Tuesday 10 July 2012

No Gold Medals for Team GD

Graphic Design is a subject I studied many years ago at art college. I suppose back then I was inspired by the world of inventive visual ideas, and it's probably why I ended up entering the world of advertising as a copywriter where the creative idea is king. I have always held the view that intelligent graphic design has to abide by four simple rules:

1) It has to convey an appealing idea that encapsulates its subject's essence
2) It has to be universally understood
3) It has to be readable
4) It has to be aesthetically pleasing

And I would apply these simple rules to all forms of graphic design, whether we're looking at a book jacket, postage stamp or logo.

Now that the Olympics are looming, it occurs to me that none of my four simple rules can receive a single tick when it comes to the logo for said games.

This logo, which was created by Wolff Olins for the cost of £400,000 "isn't a logo", according to Lord Coe. "It's a brand that will take us forward for the next five years." As for it not being a logo, I couldn't agree more. The date 2012 rendered like a piece of graffiti does not, in my humble opinion, encapsulate the spirit of the world's most prestigious games. And in the light of the rioting across the nation not so long ago, I'm not sure that the association with graffiti and urban decay is one the games should want to embrace.

Then, of course, there's the legibility issue. A simple piece of market research would have made it plain as daylight that most people can't read the bloody thing. But having said this, why do we need to be reminded that it's 2012 anyway?

Finally, there's the question of its aesthetic appeal, which will always draw a subjective response. Here's mine: it's bloody ugly.  

I'm instantly reminded of those immortal words uttered by the late William Hill, founder of the betting empire, who on casting an eye over the latest creative offering from his advertising agency, declared bluntly: "Call that an advert? I could do better with my nob and a pot of paint."  

Alex Pearl is author of Sleeping with the Blackbirds 


Saturday 2 June 2012

Beware the psychotherapist of Berkhamsted

He was a perfectly credible character: bespectacled, reasonably well dressed, somewhere in his early 50s. He sidled up to me as I struggled with my bag having stepped out of East Finchley underground station.

"I'm terribly sorry, I really don't know how to put this." He looked flustered. "I've just visited one of my clients; I'm a psychotherapist, and I've just had my wallet stolen." I immediately offered my sympathy, but he wasn't looking for sympathy. "I have to get to Berkhamsted and I need £15. I hate to ask you this, but can you possibly lend me the fare? I'm really sorry."

At this point, alarm bells began to ring in the back of my brain. I stammered something incomprehensible.

"Look, I know what you're thinking, but let me assure you..." He paused. Then came his killer line, his unique selling proposition: "Do you know Lawrence at the bakery on Market Place?" As a reasonably loyal customer of said bakery, I did know Lawrence well enough to know his name. He's a genial and affable sort; the kind of person you wouldn't think twice about helping. "I'm his brother", he exclaimed.

It was, of course, the most brilliant line. How on earth could I ever let myself not help Lawrence's brother in his hour of need? I wouldn't be able to live with myself. I envisaged Lawrence telling me about his poor brother getting mugged in this leafy London suburb, his failure to elicit the help of a passer-by, and my feeble attempt at feigning surprise and disgust.

I pulled £15 out of my wallet and thrust it into his palm. "Please let me have your mobile number and I'll arrange to pay you back", he said, and pulled an old-fashioned mobile from his pocket and dialled my number into the phone.

As soon as he'd turned in the direction of the station I knew instinctively that I'd never hear from this stranger ever again. I knew in my heart of hearts that I'd been had, been diddled, and for a moment I felt stupid and gullible. But then again, had I refused, I'd have felt mean spirited, callous and inhuman. But by the time I returned home I had put the whole thing out of my mind.

It wasn't until a few weeks later, while on the phone to my brother, that I was reminded of the incident. "A strange thing happened to me on the way home the other day", I said. "A complete stranger managed to wangle fifteen quid out of me in a few seconds. Said he was a psychotherapist and had just been mugged."

"What did he look like?" came my brother's swift response.

"He was in his 50s, well spoken, thinning hair, fairly innocuous I'd say."

"He wasn't going to Berkhamsted was he?"

"Bloody hell, how did you know?"

"I don't believe it, I got diddled by the same bugger last week coming out of the Wigmore Hall."

On hearing this, I have to say that I felt a great deal less stupid. Anyone who can pull a fast one on my elder brother has to be pretty bloody good. This guy knew exactly how to make his victims search their own souls and question their own sense of compassion and fair play.

I have since learned that this particular confidence trickster has taken in a number of well respected journalists. So if by chance a respectable, well dressed man should approach you in the street and ask politely for £15 to get to Berkhamsted, I'd urge you to administer a sharp, well aimed knee in the knackers and continue on your way.

Alex Pearl is author of Sleeping with the Blackbirds 

Wednesday 25 January 2012

The Poet's and Peasants' XI

If you have read ‘England their England’ by A G Macdonell you will be familiar with the famous description of a village cricket match set in the home counties during the 1920s. It’s one of those quintessentially English pastimes that has barely changed since the Edwardian era. And I say this from experience.

Back in the days when I barely had a grey hair on my head, my older brother and a good friend decided over a few beers to form a cricket club, despite the fact that neither were particularly skilled exponents of the noble game. However, the idea was enthusiastically put about and within a matter of days, enough friends and friends of friends had expressed a keen interest to join.

My brother, being a lawyer, drew up a constitution which was duly presented to all those who had promised their support, and at the first ever meeting, which took place at The Cheshire Cheese public house in Fleet Street, certain key decisions were put to the vote. As a result, the cricket club was to be named the Poet’s and Peasants’; the official club colours were to be Green (for the grass), blue (for the sky) and gold (for the beer); and most importantly, the club was going to have to appoint a Poet. After much discussion, it was decided that Mr Alan Gibson (now sadly no longer with us), who was at that time writing a regular column for the Times newspaper would be the most suitable candidate to approach on the basis that his pieces captured the spirit of the game and were arguably some of the wittiest to be found in any of the nation’s sports pages. So a letter was drafted, agreed upon and posted to Mr Gibson.

Within a week Mr Gibson responded, and in the most charming terms accepted the honour of having the title Club Poet bestowed upon him, on the one condition that at the beginning of each season, a bottle of the finest malt whisky would be dispatched to him forthwith.

On this basis we had secured an eminent poet even though we didn’t have our own ground, or for that matter, much cricketing nous. Indeed, many of the founding members were professional musicians who were paranoid about their fingers, and refused point blank to field anywhere near the batsman for fear of damaging their precious Phalanges and Metacarpals. One Chris D Freeman, a double bass player, would field the ball with any part of his body except his hands and managed quite miraculously during one memorable game to take a catch between his knees. Needless to say, the poor batsman thought he was seeing things.

We got to play on some truly pretty village grounds. One such ground in Kent was the home of the Coddrington Cobblers. Like the Peasants, they were a very weak but enthusiastic team of delightful individuals, and before the match began one of their players confided that very few of their matches ever continued beyond the tea session. It soon became apparent why this should be, for in place of boundary markers were substantial barrels of local beer which the fielding side could enjoy at their leisure between overs. Seeing that we had plenty of musicians fielding on the boundary, much of the ale was consumed during the course of play (I’ve yet to meet a musician who doesn’t like a jar or five). And as it turned out, the tea was by no means the usual curled up sandwiches and stewed tea. No, instead the wives and partners of the Cobblers had prepared a feast of gargantuan proportions. So it was very much a case of food and drink stopped play.

The Poet’s and Peasants’ went on to enjoy ten consecutive seasons, including three tours in Devon, and during this time many colourful characters had at one time or other played for us.

There was the eccentric and brilliant historian Ronald Hutton (now Professor Hutton); the late John Macleod, a wonderful batsman and baritone who also happened to be the Laird of Skye; the club’s original co-founder, Bramwell Tovey (now the composer and Artistic Director of the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra), Thos Hodgson, a talented all-rounder (now a distinguished barrister in Sydney, Australia); Jonathan Milner a very fine batsman (now also a distinguished barrister, but over here); Tony Jenkins, our opening batsman and talented golfer who also drove trains on the London Underground; Oliver Heald (now a Conservative MP); Peter Greenhouse (now an eminent consultant in sexual heath); and of course Chris D Freeman who still plays double bass and was in fact the only member of the club to have his name appear in Wisden magazine, thanks to a piece written by our esteemed poet, the late Alan Gibson.

These days, every time I find myself driving through a village on a summer’s afternoon and pass the village green with its men in white flannels and that inimitable sound of leather on willow, I think back to those days of the Peasants, and for a second I feel a twinge of jealousy.

Photograph (from left standing): Stephen Greenhough, John McLeod, Nick Patrick, 
Chris Freeman, Mike Iland (Seated): Alex Pearl, Tony Garrett, David Pearl, Bob Collins, 
Mike O'Donell, Bramwell Tovey

Alex Pearl is author of Sleeping with the Blackbirds 

Friday 20 January 2012

Not the ideal way to spend Christmas Eve

I was asked recently, while playing one of those silly board games after a couple of glasses of very drinkable Rioja, to describe the most embarrassing situation I've ever found myself in. I imagine we could all dredge up something from the past, but in my case, there were only two incidents that immediately sprung to mind.

The first was when I took a summer holiday job while at school as the mail-room assistant in a fairly stuffy firm of solicitors off Fleet Street. On my first day, having delivered mail to all the senior partners, I distinctly remember, to my embarrassment, hastily making an exit through a rather large broom cupboard. This was probably the funniest thing that those solicitors had ever witnessed, judging from the guffaws and bursts of uncontrollable laughter that ensued. To be the focus of attention for all the wrong reasons feels utterly humiliating if you're a spotty adolescent with very little self-confidence. It was, I have to admit, a horribly embarrassing experience.

But possibly less embarrassing though far more surreal, was the Guy Norris Christmas Eve episode, which took place the following year. Guy Norris was the name of a record shop I used to frequent in Gants Hill where I lived as a teenager with my parents. Unlike most kids who were into The Stranglers or Sex Pistols, I was into Joseph Haydn, and had set myself the hair-brained mission to collect every one of his 106 symphonies on vinyl. And it was over one particular Christmas Eve that I found myself riffling through the record shop's entire collection of classical music in search of the maestro’s early works - a search that turned up very little. So disappointedly, I trudged to the entrance and pulled the door, and in the process nearly yanked my arm off. The door wouldn't budge for good reason; it had been locked and the lights had been left on, along with the Christmas tree lights which twinkled away merrily.

When you are 15 years of age and locked in a record shop on Christmas Eve, you are faced with a difficult dilemma: do you knock manically on the glass window to attract the passers-by who may just think you're part of a rather novel Christmas display, or do you spare yourself the embarrassment and just sit it out until New Year? It was a tough one, but thankfully, I was saved by a third option in the form of a telephone, which sat on the counter.

Having spoken to my father, who then spoke to the police, who then spoke to the manager, who then went in search of the caretaker who was no doubt in his local boozer knocking back a pre-Christmas pint, it took another three hours before I was released from my temporary prison.

Funnily enough, I didn't listen to much Haydn after that.

Alex Pearl is author of Sleeping with the Blackbirds 

A peculiar kind of brand loyalty

We advertising copywriters are often accused of perverting what skills we have to merely flog a load of fairly dodgy merchandise that nobody in their right mind would ever consider parting money for. To some extent I suppose there is a grain of truth here. I have, in my time, had the dubious pleasure of writing ads for real stinkers. I won't name names but suffice it to say that I have written for at least one truly appalling motor car, more than one disastrous investment fund, a pretty horrid soft drink, a particularly unpleasant lager, a fairly unreliable brand of boiler, a telecoms company whose wireless routers are utterly hopeless... I could go on.

But the sad truth is that it isn't just members of the unsuspecting public who have the wool pulled over their eyes. You see, before any copywriter worth his salt can embark on the task of creating an idea and putting pen to paper, or indeed, fingers to keyboard, he has to immerse himself in the world of his client's. This invariably means visiting factories, warehouses or call centres, and experiencing the brand first hand. And, of course, to write convincingly and passionately about anything, whether it be a boiled sweet or a dirty lump of coal, a copywriter has to embrace it wholeheartedly and have utmost faith and confidence in it.

In my case, this has meant buying into the product quite literally. So I can now confess that I too have been gullible enough to believe my own advertising, and for years, have put up with investments that have gone nowhere other than downwards, temperamental cars that have decided to stop working on the North Circular, boilers that have quite literally blown up, and theme parks that, well, even my kids wouldn’t touch with the longest of barge poles.

So the next time someone infers at a dinner party or social gathering that those employed in the shady world of marketing are no better than brainwashers employed by the Moonies, I shall have to point out that some of the world’s biggest victims of advertising, aren’t members of the public, but the poor sods who write the ads in the first place.

Alex Pearl is author of Sleeping with the Blackbirds 

Thursday 29 December 2011

Marvellous Margate?

Margate is one of those places that never seems to shake off its rather tacky image of a down-at-heel seaside town with its fair share of amusement arcades, 'kiss-me-quick' hats and peeling paint. As you pass the once fashionable Lido and the countless boarded up shops and grotty bedsits with their filthy nylon curtains and ugly double-glazed units of the greying plastic variety, it's not particularly hard to see why. But if you half close your eyes and look beyond the years of filth and neglect, you can just make out a town of grand Georgian, Victorian and Edwardian proportions. For this indeed was once a fashionable resort for the wealthy residents of London's middle classes. The golden age of the railways brought families with their maids and housekeepers to Margate in their droves. The wealthy bought themselves summer retreats here, and no expense was spared.

Friends of ours have, almost 130 years later, decided to move from London to buy one of these grand properties as a permanent home. Margate may desperately need a makeover, but if you are prepared to see its potential, property here is astonishing value for money. Our friends now live in a majestic Victorian home built in 1890 with incredibly high ceilings and much of the original features like panelling, architraves, ceiling roses and fireplaces all intact. When fitting period chandeliers to the downstairs ceiling, our friends discovered the original wires for bell-pulls that were employed by its very first occupants to summon their servants.

The house boasts five large bedrooms. The master bedroom is enormous and includes a large bathroom-en-suite. And even the rooms on the third floor have ceilings far higher than you'd expect.

I didn't get to see the cellar, but I'm reliably informed by my wife that it's large enough to house a reasonably sized gym - our friends' next project.

The house came with a quality fitted kitchen incorporating an impressive double stove and gigantic American fridge, as well as a separate utility room - all for the price of a one bedroom basement flat in Kentish Town, North London with just about enough room to swing a small cat.

Now that Tracy Emin has opened the lovely Turner Gallery - the town's one cultural claim to fame, one wonders how long it'll be before hordes of Londoners up sticks and seek affordable splendour in this much neglected neck of the woods.

Alex Pearl is author of Sleeping with the Blackbirds 

Friday 16 September 2011

In Memoriam - 18 Feb, 2010

At times like this, it’s always difficult to know quite where to start. How to attempt in a short space of time to try and sum up an extraordinary life.

Well, while looking for a notebook to jot my thoughts I inadvertently knocked a box of children's chess pieces off one of our book shelves. And as the pieces flew every which way and the lid fell to the floor, the answer lay there staring me in the face. Because in the corner of the broken hinged lid my eye fell upon the spidery handwriting of a child. In clear pencil the words were quite legible. They read: A. M.Pearl, Avondale Road, Liverpool.

Dad would probably have been no more than ten years of age when he left his mark on the lid. And it’s touching that a piece of his childhood should manifest itself in our children's world of board games two generations later.

One of eight children, he was brought up in Liverpool’s poorest back streets and had no formal education to speak of. Indeed, I remember him telling me that some of his teachers were the poor wretched souls who had seen action in the trenches of the first world war and were still suffering the effects of shell shock. But despite the obvious hardships, he never spoke a bad word about his childhood and bore no grudges over the very obvious lack of opportunities that presented themselves. Indeed, his memories of childhood were always recounted with great affection. One gets a sense that any shortfalls in material possessions were more than made up for by a loving family environment. And I guess it was these formative years that helped shape those qualities that we remember him for. His modesty, generosity of spirit, selflessness and desire to help others. These were traits that certainly carried his name.

He will always remain in my memory as a remarkable husband to our dear mother – caring for her right up until he went into the home three weeks ago; an incredibly supportive father to his two sons; a loving grandpa to his four grandchildren who he adored; and a cherished friend to so many. And today as we remember him for his generosity, wisdom and good humour, I’m comforted by the thought that these qualities will undoubtedly live on. Because in no small way, he left his mark on all of us.

Alex Pearl is author of Sleeping with the Blackbirds