Slightly Askew

Born To Run at Latitude 2009

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Just returned from Latitude Festival. Feel like utter shit, smell even worse. Not to worry. A very good, cider-sodden time was had by all.

Here’s my round up of the festival.

“This is a new song, so go for a piss.”

Thom Yorke understands that a big, early afternoon crowd would rather hear Fake Plastic Trees. Shame the miserable sod didn’t oblige.

“I think you’ll find mercury is only poisonous in its ionic form.”

Comedian Stephen K. Amos gets the most bizarre heckle of his career when discussing the use of mercury in dentistry.

“We don’t cuss on our records. My mom won’t allow it.”

Brian Fallon of The Gaslight Anthem (if Bruce recommends them, you listen to them) takes the lead in the Nice, Warm and Funny Front Man of the Festival competition.

“I’m going to take part in some food escapement.”

My good friend Jamie heads to the festival toilets for that scary first poo.

“If your parents brought you to this show, your parents are cunts.”

Phil Nichol points out that his show has been rated 15 by the Latitude authorities. And in doing so, wins the award for Greatest Opening Line Ever.

“Fuck you, Natasha Kaplinsky.”

Watching Robin Ince have a breakdown on stage wasn’t comfortable viewing. Especially if you happened to be Natasha’s mum. Memorable, though.

“Come on, you bumders!”

Because even at a frightfully middle class festival, you can’t have enough of The Inbetweeners’ toilet humour. Thanks, Brett.

“Next on stage is Chris Waters singing Born To Run.”

Drinking excessively and then ending up at a tent where the entertainment is karaoke with a live band was only ever going to end one way. Needless to say, I was brilliant. Clarkey woke up the following morning with the souvenir photo that you see above. We’ve still no idea how we ended up with it.

But the bits we do remember… well, they were bloody good. Thanks, Latitude.

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Photography by zachstern

You go into town to buy a nice new jumper. You don’t know exactly what you want, but you’ve got an idea of what it looks like in your head. (A red wine kind of colour, tight fitting, a nice thin wool.) You’ve got money in your pocket and time to look around. You’re looking forward to buying that nice new jumper and wearing it to what’s-her-name’s party tonight.

Except you can’t find one you like. Not anywhere.

So you walk home empty-handed and, just when you’re about to turn into your road, some guy walks past with a really smart shirt that’s much better than the jumper that’s still tumbling around your imagination. And you wish you’d looked for that shirt instead.

And this is the problem with digital marketing.

Are you desperate to be found? Or happy being discovered?

And that means making a decision.

Because unless you or the company you’re working for has a cowshed full of fivers to dip into, you’ve got to make a big “impact” (everybody uses that word nowadays – and I get a little bit of sick in my mouth every time they do) on a limited budget.

Do you do search marketing? Or relationship marketing?

They’re both pretty simple concepts as far as I’m concerned.

Search means SEO and AdWords. You start with a million potential customers, get the attention of one percent and make your pitch, and then hope that one percent of them buy your product.

From one million, you get one hundred. And then you put the data into a spreadsheet and work out cost per acquisition and a plethora of similar ratios.

Relationship marketing is quite the opposite. You start with one customer. Do a bloody brilliant job and hope one becomes ten. And then hope ten becomes one hundred. All by word of mouth.

Of course, you can create catalysts for spreading the word: nice websites with blogs so you can feel more involved, well-written opt-in emails, maybe even a Twitter account. (Note: this isn’t social media marketing. If you’ve got nothing worth talking about, a Facebook page isn’t going to make a sliver of difference.)

The battle lies where the two meet.

Does search marketing happily sit alongside relationship marketing?

Is there any joy in giving attention to someone who’s been desperately seeking it anyway?

Can you start with one and one million?

I don’t know, and it’s something I’ve been wrestling with all day.

Any thoughts?

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Photo by slimmer jimmer

If you’ve arrived here looking for information about Aldburgh, the lovely seaside town in the equally lovely county of Suffolk, there’s good news and bad news.

The bad news is that you spelt Aldburgh wrong. (You need an e after the d – just like the alphabet.) And what you’ve stumbled upon here is an experiment to see if I can generate a bit of website traffic based on a typo.

But I guess if you’re here, the good news is that my experiment’s worked.

(By the way, if you’re still reading and really do need to find somewhere to stay in Aldburgh, why not head to The Brudenell? It’s an independent hotel owned by the lovely people at Thorpeness & Aldeburgh Hotels. Or if you’re only going for the day, don’t forget to buy some chips.)

Anyway. The reason for this little post is that I’ve been fiddling around with Google’s Keyword Tool today, and I discovered that “Aldburgh” is searched for 3,600 times a month. And “Aldburgh Suffolk” a further 390. That’s nearly 4,000 searchers who are ready to be welcomed to this here blog.

And if you are one of those 4,000, “welcome” says I.

Take a look around.

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What a difference a year makes.

365 days ago I sat in a dark room and was asked if I’d like a representative from the company to join me in this meeting. If you’re ever asked such a thing, it’s probably not good news. I was told that my position as web editor / copywriter / marketer was “under review”.

“Under review” is the employment equivalent of terminal illness. It means: “you’re a goner – but not quite yet.”

It became apparent that, in three days, I was going to be made redundant. All bar divine intervention. And since I don’t believe in a man upstairs, I asked my employers to take me to metaphorical Switzerland.

“There’s no point in me hanging around where I’m not wanted,” I shrugged. “I’ll go now if you give me a few months’ salary.”

They agreed to pay me what I wanted. I packed up my books and walked out of the office.

* * *

Why did I get made redundant? Good question. I’m still not sure. It wasn’t for financial reasons, I know that much. The company was doing very well. Still is.

The reason, I think, was that they wanted a calculator.

You can put oodles of information into a calculator and it’ll return the right answer. Every sodding time. If it doesn’t, it’s because you put in the wrong data.

I’m being a bit abstract, but bear with me.

This company, you see, liked democracy a lot. Not just a little. A lot. Especially when it came to marketing and anything remotely creative. Everybody had a say. “It’s your company!” the Leader would cry. “And we want everybody’s ideas!”

Which is very nice and empowering, but bloody frustrating if you’ve been employed to do a job that 30 people now believe is sort of their job too. Because I got absolutely nowhere. Because everybody’s opinion had to be collated and considered and calculated – and then, they thought, you’d get the right answer. I didn’t agree with them then and I still don’t. Such an approach is perfect for achieving average, but not for being remarkable or astonishing. I like thinking and creating and doing and improving stuff. I don’t like being a calculator.

So they were right to make me redundant. I wasn’t the calculator they were looking for. The job made me miserable. And I never got to give my opinion on what colour toilet rolls we should buy. So much for democracy.

(Don’t get me wrong, I don’t deliberately stand in the way of apple carts. But I’ll gladly stick a landmine underneath one if I think the apple cart is in fact full of shit.)

I was actually rather ecstatic to be made redundant. Being forced into making a new start is exciting. That night, Caroline and I opened a bottle of champagne and got a greasy takeaway from the chippy down the road. Glasses clinked. “To the future,” we said.

* * *

One year on and I’m working in one of the best creative agencies in the East.

Every day brings a brilliant new project. I get to think and write and program websites for loads of different clients. I get to wear jeans and novelty t-shirts to work. And I get to eat the finest bacon and sausage baguettes known to man whenever I choose.

All that thinking and creating and doing and improving stuff is now my job. I’m a very lucky boy.

I’ve gone from being a web editor at a tiny insurance company that thought it was creative, to a copywriter at a revered creative agency. (Via, it must be said, a joyous summer of watching sport and pretending to freelance.)

I’ve seen my words in big, proper newspapers (The Telegraph, Financial Times, International Herald Tribune) and in London Underground tube trains. On the sides of bus shelters and on the backs of buses. In a specialist luxury watch magazine and on flyers for a major political party. I’ve written loads of scripts for radio ads too.

Not bad for a reject.

I’m still rough around edges and prone to ending up in ridiculous grammar cul-de-sacs where a mistake is bloody obvious to all but me. But I’ve got a boss who’s pretty much omniscient and an incredibly talented creative director to slap me into shape. And I bloody love my job.

What a difference a year makes.

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The last time I heard the word tessellate, I was about nine.

Before me lay a piece of dotted paper with the same shape repeated over and over again. And to be fair, I’ve had very little reason to use the word since then. I always thought it was a good word, though.

Thankfully, those clever chaps collectively named Tokyo Police Club have put it to brilliant use. This is the acoustic version; the electric one is equally superb.

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Perhaps you’ve heard of Wolfram Alpha (or WolframAlpha or Wolfram|Alpha or however it’s bloody written.) Perhaps you haven’t.

Early hype suggested it would make Google look as relevant as a Soda Stream. I don’t know if that’s going to be the case.

You see, it’s not really a search engine; more an engine that’s on the web. Indeed, the boffs at Wolfram Alpha call it a “computational knowledge engine”. It’s not about returning the most relevant page in relation to your search, more about giving you answers to questions.

I used it to work out that I’m 10,000 days old on 30 August, 2009. Which is cool and petrifying all at the same time.

You can also use it to calculate mortgages.

Powerful, clever stuff. Read more about it here.

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Nope. I’m not dead.

I nearly died this morning though. Went spinning with the wife-to-be. If you’re not familiar with spinning, allow me put you in the picture: You get on an exercise bike in a dark room. Someone puts on bad, loud music. Someone shouts “sprint” every now and then. Lactic acid kicks in after about twenty seconds and never goes away. After half an hour, they give you your freedom back.

Suffice to say it wasn’t the most enjoyable experience I’ve ever had.

But I can see why people, my missus included, get a buzz out of it. There’s a sense of achievement when you walk out of the room. And I guess it’s that sense of achievement which is the addictive thing about exercise. (My feelings were mostly dehydration and dizziness, but that’s more to do with my pathetic fitness level.)

The addiction of achievement is something that Nike ad execs worked out a long time ago. But achievement rarely comes without difficulty. Effort, perspiration and knock-backs. Good old fashioned blood, sweat and tears. Without them, the big slice of achievement pie doesn’t taste so good.

And you can’t really cheat exercise. It’s you and you alone that has to put in the hours. But when you win, the achievement’s all yours too.

Nike manages to squeeze this notion into every ad. And in terms of concept and delivery, I don’t think it gets much better than this.

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Some cap doffing is in order methinks.

A friend of mine, the lovely Mrs Emma Kindred, has recently started her own photography business. A talented graphic designer, Emma departed a sinking ship (they’ll be remembered as publishing houses) as every news broadcaster under God’s hot sun decided that we’d slumped into the Worst Catastrophic Recession To Hit These Shores Ever™.

Scary times.

But rather than get in a flap like a Daily Mail reader listening to a Russell Brand podcast, Emma started EightyOne – a photography studio that gives you top-notch snaps of pets, tots, and the tying of knots. And good on her.

Emma graduated from the Norwich School of Art and Design after studying photography. So you’re getting someone who knows their stuff behind the lens and is passionate about their work – not some pleb with a new gadget trying to make a quick buck.

And that’s my sales pitch on her behalf. Visit EightyOne.co.uk for wedding, pet and children portrait photography. Or give Emma a call on 07834 555329. And if you’re in a social media frenzy, tweet @ei8thyone.

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In search of a spot of lunch, we headed to The Fountain in Tuddenham, a little village on the outskirts of Ipswich. It’s usually a busy pub/restaurant/bistro/whatever-it-brands-itself, but we figured that Mother’s Day last Sunday (one of the busiest days of the year for the restaurant trade) would render this Sunday a good day to get a table. And we were right: seconds after walking in The Fountain’s door we were seated and ordering drinks. My lager arrived quicker than it could’ve been poured. Remarkable stuff.

And it got better. The menu was brilliant – I wanted to order about eight meals. I settled on a homemade cheeseburger with horseshoe fries (okay, hardly the most opulent of dishes, but I do love a good burger). And bloody good it was, too. My burger was cooked beautifully and the fries were perfect. And how often do you get a perfect plate of chips? Not often. They’re often too crispy or too greasy. Or there’s a minging green one that brings all the others down.

I didn’t have dessert, although Caroline said the crème brulée was better than the Bistro’s. And the whole thing was a good price – less than fifteen quid a head (for four of us).

In fact, The Fountain at Tuddenham was pretty much faultless. Pretty much meaning I’m go to be a nit-picking nobhead.

Because for all the quick service, brilliant food and very reasonable pricing, The Fountain is in need of some smiles. Yup, smiles. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not demanding that people who work in customer service bounce around like they’re advertising the newest tampons known to humankind. But a smile – even a forced one – makes me feel that I’m not completely spoiling your day by eating at your establishment. And word has it they’re cheap.

Just a small glitch then. Oh, and the disgraceful apostrophe omission.

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