Free AI web copilot to create summaries, insights and extended knowledge, download it at here

Abstract

you 300 pounds an hour for, feet up on the desk like you own the place, with your head buried in aviation weekly." said the director trying to be authoritative.</p><p id="1b44">"What you pay me 300 pounds an hour for is my amazing fucking creative brain power and if you do not fuck off now and leave me alone to think then I am out of here to somewhere they will pay double what you do." spat back Jet.</p><p id="f513">I sat and watched this little interplay with my jaw almost on the floor. I'm not sure what was more impressive, the 300 pounds an hour or Jet's highly impressive put down of a senior director. The director did no more than turn tail and scurry off back upstairs to his little attic ivory tower were he managed to hold a little sway over some his fellow directors.</p><p id="050c">Everybody wanted to be Jet, including me, and have that level of self confidence and influence. Of course, it helped that Jet had won several awards at all sorts of major film festivals including Cannes. As for me, I was at the bottom of the pile.</p><p id="a536">The office politics was unbelievable. It seemed like everybody was striving to get to the top of the tree and didn't care a damn who they damaged as they attempted to push others aside. And that went all the way to the top.</p><p id="3280">I remember one account executive who, due to his disgusting habit of eating with his vast mouth open and his barely concealed materialistic greed, was nicknamed the 'Bionic Pig'. Darren, as was his real name, was highly ambitious and began to demand a place on the board and a company Porsche 911.</p><p id="bf55">The board at first refused such an outlandish demand, until Darren made it clear to them that he had their biggest client in his pocket, a client who spent five million pounds a year on advertising. "Ok," said Darren,"then I'll go where I'm appreciated and take the Brandon Bank Corporation with me." The Bionic Pig got exactly what he wanted, though no doubt was kicked out as soon as the directors could muscle him out of the client's affections.</p><p id="9e3e">Unbeknownst to me was a nasty little ploy to nudge out yet another bullshit merchant using an unwitting me as a pawn. The man in question was a copywriter of some repute, except it was based on lies. But to some, the lies sounded believable and, combined with his soft spoken manner, allowed him to get much higher than he deserved.</p><p id="af47">James had one other sly little trick in his armoury, which he used to good effect on his way to the top, he stole the creative ideas of other copywriters and art directors and presented them as his own work. In time, the victims were on to him and demanded he be removed. However James had one very good friend on the board who protected him.</p><p id="6111">When I arrived on the scene James was away on holiday. I was sat at his desk not knowing that the man even existed. When he came back from holiday and saw me sat at his desk he was told in no uncertain terms that I was his replacement. It wasn't true of course, but it upset James a great deal and he presumed that I was in on it. From that day forward he became my sworn enemy.</p><p id="4323">As things turned out, within six months my work was catching attention elsewhere at another local agency who invited me to head up their copy department. I went from being a small fish in a big pond to a big fish in a medium sized pond. It was a dream move, not least of all because I got to work on all the top accounts, which included highly desirable tv ad work. Without any effort on my part, I leap-frogged to the top of the pile. Sadly, thanks to James, it was to las

Options

t no more than a year.</p><p id="3017">There where quite a few significant changes at my old agency and James was at long last ousted. Unfortunately he came to my new agency as my boss and hounded me with all manner of dirty tricks, which included stealing my creative ideas and passing them off as his. And his rubbish ideas he managed to pass off as mine. In the end I had no option but to leave. However, I moved on to a much better job as a freelancer and earned a ton more money.</p><p id="bc39">As for James, he was by now in his mid fifties and had suddenly decided he wanted to be young again and started to prep for running a marathon. He got three miles into the race and dropped dead of a heart attack!</p><p id="f16f">And me? I was on a roll and for quite a few years yet I was out of the rat-race and did very well indeed thank you very much. But nothing lasts forever as they say and by the mid to late nineties I was once again back in the rat-race, this time in retail car sales. But that can wait for another day.</p><p id="8d7b">If I was in this writing game for the money I would go running back to advertising. However, the bare faced nastiness is still very much a part of that game. It is endemic due to the large amounts of money to be gained. In the highflying world of advertising, to get to the top you have to be an absolute bar steward.</p><p id="d6be">These days I would much rather enjoy writing whatever I want whenever I want and to hell with the money. I have seen with my own eyes the damage of pursuing the dream as a successful creative in ad-world. I recently came across a picture of Jet and I have to tell you he looks eighty years old, not the sixty something I know him to be. Then again, at least he's still alive, which is more than I can say for quite a few others.</p><p id="9338">To DE</p><div id="5ffc" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/a-real-tale-stranger-than-fiction-547c5f468552"> <div> <div> <h2>A Real Tale Stranger Than Fiction</h2> <div><h3>I could not invent a bigger monster than this</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*GizqoKnVuySaK9v4O51FJQ.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="04f4" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/its-tough-at-the-top-of-the-pops-af2ea907ca8"> <div> <div> <h2>It's Tough At The Top Of The Pops</h2> <div><h3>The Salacious Story Of One Johnny Rainbow and How He Got Busted</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*olQnnydeFP0PllZAzweU6w.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="6512" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/reaching-out-without-fear-on-illumination-63ef6bffcba1"> <div> <div> <h2>Reaching Out Without Fear On Illumination</h2> <div><h3>Where nobody can take you for a ride</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*O2okKrEjg1qJu8amkX-VPg.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

Life In The Writers Fast Lane

Or a relaxing writers cruise down some beautiful country road?

Photograph by Sam Piearce Warrilow on Unsplash

Sitting here at my desk at home writing and editing for Illumination and Illumination Curated, I am constantly struck by the atmosphere of friendliness, the helpfulness and colloboration between writers and editors alike. It is all a far cry from where I started.

After graduating with a degree in English in 1984, by little more than being in the right place at the right time, I landed my dream job. I went to start work at one of the biggest and best ad agencies of that time as a copywriter.

The agency was based in an old ex rich man's mansion in the Cheshire countryside in the south of Manchester. Sat in about two acres of beautifully kept gardens, complete with a big swimming pool and its own bistro bar, one felt that one was entering some heavenly creative retreat. And in many ways, that is exactly what it was. However, this creative haven had a very unpleasant underbelly of competitiveness, envy, jealousy and rivalry. Of course, at first I sensed none of that.

I drove my car up a short tree-lined winding drive to a carpark for about 100 cars. It was one very impressive carpark I have to say. An AC Cobra, a Rolls Royce or two, a Ferrari, An Aston Martin, a few Porsche 911's....almost every single car was top of the line. A relaxing stroll across the carpark to the main building to start work was a car lover's dream come true.

Inside the creative department it was all open plan. There were beautiful kites hanging from the false ceiling, stunning posters, and model cars and aeroplanes adorned many a creative Johnny's desk.

I was invited to sit in a small partitioned-off area along with two other creative guys, both some years younger than me. Dwayne and Steve were kind of friendly, but at the same time seemed to eye me with more than a little suspicion, as if I might be some sort of threat to their little cocoon of creativity. They told me that I could sit at what appeared to be an empty desk and to wait for somebody to bring me a brief.

My first briefs were for the dregs of what passed for desirability. I was given some technical sheets about some sort of ICI fertilising product which came in the form of what were called 'prills', or pill with an 'R' added. My brief was to come up with a long list of alternative names for the 'prills.' Not exactly what I had in mind. It was, to be frank, mind-blowingly boring.

In time, the briefs got better and I was allowed to tackle the next step up in product type and advertising spend. Of course, what everybody wanted was to work on a multi-million pound account for Porsche with a massive advertising spend for a television campaign, which always seemed to necessitate a trip to the Mojave desert in the USA.

The guys who got these jobs were the high rollers, not only an AC Cobra in the carpark, but also a part share in an old Dakota aeroplane. Jet, as he was called, was just such a guy, and he just seemed to spend all of his time with his cowboy leather boots, complete with ornate snakes cut into the leather, up on the desk like he owned the place. One day a senior director came to chat with Jet and rued ever having had the idea in the first place.

"So, this is what we pay you 300 pounds an hour for, feet up on the desk like you own the place, with your head buried in aviation weekly." said the director trying to be authoritative.

"What you pay me 300 pounds an hour for is my amazing fucking creative brain power and if you do not fuck off now and leave me alone to think then I am out of here to somewhere they will pay double what you do." spat back Jet.

I sat and watched this little interplay with my jaw almost on the floor. I'm not sure what was more impressive, the 300 pounds an hour or Jet's highly impressive put down of a senior director. The director did no more than turn tail and scurry off back upstairs to his little attic ivory tower were he managed to hold a little sway over some his fellow directors.

Everybody wanted to be Jet, including me, and have that level of self confidence and influence. Of course, it helped that Jet had won several awards at all sorts of major film festivals including Cannes. As for me, I was at the bottom of the pile.

The office politics was unbelievable. It seemed like everybody was striving to get to the top of the tree and didn't care a damn who they damaged as they attempted to push others aside. And that went all the way to the top.

I remember one account executive who, due to his disgusting habit of eating with his vast mouth open and his barely concealed materialistic greed, was nicknamed the 'Bionic Pig'. Darren, as was his real name, was highly ambitious and began to demand a place on the board and a company Porsche 911.

The board at first refused such an outlandish demand, until Darren made it clear to them that he had their biggest client in his pocket, a client who spent five million pounds a year on advertising. "Ok," said Darren,"then I'll go where I'm appreciated and take the Brandon Bank Corporation with me." The Bionic Pig got exactly what he wanted, though no doubt was kicked out as soon as the directors could muscle him out of the client's affections.

Unbeknownst to me was a nasty little ploy to nudge out yet another bullshit merchant using an unwitting me as a pawn. The man in question was a copywriter of some repute, except it was based on lies. But to some, the lies sounded believable and, combined with his soft spoken manner, allowed him to get much higher than he deserved.

James had one other sly little trick in his armoury, which he used to good effect on his way to the top, he stole the creative ideas of other copywriters and art directors and presented them as his own work. In time, the victims were on to him and demanded he be removed. However James had one very good friend on the board who protected him.

When I arrived on the scene James was away on holiday. I was sat at his desk not knowing that the man even existed. When he came back from holiday and saw me sat at his desk he was told in no uncertain terms that I was his replacement. It wasn't true of course, but it upset James a great deal and he presumed that I was in on it. From that day forward he became my sworn enemy.

As things turned out, within six months my work was catching attention elsewhere at another local agency who invited me to head up their copy department. I went from being a small fish in a big pond to a big fish in a medium sized pond. It was a dream move, not least of all because I got to work on all the top accounts, which included highly desirable tv ad work. Without any effort on my part, I leap-frogged to the top of the pile. Sadly, thanks to James, it was to last no more than a year.

There where quite a few significant changes at my old agency and James was at long last ousted. Unfortunately he came to my new agency as my boss and hounded me with all manner of dirty tricks, which included stealing my creative ideas and passing them off as his. And his rubbish ideas he managed to pass off as mine. In the end I had no option but to leave. However, I moved on to a much better job as a freelancer and earned a ton more money.

As for James, he was by now in his mid fifties and had suddenly decided he wanted to be young again and started to prep for running a marathon. He got three miles into the race and dropped dead of a heart attack!

And me? I was on a roll and for quite a few years yet I was out of the rat-race and did very well indeed thank you very much. But nothing lasts forever as they say and by the mid to late nineties I was once again back in the rat-race, this time in retail car sales. But that can wait for another day.

If I was in this writing game for the money I would go running back to advertising. However, the bare faced nastiness is still very much a part of that game. It is endemic due to the large amounts of money to be gained. In the highflying world of advertising, to get to the top you have to be an absolute bar steward.

These days I would much rather enjoy writing whatever I want whenever I want and to hell with the money. I have seen with my own eyes the damage of pursuing the dream as a successful creative in ad-world. I recently came across a picture of Jet and I have to tell you he looks eighty years old, not the sixty something I know him to be. Then again, at least he's still alive, which is more than I can say for quite a few others.