing ever. Ian had been basically jibbed by Wilimington and was a bit on his uppers when he came over to talk to me about Scamp. He was on the verge of cocking up his marriage – after about a week – and I was in no state to sell issue 2. Frankly I wanted to sit under a stool, drink rioja and listen to Pink Floyd for the rest of my life. Glory days.
Ian supposedly took over sales for issue 2. After one meeting with him the printers said they wouldn’t support  issue 2 – reneging on the initial agreement. But who could blame them? Slimy, unreliable and unconvincing – and those were Ian’s good points.
Back in the office he then tried to con me in to paying him two grand for issue one, which he was not even a part of. He spent most of his time in the office trying to make up with his bride of seven days and asking me for the number of a girl at Adline he’d had a very brief affair with. She was far too good for him.Predictably we parted company.
Obviously even more broke than I was – which was an achievement – he took to calling me under various guises, he pretended to be his lawyer on one occasion. He then took to calling me and telling me I had offended various “strong forces” and was “in for it”.
Avoid. A complete and utter twat.

Love didn't tear us apart

Today rather than slag off those  I disdain,  I thought it might be nice to do somethining different...

James O’Donnell

James O’Donnell. Perhaps the best mate I ever had and a shocking omission from the first list, but I hope Jim is in no doubt about my regard for him. He has rescued me from so much shit over the years. Driving from Glasgow to Leeds, Birmingham to Blackpool, picking me up when everything I owned was in a garden in Bourneville. Possibly the nicest bloke in the world. Ladies take note. He has a few bob. I want to be his best man though, which may put you off. Most diamondish of geezers and now motoring correspondent for Gafencu. A small payback for all he’s done for me over the years. If I come back to the UK and fail to catch up with Jim then it’s an unsatisfactory trip.

Al Sim

What can you say about Al? One of the most charismatic and intelligent blokes I know. His departure from the industry is a huge loss. It is a tragedy that his life has come to be defined by one untypical night and I have nothing but scorn for the blokes who have revelled in his problems. Without Al you would have nothing to revel in. My contempt for your self-serving opportunism knows no bounds.

Paula Kelsey

Over the years, Ms K and I have had our differences and in terms of madness she is in the box of frogness capacity. She has turned Fresh into a credible awards event and not compromised on the quality of judges. And she once shagged a boy band, but I promised not to mention that and we did get an invoice.

Michael Taylor

Editor etc of Insider, I can’t help but admire his integrity. Never ever been compromised. He is the reason that Insider has risen above the competition and that Insider remains the Holy Grail for business approbation in the NW.

Chris Lloyd

I have never met Chris and not enjoyed his company. He is not going through the best time in his life and I hope to convince him that one day he will be back to what he was. He takes a lot of convincing.

Sandy Lindsay and Nina Wheeler

The queens of Manc PR, both very different, but God have they done well. They have rewritten the PR landscape in the NW, both very astutely calling on the services of Il Duce, without whom nothing in the NW PR world ever seems to succeed.

Martin Carr

Mr C and I go way back and we have ridden out so many bad and good times together. Anybody who ever tells a Jewish joke has never met Martin – one of the most generous and genuine blokes ever. He has picked me up from the gutter and not been (obviously) judgemental. There’s not many like that.

Younis Khan


Younis I miss you mate. Get in touch. During an awful period in my life when I once read the news on Asian Sound Radio (don’t ask) Younis was a beacon of decentness. If you’re having a fit of anti-Muslimness then spend a bit of time with Younis.

Gordon Young

Despite my many postings to the contrary, I would still have a beer with GY. He is surrounded (and married to) scum, but he was basically a decent guy. Not the sharpest by any means, but I wonder these days about how happy he is about the complete lack of integrity or validation his sorry little would-be empire has. A guy that was out of his depth and has been swamped by cunts. We could have achieved so much more.

My Missus

The only reason I am typing this and not dead in a ditch

The Day I Shagged Kylie up the Arse

I must confess you have been lured here under false pretences. Miss Minogue’s orifices, rectal or otherwise, have remained unsullied by the Murray manhood – despite the many nude Polaroids and samples of pubic hair I sent her by recorded delivery. Why, shame to admit, I have not even had Dannii.
However, I have borrowed this notion of boosting traffic to my blog from my dear old pals at The Drum. A token mention of the World Cup here, a fleeting and shallow look at the iPad and even some ill-informed shite about China – all aimed at attracting unwary googling browsers to their site and artificially – and temporarily – swelling their visitor numbers. Love to see the number of revisits.
Shame on my pals at Brazen et al, supposedly experts in social media, for falling for this tosh and retweeting the Drum’s claims to be the 999th most read website in the UK, which still sees them nestling somewhere between donkeyporn.org.uk and johnselwyngummersfavouritesmells.co.uk.
Deceptive, lacking verification and only taken on board by the ill-informed – if Carlsberg wrote positioning statements for Glasgow-based publishing companies…
Nick Clegg was my bitch at Eton by the way

“Can we get away with a fanny that big?”

Just to underline the fact that I don’t hate every publisher, I’ve ever worked for I thought I’d share a story from 20 years ago when a much-younger Tony Murray spent two years (1989-90) as photo editor of Mayfair. Back then Mayfair wasn’t the Paul Raymond-owned gash-fest it is now. It was owned, published and edited by Ken Bound, a former sub on the Daily Sketch.

It was Ken’s firm belief that Mayfair, far from being locked away in between tugs in a short-sighted man’s sock drawer, was actually the subject of lofty debate at the high tables of Oxford and Cambridge. Here, he believed, dons and visiting archbishops would frequently discuss the veracity of Mayfair’s World War I tales of derring-do and act with outrage should we mis-caption the wingspan of a Sopwith Cuckoo. The truth, I suspect, was very different.

Ken had a curious collection of aphorisms he used to apply to the subject of journalism – in particular The Three Things Which Don’t Sell magazines. On a quiet afternoon, looking for a little amusement, it was always tempting to insert an anecdote about dwarves into a piece of girl copy. Inevitably, Ken would turn up in the editorial office five minutes letter and say: “Tony, I have to tell you, there are Three Things That Don’t Sell Magazines. One is dwarves, another is barbed wire and the third is…well I forget the third.”

We never did find out the third.

It was a slightly surreal place, where you’d often find the editorial team clustered in the main office and looking up at a slide-projected image of that month’s proposed centrefold with Ken asking: “Well boys, can we get away with a fanny that big?”

My favourite story, though, perhaps took place at Christmas 1990 during the Mayfair party, which were always highly drunken affairs. We started at lunchtime in a wine bar in Holborn and, as this was the last Mayfair party (Ken having sold the mag to Paul Raymond for four million quid), we really went for it.

Sometime in the early evening we staggered back to the Mayfair office. Ken was particularly pissed and soon departed for his private flat on the top floor. The rest of us were left sitting in his office, where we soon spotted the only thing in the building left to drink – a hugely expensive bottle of champagne bought for Ken by the printers as a farewell gift. It took us all of five seconds to decide to drink it.

The next morning, hungover and very much the worse-for-wear, we trooped into the office. A slightly indignant Ken called us all together and said: “I’d just like to know who drank my bottle of Champagne last night…”
Quick as a flash, David Jeffs, the features editor, responded: “Eh, you did, Ken…”

And we got away with it.

The mendacious Mr Jeffs, by the way, is now an assistant editor on The People.

Cunt of the Week: Riddle Me This...

>It is often said that if you remember the early days of the Marketeer, then you never really knew where the sales department stashed their coke. This is a tale from those days.

An interesting counterpoint to the public humiliation that Alistair Sim has had to endure over the last 18 months is the vast number of people in the industry who Got Away With It, individuals who did similar or worse things to Mr Sim, but simply escaped vilification solely by virtue of not getting caught. One such individual is Robin Riddle, one time Northern Sales Rep for the Economist, a role he presumably fulfilled through either osmosis or telepathy as, despite sharing an office with him for some six months, I never actually saw him do anything at all.

One of the typically far-sighted and innovative moves made by the Carnyx Group during the brief period they genuinely had a presence in England was to arrange to reduce the overheads of its Manchester office by sharing a space with the Economist, which consisted entirely of the “Riddler”.

When I say reduce the overheads, what the ever-duplicitous Carnyx Group actually did was inflate the claimed rent and allocate a supposed portion of it to the Economist, a portion which actually pretty much covered the whole of the real rent.
Robin was bought into our one room office (on the third floor of a building on the corner of York Street and Fountain Street), on the condition that whatever happened in “Marketeer Mansions” stayed in “Marketeer Mansions”, However, the keen Carnyx-costcutters overlooked three vital facts about Robin:

a) He was a compulsive gossip, with very little to do
b) He organized the MPA lunches so a had a ready made audience of people to compulsively gossip to
c) He was a complete cunt

Far from keeping schtum about the goings-on in Marketeer Mansions – which at that point was a marginally less happy ships than one ferrying a dead Viking to his eternal reward - Robin used confidential information – sales data, internal squabbles etc–to persuade the many that that usually bodyswerved to avoid him to break the habit of a lifetime and spend more than 50 seconds listen to him pontificate. He was an Olympic class pontificator.

He then compounded this by getting involved with one of the Marketeer sales girls, whose main interest in Robin was promising sexual favours in return for him paying off her burgeoning credit card bills. Unfortunately, whilst her visa final demands were the exclusive province of the Riddler, her heart and sundry other organs were, largely, the exclusive province of another (married) man.

When, despite howls of protest from me and James O’Donnell, the Marketeer’s deputy editor and token grown-up, said sales girl and Romeo Riddler decided to move into together (said sales girl now having rent arrears as well as threats to her pets from Visa hitmen), it was obvious things were going to get worse. Much worse.

When the World’s Least Trustworthy Woman moves in with the World’s Most Paranoid Man, Dark Satanic Forces can take the day off, and put their feet up, secure in the knowledge that they are well surplus to requirements.

And so it came to pass that WLTW and WMPM were sharing an apartment, a bed, her bad debts and, most critically, a PC.

Said sales girl made the mistake of using the shared PC to arrange a hotel tryst with her One True Love of the Month, fatally neglecting to clear her in-box and sent box. The Riddler, of course, having found his previous fiancée in bed with another on at least one occasion, scrupulously checked WLTW’s email accounts on a daily basis. Hourly, if she was out.

On this occasion, the Riddler found details of hotel bookings, times, dates etc. Unsatisfied with merely being able to confront the visa-indebted vixen with his discovery, he stalked her all the way to Leeds on the day of the tryst.

Entering the hotel, he then knocked on the illicit couple’s door and pretended, in squeaky tones, to be housekeeping. Upon looking through the peephole, the coitus interuptees swiftly realized it was not an amusingly-voiced Malmaison manservant but rather a revenge-bent Riddler. Quite sensibly, they decided to remain on the reverse side of the door, until the Riddler began reeling off details of the married man’s home address, phone number, wife’s employment and, most chillingly, the name of the school where his kids went.

Understandably freaked out by the Riddler’s OCD stalkery, said married man did the dishonourable thing and promptly fled, leaving our tiny slip of a sales girl to tackle the disapproving-of-their-nobbin’ Robin alone. Hardly his finest hour – and you know who you are and I know you’ll read this.

Now the Riddler is hardly an impressive specimen of masculinity, but he was twice as tall as his petite ex-paramour to be. Such inequality, however, did not stop him from smashing her head into a wall and then spitting in her face. Nor was this the only time. After this he took to hanging around outside her apartment at night and repeating the process on more than one occasion. A nice guy. I wonder what his new colleagues at the Economist in North America would think should they ever find out…

An amusing aside on the whole Riddler affair and one which sums up the Walter Mitty-like nature of his existence… Early on in my acquaintance with him he started using an alias – “Robin James”. He explained to the bemused Marketeer crew that was this because his father had been a counter-terrorism operative working against the IRA and that he had been officially warned by the Secret Service that his distinctive surname made him a target for revenge attacks by disgruntled Irishmen.

The truth, like most things about the Riddler, was far more prosaic. His former fiancée, Jenny, had baulked at taking on his surname should they marry, feeling that “Jenny Riddle” sounded far too similar to a well-known urination euphemism – hence the name change. Upon finding this out we quizzed him as to why he hadn’t opted for “Taylor” rather than James. Although, we found this hilarious it rather predictably, like so many other things, went clear over Robin’s notoriously vacuous head.
If you would like to nominate a Cunt of the Week, please email me on tonymurray37@hotmail.com. Anyone, of course, who nominates me may well find themselves in this hallowed spot.

Who Gave Love a Bad Name?

Falling out of Love is never a pleasant process, especially if your former partner – or indeed partners – are determined to inflict every iota of added injury they possibly can, with the incentive of their own pecuniary interest very much to the fore.

Now, I am not referring to any of my ill-advised trysts of yesteryear, but rather to events of a more recent hue. Let me take you back – and please supply your own shimmery dissolve here – to the events of November 2008 and the court case that saw Alistair Sim, founder and managing director of Love Creative, take the stand in Stockport Magistrates’ Court and plead guilty to assault.

The gravity of the situation saw Sim (right) immediately quit his role, a decision announced in a statement by Dave Palmer, a fellow director of the agency, thusly: “We were aware that Alistair was having some personal problems, but the severity of the situation has meant that his position has become untenable at Love. It was Alistair’s decision to step down, and under the circumstances it was the right decision to make.

"Undoubtedly, this is an extremely traumatic time for Alistair and his family, and, although we cannot condone his actions in any way, we are very sympathetic to all involved. Alistair hasn’t been involved in the day-to-day running and strategic direction of client accounts for some time, and his departure, will have no impact in this area."

As it turned out, Palmer and his associates had a strange way of being “very sympathetic to all concerned”, but we’ll come back to that in due course. First let’s take a look at the court case itself, which saw both the chief reporter of the Manchester Evening News and, unusually, a photographer sat on the press benches. Now, whereas I can just believe that even the dwindling resources of the MEN might have stretched to providing a reporter for this case, I find it very hard to accept that their antennae were so finely tuned as to be aware of it. This does beg the question – “Who tipped them off?” With the obvious answer being – “Whoever had the most to gain.”

Draw your own conclusions, sympathetically, of course. Or perhaps ask Phil Skegg (left), who has several mates who are journos on the MEN, sufficiently close mates to reveal the contents of the article prior to its publication. Skegg was one of the few, including Sim, his immediate family, his estranged partner and Palmer, to know the scheduling and details of the case. It is possible that the hearing was picked up solely on the basis of the court listings, but it is unlikely.

Farewell to the Dream Team
Sim’s departure from the business was immediate and abrupt, although there was a tacit understanding that he might return once everything blew over. The unwritten nature of this agreement was one that was to prove costly to Sim over the next 18 months. It wasn’t only Sim that suffered though, Love itself has become a shadow of the once-all-conquering mini-creative behemoth, which won the admiration (albeit grudgingly) of even rival agencies. Surprisingly, though, its reputation has suffered considerably less than that of Mr Sim.

Since Alistair’s departure at the end of 2008, at least 14 members of staff have quit the company (for completists that’s Richard Hall, Cheryl Borkin, Adam Rix, Simon Griffin, Rory Sutherland, Leanda Falcon, Jonny Whiteoak, Jono Brain, Ben Taylor, Adam Forthergill, Shelley Wood, Harinder Bajwa and Gre Hale). This follows on from the six who left in the three months prior to his departure (Jonathan Rigby, Andy O'Dwyer, Alison Johnson, Jon Hatton, Frank Carolan and Rob Brearley).

Add into this the earlier departure of co-founder Dave Simpson and Matt Beardsell to launch Music in January 2008 and it brings the total no of departures (including Sim himself and the company’s first ever redundancies) since Love moved from Tib Street to High Street in 2006 to a whopping 24. (To put this into perspective, rival NW design outfit, True North, lost four members of staff during the same period. True North employs 16, Love fluctuates around 30, so even doubling the TN figure to take account for this still sees Love losing three times as many staff).

Essentially, of the Dream Team that built Love’s reputation during its first eight years of existence, only Phil Skegg (now chairman) and Dave Palmer (executive creative director) remain. The relative youth and inexperience of the Dream Team’s replacements has been reflected in the agency’s lacklustre performance in terms of new business and awards, sectors where they were once unassailable, at least in NW terms.

Awards and New Business Wasteland
Where, at one time, the agency took the chairman’s award at the Roses, regularly picked up Design Week awards and pretty much swept the board at Fresh, 2009 was a disaster for the agency – nothing at all in Design Week, a couple of bronzes and silvers at the Roses and just two awards at Fresh – down from 14 the previous year. It was, without a doubt, the company’s worst ever year for awards.
2010 is shaping up to be a little better with a bronze in low budget, and a gold for illustration at the Roses – neither in categories the agency will be rejoicing over. Obviously, they’re not advertising with the Carnyx group as much as they used to.

A lean time for awards then, though it’s a comparatively rosy result compared to the company’s new business performance. Unlike a lot of other NW design companies – True North, Dinosaur, The Chase etc – Love has always been primarily project-oriented. This was fine when Sim was constantly shovelling in new business, but once the pipeline was cut, the agency faced a huge problem in meeting its considerable overheads. The problem has been compounded by the loss of work from Microsoft, the Student Travel Association, All About Food (the parent company of Nandos’ source of sauces) and its removal from the BBC roster.

The agency may also be regretting the largesse that saw it give away accounts to breakaway start-up, Music, including work for Manchester City, the Manchester International Festival, Christian Aid and the furniture manufacturer, Allermuir. It’s not all bad news though as chairman Skegg is believed to maintain an interest in the start-up, a lifeboat in waiting the cynical might say.

In truth the agency is now completely reliant on work from just two clients – Sony and Umbro, although the margins on the latter are believed to be particularly low. Some reports even suggest that Paul Chorlton, the company’s financial director, personally bailed out the business with his own funds and money from Life PR, the Ducie Street-based business he is part owner of.

It’s not all been gloom for Love though. Back in January 2009, Sarah Murray joined the company as head of new business and, just six months later, presumably after a record-breaking whirlwind romance, she was married (above) to Stephen Corlett, one of the senior marketing team at Umbro. With Corlett (Mr) now believed to be heading off to the States, it might be time for other NW design consultancies to send their most comely single account directors Cheadlewards.

The Shafting Begins
Perhaps the company’s failures on the staff and client retention, awards and new business fronts may be explained away by the fact that the attention of its remaining directors was elsewhere – largely on shafting its former MD. Much of the creativity and innovation of Messrs Skegg, Chorlton and Palmer, since November 2008, has gone into ensuring that Sim received the minimum possible payout for his shareholding in the business he built.

Under the auspices of its three directors, Love delayed posting its 2009 accounts for as long as possible. When they eventually submitted them they recorded £255k of accrued/deferred income in comparison to just £80k in the previous year (the majority of it, apparently, down to their nuptial connections at Umbro). In effect, the company deliberately held back on registering accrued income until after a compulsory sales transfer notice was served on Sim in August 2009. This allowed them to post a big loss and considerably undervalue the company.

Despite his resignation – and largely because of the outstanding issue regarding the shares – Sim had remained a director of Love until April 2009. Without his consent, however, the remaining directors had cancelled the shareholders’ dividends as of January 2009, effectively stripping Sim and his family of any income at all. So much for being “sympathetic” to all involved.

These January moves also saw the remaining management of Love renege on earlier promises that Sim would have the option of returning to the business and taking up a role in one of the company’s subsidiaries – either Toy or Make. It also saw the company officially decline to pay Sim any notice pay, potentially resulting in financial disaster for its ex-MD.

This was a very different picture to that painted by those same directors when the MEN initially broke the story back in November 2008. Back then, the directors, all mock sympathy and concern, had turned up at Sim’s house with promises to make sure he and his kids didn’t suffer, telling him he could keep his shares and that they’d carry on paying him till it all blew over.

Nothing was put in writing about this meeting but I, like a number of other figures in the industry, was in regular contact with Sim at the time and was well aware of what he had been promised and his expectation to eventually return to the business.

Dismissal Missives
Sim’s first inkling that these promises were unlikely to be kept came in a series of letters from Paul Chorlton, Love’s financial director, demanding his “official” resignation and cutting his notice period from six months to three. When Sim queried this and referred to the earlier agreement, he received a letter, just before Christmas 2008, announcing Love was initiating a dismissal procedure against him. He was eventually sacked in January 2009. At the same time the company suspended the shareholders’ dividends, whilst increasing the salaries of the remaining directors as “compensation”.

No transfer of shares was initiated until August 2009 when Sim’s 33% share in the business he had spent eight years building was valued at just £240 – largely due to the financial chicanery of FD Chorlton and co. To this day, Sim has no idea who has taken over his stake in the business and those details have yet to be recorded at Companies House, although this is a legal requirement in such a transaction. Sim still retains his original share certificate which he has understandably declined to return.

The low valuation put on the business by the triumvirate of remaining directors in August 2009 is quite at odds with the picture they painted in April of that year, when they were in negotiations with Hasgrove (parent company of the Chase, Amaze et al) about selling the business. Then they produced figures showing that Love was making £15k profit a month and valued the business at some £2 million. In the end, the deal foundered when Palmer unilaterally stopped attending meetings with Hasgrove and announced, without putting it to a vote with the other shareholders, that the deal was off.

Love for Sale
The negotiations between Love and Hasgrove were proceeding even as Sim finalized his own deal to join The Chase as business development director, a move that was announced at the end of May 2009. Had the Hasgrove/Love deal gone through, it would have seen Sim reunited with the team he had largely built up and, perhaps, resulted in a financial and creative renaissance for Love. Sadly, it was not to be.

On the brink of a financial crisis, Sim had little alternative but to rescind his resignation and take his former company to an employment tribunal for unfair dismissal. It is here that the waters become very muddied indeed. As part of the proceedings, Sim maintained that he had long understood – ever since the November 2008 meeting – that the directors had assured his eventual return to the business. Although many ex and current members of staff at Love also recall just such assurances about Sim’s future being made to them, the directors felt free to tell the court that this was not the case. I’m sure there’s a legal term for this.

Neither did the tribunal take into account the fact that Chris Conlan, Love’s new MD, had emailed Sim, prior to his own elevation, and told him: “All our clients and staff are supporting you and are sure you will bounce back from this.”

Chorlton (right, sans foil), Skegg and Palmer even went as far as to bring back short-lived joint MD Richard Hall (sacked several months earlier for trying to install an entirely inappropriate “Hitlerite” regime at Love’s High St offices) to ‘stick the boot’ into Sim.

Bizarrely, the legal discussion moved from whether Sim actually had brought Love into disrepute to whether he could have done by staying. It could well be argued that a truer picture would have been that, in fact, it was Sim’s departure that ultimately led to a number of staff decamping, creative standards falling and clients moving their business elsewhere.

The company offered little evidence that any client made representations about potentially moving their business in the light of Sim’s actions, but still ruled they might have done had he stayed. The one area focussed on by the tribunal was the negative publicity generated by the press coverage of Sim’s trial and sentencing.

It is impossible not to wonder if the tribunal would have been quite so sympathetic to Love had they known the role of at least two of the directors in orchestrating that negative press coverage. As well as flagging up the original court case, both the MEN and, resulting in a rare trip South of the Border, even the Drum were briefed to attend the two tribunals. How-do, which had been far more impartial in its coverage, received no such briefing.

Despite reports from normally reliable media sources and The Drum, Love did not get it all it own way, with the tribunal ruling that the company should indeed have honoured Sim’s notice payments, amounting to some 50k. To date, they have still singularly failed to meet this obligation, even six months on from the tribunal.

The End of the Affair...
Unfortunately for Sim, his months of unemployment and continuing financial commitments to his family, left him without the funds to take the matter further and challenge the valuation presented by his former colleagues Nor could he afford to take issue with the unilateral share transfer.

Following the tribunal, the information provided by Love’s financial director ensured that the company was deemed insolvent by its auditors. In order to maintain this fiction, the deferred amounts in the end-of-year accounts were continually pushed back, first to September then finally into October. Technically, during this period, the company should have gone into administration. The pressures of maintaining this distorted picture of the business and of rewriting history around the promises made to Sim prior to his resignation proved too much for some members of staff.

In the end, after eight years building the business and several months in the wilderness, Sim received nothing at from Love, whilst people who had contributed far less gave themselves pay rises and continued to kick him when he was very much down. Ultimately, it was not Sim who brought Love into disrepute.

This article is obviously one-sided, something for which I make no apology. The coverage to date – with the honourable exception of how-do, which has demonstrated a fair degree of impartiality – has been equally one-sided, albeit skewed entirely in favour of Love. This was epitomised by the ever-gutless Drum, who have seemed almost entirely in the pocket of Love – going as far at one point as to run an on-line poll asking: “Should Alastair Sim ever be allowed to work in the industry again?” They then compounded the offence by sending Alistair a whiny e-mail complaining that he had given How-do an exclusive interview but had declined to speak to them. Now why do you think that was you cottage industry clowns?

Some 18 months on from the assault that Sim himself has called his “Bonfire of the Vanities” moment, we are left with two damaged brands. Sim’s own brand, once highly-regarded in the North West and beyond, has suffered as a result of one moment of madness. The Love brand, itself, has been undermined by 18 months of mendacity, duplicity, greed, schadenfreude, incompetence, egotism and short-sightedness.

I know which one is most likely to recover.