If This Is A Blog Then What's Christmas?

So here we are (or aren’t, depending on furloughs and redundancies): advertising has, along with so many other industries, hit the skids.

How long will the recovery take? What will it look like? How many chairs will be left to sit on when the music stops?

And let’s face it: will there even be a ‘recovery’, as in a return to something we might consider to be ‘normal’?

I apologise for starting this off in a sombre tone, but we’re going to have to get used to the fact that there’s still a long way left to fall. People (including us), whether employed or otherwise, are unlikely to blow a week’s wages on a dress, or take on the payment terms of a new Audi anytime soon. And if there’s less spending, there’s less reason and money to advertise.

Let me give you an insight into my own circumstances: I’ve been freelancing almost constantly for the last couple of years. There’s been the odd quiet week or a few, but I’ll be good until at least 2021.

But what lies beyond that? Will the tightening belt eventually squeeze me out of my home? I’m optimistic enough to think I’ll be OK, but I have no idea what society will look like over the next year or two, so my ad industry crystal ball is equally foggy.

If you’ve got it harder than I do, I have a lot of sympathy and a fair amount of empathy. I’ve been there relatively recently, trying to build up a freelance network and an ethical ad agency in a non-advertising city, where I’d only ever worked at a single, highly secretive company. Thinking back to the second half of 2017 gives me the shudders. If you’re in that kind of place right now, I’d love to give you the kind of hug that’s pretty much illegal right now.

I won’t be so trite as to say it’ll all work out, or suggest you learn coding or ballroom dancing as you wait for the other thousand shoes to drop. But I do have a plan to improve an industry that’s spent the last ten years getting worse (hey, maybe you’re even a bit relieved to take a break from it!).

Back in the fifties, when Bill Bernbach was fomenting his Creative Revolution, things were also shit. There was a post-war austerity (including rationing for jam, sugar and coffee, all the way up to 1959 in the UK), and a grimly traditional, patronising and dull advertising industry to cut through.

But that revolution managed to make things cool, fun, attractive and intelligent. It refused to take crap for an answer and instead ushered in decades of better work that added to people’s daily enjoyment.

Yes, there was still plenty of dross, but at least there was a beacon of hope; a flag to line up behind; a new way that turned an entire industry upside-down.

Now, with the industry routinely cranking out millions of turds a day, but with an inevitable and fundamental change in process driven by a virus, it must be the the perfect time for a second Creative Revolution.

And the great thing is, we have giants’ shoulders on which to stand. If Bill and Helmut and Bob and the other Bob and Julian managed to do it when there was neither the blueprint nor the will, we have no excuse.

Someone much cleverer than me once pointed out that he or she who shapes the future gets to predict it. That means you. Yes, you. You. Not someone else. You. You. You. Fucking you. YOU!

But I get it: you might be thinking: “Jesus Christ. I’ve just been furloughed from Agency X, a place I fucking hated, and now this douchebag wants me to embark on a slog of indeterminate length to see if I can save an industry I don’t even like. Fuck that noise.”

Or you might be thinking: “I’m bricking it right now. I still have a job at Agency Z, but that could end at any moment. The idea that I’m going to follow the suggestions of this twatpiece to stick my neck out when I’m lucky to still be able to buy nappies for little Maisie is laughable, and not in a good way.”

Sure, sure, sure. I think those things myself, even though I don’t know anyone called Maisie. But then I also think other things. Things like: “I hope I don’t limp to the end of my working life spending ten hours a day making shitty fucking decks for the dubious purpose of spinning the wheels of capitalism a little faster.” And: “Advertising is fucking awful. Part of that situation is down to me.”

I’d like to get to the finish line and look back at the trail I blazed; at the people whose days improved because they saw the funny, witty, surprising shit I inspired and/or made; at the copywriters and art directors who became oddly proud of their industry and output, all because of me.

Is it an ego-trip? Partly, but isn’t everything, deep down? Isn’t there a better way to spend your time? Maybe, but if you solve this one, the extra happiness, satisfaction, enjoyment and respect, reaching far and wide, will be worth it.

Isn’t it going to be so difficult, it’s basically pointless? As a general rule, doing big, significant, world-altering things is harder than, say, flicking through Instagram, but Bernbach created DDB ad by ad. This isn’t one giant mountain that must be formed in a week; it’s going to be a winding road of steps both forwards and backwards.

So where do you start? Call up your most talented friends right now and tell them you’re all going to build the best fucking agency anyone’s ever seen.

But if you’re not quite ready for that, just read the second part of this post tomorrow.

Sometimes I feel like advertising resembles nothing so much as a gaslit spouse.

Clients were always a bit like the staid, repressed man who had, in advertising, found a flighty, fun girlfriend (swap the genders if you like. I’m going to go through a little metaphorical non-cis trans exploration. Feel free to join me).

Initially Mr. Client was quite taken with Ms. Advertising. Deep down he was a little uncomfortable with her spirited ways, but he also felt that he should try to loosen up a little, and be more receptive to fresh perspectives, occasional irresponsibility, and maybe a little risk. After all, lots of Mr. Client’s friends seemed to think Ms. Advertising was fun, and her sassy ways managed to draw other people to Mr. Client.

So they got married. But Mr. Client was always a bit suspicious of his new wife. Why was she spending all that money? Did she really need to go abroad on business? And why was she having so much fun without him?

Initially Mr. Client just accepted that this was the way she was, and if he wanted to be married to such a footloose and fancy-free lady, he’d have to take the little bits of insecurity that came with it.

But then those little bits of insecurity started to get under his skin. Mrs. Advertising wasn’t always great fun. She could sometimes be little boring, leaving Mr. Client wondering if those feelings of unease were really worth it.

And then there was the money. Surely Mrs. Advertising could get by without dropping so much cash all over the place. It was time to rein that shit in.

So Mr. Client started checking his wife’s messages, going through the bank statements with a magnifying glass, and questioning every little trip, drink and taxi ride.

And in response Mrs. Advertising started to worry. Was Mr. Client about to leave her? Like any gaslit spouse, she started to change her behaviour. Instead of free-spirited nonchalance, she started to slip into insecure self-questioning. Was she really doing everything possible to please her man? Maybe she was spending too much, taking her husband for granted and having too much fun. He was paying all the bills and putting bread on the table. Was she doing enough in return?

So she started dressing more demurely, seeing less of her friends, and tightening the purse strings. She could be a good little girl, then Mr. Client would stop questioning her and everything at home would be happier.

But as we all know, gaslighting is a slippery slope. Mr. Client started using data to really check up on his spouse. When was she coming home? Was it later than last week? Why? What was she up to? He would confront her with reams of information, tracking her every move, questioning every penny.

A few years of that and Mrs. Advertising was under the thumb: spied on and broken, not making a single move without asking for permission at least twice.

So Mr. Client finally got what he wanted: a supplicant, submissive and obedient other half, who was 100% accountable, 99.9% dull and really fucking miserable..

“He treats me so well. He takes care of me. Sometimes I let my hair down a little, but then he brings me right back down to Earth, and makes sure I behave properly next time. I’m so lucky to have him.’

If you’ve been gaslit by your spouse just call 0800-FUCK-THIS-SHIT, tell him you won’t take this crap anymore, and for the sake of both of you, speak up, ask questions and wear your favourite goddamn heels whenever the fuck you feel like it.

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I’ve been chucking out a few 1990s gems on LinkedIn recently.

People seem to like them, but it got me thinking: Parklife is from 1997, which for the non-mathletes among you is 23 years ago.

In my advertising youth, no one was watching or applauding the ads from 23 years earlier (1973). To be honest, fifteen years earlier (1981) would have been a bit of a stretch.

Sure, we could just about recall the Pencil-winning Smash Martians, Honey Monster and Kia Ora (thanks, Mr. Webster), but no one seemed particularly interested in watching them again. And I can’t recall many discussions of Fiat Handbuilt by Robots, Lego Kipper or Benson and Hedges Iguana.

Maybe it was because they were hard to track down and inconvenient to watch, but even when they could be found more easily and viewed at the click of a mouse, they hadn’t remained a big a deal to most people in the industry.

But these are the industry equivalents of The Godfather, Barry Lyndon and The Apartment. Have they really been consigned to the mists of time?

Do people not know about them, or are they just too dated to appreciate? Do we need the context of the era and the surrounding dross to fully understand how great they were?

My take on it is that they are like 2001 or Lawrence of Arabia and Annie Hall: sought out and appreciated more by the real aficionados who appreciate the momentous steps forward that the great works gave us, but not exactly wowing the mainstream. Sure, people still seek out those movies, but 2001 can’t be as mindblowing as it was in 1968, Lawrence of Arabia existed in a time of epics where people were much more inclined to sacrifice four hours to watch a movie, and I loved Annie Hall when I first saw it, but last month I switched it off after half an hour because it seemed woefully unfunny.

I suppose it’s just a cultural case of survival of the fittest. If no one wants to seek out the D&AD winners of 1977, that’s their fault. People still want to look at a Matisse or listen to Mozart.

I’ll do what I can to keep the 1990s fire burning, but I accept that there’ll come a time when Levi’s Drugstore, Guinness Swimblack and BBC Perfect Day will be as obscure as Ali: Fear Eats The Soul (and there’s no shame in that).

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Millions of cool free things to download if you’re bored.