Door to door.

Through the window, near motionless nodes of life stood drumming their fingers methodically over smooth, shiny blobs of plastic and glass, all laid out tidily on grand tables of thick pine wood. Between the walls, floor and ceiling a repetitive drumbeat looped, occasionally accompanied by dense synthesised keyboarded melodies. Lee panned into the scene feeling out of complete sorts with the other passing occupants littered around the vast open plan retail space. The overly warm, still air immediately brought a pink to the young man’s face, reducing his appearance of age by some five years, increasing the extent to which a member of staff could patronise at his each undoing of a shirt button or scarf knot to release the itchy warmth of consumer angst.

Lee’s fingers remained firmly inside his pockets whilst little eye contact above floor level was made. The anticipation of patronage rolled along with the store music. Contact lurched slowly towards him, commenced by a firm, confident hand from behind, patting his shoulder. A blindingly white set of perfectly formed teeth danced behind a smile so smug it could snap.

The intruder of personal space’s eyes scanned every pixel of Lee’s face. The maximum volume of Lee’s voice seemed muted by the assistant’s unsettling over familiarity. He reached into his inside pocket, presented a diagram of the input ports behind his new television and pointed at a presentation laptop he owned a model of. The intruder swaggered into a back room, half dancing in his stride on returning and placed a series of wires into Lee’s hands. Lee paid for the items, re-knotted his scarf and did up a few shirt buttons. With determination, he power walked through the sliding electric doors to outside.

‘It’s incredible, the self importance great marketing can provide someone who ultimately just works in a shop’ typed Lee into his personal diary, letter to pen pal, tape cassette player and camera all rolled into one digital soapbox come necessity, whilst taking in the real, fresher air of the street. Outside of that businesses’ doors, he could have been standing anywhere, such is the regularity of international brand strategy. This time he was in London. The usual mild busyness of a mid morning performed choreographed poses the city knew too well.

‘It’s equally as unfathomable how right and sure a customer is that a particular product is the best choice because of bleached white television adverts positioned relentlessly throughout programming schedules’ typed somebody outside of that company’s San Francisco equivalent, into their own pocket PA system.

Lee stepped down into an underground station and watched the insides of his eyelids until his mental tally told him it had been six stops and was time to get up. The peaceful solitude of his own mind’s canvas was then drowned in buckets of noises sweeping, hanging, stomping and wheeling around the market stalls pitched immediately at the exit of his destination’s tube terminal.

In between prams, past snail paced shoppers, behind a leafleteer and across a set of traffic lights, Lee walked across an uneven terrain of paving slabs, seemingly against the flow of the earth, as baggy tracksuit bottoms, clouds of smoke, hints of urinated upon walls and bus dust marched towards him. A crisp packet got stuck on his foot. The unzipped tracksuit top of somebody running for a cab pinched past his forearm. At his front door atop six flights of stairs he refused to take a lift to avoid, Lee panted, took keys from his satchel containing an apple, notepad, box of cigarettes and newspaper, and shut himself away from it all.

Doctor’s Surgery

You’re hot and snot’s blocked your nose.
Hot to cold shivers dance up each toe.
You have an iPhone but it’s all about the snow.
You’re an hour in and waiting, redefining ‘slow’.

You’re next in line says the girl to all who ask.
Pointlessly, you keep sulking and acting an ass,
sneezing over the counter, explaining you’re ill.
that all you want are a few feel good pills.

You’re finally in and your doctor’s not there.
Instead, medical students are having a fair
of text books and questions you just can’t bare
and want to tare up and throw in the air.

The real doctor enters, observing the rest.
Your patience undergoes yet more tests.
Your ears are blocked, your head’s an ache.
They act as though your symptoms are fake.

‘What do you want us to do?’ asks the guy.
You take a deep sigh and almost cry.
They don’t seem to have the foggiest clue.
‘You’ve gone viral, there’s nothing we can do.’

You’re sent on your way and told to stay warm,
to have lots of rest and you’ll soon reform.
The body’s buzz will calm from the storm
and you’ll soon forget once back to the norm.

But you’ve got little time and don’t want to wait.
This is the age of instancy, soon’s too late.
They sit blankly, up goes your heart rate.
You stage a collapse and they take the bate.

You’re home now, watching TV sludge,
a Lemsip in one hand, chewing warm fudge,
having dropped their pills to make things calm,
a leaflet on hypochondria screwed up in your palm.

Fertile Baguette quarter four pitches.

At 11pm on Saturday night in the bushes of Soho Square, freelance journalist Gordon Edwards searched for his family’s missing guinea pig. Whilst he didn’t return Lineker to his wife’s and children’s suburban detached home in Hadley, he did arrive with a muddy iPad that on powering up, appeared to be from Electronic Life Aids (EMA) magazine’s Top 100 listed agency Fertile Baguette.

What follows are extracts from the social media plans for their client base. Gordon Edwards, having amassed a portfolio of this one investigation, intends to return to his life long occupation as officer to the 1st Boys Brigade company of Hadley. He has only visited Soho once. Lineker was found dead in a crisp packet inside his briefcase.

British Pumps
Proposition: A Facebook application where users collect points by digging up virtual squares of Africa’s coast line. Reach: It will gain virality through letting players invite friends to catch oily zebras before CNN journalists arrive to expose the drilling. Projections: Higher engagement in oil wells with unemployed males, 18-24. Uplift in perceived entertainment within the sector.

Magical Meats
Purpose: To propel sales of the processed meat manufacturer’s new Glam product; tinned slices of luncheon meat cut into the shapes of ear rings, diamonds and pearl necklaces. Demographic: middle aged housewives and the children there of. Method: A campaign micro-site showcases a prominent gallery of photographs that a TV advert campaign from 3.30-4pm encourages people to submit photos of meat being magical to. Outcomes: Individuals in the photos become brand advocates, Glam is seen as an innovative and modern consumer choice. Magical Meats’ identity pillars gain sustainability. Contingency: A physical album of submitted photos is published with a forward by David Blaine about the power and mystery of meat. Photo subjects will crave ownership of their moments of fame, as will their friends and family, creating a new revenue stream altogether.

Going Faces
Objective: Re-launch the traditional travel agency as the one stop shop for tourists struggling in the current economic climate. Campaign elements: Paid for banners on Twitter superimpose profile pictures onto backdrops of sun and sand. On clicking, a micro-site launches allowing visitors to choose a destination, upload their photo and be e-mailed a zip folder of staged holiday snaps. Revenue stream: Visitors can purchase bolt on extras to their snaps such as incremental Photoshop tanning through photo collections. Customers can purchase iron on immigration and customs stamps to place on their passports.

Editor’s notes: When Gordon Edwards stumbled upon these findings, he printed off a hard copy. Whilst popping out for a stroll in Hadley Woods before we arrived to meet him, he dropped and lost much of the printed pitches and the iPad. He would welcome you continuing his investigation and hunting for the remaining papers. His accident occurred within the large bush 20 meters left of the oak tree. He also lost a sock. His wife doesn’t want him going for long walks anymore.

Digital dreams.

In the first house I lived in we had a video games console that we fed cassette tapes. An educational puzzle game would blink on to the big, bulky TV set’s screen. An Uncle twice my age would set up his childhood console when I visited him at my Nan’s house. It was even more basic. He sat with a pamphlet and inputted code for half an hour before I could play a black and white Ping Pong game that entertained me for hours.

A year or so later, friends were starting to talk about the Sega Megadrive. I’d have a play if I was at theirs for tea but I got more satisfaction out of my Dad’s Commodore Amiga. The way a little green character named Super Frog bounced through medieval, Egyptian, circus and space levels to an upbeat soundtrack was mesmerising, and very gay. The stern bitmap image of a floppy disc on the screen was an exciting event for my sister and I, signifying our success in completing another world of the game and having to enter a new disk.

The Amiga stuck around with us whilst we lived in another house. Friends at this point were bringing Gameboys into the playground, raving about Sonic The Hedgehog and role playing the Mario brothers in school assemblies. I remember one afternoon at school, being sent by the teacher to the classroom next door for the code to access a level of Lemmings that my friends and I couldn’t reach.

The pace, noise and colour overload of more progressive gaming options took a while for me to come around to. I remained content flicking through a chest of pirated floppies my Dad had copied from a friend at work. Lemmings was often in the mix, many a Sunday afternoon would be spent on Street Fighter 2 and once I received a midi compatible Yamaha keyboard for a birthday (the PSS 590 – it still sounds great), I had it wired up to sequence bits of music I could never develop for lack of not having a hard drive or understanding what it was to save. After hours or blocking out squares on a grid and looping sounds together, I powered off and watched my efforts get zapped to the middle of the screen before it went pitch black and fizzed with static that you never hear from modern monitor.

By the time I started secondary school, a weekly IT class was the norm. Windows 95 had changed the world and after some reluctance and no doubt saving, my parents bought the family its first home computer. The Compaq Presario ran on Windows 95 but welcomed users first, to a virtual shopping mall. One shop front would take you to a desktop and start button that confused us for a good couple of months and the other would launch a horrid Compaq impersonation of Microsoft Office. Whilst you ‘stood in the mall’ a horrific recording looped on the virtual Tannoy. ‘Welcome to Compaq Presario Plaza. We hope you enjoy your stay. Where do you want to go?’ would be considered an abstract joke if sold nowadays to a world addicted to smooth user journeys and simplicity.

On that first PC, before months of my life were consumed playing strategy games such as Theme Park and Command and Conquer, filling the entire 2D square of Sim City with buildings was my main focus. A friend came to visit one Saturday and we managed to not leave one pixel of the game’s map uncovered by road, commercial or residential blocks. My Mum wasn’t best pleased with two young kids spending their whole day in a dark, curtained room and we were put on our bikes and sent for a cycle around the block. All we talked about together was what area of the map we’d bulldoze to redevelop. We were obsessed. Just as we were coming back down my road, the friend imagined. ‘It’d be amazing if someone was playing the exact game at the exact time, somewhere else in the world. We could join our cities up!’

600 floppy discs, a Discman, several mini Alba bedroom HiFi systems, trips to central London with friends to play shoot ’em up games across LAN networks in gaming cafes and an old Nokia mobile phone just about able to handle a game of Snakes later, things are obviously rather different. And that’s the true beauty of technology.

It’s come along way and has a limitless way to go. When I took the hour long bus journey home from school I carried a rucksack filled with 5 separate CDs and spent most of the trip swapping them back and forth to hear one song from here and one there. I never dreamt of a wallet size piece of plastic whizzing my record collection of 10,000 tracks up to my ears whilst I sat on a train, booked on a website using a phone that could film, edit and distribute the journey to the entire world in minutes. Technology takes the unimaginable and destroys it with creation.

Technological Penmanship; faster, harder, better.

A Twitter feed and blog is a writer’s friend as it promotes opinion over perspective. It allows an author the liberation from weekly newspaper columns where they’d have to stick to one specialist subject or the categorised fanzine focused on a particular theme.

The Twitter and blogging sphere allows writers with variety, to drift from a poem about their goldfish to a warzone commentary or curry house reviews, enabling the masses not to tune in to topic but subscribe to tone of tongue.

Operating loosely throughout this publishing landscape, a writer’s mandate is to produce gripping sequences of a consistent standard, challenging themselves, evolving their craft to greater heights and providing a stronger service to their audiences.

The new way’s tail in an old way’s teeth.

pencil, pad
canvas, coal
hours, years
ages, goals
spectacle, fan fair
theatre, applause
indulgence, greed
demand, cause
type writers, keys
zeros, ones
minutes, moments
concepts, none
muted squeaks
bounces, blocks
filters, folders
catalogues, stock
dormant tiers
lagging streams
attention spans
shut down screen
silence, space
time, thought
journal, pen
lesson taught

Virtual Insanity

This morning I went to one of those digital marketing shows at Earl’s Court. After having a barcode hung around my neck, swiped as though I was a unit of cattle, I walked in and almost heaved at the sight of hundreds of people selling technology products and services, things you can’t actually hold or see, things that don’t really exist. The crowds of people drank coffee, stood outside smoking, sat listening to that same seminar about behavioural targeting by that same multinational superpower on those same dirty mauve chairs as the previous year. Clipboards clapped, pens popped, glasses clinked and smiles snapped. It was raining outside on the walk to the station, littered with leaflets about the ‘next big thing’ and those ‘next big things’ which were still the future two years previous. But for all the rain drops and stations outbound from the cosmetics of a glorified farm pen, with built in troughs full of croissants and buckets of latté, I still feel soiled.