#thankfulthursday

I was wondering the other morning whatever happened to #followfriday. Turns out it just became a bit old hat and quietly petered out. Then Vaughn suggested, half-joking, that it had been replaced by #hatefultuesday. Twitter being what it is (or at least occasionally becomes), it seemed pretty plausible that something generous and positive might be replaced by something bitter and angry.

So, while accepting the risk that I will come across as throat-punchingly new-age, I think we should try for a new hashtag.

Let’s introduce #thankfulthursday.

The clue’s in the hashtag. Please either share something that you’re thankful for or recommend people you have reason to thank. Thank a a mechanic who stayed late, a bartender who double-poured or a brother who didn’t tell Dad. Thank a teacher who listened, a bus driver who waited or a colleague who let you have the last biscuit on the plate. Thank Sam for hippos, Matt for consistently unexpected (and brilliant) links and Angela for a great blog.

It’s Thursday. Thank away.

[Updated] So, proving once and for all that you should always check at least three times before suggesting anything, it turns out #thankfulthursday is already a thing. A very good thing. And whoever started it, I thank you.

Some things simply must be blogged

Some days the universe gives generously. After an extended period of non-blogging, today I have been hit by a torrent of things that simply must be blogged.

First up we have an unfortunate piece of art direction. Or a brilliantly subversive piece of advertising sabotage by an ideologically-opposed designer. (via Copyranter)


Then we have Hipster Hitler. I hate the phrase ‘wrong on so many levels’. I hate it almost as much as I hate the word ’special‘. But it does seem apt when describing a comic strip that re-imagines Hitler as a slightly wet Hipster. (via StopPress)

Lastly, we have what I believe I may state without fear of contradiction is the greatest achievement in the history of the internet. I give you, Otters who look like Benedict Cumberbatch. (via Sell, Sell, Sell)

I’ve always loved pool tables

When I was growing up a couple of the really cool kids at school had pool tables.  One properly cool kid, Alistair, had a pool table…in his games room!

When you’re 13 years old a games room is the most magical place in the world. Monday was the best day to go there because if there’d been rugby or cricket on TV on Sunday then there would still be cigarettes in the ashtrays and a decent whiff of beer about the place. We would then lounge around practicing our swearing.

There was one Monday when we found a can of beer lodged in one of the pockets of the pool table. Four boys stood and stared at that can for about 15 minutes. To everyone’s relief Mark pointed out that we couldn’t open it because it wasn’t cold and that you could only drink cold beer because drinking warm beer would be a bit poofy.

That was almost as good as the time we found some ‘dad literature’ under the couch in the games room. Four boys stood and stared at that for quite a bit longer than fifteen minutes.

Anyway, I swore that when I was grown up and had some money and could spend it on anything I wanted I would have a pool table.

Then when I got my first job, at Ogilvy & Mather Wellington, there was a pool table in the middle of the office…..that you could play whenever you wanted! That was the most advertising thing I’d ever seen. It was the perfect Friday night prop.  Clients loved it and would ask for meetings to be at our office so that they could stay on for a few frames.  (Obviously they just referred to it as a ‘game’. I called it ‘a few frames’ because I was a dick.)

I spent a lot of time at that table. To no one’s surprise I had my own pool cue and committed a solid two months to learning how to play a Masse shot (because I was a dick).

Again I swore that if I ever had my own agency, or could make decisions about spending other people’s money on stuff to put in an agency, I would have a pool table.

Which gives me the sense that my entire life has just been building to this point. This is a pool table designed by James Perse.   It’s magnificent.  It’s exactly what my 13 year-old self would buy and what every self-respecting agency needs.

Doing what you’re good at

I’ve resigned from my job. This is an act that can best be described as reckless. The simple explanation is that enjoyment comes from doing something that you’re good at, and while the job I was doing was perfectly pleasant in many ways, I spent very little time doing the things I’m good at. Which meant I didn’t enjoy it very much.

Now you may be able to help.  Because apparently the key when you’re looking for a change is to spend as much time as possible doing the things you’re good at. There’s some theory of inter-connectedness that has it that by focussing on doing specific things you create the opportunity to do more of those things (which I know sounds uncomfortably like a theory Deepak Chopra might espouse, but then someone I follow did retweet something of his the other day and that new-age stuff is virulent).

I find this all rather difficult, because to do lots of what you’re good at, you have to be comfortable claiming to be good at something. And I’m very uncomfortable claiming to be good at anything. Not just mildly uncomfortable, either. I find it properly, kidney-punchingly, uncomfortable, like the time I bumped into my client as he exited the ‘adult’ section of the video store. (True story. Hi, Hugh.)

So with a deep breath and an apology for being so hideously conceited, I am good at a couple of things and I’m hoping you might be able to help me do more of them.

I’m good at public speaking.  Apparently being called on to speak in public is most people’s greatest fear.  They fear it more than spiders, more than flying, more than heights. More than dying, even. But not me. I love public speaking. In fact I’m never happier than when speaking to a group of people, ideally in a very high place on the subject of spiders. Because I know no fear.

(That’s not true. I fear the Lace Monitor lizard, pictured below.  I once encountered one when running in Noosa National Park. I rounded a corner and it was standing in the middle of the track, languidly masticating.  Locals tried to tell me that Monitor Lizards are vegetarian.  Bollocks they are. They look vegetarian like Demi Moore looks 48.)

So, if you find yourself in need of someone to speak publicly, I’m your guy. I can talk about pretty much anything.  Marketing and advertising stuff, obviously, and spiders. But I’ll give any subject a go. (As evidence, I once gave a speech on what Carlos Spencer can teach us about effective corporate culture.)

I’m also good at writing. That said, I only have one way of writing. I always sound like me – a middle-class, slightly-pretentious, faux-intellectual, anglophile with a fondness for parentheses. That generally doesn’t work too badly for advertising and marketing stuff because, let’s be honest, a decent chunk of that audience is middle-class, slightly-pretentious, faux-intellectual anglophiles. So if you want something written in that voice, I’m your man.

On that subject, I have massive admiration for people who can write in different voices. I have a friend who used to write the letters that American Express sent to its high value customers as well as the replies to the little girls who wrote to tell Barbie that they hated their brothers and wanted to swap them for puppies. (True story. Hi, Andy.)

So there you have it. If you need something written, or you need something spoken, I’m your guy.  Just let me know.

Topical Press done right, I believe

I loved this. Opened the paper on Saturday morning.  Saw this, smiled, and believed a little bit more.  Top notch.

The IRB does care about the rules. But which rules exactly?

I read Wynne Gray’s column in the Herald yesterday and agreed with most of what he said.  His column supported a lot of coverage over the last week suggesting that in this Rugby World Cup the IRB has demonstrated a clear bias against the smaller unions, most obviously via the scheduling arrangements and the $10,000 fine handed down to Samoan wing Alesana Tuilagi for wearing a non-approved mouthguard.

The prevailing view is that the IRB favours the larger unions that deliver the revenue, while undermining the smaller unions that require the investment.

I’m not sure I agree that this is true, and I also think there’s a more alarming conclusion that can be drawn. Perhaps the real issue is that the IRB has more concern for the rules of the event than it does for the rules of the game.

Think about it.  Two of the IRB’s biggest calls in relation to this event have been to fine a player for wearing an incorrect mouthguard and to insist that a group of commentators be referred to by their first names, not by their nicknames. Remember that?  That was when the IRB insisted that TJ, Nisbo, Kamo and Coops must only be referred to as Tony, Grant, Ian and Matthew while commentating during the Rugby World Cup.

This is simply the IRB playing to its strengths.  Because it certainly appears from the outside that the key strength of the IRB is officious administration.

I imagine the IRB has a very large (and very happy) team of people responsible for developing and communicating guidelines to which all participating RWC teams must adhere.  (For the 2003 event this document ran to 199 pages, and it’s difficult to imagine it’s had much of an edit.)

You can bet that the detailed rules governing approved mouthguards were covered in these guidelines and that Samoa received them.  So from the IRB’s perspective the rules of the event were communicated and it’s clear a player broke them. So that’ll be $10,000.

But contrast that with the two England coaching staff who were caught illegally changing the ball prior to conversion attempts in the game against Romania.  There’s equally no question that rules were broken.  The RFU admitted this as part of their investigation of the incident that it shared with the IRB.  But England’s punishment for breaking the rules?  The two coaches were banned from the touchline for their pool match against Scotland. No fine. No points docked. No meaningful censure at all.

So the simple conclusion is that the IRB has one rule for rich, potential tournament winner England and another for struggling, probable early loser Samoa.

But I think that’s the wrong comparison. This isn’t about rich vs poor, Six Nations vs Pacific Nations, potential winner vs honest trier. All it shows is that the IRB is more concerned with the rules of its event than it is with the rules of the game.

England wasn’t fined because it didn’t break the IRB’s rules. Samoa was fined because it did. And unfortunately in the eyes of the IRB, that’s a far greater infraction.

The pin-striped screen of death

My computer has died. But not in any conventional way.

The blue-screen of death is perhaps the most popular form of computer death. The red screen of death will be familiar to those with gaming devices. The black screen of death never goes out of fashion. And the purple screen of death sounds like more fun than I imagine it actually is.

But my MacBook Pro has died and presented me with this – the pin-striped screen of death.



My theory is that this is simply Apple’s famed ‘intuitive design’ taken to its natural conclusion. I want to believe that while you traverse the web, your MacBook is taking note, quietly building a visual abstract of your online life. And that when the time comes for it to log off for the last time, you will be presented with an entirely non-judgemental summation of your browsing life.

Hence, having spent far too much time in the company of Most ExerentCrane Brothers and Patrick Johnson, I’m captured in the image of a 12 oz, pearl pin-striped flannel. How do you think you might be remembered?

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