To Green Park to see the guns

A week ago. Saturday morning I went into the office. I did this mainly to show “commitment” as I didn’t really have any urgent work to do, and since the BQW move to Watford none of my clients work on Saturdays.

The main advantage of going in at the weekend is that Terry, our MD, is always in the office on Saturday mornings, and it’s a good chance to get to talk to him informally without any of the other directors being around. As my own division of the agency (run by Ian) is on increasingly shaky grounds I have decided to work most Saturday mornings. That way if the axe ever falls Terry will at least know who I am, and might find me a job upstairs.

About six people were in the office, including Douglas (Account Executive on Rachel’s team, both of them under the ultimate control of Val). Douglas is mixed-race English-Chinese, slightly less than average height, athletic build (used to be a student player for London Scottish rugby club - this was some years ago although he talks as if it were recent). He always wears a formal suit, even on dress-down Fridays.

Most of the morning I spent upstairs, talking to Douglas (neither of us had much work to do apart from planning a new business campaign for Rachel). Douglas plays rugby union in the winter and watches rugby league in the summer. He was going to a rugby league match that evening and urged me to go along.

I couldn’t go to a rugby match in a suit (I suppose I could, but it would look conspicuous), so we went out mid-morning to buy some new clothes (buying new clothes is one of Douglas’s chief recreations). We went to Gianni Ricci, which is not really my sort of place. I broke my resolution not to wear jeans after the age of thirty.

Walking along Piccadilly, we could hear music from Trooping the Colour on Horse Guards Parade. Douglas had never seen this, so I suggested going down to Green Park to see the guns. The time was about 11.30, so there was no hurry to get back to the office (Terry would already have left for his usual long drawn-out Saturday lunch with his cronies).



Above: we walked down as far as Buckingham Palace, stopping short of the big crowds forming in front of the building. Through some side railings we could see the Irish Guards (on the left, with blue hackles) and the Coldstream Guards (on the right, with red hackles). More and more people were arriving so we moved away before the crush began.



Above: we walked into Green Park where we stopped to look at these smart-looking horses - even under the trees the heat of the day was intense, which made me wonder how the horses were coping.



Above: soldiers from the Royal Horse Artillery were waiting on the edge of the park, as the crowd noise from the Mall grew louder and a mood of expectation slowly increased.



Above: a military band was playing Elgar marches in the dappled sunlight under the trees (the dappled sunlight hasn’t come out in this photograph, which demonstrates what a rotten photographer I am, or alternatively what a rotten camera I have, or alternatively again how incompetent I am at using what is supposed to be a fairly good camera).



Above: the guard stood to attention as in the road to our left the guns were drawn up - loud cacophony of jangling harnesses, bugle sounds, clattering hooves.



Above: we went to stand at the edge of the cordoned-off area, where we had a perfect view into the park. We were among the first to take our places, next to an antipodean photographer with a hi-tech camera that looked like some kind of weapon (it was inspected by a burly policewoman who wanted to make sure it was just a camera). Then the guns were brought round into the park, looking exactly like the illustration Bringing Up The Guns in a pictorial book I have about the Boer War.



Above: within minutes of the guns arriving a large crowd formed all along the edge of the park. We had a perfect view along the line of guns, but just at the last minute a camera crew came and stood in front of us. “Trust the bloody BBC” said the antipodean photographer in tones of considerable disgust, not bothering whether the BBC could hear him or not (I suppose he was entitled to be miffed, having come from the other side of the world to take his photographs).



Above: possibly the BBC did hear him, as they moved to one side. We saw the guns go off with loud “bang” noises (there’s no other way I can describe the sound), the gun-smoke overpowering the fresh summer smell of the park. “They aim at the Iranian embassy” someone in the row behind us said.



Above: after the forty-one gun salute we walked back down to Buckingham Palace, standing right at the edge of the crowds (I know from experience that once you get caught in a crowd you can get stuck for ages). The Royal Family came out onto the palace balcony - I have magnified this photograph several times, so apologies for the blurred image. You can see the Queen in turquoise, with the Duke of Edinburgh next to her in a red uniform, plus the Duchess of Cornwall and various others.

We seemed to have got into a group of Australians, all of whom were cheering and shouting out things (which the Queen cannot have heard). Even Douglas cheered and waved (I hadn’t known he was a royalist). We kept having to walk backwards to get out of the crowd as more and more people arrived.

From an anthropological point of view the sight was extremely interesting. On that balcony we were looking at the most ancient and basic form of human organisation, preserved intact in the British Isles for at least one and a half thousand years. The Queen, being a direct lineal descendant of Ecgbert first king of the English, still holds the titles and powers of the prehistoric Bretwaldas (combining the three elements of Saxon kingship - supreme law-maker, supreme warlord, supreme priest).

No doubt UNESCO will eventually declare the British monarchy part of its World Heritage cultural programme.



Above: everyone looked up for the RAF flypast. Several waves of symmetrically-arranged aircraft flew along the Mall and over our heads. A woman nearby began bellowing “That’s my son, that’s my son…” and waved frantically at the planes (already heading out towards Surrey).

More on the Bretwaldas (but the author seems to be a bit tendentious so treat this with caution): http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bretwalda

Germany vs. Portugal

Thursday, seven o’clock in the evening. I am at home, having left work early (with permission) to watch Germany vs. Portugal. The game starts at 7.45.



Above: in contrast to previous tournaments, there is little enthusiasm for Euro 2008. Few cars display national flags (an exception being this badly-parked Volkswagen Polo with two Portugese flags and a sticker on the back boasting about the sexual prowess of the driver, who was slumped in the driver’s seat sleeping). Some pubs make an attempt to screen the matches live, but if you look in as you walk past you can see the bars are almost always empty.



Above: I have been following Henry Winter’s reports on Euro 2008 in the Daily Telegraph. The quality of his writing is very high. He also places matches into a context, which I find interesting (it makes you look for the next instalment).



Above: I have also been reading this “biography” of Christiano Ronaldo. It was in a pile of books left at Reception on a sort of sale or return basis. Having read the book I suppose I am under an obligation to buy it.

It appears to be an English edition of a Portugese book published last year. Ghost written, then translated into English, then “edited” - so that the original Ronaldo personality has been highly refined and distilled. 176 pages, half of them comprising images of Christiano Ronaldo (including some very doubtful ones advertising Pepe jeans).

Although the production values of the book are high (crisp images, well-bound, nice feel to the paper) the designers have been allowed to get out of control, and the point size of the text is tiny, often reversed out of colour backgrounds (including black type on red pages) with intro paras composed of block caps.

There is hardly anything about football in the book (which is a change from dreary Hunter Davis books where he describes in excruciating detail obscure matches from the 1970s). Christiano Ronaldo wears his heart on his sleeve and tells you all about his emotions (tears, empathy, love for his family). Combined with the Pierre-Et-Gilles-style images the result is highly original and way above the requirements of its potential audience - as if Brian Sewell had written and produced a biography of Tony Adams.

More on Henry Winter: http://www.ukjournalism.co.uk/news/story/153.htm

Prime Minister's Questions 18th June 2008

Above: I am working my way through the Pret a Manger Summer Menu, trying something different each visit (as I only go there once or twice a week, this will take me about twelve weeks - less if I leave out the chicken items as I have doubts about where their chicken is sourced from, even though they seem to be making an effort see: http://www.pret.com/sustainability/chickens/).

Wednesday, late morning. Advertising executive Torrie (“It’s short for Victoria”) came in to renew the schedule for one of my clients. Torrie is aged about thirty, shapely full figure, long “dirty blonde” (ie real blonde and unbleached) hair, oval face too flat and too wide to be classically beautiful, blue eyes, dimpled chin, wide smile (and always closes her eyes when she smiles).

Renewing the advertising schedule has taken on a ritualistic format. Torrie will say she is under pressure from the magazine to put the rates up, but is holding them especially for my client as they really like the creative nature of the advertising. I then say that I am under pressure to put rival magazines onto the schedule as they are cheaper, but I am keeping things as they are as you don’t change a winning formula (I might refer to some TGI research, and talk about trying a page in the Radio Times).

At the end of the meeting she suggested getting some lunch. I said I always watched Prime Minister’s Questions on Wednesday. She suggested getting the sandwiches and she would join me in the Board Room.

Pret-a-Manger wheat-free humous and roasted tomato sandwich, summer cherries, mandarin and lychee juice to drink. Torrie paid the bill (or rather, her magazine did). Going back, we were the only ones in the Board Room apart from Alan who came in at ten past (perhaps everyone else saw Torrie through the glass and assumed we were having a meeting).

“What is humous made from?” I asked.

“Tahini paste” said Torrie (drawn-out emphasis on the word tahini, pronouncing the ingredient “ta-heeeeney paste”, at the same time smiling and closing her eyes).

On the screen British involvement in Afghanistan was discussed but no-one asked the question I would like an answer to (how was it possible for the then Defence Secretary John Reid to commit us to a war by saying troops would be involved for only a short time and might not even fire one shot and yet two years later there have been a hundred fatal casualties - I accept the war might possibly be necessary and it might possibly be difficult to get out of the situation now, but I want to know how a senior minister was able to involve this country in a war by a seemingly casual decision on the basis of such flawed information, and why there has not been an apology for getting this decision so spectacularly wrong).

David Cameron turned to the issue of the Lisbon Treaty, due to be ratified today despite popular disquiet in the United Kingdom and outright rejection elsewhere in the EU. At first Gordon Brown was effective in his rebuffs to David Cameron, the camera showing close-ups of David Miliband (Foreign Secretary) screwing up his face in disbelief at David Cameron’s effrontery. At Gordon Brown’s side we could see the kohl-eyed minister Ed Miliband, hands clasped oddly over a thick green book on his knees, nodding his head in agreement like the Churchill insurance dog.

“The Milibands are not very nice to their civil servants” said Torrie mysteriously.

The questioning on the Lisbon Treaty continued and Gordon Brown seemed to become rattled. As the chamber started to become raucous the Speaker intervened to smack down an off-camera Mr Norris (perhaps the BBC should have a roving camera to capture, in the style of Leni Riefenstahl, the contorted expressions of the agonised baying backbenchers). The exchange ended with Gordon Brown indulging in a fusillade of angry pointing which was a disaster from a body-language point of view (although the pointing was aimed at David Cameron, the camera picked it up centrally so that it looked as if the Prime Minister was pointing aggressively at the viewers, which on a subliminal level made one feel uncomfortable).

Other MPs began to ask questions including one about the duel role of Des Brown the Defence / Scottish Secretary - Prime Minister said the Defence Minister worked “night and day” at his job (an obvious untruth as I have tried working night and day and it can’t be done).

An MP intriguingly captioned from the “Co-Op” (did you know the Co-Op had MPs in parliament?) asked about a conspiracy theory involving the merger of the Royal Navy and the French navy.

Right at the end one of the Tories asked a devastating question about why there were so many strikes at the end of a Labour government (Gordon Brown rather floundered in reply).

PMQs came to an end and the camera went back to the studio. Andrew Neil (presenter) led a sort of debriefing session. Government Minister Caroline Flint (black hair a bit unkempt, which reinforced her Cruella de Ville persona) defended Gordon Brown. I didn’t like the look of shadow minister Ed Vaizey who came across as a chuckling buffoon.

Andrew Neil said the war in Afghanistan was the United Kingdom’s biggest foreign policy issue, but no-one wanted to argue this point seriously (as the British involvement in Afghanistan might last thirty years, and as the casualty rate is running at fifty per year, are we to expect a total of 1,500 fatalities among British armed forces?).



Looking at the wider political situation, it would seem we are in the dog days of the Labour government (using the expression dog days to mean “an evil time when the seas boiled, wine turned sour, and dogs grew mad”). Writing in the Guardian Polly Toynbee has said several times that the government should use what little time it has left to push through major socialist projects since there is no longer any need to fear public opinion. The government would be unwise to do this, as the Conservatives tried this strategy in their own last dog days and have been punished with a minimum three terms in opposition (in his last years Major privatised the railways against public opinion, rushed through a commission for a new Royal Yacht the order for which was immediately cancelled by Tony Blair, and initiated the building of the grossly extravagant Millennium Dome - adopted with enthusiasm by New Labour as their cultural “manifesto” with some ironic justification as the project turned out to be intellectually facile, financially near-bankrupt and intolerably hubristic).

On the other hand, Andy Burnham (minister for Culture Media and Sport) appeared on the Politics Show on Sunday and managed to make the government’s record seem quite reasonable. He had a convincing way of portraying the government team as decent hard-working people doing the best they can in an extraordinary world economic storm. Not sure how he did this - he was making non-sequential bland statements but they sounded wise and convincing.
See this week’s pmqs: http://www.number-10.gov.uk/output/Page306.asp

An apology

Working hard at the moment so realistically it will probably be Wednesday when I will next post anything.

Rural romany fakirs of the late-Victorian period

Above: the dusty little display cupboard.



Above: a handwritten note, affixed with rusty drawing pins and dated 1923.

One village I went to recently had a dusty little display cupboard which held an ancient brush. A handwritten note, affixed with rusty drawing pins and dated 1923, said the implement was used to brush the feet of the dying. Miraculous recoveries would follow.

Joseph Abel Atkinson was a village shaman of the 1890s who inherited this magic brush “used in olden times” and passed it on to Canon Layng (and Canon Layng decided to preserve it, unlike most Anglican clergymen of his time who would have burned the item).

The words “complete nonsense” went through my mind. Yet another of the superstitious frauds practised by rural romany fakirs of the late-Victorian period. If ever there was a candidate for The Guardian’s Bad Science column this is it.

And yet in the office today, among a range of toiletry items sent in by a client to be photographed for their new catalogue (collagen creams, face masks, slimming pills etc) was a “body brush”! You use it to “detoxify”. It is especially effective when used on the soles of the feet.

As they say, you learn something new every day - did you know such things as body brushes existed?

You can even buy them at Bodyshop: http://www.thebodyshop.co.uk/invt/28071

More on body brushing: http://www.fushi.co.uk/How-To-Dry-Body-Brush-For-Energy-Detoxification-Radiant-Skin_727.aspx (note the manic use of search engine optimisation in this url!).

Also here: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/fashion/main.jhtml?/fashion/2008/03/19/eflesley119.xml

A world of passion, pride and love…

Sunday afternoon I went to a poultry show. A whole world opened up - one I never previously knew existed. A world of passion, pride and love…



Above: the Welsummer originally came from Holland and is named after the village of Welsum. The head has a single comb, almond-shaped ear lobes and a short beak. Friendly birds but inclined to go broody in the late Spring.



Above: Buff Orpingtons have existed as a breed for about a hundred years. Greedy birds which need lots of exercise (and like to be free range). Lay small pinkish eggs.



Above: Despite the German-sounding name Hamburgs originated in Holland about three hundred years ago. A lot of work has been done by British breeders to develop the fine birds we see today. These are the chickens that feature in Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles (and Roman Polanski’s Tess - one of the Films That Changed My Life).



Above: the eggs were laid out on trestle tables along the centre of the marquee - I like the way that the farmers’ wives have brought along their best floral tablecloths.



Above: did you know ducks mate for life?



Above: Sussex Bantams are smaller versions of the Sussex breed. Medium tail feathers, red eyes and featherless yellow legs (four toes). They have an affectionate and placid nature and don’t mind coping with bad weather.



Above: Gold Laced Orpington are very beautiful birds. Comparatively rare in the United Kingdom (the breed originated in Germany). They have gentle personalities and lay about a hundred and ninety tinted eggs a year.

Prime Minister’s questions, 11th June 2008

Wednesday lunchtime. Rachel and I had lunch in the upstairs Boardroom. I had a classic super club, a “Love” bar, and a mocha coffee; Rachel just had vegetarian sushi and a Flower Fantastic.

We went into the Board Room at 11.50 to get hold of the TV control. Just as well, as at 12 noon in came Alex, Douglas, Paula and the Aines. Caroline came in shortly afterwards, which didn’t please Rachel, and Alan shambled in at ten past.

In the camera frame during the first couple of questions we could see Justice Minister Jack Straw on the front bench apparently sticking his tongue out.

“Is he sticking his tongue out?” said Aine 2.

“Do you mind, I’m eating” said Aine 1.

We watched the Justice Minister sticking his tongue out (“isn’t he just licking his lips?… no he’s definitely sticking his tongue out…”).

“He reminds me of a dirty old man on the train” said Paula. “I keep trying to get away from him but he waits until the last minute then gets in the same coach and sits exactly opposite. When he thinks no-one else is looking he half sticks his tongue out and stares at me.”

The to and fro began with Greg Hands MP (Tory) making a jibe about the Prime Minister’s unpopularity which is now lower than Iain Duncan-Smith at his nadir. This sort of baiting may backfire as Gordon Brown is fast assuming under-dog status (the British public tends to like underdogs). I half-expected Sebastian from Little Britain to appear at the bar of the House of Commons singing you are beautiful…

Generally Gordon Brown had a good Prime Minister’s Questions. His exchange with David Cameron was statesmanlike on both sides, mostly about the proposal to extend arrest without charge to 42 days. He also managed to make a good joke at Michael Howard’s expense (not easy to do).

He did waver at a couple of places, and twice used a variation of “we’ll take no lectures from you” (once referring to the Chief Constable of Northern Ireland and once on a point about poverty).

The sycophants seemed to have been culled this week but in their place appeared charity do-gooders who, because they were speaking on behalf of “good causes”, assumed an irritating high-moral-tone. One of these questioners, in a blatant example of product placement, held a big “Sign Up For Sudders” message while she asked her question about organ donations. Another questioner, Dawn Butler MP, insisted on spelling out a website url in her question, without the Speaker intervening to tell her not to misuse the state legislature (and the state broadcasting service) as an advertising medium (because these questioners claim to represent charities they practice a sort of moral blackmail that defies any criticism).

Sebastian (a sort of Derek Draper ministerial aide) at pmq’s: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DPrQnWPLg8E&feature=related

Christina’s version (at Koko near Mornington Crescent): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-USUDzycRvM

Today’s PMQs: http://www.number-10.gov.uk/output/Page306.asp

Bereft

Euro 2008 without England. The newspapers are bereft of the usual images and copy that would normally sell their “product”. The government has been denied one last straw to clutch at to save itself from oblivion (since a successful England campaign would have created a national feel-good factor they could have used to launch a daring Skorzeny-style electoral rescue mission for the Labour party).



Above: the brass plate of Setanta’s London offices is so highly polished it reflects the neo-classical architecture of its elegant West End surroundings.

Has the England failure to qualify become a disaster for Setanta? This was the summer they intended to face up to (and face down?) Sky Sports with innovative and intimate coverage of the only real sports show in town. Now they are reduced to quasi-public school, quasi-gentlemanly, Old Corinthians-type exhortations of: it’s-not-the-winning-that-matters, it’s-not-even-the-taking-part-that-matters, but “now is the chance to really take in and savour an eventful competition… with no inevitable exit on penalties and painful national post mortem…”

One suspects it will all end in a pub in Southend, singing the word “schadenfreude” repeatedly to the last movement of Beethoven’s 9th, as Germany go out to Portugal in the final.



Setanta appeared in the United Kingdom “from nowhere” in 2006. Actually they have been established in Dublin since 1990. Director of Sport at Setanta is Trevor East (“Trevor East?… he made his name with Tiswas in the seventies… the show gave him a claque that has followed him ever since…”).

Facing up to Sky (which is good): http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/business/4975632.stm

Setanta want us all to be good Europeans: http://setanta.com/en/Sport/News/Football/2008/06/02/Adopt-a-team---Euro-2008/

Beethoven’s 9th, last movement: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mwaAtVgsl4E

Kings College Cambridge

Apologies for posting such a clichéd photograph of Kings College Cambridge. I parked along Queens’ Road right by this view. I have always believed that a clichéd picture ceases to have any force as an image when repetition has made it over-familiar. However, when I got out of my car and looked casually over at The Backs the impact of this view was immediate. It was as if I was seeing it for the first time (whereas I have actually seen it hundreds of times). Note the swathe of buttercups in the un-mown grass in the foreground.

I didn’t go to Cambridge but I have a proprietary attitude towards Kings College due to my undergraduate study of Henry VI, William of Waynflete, and the foundation of Eton and Kings (as a very specialised D-Paper subsection of Wars of the Roses). I can still quote “gobbits” of the Rotuli Parliamentorum listing the considerable endowments granted by parliament to the colleges (and I can still hear in my mind the exasperated voice of Professor Bellamy telling me “Rotuli Parliamentorum was NOT a medieval Hansard” - he didn’t add the words “you idiot” but he might as well have done). Nothing from that time matters now, but the sight of Kings College brought all the anxiety back.



Many writers have been connected to Kings College Cambridge including EM Forster, MR James, Salman Rushdi etc. EF Benson’s David of Kings describes an idealised Rupert Brooke existence at the college before the First World War. I read the book ten years ago and had no idea at the time what it was “really” about (“you do know what that book’s about” “no, what is it about?” “isn’t it obvious”).



MR James was a serious intellectual but is chiefly remembered today as a writer of ghost stories (probably the most frivolous of his achievements).

Commitment to high musical culture

Saturday evening. I drove to a village in the northern half of the county, in the quiet countryside half a mile back from the cliff. The village is small, with a population of less than two hundred, and is very much a farming community (although one enterprising farmer has put oil wells on his property).

The landscape is mostly open with few concentrations of trees (a few copses of lime trees). No trace remains of the old custom of Jack-in-the-Green which was prevalent up until the 1920s (a youth would be dressed in leaves and carry a wicker basket or wicker platter of small loaves of beer bread through the village on St Albinus Day, followed by garlanded girls who would ask at each house for gifts in exchange for the bread). Lush roadside swards of wild flowers, plentiful lowland farm birds and a variety of distinctive moths give the area characteristics not found in neighbouring villages.

The main settlement is at the junction of three roads, which meet in a wide shallow dell overhung with specimen trees.



Above: the domestic architecture of the area is comfortable but undistinguished.



Above: the church is built of blue oolite, obtained locally (a farmer has a large round “reservoir” on his land which may be the pit the oolite was dug out of). The building was constructed in 1875 in a self-consciously 13th century Germanic style complete with saddleback roof to the tower. The churchyard is about fifteen feet higher than the road, and planted with conifers and yew trees so that it has acquired a forbidding aspect.



Above: the important families of the village seem to have been buried in the churchyard outside the east end of the building, where they no doubt hope to be among the first to see the Second Coming (a village imitation of the Mount of Olives?).



Above: I have been to the village several times, pursuing different strands of enquiry (historical, sociological, folklore). On Saturday I went to a concert which was held in the church at 7pm. As I approached the entrance porch under the tower I had to climb a flight of steps towards a tremendous door.



Above: inside the porch there was another daunting door to be opened, complete with heavy curtain (the Vicar has written about how off-putting this entrance can be for newcomers).



Above: the church is laid out on a “box plan” with everything in one big square room (no aisles or separate chancel). At the west end was the font - note the hassocks that show the font in embroidered form (“they were done by a lady whose two daughters were baptised here”). Cream walls.



Above: memorial to a casualty of the Second World War - well-known in the village when he was a child, and commemorated with a gunmetal portrait.



Above: the east end chancel area with the Victorian colour scheme of dark red and dark green.



Above: chief feature of the church is the 1875 Nicholson organ, recently restored (note the red and green chancel ceiling). 894 pipes, eight stops on the great organ, six stops on the swell organ, Bourdon stop with octave pipes on the pedal organ. It seems incredible that such a sophisticated musical instrument should have found its way to a remote farming community.



Above: the evening concert was a recital of organ music on the Nicholson organ. This tiny community has raised funds to endow two successive organ scholarships, supplying the Anglican church services with an amazingly high standard of musical accompaniment. This concert was the valedictory performance of the latest organ scholar who is going to Cambridge to study Music.



Above: I sat right at the front during the concert. The programme included classical pieces, folk music and original compositions. Vocalists accompanied the organist (although obviously the organ music was originally written to accompany the vocalists). From left to right you can see the Registration Assistant, Mezzo-Soprano, Soprano and Organist. Because the organist played behind the organ screen, a camera projected her performance onto a screen. I was very impressed with the quality of this performance, and also the commitment to high musical culture which has been created and sustained by the Anglican church in such a remote community.

All these things happen - the past week at work

Above: Friday… I had advised a text-book approach and they had got a text-book response.

Monday

Always a struggle to get up on Monday mornings after the weekend. A pheasant had got into the garden and I could hear it crying below my window as I first got up. I was in such a hurry that I only had time to make a cup of instant coffee before driving to the station (it’s a long drive).

In the office there was an e-mail from my biggest client BQW, asking me for an immediate meeting. The use of the word “immediate” was ominous. As BQW has now moved to Watford going to “immediate” meetings takes half a day, and from a logistical point of view I can’t see that we are going to keep the account (despite Ian’s assurances that we would provide them with the same level of service in Watford that they got when they were in Trafalgar Square).

I borrowed Ian’s car, and as part of the meeting would involve a creative brief I took Paul with me (Paul is a graphic designer in our tiny studio) Paul has complained so much about the quality of the briefs I bring back from BQW that I wanted to show him what the client was actually like. On the drive to Watford he talked about his early life growing up in a mobile home and not knowing who his father was.

We arrived at BQW and parked at the far side of the “landscaped” car park. To get to the main building we had to walk along a triumphal path that would not have been out of place in Speer’s Germania. We had to wait around in the Reception for about twenty minutes before getting in to see Steve C.

Steve C is aged about forty, overweight, curly dark hair around a balding pate. He was formerly BQW’s top salesman before taking over a marketing role (one of many BQW marketing personnel). Loud, belligerent and rude.

As we sat down at a meeting room table he threw across at me one of the new leaflets we have done telling BQW’s customers about the move to Watford. The leaflet had a black cover, and Steve C complained that the ink came off when handled. This was undeniably true, as I found out when I ran my own finger across it (the proof copies had been perfect).

Furthermore, the inside of the eight-pager included a double-page aerial view of the new Watford site - this aerial photograph had been especially commissioned, and was supposed to have been taken when the site was almost finished in late April. However, Steve C pointed out that a crucial building was missing and so the photograph must have been taken in March. As this was before the photography had been commissioned, this must mean that the shot had already existed and so was not “specially commissioned” after all and therefore did not justify the mark-up and rush charges that had been applied (all this was revealed by Steve C in the manner of a master detective).

All I could do was say I would investigate the photography. Regarding the black ink I offered a reprint of the leaflets but they had already gone out to the customers. I offered a reduction in the cost and Steve C replied that he wanted the job free.

We then turned to the new brief he wanted to give. As usual, he had already sketched the design himself, crude pictures on sheets of lined A4. I just handed these over to Paul, who will have to make the job look good (on the drive back to the office he remained shocked by the BQW encounter, shaking his head in disbelief whenever I mentioned Steve C).

As soon as I got back to the agency I told Ian (director) what had happened.

Tuesday

The train was crowded this morning, but I managed to get a seat. In the seats behind I could hear two engineers (they were obviously engineers) describing overseas assignments. One of them said: “The further you get from this island the more beautiful it becomes.”

When I got to the office and checked my e-mail I found the BQW aerial photograph sent to me by Tony B (who had done the design). I called Ian over and then enlarged the picture again and again so it became almost abstract. In the shadows, fuzzy and indistinct, was the “missing” building (I repressed my true feelings and sent the photograph across to Steve C with a simple message saying the building was there after all).

Ian, Alan and Sheila, the three directors on our floor, went into a meeting at eleven that lasted until nearly three o’clock. When they came out Ian looked so guilty I began to feel uneasy (there has been a lot of pressure from “upstairs” for our division to make more money). I confided my fears to Pete (office junior) and his reaction surprised me:

“You’ve brought a fresh approach to the agency. It needed a fresh approach. You should be the last person to worry about your job.”

In the afternoon freelance Joey came in. He was obviously getting the brush-off from Alan and Tony W so I called him over and gave him a small job to do. Later Alan told me I shouldn’t give work to Joey as they suspect him of helping another agency steal our accounts (as a freelance he works for a variety of agencies).

Wednesday

I found an excuse to work “upstairs” in the PR division. I sat at my usual desk (one of the “hot” desks) and wondered how difficult it would be to work there permanently. They work a lot harder than our floor, but the campaigns tend to be more interesting and for bigger clients (but the longer hours might make the commuting difficult).

Freelance Joey came in with the job I had given him yesterday. He could have just e-mailed it to me, but he wanted to explain why he had done it slightly differently. He sat half-slouched in a chair with one leg over the arm and talked about the football team he played for and how they had decided to keep training over the summer (“I want it to rain… the ground’s too hard… I’m bruised and grazed all over…”).

Joey told me he thought “the barriers are going up” between him and the agency and he had stopped getting work even from Kate. I decided to tell him about Alan’s suspicions of client-poaching (not having any loyalty to Alan, and not believing that Joey had done anything). Joey’s reaction was so angry I had to stop him going downstairs to confront Alan and Tony W.

When Joey had gone Paula, Aine 1 and Aine 2 called over questions about who he was, where he lived, whether he was seeing anyone (all these questions I refused to answer).

In the evening I was included in Val’s team-building evening (Val is one of the Account Directors - she gets a monthly budget to spend on helping her team to “bond”).

Thursday

In the morning a new magazine came in to give us a presentation.

At lunchtime we all went to the pub to celebrate Janette passing her exams (not sure what the exams were in - she works for Sheila in Accounts & Admin).

In the afternoon I went down into the photographic studio which is on the ground floor at the back. I very rarely go down there unless I need to take a client to see something being photographed. The atmosphere very tense, with Ben (photographer and Ian’s son) looking sullen.

Going back up to the middle floor, Kate told me that Ben and Sarah (Receptionist) had just broken up and had already started bickering in public. Sheila was in a foul mood and very down on Sarah (who reports to her). Pete and Sarah were constantly together.

All these things happen, and I seem to be entirely oblivious of them.

Friday

In the afternoon I went to Cambridge. I had persuaded one of my new clients to do a survey to try to reveal different attitudes to their brand. They had done this survey in only a few days and the questionnaires were already pouring back to them, full of valuable information.

It’s nice when things happen like this. I had advised a text-book approach and they had got a text-book response. My reputation was so high that afternoon that had I told them to go and jump in the River Cam they would have done so without question.

Snouts in the trough 2

A Tory MEP (Member of the European Parliament) has been caught “channelling” expenses into a company account owned by his family. Like the Speaker of the House of Commons he was supposed to be stopping corruption, not indulging in it himself (does corruption cease to be corruption if it is technically “within the rules”? - I don’t think so). On Newsnight Kirsty Wark interviewed a Liberal-Democrat MEP and exposed on air the fact that he was “channelling” his expenses (which are HUGE) into running the Liberal-Democrat Party (and so imposing on us, without any mandate, taxpayer funding of political parties).

The Tory MEP tried to claim it was all a mistake. A “whoops-a-daisy” accident whereby the money sort-of fell into a place is shouldn’t have. It reminded me of Father Ted, exiled to a remote island parish for financial misdemeanours, who claimed “that money was only resting in my account.”

More on Father Ted: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Father_Ted



Above: Victoria Coren writing about Margaret Beckett's pergola.

Vic Naylor’s in St Johns Lane

Above: to Sarah this utilitarian entrance to AKQA is the gateway to all she desires (for the time being).

Wednesday evening. Val took her team to dinner at Vic Naylor’s in St Johns Lane. Although I am no longer working “upstairs” she included me, which was nice of her.

Faversham asparagus with butter and parmesan, rib eye chop with chips (“trust you to have the most expensive thing on the menu”), summer pudding with cream (everyone else had the Eton Mess, which seemed to be sociologically significant given the zeitgeist-savvy crowd).

During the meal I talked to Sarah, who is one of the copywriters upstairs (not actually part of Val’s team, but Val likes her client’s work given priority and so is nice to all the creatives).

After the meal Sarah showed me the offices of AKQA further along St John’s Lane. AKQA is one of the leading agencies in London, run by Ajaz Ahmed (I got the impression that AKQA was the one place Sarah really wanted to work, as if “being” was better than “doing”). AKQA did the Wayne Rooney viral campaign during the 2006 World Cup.

More: http://www.akqa.com/

Prime Minister's questions, 4th June 2008

Wednesday lunchtime. Quite a crowd in the Board Room for Prime Minister’s Questions. Some of them just wandered in with their sandwiches and Ribena, not knowing what was going to be on the television (perhaps expecting Jeremy Kyle), but Alan and myself wanted pmqs, and Terry leaned against the open doorway, watching.

Gasps from Aine when David Cameron appeared (“Look at his hair - it’s bizarre”).

Fierce exchange between David Cameron and Gordon Brown on the subject of Road Tax. David Cameron got the best of the argument, with several (apparently) off-the-cuff jokes (ie Gordon Brown made a jibe about David Cameron riding a bike to the House of Commons with his official car following immediately behind, to which David Cameron replied “It’s not my backbenchers who are telling me to get on my bike”). Interestingly, if you play the whole Cameron-Brown exchange without sound, the Prime Minister’s body language was almost perfect, which suggests his problems lie in vocal delivery.

The Speaker was unusually belligerent, telling people off to his left and his right.

“Look at all the red ties” said Alan disapprovingly when the camera showed the Labour benches.

The Liberal Democrat leader complained that the government was continually passing laws which are never enforced (echoing the Today Programme this morning which reported abuse in care homes for the elderly going unpunished because the existing laws are not enforced).

Boris Johnson, retiring MP for Henley, asked his last House of Commons question, with Gordon Brown very gracious to him in reply.

Most important question (in my opinion) was asked by Dr Howard Stoate about alcohol advertising in sport - the Prime Minister just said it would be the subject of a “review”.

Space on the government front bench seemed unusually cramped so that Ed Balls (Secretary of State for Children, Schools and Families) was bunched up between Ruth Kelly and a minister you never quite saw in toto. When the camera was at a particular angle you could see that all the time the Prime Minister was speaking Ed Balls was nodding and smiling and talking to his neighbours. The sight seemed so familiar I thought I was experiencing déjà vu, until I remembered the episode of The World At War I watched last night, which showed Herman Goering in the dock at Nuremberg.

Right at the end came the usual sycophantic question from a backbench supporter of the government. I forget who asked the question, but in the row behind you could see the big head of Peter Hain. The expression on Peter Hain’s head was one of bemused disbelief (as if he were silently saying “what planet is this man on?”).



Above: Ed Balls (centre) was nodding and smiling and talking to his neighbours.

You can see the full exchange (lasts half an hour): http://www.number-10.gov.uk/output/Page15633.asp

An explanation

After four years of getting by I have decided to give this blog a name (A from L was only supposed to be a stop-gap).

“Andrew” is my real first name. “Amesbury” is a name I am entitled to use but is not my surname (I am legitimately one of the Amesburys). I have set up an e-mail andrewamesbury@live.co.uk

I like to write anonymously as it gives me the freedom to be accurate (whereas if “everyone” knew about this site I would have to be nice all the time, which I would probably find stressful and you would probably find boring).

I realise setting up a false identity in 2008 Britain means I am likely to be arrested at some point and held at Paddington Green police station for forty-two days where I will be subjected to extraordinary rendition, given an ASBO and marched to a cash-point to pay an on-the-spot fine.

More on Paddington Green police station: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paddington_Green_Police_Station

More on 42 days without charge: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk_politics/7130072.stm

More on ASBOs: http://www.antisocialbehaviour.org.uk/asbo/index.php

More on being marched to a cash-point: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/low/uk_politics/813953.stm

Overheard on the train

“She’s not doing too well I’m afraid. She made a good start all through January and February but has remained stuck ever since. She puts down everything, but fools herself over the numbers. Like, because wine is made from grape juice she says it counts towards her five-a-day and just gives it fifty per glass, the same as an average-size apple. And she doesn’t count medicines. When she’s desperate I’ve known her to drink half a bottle of really sweet cough mixture and count it as zero. But the exercise is going really well. The dancercise and the hula-hooping. That’s going really well.”

Die Dämonen by Heimito von Doderer

I am almost at the end of the first volume of Heimito von Doderer’s The Demons. I intend to have a long long rest before I start on volume two. An inflexible rule of my life is that once I start a book I must finish it - usually this policy is very rewarding, but in the case of von Doderer I feel trapped in a parallel universe I cannot escape from.

The book came to me highly recommended (by someone whose judgement I trust). On-line reviews reinforced this reputation. The novel is set in post-First World War Austria, a society that I have long been interested in.

But what a disappointing let-down. Although nominally set in Vienna, the book hardly refers to the city apart from a succession of café interiors. The huge cast of characters are living through the 1920s and yet do not seem to be affected by the social, economic or political forces that dominated that decade.

I can only assume that those who rave about the book have read it in the original German, and it has lost its magic in translation.

I have been down this road before. Robert Musil’s Man Without Qualities was a similar, two-volume, pre-First World War exercise in Austrian complexity. Or perhaps I am missing the point, and mind-boggling complexity is the defining characteristic of the Austro-Hungarian legacy and its continuing “fall-out”?



Also disappointing was Joseph Koerner’s BBC documentary Vienna, City of Dreams. It didn’t explain the central issue I am interested in - how could one city, in the space of twenty or so years (1890 - 1910) have produced the very best and the very worst of European intellectual achievement (Freud, Klimt, Mahler etc). I have said this before, but Jonathan Meedes should be given these commissions.

Another view of Austrian complexity: http://joymachine.typepad.com/northern_planner/2008/06/impossible-plan.html

Austria influencing the 80s: www.youtube.com/watch?v=kvCxWTjrBXQ (and also see the King Zog sequence in the Don Boyd film Aria).

Anger at the injustice in the world

Friday evening. After the last client meeting I stayed on in Cambridge. At seven o’clock I went to an Anglican church in Trumpington Street for the Mass of the Sacred Heart.



Above: The niches on the outside west wall had been filled with flowers.

The Feast of the Sacred Heart is not a usual Anglican observance, even in the highest of High churches, which made this service intriguing. Also, the Wren Choir was performing the mass setting Missa Surge propera by Victoria, which was an additional reason to go. One of the reasons I like Cambridge so much is the amount of high culture (music, public lectures, exhibitions) that is given away free to anyone who is interested.

The church was set back from Trumpington Street, hemmed in by colleges and a big non-conformist church. The small churchyard was shaded by trees, which made the gloomy evening a little bit darker. The niches on the outside west wall had been filled with flowers, despite the threat of rain.

Inside it was both austere and decorated (not a contradiction in terms - the decoration was all symbolic and high-minded). The church was a medieval husk that had been filled by the great 19th century wave of Oxford Movement enthusiasm. As that tide has slowly drawn out it has been left as an isolated well of High Anglicanism.

The attendance was sparse (not surprising for an obscure Feast Day, in the evening, towards the end of term). Elderly ladies, a few tourists, a number of middle-aged men and women in jeans and jumpers (their nerdy style indicating they were connected to the university). I sat on the left side, about half-way down, by a painted statue of Christ the Good Shepherd.

The east window, composed of delicate 14th century tracery, was filled with Kempe glass. The altar arrangement, including 1913 curtains, was by Sir Ninian Comper - no less than ten candlesticks plus the four “riddle post” candles. An expensive-looking organ (1978) had been applied to the south wall, with the organist hovering impressively in a cantilevered balcony.

The Wren Choir, about twenty in number, came in and took their seats. The clergy, wearing gold, came in from the back. We sang the processional hymn Oh for a heart to praise my God by Charles Wesley.

The quality of the music, from both organ and choir, was excellent. The Wren Choir performed the mass in a way that was technically very accomplished, including a complicated Agnes Dei. Their delivery had a cold quality, but the coldness added to the beauty.

The vicar was tall, grey-haired and distinguished-looking (as if Anthony Eden had become a parish priest). He gave his sermon standing on the chancel step instead of going up into the pulpit. He talked of the Sacred Heart being an expression of God’s love:

“Not a superficial or sentimental love. But an infinite love. A love that is expressed in compassion for those in need, and yes…” (the vicar’s eyes roved challengingly across the congregation) “…a love expressed in anger at the injustice in the world.”

Holy Communion in Sir Ninian Comper’s chancel.

Afterwards we were all invited into the Parish Room for a glass of wine, but it was already late and I had to think of the journey back.



Above: I didn’t like to take a photograph of the actual service, but this is right at the end after the clergy and choir have left. The organist is playing the Voluntary. An acolyte is putting out the candles.

More on the Mass setting: http://www.cpdl.org/wiki/index.php/Missa_Surge_propera_(Tom%C3%A1s_Luis_de_Victoria)

More on the Wren Choir: http://www.srcf.ucam.org/wren/

NOTE: regular visitors to this site might have noticed an increase in postings about the Church of England. This is not because I have become a religious maniac (although at no time in my life, from my earliest memories, have I ever “doubted”). In response to repeated claims that England has become a secular society I have decided to carry out my own survey into what the Anglican religion means in English society today (aesthetically, emotionally, politically, in terms of social care, in terms of national identity, in terms of education, from a conservation standpoint, from a musical standpoint, from a “community focus” standpoint etc etc).

I will mostly concentrate on the county where I live as this will fit in with other projects I am doing (ie the village by village project). I will take about a year over the survey, linking it wherever possible to specific religious events. I am doing this for my own interest, although anyone is welcome to join me (or ignore it, as you choose).

“Other people manage to get their lives together…” - the past week at work

Monday

Monday was a Bank Holiday in the United Kingdom. Because I got up fairly late I wasn’t all that sleepy in the evening, and so stayed up far too late. It was a big mistake.

Tuesday

After only about five hours sleep I got up at six and set off on the journey to work. In too much of a rush to make a cup of tea at home, I bought one at the station. I caught the later train, hoping there would be no hold-ups (and there weren’t, allowing me to get to the office on the stroke of nine).

I borrowed Kate’s car and went up to Watford to the new BQW offices. Steve C, my contact there, seemed to have more security than George W. Bush (outer gate house, security desk in the main atrium where my folder was “searched”, main reception, another reception on the upper floor where I had to wait for Steve C to collect me, entry-coded door to his floor, entry-coded door to the meeting room he had booked). It was surprising to see the building all fitted out - last time I was there it was just an empty shell.



In the evening I was asked to dinner in Rachel’s flat in Maida Vale (“nothing special, I’ll just do spaghetti”). I was very reluctant to go as I was so tired, but I forced myself to say yes as Rachel is a very good friend to have. We got off at Warwick Avenue and walked the rest of the way as I wanted to see the Warwick Avenue tube entrance mentioned in the Duffy song (“When I get to Warwick Avenue meet me by the entrance of the tube…”).

At the flat Rachel’s flatmates Rebecca and Juliette were both at home. We had olives with feta cheese to start, then spaghetti, then low-fat strawberry yoghurts (served in wineglasses rather than eating them out of the plastic pots). To drink we had a bottle of Italian soave, which they chilled in the freezer.

Afterwards we sat in the living room and talked. Another bottle of soave was opened, but as I would have to drive later I had tap water. The girls became quite tipsy and talked of their relationship problems (but not Rebecca, who never lets down her guard).

“I mope around cafés thinking I have no big romance in my life” said Juliette. “All my money goes on just everyday living. Other people manage to get their lives together, so why can’t I?”

I left at nine, and by the time I got home it was nearly midnight - not very good.

Wednesday

Things have become very quiet in the agency, although I have a number of substantial projects to keep me busy. There was no excuse to go out, so I had to sit at my desk and shuffle papers. Warm outside, but it was cold in the office as the windows were open each end and this caused a steady through-draught.

Joey (freelance) came in to collect a cheque, his walk so bowlegged he almost waddled. After he had got the cheque from Sheila he stopped by my desk to talk, telling me he had worked all through the holiday weekend. While there is no football he is training with a boxing club and suggested I went along to see some of the fights (this seemed a risky sport for a graphic designer, especially as his fingers didn’t look all that robust, but I think he enjoys punching people).

When he had gone Alan (director) came up and said the agency wanted to cut down on the use of freelances and I should put all work into the studio.

In the afternoon I struggled with The Advertising Campaign That Has Gone Horribly Wrong (booked into a magazine that has just folded). The whole thing has become a morass, and every time I think I have found my way out the safe path disappears and I get dragged down deeper. We have almost certainly lost the account.

Thursday

In the morning Pete (my “assistant” and basically the office junior) confided that he was having an affair with Sarah, the receptionist. Sarah lives with Ben (one of our photographers, and Ian’s son). They have been partners for about two years. Pete has only just turned eighteen and is immature for his age. Sarah is aged about twenty-two, and (I would guess) is very experienced. Ben knows about the affair and has gone into a sort of sulk.

“He doesn’t treat her very well” Pete told me. “I’ve been seeing her since February, and she is soon going to leave him. I may be driven out of this company” (said matter-of-factly and without self-pity).

At lunchtime we had another of the fatuous Staff Meetings. Tony W (print buyer, production, some media buying) broke the silence at the end to ask about pay reviews. Sheila (office manager and director) looked furiously at him, and Ian (our MD) mumbled something about “merit” salary reviews this year.

In the afternoon I got proof copies of a mailer just about to go out (we do a lot of direct marketing). To my horror (and I mean a real feeling of horror, since I can’t afford another mistake) I noticed a prominent spelling error on the front. I had to quickly stop the mailing going out and arrange for a reprint. Then I went through the job bag trying to work out how the error happened. All the proofs were fine, and signed off by the client. Eventually I found out that Tony B (graphic designer in the studio, aged late fifties) had made a last-minute change to one of the colours before the job went to the printer, and must have knocked the keyboard by mistake (he was so ashamed it was impossible to be angry with him - “We’ll draw a veil over all this, and I’ll lose the cost of the reprint” I told him).

Friday

We have a sort of dress-down policy for Fridays, but one of the upstairs PR execs went too far and appeared in combat Capri trousers.

“When I specified casual dress on Fridays I was thinking more of a tweed jacket and cravat” said Terry (overall MD and owner of the agency).

Everyone laughed (nervously, as you never know when Terry is serious).

In the afternoon I went to Cambridge as I have acquired two new clients in the city - one totally new (brought in by Kate); and one handed down from upstairs. This is very good news as I like Cambridge a lot, and will be there on an almost weekly basis. And it will probably mean I can go home early if I arrange the client meetings for about three o’clock in the afternoon (I learned this trick from Ian).

More on Warwick Avenue: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MkkmQNA_aRs