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.