A country boy in advertising. 1979.

I grew up in rural Leicestershire in the 1960’s. 

Coming to London in 1979 to work for one of the UK’s leading advertising agencies was a huge cultural shock.

Here are a few insights from that period.

George Best.

Start Monday.

Three thousand a year.

Said the Creative Director.

Wow.

One.

Two.

Three thousand pounds.

George Best earned a hundred pounds a week.

Over five thousand pounds a year.

I am three fifths George Best.
If only my legs were three fifths Best.

Creative Director's secretary.

How much we paying you?

Three, I said.

Three?

You won't be able to live on that.

It's three fifths of George Best's wages, I said.

Yeah.

But that was years ago.

And he lived in Manchester.

Black Sheep Boy.

Miners strikes.

Power cuts.

Candles.

Labour isn't working.
Neither was my dad.
His oily overalls.

Hung on a peg.

Under the stairs.

Instead of a peg in a factory.

Where you working son?

Saatchis dad.

Isn't that the Tory agency son?

Thatcher's lot?

Is it?

I said.

Is it?

  

Roy.

I’m Woy.

Woy was the only 60 year old at the agency.
Woy had dentures.
His R's were W's.
Woy. 
Sounds Chinese.
I said.
Roy was Head of Traffic.

Traffic?

Shouldn’t you be outside?
Where the traffic is.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Roy laughed.

Roy took ads around the department for signing off.

Each art work had a stamp on the back.

With space for three signatures.

The Account Director.

The Client.

The Creative Director.

In his hand my first ad.

With a stamp.
No names.
Why has my ad got no signatures?

Because it’s a wubbish ad Tony.

Really?

Weally.

I liked Roy.
He spoke the truth.

The Brief

Sorry Mr Creative Director.
Sir.
I don’t understand this brief.
The proposition is complicated.

Confusing.

Creative Director took the brief from my hand.
He screwed it up in to a ball..

Threw it in the plastic bin in the corner.

The bin marked Tony's Bin.
He took out a magic marker and wrote.

Five words.

Write a fucking brilliant ad.

That’s the brief.

He said.

That’s the brief.

Do you understand that?
I think so. I said.

I think so.

Margaret Howell

It's a Margaret Howell.

The creative director said.

I thought it was a shirt.

He was a creative director. 

So he should know.

My shirt was called sad.

That's what the creative director called it.

He called his suit Hugo.

And his socks Paul.

And his underpants Ralph.

I called my socks socks

And my underpants pants.

I didn't have a suit.

If I did I would have called it suit.

I wore the same shirt every day.

That's what I did at school.

And that's what I did at work.

Saves on washing.

One day a delivery man came in to my office.

He handed me a gift wrapped parcel.

I opened it.

Inside was a shirt.

A head appeared at the door.

It was the creative director.

He said that's a Margaret Howell.

Oh. I said.

Oh.

Fuck

Don't swear.

Thick people swear.

So said my dad.

Every swear word you use takes a minute off your life.

He said this as he took another drag from his Woodbine.

The office was filled with people losing minutes off their lives.

Fucking brilliant.

Fucking awesome.

Fucking amazing.

Fucking great.

Fucking no good.

Fucking good.

Fucking client.

Fuck.

Oh Fuck.

Excuse me, John Steinbeck didn't use the word Fuck.

Yeah. They said.

But he didn't work in advertising.

Saturday

Can you come in on Saturday?

Said the Creative Director.

Need you on a pitch.

Didn’t know the agency had a football team.

A business pitch, he said.

Isn't Saturday the weekend?

My day off.

The day I go to Tesco and buy cheap cabbage and cheese.

And sausages if they are half price.

Saturday is the day I sit around my rented flat.

Staring at the overdraft letter on my noticeboard.

Hoping it will turn in to a butterfly and fly out the window.

It's the day I do my washing.

By hand.

It's the day I cut my own hair.

Saturday. 

The day I listen to Leicester City on the radio.

The day I glue the heels back on my only pair of shoes.

Do I get double time?

The Creative Director laughed.

If you don't come in on Saturday don't bother coming in on Sunday, he said.

Do you really want me to come in?

Yes.

What time?

Capable women

They were women. 

They were called producers.

I wanted to produce with them.

I didn't know what.

Whatever they produced I guess.

They knew everyone.

They had nice smiles.

Not cheesy smiles.

Smiles that said I know what's what.

And they were capable.

Super capable.

They had big diaries.

Full of exciting names.

People I'd seen on TV.

That my mum would know.

These capable women had cool names.

Like Pepita.

Tess.

Penelope.

Abby.

They told me where I should be.

And when.

These super capable women said stuff.

And the stuff was done.

They told me what to do.

And I did it.

I loved them all.

And I never told them.

I bet they’re still capable.

Wherever they are.

Stuck door.

Shit.

Travelcard at work.

Billy Whizzed it back to agency.

No receptionist.

Four flights.

My office door was shut.

The door was being thumped.

By somebody on the other side.

Why would someone thump a door?

Perhaps it was stiff.

Someone trapped.

There were grunts.

Man boy grunts.

And moans.

Woman girl moans.

I waited.

The noise stopped.

The door opened.

A man boy walked out with a woman girl.

The woman girl dashed off.

Back to reception.

Hi I said.

I forgot my wallet.

What time is it, man boy asked.

I don't know I said.

Not late.

Coming for a drink he asked.

No.

I need to get home. 

Fawlty Towers is on.

 Elephants.

Media: Press.

Message: Strong sofas.

Deadine: One hour.

Mr Sofa client at lunch.

Anemos.

Retsina. And Kleftico.

Think.Think.Think.

Pee.

Think.

Think.

Elephants heavy.

On sofa.

Mr Sofa client will love this.

Two elephants equals strong sofa.

Da.dah.

Mr Sofa belches garlic words in my face.

Why you taking the piss?

I'm not.

Sofas are for people.

I know.

So what are those two elephants doing?

On my fucking sofa.

They're watching Tarzan films.

I said.

Terry.

Terry was a barrow boy.

Who didn't have a barrow.

He didn't sell fruit.

He sold air time.

Not to pilots.

To high flying brands.

Terry was fun.

Always started with, heard the one about.

He called me Orwhite Tone.

I called him Tel.

Orwhite Tel.

Tel showed films.

Fridays. 

Late. 

With free beer.

In an office on the top floor.

Filled with smoke.

And beery Friday night men.

With aftershave different to Henry Cooper.

Orwhite Tone?

Wot's the film Tel?

Clint Eastwood?

De Niro?

Tel laughed.

Special film said Tel.

A pirate film.

I like pirates.

It's Deep Throat said Tel. 

Linda Lovelace.

Was she a pirate I asked?

Sort of he said.

Sort of.

 Leonard Rossiter

Leonard Rossiter?

The words came from super capable woman.

With the big diary and purple lipstick.

But he’s famous I said.

Leonard Rossiter does voice overs?

My comedy hero actor will read my words?

Words about chickens?

Yeah. He’ll get £100 for an hour.

Mum guess what?

You’re joking. Leonard Rossiter.

That’s right mum. And he gets £100 an hour.

Next day.

Molinare studios.

Mr Rossiter in the sound booth.

Me staring.

First take.

Mr Rossiter asked how was it?

I stared.

Mr Rossiter offered to do it again.

I stared.

Super capable woman said, say something.

To Leonard Rossiter.

I can’t talk to Leonard Rossiter.

You have to. You wrote the script.

Pause.

That’s nice Mr Rossiter, I said.

Really nice.

Encounter with Tim Bell.

Layout pad doodles.

Deep in thought.

Open window cooled my neck.

Door swung open.

As if opened by a hurricane in boxing gloves.

Tim Bell stood in the doorway.

Anger so tangible the door frame seemed to widen in respect.

Did you chuck a cigarette butt out the window?

Er…er…er…er…er…er….er……er……er…

No.

No.

I don’t smoke.

If I catch the…..

Then gone.

Phew what was all that about?

I looked out of the window.

A nice red Ferrari stared back at me.

Pure polished gleaming rose red Ferrari.

A small brown nicotine burn on the roof.

Winked back at me.

I’m glad I didn’t smoke.

Cigarettes have always been expensive.

Coloured Pens.

Burnt Ochre.

Warm Grey.

Cobalt Blue.

Powder Yellow.

Vermillion.

Sandstone.

These strange pens were chubby.

With cylindrical chambers.

The felt bit poking out the top.

They stood upright.

Like little soldiers.

Waiting to do battle on the next brief.

My art director covered paper.

With new colours.

Pinned coloured puns on the wall.

Soon there was no wall.

Only paper.

With colours.

From chubby pens.

I stood there.

With my Bic biro.

Wish I'd gone to art college.

Taramasalata.

Lunch time.

I took out my foil parcel.

Always wrap your sarnies in foil.

Keeps them fresh.

That's what my mum said.

And she knew about foil.

I put my fish paste sarnies next to my angle poise lamp.

With a packet of crisps.

A man boy with curly hair sat down on the sofa with a pot of pink.

He dipped strange bread in to the pot of pink.

Taramasalata.

He said.

It's from fish.

I've got fish paste.

That's from fish too.

Taste it the man boy said.

I did taste it.

Suddenly I had an urge to travel.
And I did travel.
I went to Greece.
And had taramasalata.
Now I'm a Grecophile.

Have sat under olive trees.
Watching.
The sun.
The olives
And the kittens.
There's always kittens.
There's always kittens.
But they don't eat taramasalata.

 People.

My first poster.

High street Wandsworth.

Saturday morning.

Me sitting on wall.

Opposite poster.

I did that.

I did that.

Hey, I did that.

That's my headline.

It's only one word.

Took me days to come up with.

It's still a headline.

Sat there.

For hours.
And hours.

Waiting for people to look up.

At my poster.

No one did.

Walked home.

Head down.
Staring at the pavement.

Books

Creative Director's office.
Him.
Award winning writer.
Writes novels in his coffee break.
Me.
Grade 4 English O level.
Sun crossword in my tea break.
Books behind his dandruff filled shoulders.
E.M. Forster.
Austen.
Hardy.
James.
Turgenev.
Him.
What are you reading?
Me.
Batman.
Him.
Try Steinbeck.
Me.
I don't drink.
Him.
He's a writer.
Succinct.
Pithy.
Silence.
Him.
Your copy is notably egregious.
Me.
Thank you.
Thank you.

Dad.

Pay rise?

Go in and ask.
Said divorced shagger creative mullet.
I did.
Mullet.
What happened?
Said no.
Mullet.
You need to win a d and ad.
D and ad?
I already have a dad.
Mullet.
It's an award.
It doubles your salary.
And gets you laid.
Can't afford a girlfriend.
Mullet.
You will when you win a d and ad.
How do I win one?
Mullet.
Easy.
You write a brilliant ad.
What's a brilliant ad?
Mullet.
One that wins a d and ad.