Piece of cake

One of my favourite jokes is: 'How do you get a fat girl into bed? Piece of cake...'.

Cake turned out to be a funny thing once again during our dining escapades in Dubai. We discovered that if you book a table and say that it's somebody's birthday, then you get a free cake for pudding.

I've now celebrated 3 birthdays in just under 2 weeks. I should now be 35 years old. Aside from the embarrassment of having the staff sing to you, it's a very cheap way of getting a dessert.

Gods at odds

Re-reading some of Richard Dawkins' tomes on the subject of the rank outside chance of there being a higher being, and stumbled across a clever little logic rhyme that shows the Big Beardy Man to be rather at odds with himself:

Can omniscient God, who

Knows the future, find

The omnipotence to

Change His future mind?

(Karen Owens)

So if you're big, clever (and beardy) enough to know what's going to happen in the future, that's one thing. But if you're powerful enough to change anything you want, then how about changing the future? But if you're able to change it, can you really claim that you know it as you would know a fixed thing - or is omniscience only about the here and now?

Anyway, possibly a dodgy choice of literature out here, where the phrase 'insha'Allah' (if God wills it) seems a rather too convenient excuse to try and alter your own destiny - or at least a rather too frequently used excuse for the omnipresent traffic problems and one's own associated and projected tardiness to meetings.

And speaking about knowing the future and not being able to affect it, I'm going to try and squeeze in my first ever skiing lesson at the above indoor slope on Thursday. Once I'm in motion, my biggest fear is not being able to stop. So on seeing a tree, a slalom post, or in this case probably a shop selling bling stuff, I'd simply cruise towards an inevitable and painful interface.

A day on the Palm Jumeirah

This is a 30 ft waterslide from the top of a ziggurat, off which I threw myself today following nearly an hour's queuing. 

An hour of nervous anticipation, followed by 2 seconds of weightlessness, 3 seconds of fear that my contact lenses would be washed out, followed by sweet relief  and joining another queue for the 'Shark Attack' flume. 

This second flume takes you through a shark tank and you get to 'swim with the fishes'. Sounds pretty cool ... only problem being that the sharks are tiny, there's loads of reflections, and it doesn't last very long.

Aquaventure, the collective brand name for all these micro-experiences, probably only gets 4/10 in my book - a real shame, as the potential's all there.

Inside Atlantis is a massive fish tank, home to 'Sammy the Whale Shark'. There's a Facebook petition to have him released back into the wild, and you can sympathise with that, but I tell you - this fish tank is quite a spectacle.

And this is the Atlantis hotel itself. Thousands of bedrooms, including two underwater suites.

Wow.

Atlantis is situated at the end of the Palm Jumeirah, the first manmade Palm island in the world - and the first of three in Dubai. This is the little one, and will only be home to around 400,000 people. This is the view towards Atlantis as you drive up the central trunk of the Palm, next to the monorail which is just being finished off. Pretty futuristic stuff...

The Divide

Yesterday - Friday - is the Dubai equivalent of Saturday, and the expat community here has stumbled on the phenomenon of 'brunch' as an afternoon-long activity which involves limitless champagne. We went to Yalumba, which was where the infamous 'Sex on the beach' case kicked off.

I kid you not, for the three or four hours we were there, if our glasses were even down to an inch from the top, an army of Asian waiters would descend on us and top up the Tattinger. 

It's an all-you-can-eat, all-you-can-drink example of gluttony writ large. I lost count of how many glasses of fizz I had, ditto the number of oysters, prawns, lobsters, slices of rare roast beef and sashimi that were presented to me. 

As the above picture shows, the result is not exactly pretty: the room is drunk by about 2pm, and it's at around this point that it struck me that there was a massive divide between the fat affluent expats and the incredibly dutiful - mostly Indian - waiting staff. 

Thankfully I didn't witness any flagrant displays of rudeness directed towards them on this occasion, but they are so good at looking after you that you can see how forms of racism can be almost institutionalised. Just the expectation that someone will pick up your napkin, pour your drink, do this, do that - it's not good. Too many hints of a nascent apartheid.

But it's what Dubai is built on - a massive underclass of underpaid Asian workers who work 24/7  building the hotels for expats to get pissed in. 

It's not something I like about this place.

The things we actually remember

Steven, Nick (pictured left) and I went to a rather swanky steak restaurant last night. A far cry from the green velour banquettes of Aberdeen Angus fame, this place was opulently designed and the steaks themselves were drool-inducing. Even now.

But I'll remember it most for the HUGE PEPPER GRINDERS.

You couldn't nick one of these if you tried. And believe me we came up with some rather unsavoury liberation strategies.

It made me wonder if some marketing genius deliberately came up with the idea that, in a city that's increasingly resplendent with high-end looky-likey restaurants, this one needs an easy way of remembering it.

A single object. A single thought. A single trigger. A 'shall we go to that steak restaurant that has the fucking great pepper grinders again tonight, dear?' type idea.

Or maybe it was just chance. In which case I'm going to nick the thought (in the absence of the grinder itself) and use it as my own.

Bring me something that's not obvious

So I'm out in Dubai on a fact-finding mission. Learning about man-made islands the size of Paris that have been built on the coast of the country in the searing heat. The largest ones ever built. Together they'll practically treble the population of this tiny Gulf Emirate in the next seven years.

Jeeeeeesus. Or, indeed, Allah.

I have to drive past the world's tallest tower to get to my client's offices. 

Then past the world's only 7-star hotel (ok, it's self-awarded).

Then past a socking great indoor ski-slope, boasting some species of dangerous run. Probably also a world first.

But today's most noticeable thing was the crowning glory of the Palm Jebel Ali island: a 'mini' island at the top of it in the shape of a big whale (see above picture). 

It's like something out of Vic and Bob, or the Mighty Boosh. 

An island in the shape of a whale. Yikes.

I'm not sure whether or not this eclipsed a series of mini pontoon islands around the edge of the same Palm island which, when viewed from the cruising height of a Boeing 747, together form stanzas from one of the Sheikh's own poems.

But what I do know is that I'm craving something subtle and worth pointing out. It's all so damn bling and obvious here that there's nothing really worth pointing out.

Out with the old

No picture today, as I need to be a bit circumspect.

This morning I went to meet one of the directors of a well established UK brand. It's been a bastion of the maritime transport industry for centuries, and the oil paintings, which you cannot fail to miss when you emerge from the office lift, scream history and heritage at you.

The reason we met with this gentleman was that his company has been bought by a massive Middle East construction operation, for whom we do a sizeable amount of digital work, and by whom his company and brand is about to be subsumed. 

We're tasked with managing the digital subsumption (is that a word?) project.

There was one very touching moment when I asked, gently, if I'd be right in thinking that his colleagues would be sad at this history being erased from their plot of cyberspace. His expression and the timbre of his voice immediately told me three things:

1. Yes, this was a sore point, and a genuinely emotional moment in their history;

2. We had established a connection - I was no longer solely on the side of the bastard subsumer (again, no idea of this word exists);

3. I knew now exactly how to approach the brief.

By contrast to the perfunctory introductory handshake, I received a warm and heartfelt farewell.

Not worth shouting about?

Eversholt Street NW1, where our agency's based in the old ticket office behind Euston Station, doesn't exude much life. As this photo shows, it's grey, grubby and full of shut-down shops, concrete walls and bits of barbed wire. 

Reminiscent of East Berlin.

As I wandered around today - perhaps for the last time before our agency moves to the glitzy Charlotte Street and as I head off to Dubai for a while - it struck me that while this area looks devoid of life or interest, this isn't really the case. There's plenty going on.

It's just that it's not deemed something to shout about.

At least two brothels, a gender-change clinic, porn shops, betting shops, a strip club, funeral directors ... none of these particularly big on window-dressing, but nonetheless managing to stay afloat while other shops close down and graveyard pubs change hands.

I wonder what the street would look like if it were given the same visual treatment as Charlotte Street.

The importance of your Praise-giver

Yesterday my mother said she enjoyed this blog. It's always heartwarming to receive compliments (there's a fine art to accepting them, although that's another story), especially from someone important in your life.

Talking later with Next Door Kate, she said that she remembers very well the first time her mother said she was proud of her, and how happy it made her feel. It was many years ago, but the sensation remains with her.

My former sailing partner and current mentor, Tony the Italian, noticed the importance of this while he was completing his course in counselling. And now, many of the people who seek his counselling services - he believes - have been denied praise from the most important person in their life. They're in a bit of a mess because this particular parent or hero has failed to acknowledge their achievement - no matter how many other people may give praise.

Tony is using his current degree to explore this hypothesis, and I'm looking forward to hearing his conclusions.

Hardy, on the art of noticing things

When the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay,
And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings,
Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the neighbours say,
'He was a man who used to notice such things'?

- Thomas Hardy

(Thanks Mum).

Making the most of the real world

These are just a few of the cameras that I saw swirling round above Euston station as I went to M&S for a terribly healthy bean-based salad. I watched them, they watched me, and we were for a fleeting few seconds blissfully aware of each other.

I'd never noticed them before. Indeed, since succumbing to the blogging bug I've noticed a lot more things. I feel far more aware - partly, no doubt, because I've made a little pact with myself that I'm going to create and broadcast something on a regular basis. I now make time to 'look around me' and capture moments.

So a relationship I ostensibly have with my screen and keyboard has made me appreciate real-life stuff more acutely.

My most splendid friend Silvia, a writer and observer of some considerable merit, told me of a similar experience when she kept a journal. She awoke one morning to hear a cracking sound and, after a while trying to fathom what it was, discovered it was the daffodil on her windowsill casting aside its papery husk to reveal a new yellow flower.

Whimsical, but kinda beautiful. And amazing what you notice when you're on sensory alert.

The view from another infrastructure

I usually drive to work and am used to seeing London from the road. I look through my windscreen at the roofs of London from the elevated Westway, the ground floor exterior of roadside buildings through my passenger window, and* scores of kamikaze motorcyclists in my rear view mirror.

Pretty much the same view, everyday.

But yesterday, Next Door Kate and I cycled a mammoth 50km (sounds better than 31 miles) around the canal network of West London. 

And we saw London from a totally different perspective. 

We witnessed dozens of Eastern European workers relaxing with their friends and their fishing rods; we saw people living an almost bucolic existence next to water in the middle of the city;  we admired Goldfinger's Trellick Tower from beneath it (as opposed to in the distance from the aforementioned elevated section of the Westway), we smelt the food aromas from Hoo Hing Chinese wholesaler from an aquaduct over the North Circular, and we even chanced upon a girl sitting doing her knitting between a gigantic gas storage structure and a quaint looking canal boat.

We saw stuff from the perspective of a totally different transport infrastructure, and it's very different from roadside existence.

(* Please note the usage of the Oxford Comma.)

Waxing lyrical

Last night played host to a DraftFCB reunion at the Lamb and Flag in Covent Garden (beautiful olde worlde pub, although the Harvey's Best was off and the Adnams ... er ... questionable).

Spoke with Dom, copywriter and now doyen of the car waxing industry, having discovered the balls to set up 'Dodo Juice' - a funky independent enthusiasts' car care brand.

In his role as CEO, MD, FD, bottle-washer and chief marketer, he has to answer to no-one but his staff, and so pushing through marketing decisions is - by contrast to the job of most agencies - a piece of proverbial piss.

So it was with great ease that he called one of his new buffing mitts 'Mint Merkin'. No research needed because he's so familiar with his Max Power loving audiences that his work is also his hobby. Result? The name is an instant hit: well differentiated, buckets of attitude, and has garnered the eagle-eye interest of some larger, more established brands in the hot-rod polishing market.

Research is so often a waste of time. If it feels right, we should have the balls to JFDI more often. I've been in enough focus groups where my role demanded nothing more than the 'moderating of consensus'*. 

Which is utterly bloody pointless.

* OK Dargan, I'll credit you with that one...

The Tramp Ladder

I'm afraid I didn't capture the moment photographically in this case, but yesterday lunchtime I saw an exemplary instance of street-dweller fraternity: taking a well-earned few moments out from shouting at shadows and swigging Buckfast, one half of a trampish pair reached over to the other and blew his nose for him.

I've never done this for anyone. 

Dargan's Tramp Displacement  Theorem has for some time held as its postulate, in a Pythonesque way, that a hobo from Plaistow would be looked down upon by a Highgate vagrant. Each has his distinct manor, and each knows his place.

One may, therefore,  only indulge in an upwardly social scramble when a can of Tennants bearing an RIP sign is in evidence.

I am led to assume that this extraordinary act of nasal-seepage removal is actually the indication of a passing tramp king.

Restricted Joy

I discussed with my mother last weekend the topic of licensed opening hours. She opined that it was madness for drink to be available on trains first thing in the morning. I opined that if people wished to drink at that time then it was their choice, and why should anyone restrict them? 

Drink-fuelled train-rage continues, after all, to be rare.

But this website - Hotel626 - reminded me of the joy of being told: 'no, you can't have what you want right now. You'll have to wait'.

I still don't really know what's on the inside of this site, as Gabby-From-Creative only told me about it this morning, but I enjoyed what is probably an advertiser telling me that I can't do something.

I therefore wanted to do it. 

A refreshing change from the irksome 'why not do X Y or Z?' approach to marketing. 

I've got a thousand reasons why not, that's why.

So maybe mother does know best: restriction can be good for us.

Mail goggles!

At last! A service for inappropriate drunken messages. Gmail users can opt to take a simple maths test before sending a late night email to their boss / lover / ex-lover / etc.

Expect to see this sent to an inbox near you soon. Probably many times.

The Power of Relevance

I have no idea who Dagens Industri are, and I don't speak whichever weird-assed language this is, but I love the timeliness of this ad.

Sadly, according to one of today's BBC postings, many 'fat cat' bankers may well keep their jobs, undeservedly, as the government moves to stop the financial infrastructure on which we all depend from going under.

The gin meme

This poster is doing the rounds at the agency at the moment. In both physical, tangible form as well as on the web. One of our designers made it. The mere mention of the juniper spirit and the notion of 'gin eye' (i.e. looking splendidly, paralytically bog-eyed) are enough to have a good half-dozen people collapse in laughter in the room next to mine. 

It's a constant topic of conversation. Bottles adorn the creative department. 

It makes me laugh as well.

It's one of those things (what is it: a catchphrase? a state? a 'meme'?) that captures the imagination, is rooted in good observation, sparks hilarity and is probably what social commentators would call 'social currency'. 

More please.

The 'Law of Thirds'

I uploaded my Morocco holiday photos to Facebook last night, and my neighbour Kate reckoned this was the best of the bunch. 

As a creative-type, she regularly admonishes me for too many snaps that put things in the centre and instead taught me the law 'doing things in thirds' in photos.

All part of my training in become more visual and less word-based - which I reckon is increasingly important for planners in the digital marketing industry.

Kick off

I've finally succumbed to the temptations of blogdom. After months of working out what would ever motivate me to keep it up - and why anyone would bother reading it - I reached an epiphany. 

Possibly too grand a word to use in this case, but it arose from a question I asked myself in preparation for a meeting later today: what have I noticed today that's remained with me for a while - and for whatever reason?

So 'I noticed this' is born. 

It'd be rewarding to think that something grabs me occasionally - and if it grabs me then maybe it'll grab you. Doesn't matter why, and I'm not (always) going to pontificate on how.

But I need some rules. Keep it minimal. Keep it visual. Don't be a slave to it every day, but twice a day is also ok. Only post stuff that genuinely grabs my attention. Don't be another 'me too' commentator on advertising wank. Don't nick other ideas just to look cool.

So I'm just going to post stuff that I notice. 

Hope you like.