Can't think of a title. It's been a while.

Welcome back.

And what better way to mark my return to blogging than by pouring tepid bile over that big, fat, sexless something-or-other of an industry we call Advertising, eh.

So let's go! For those of you of a literary bent (i.e. those who spend less time gawping at shapes and colours than the rest of us) "big and fat" is the theme of today's post. So write that down in your £15.99 Moleskine before your get distracted by a Twitter feed or a beautiful account manager. It's an important part of this module.

Thanks.

Whilst many of us creative types (ponces) will have had the displeasure of working in vast, constipated network agencies, on sprawling global accounts managed by inexperienced young women who diet a lot, it's always heartening to see lithe young agencies picking up high profile jobs from lithe young clients. I'm fantasising about that now, in fact. Watching their delicate, young bodies dancing and frotting together in some blissful creative harmony. In a meadow perhaps... With lots of sunshine... And strawberries for eyes...

See, I told you it was a fantasy. Not least because that doesn't ever happen like that. At all. But as a bitter old shit, I like to imagine it does, right. Because it gives me hope that we're not all doomed to be whores and parasites, clinging to the ankles of our flabby clients, like abused orphans. So when I saw The (very, very good) Neighbourhood had picked up the (arguably very, very good) food pornographer Heston Blumenthal as a client, my tiny mind reeled once again with the thought of happy creative people skipping in fields, as naked and free as the day they were born.

And here's the result of their frolics.

Looks beautiful don't it. Fedoras off to everyone involved, I have to say.

But ask yourself this: when half the world is starving, could you skip naked through a (metaphorical) field with a man who makes iced-cream using liquid nitrogen?

Or to put it another way, would you be satisfied servicing the profligate whims of the world's most self-indulgent man?

'Course you could you fat ducks.

Twistlemoe & Brine

Seasonal greetings.

It's been a while hasn't it blah blah blah. How's your mother? We must get together for a drink soon.

Anyway, I've just done this for the lovely people over at Music.

I hope you enjoy it. With a mince pie, or a glass of sherry.

Meantime, may Santa block all your chimneys with joy.

xx

The Future of Advertising

(That bitter enough for you all?)

Direct Marketing for Pheasants

Tapping into new markets is a ball ache for any brand. But with Britain's pheasant population on the increase, more and more businesses are seeing these beautiful, playful wild birds, not only as a target for their rifles, but also for their offline marketing activities.

PHEASANT FACTS:

-Pheasants have 60% more disposable income than grouse, partridge and ducks... put together!

-Pheasants are key influencers in many areas including flapping, fighting and flying into greenhouses

-High response (100% conversion rate on seeds, plums and grit)

-High response to seasonal promotion/activity (e.g driven mad by colours in Spring)

Brands already targeting pheasants include:

Unilever

Pets at Home

Argos

William Hill

Littlewoods

Heineken

Umbro

Once converted pheasants are loyal brand advocates, displaying repeat behaviour until death (usually Autumn). Next, chop 1 onion, 2 cloves of garlic and pre-heat your oven to 180C. Season the bird and place in a large casserole along with the onion, garlic and bouquet garni. Add the juice and zest of an orange, and top up with enough red wine to cover the bird. Finally, cook slowly for 2 and 1/2 hours or until the liquid has reduced by half. Serve warm with roast vegetables and a full-bodied claret.

First Draft Classic Ads No. 1: Yellow Pages

FIRST ATTEMPT

[AN ELDERLY, TWEEDY SORT OF GENTLEMEN ON THE PHONE]

MAN: Hello? Yes, I wondered if you could help me. I’m looking for a book called "Hartley's Illustrated Dictionary of Sexual Perversion"

…

You do! Oh, wonderful. Could you save it for me?


My name? Yes, it’s J.R [COUGHS NAME] .

SECOND ATTEMPT

MAN: Hello? Yes, I wondered if you could help me. I’m looking for a book called “Fist Fucking, by J. R Hartley”

…

You do! Oh, wonderful darling! Could you save it for me?

My name? Why, it’s J.R Hartley of course! [SQUIRMS WITH DELIGHT]

THIRD ATTEMPT

MAN: Hello? Yes, I wondered if you could help me. I’m looking for a book called "Fly Fishing, by J. R Hartley"

…

You do! Oh, wonderful. Could you save it for me?

My name? Yes, it’s J.R Hartley [WINKS AT CAMERA] .

The 10 kinds of owl Rupert Murdoch would be

1. Cunty owl

2. Sneaky owl

3. Mother fucking owl

4. Crimin-owl

5. Definitely not the sort of owl to have round kids or do a Disney film. More like those 3D armoured owls in what was that called again? film you know last year

6. An owl married to a graceful young ostrich from Hong Kong

7. The kind of owl that, I suspect, would get short shrift from Chris Packham and the BBC wildlife crew

8. The kind of owl that makes politicians shit their nests

9. An unwise owl! And whoever heard of one of those, hmm?

10. Wapping great bastard owl

Careful down there boys. You can really smell the brimstone!

BEFORE:

AFTER: