Courage and creativity part II

‘Courage, also known as bravery and fortitude, is the ability to confront fear, pain, danger, uncertainty or intimidation.’
Wikipedia

There’s one word that really stands out for me in the Wikipedia definition of courage: uncertainty. In business, as in most aspects of life, we are expected to make the right choice, do the right thing, behave the right way. The flaw in this thinking is that it assumes there is a right way and a wrong way and nothing in between. Decision making is not always so clear cut. Often there may be several possibilities where the outcome isn’t certain either way, but the potential for moving beyond the status quo justifies the risk.

What is required is less judgement and more consideration of possibilities. Unfortunately creativity is deemed the preserve of people with long hair and Bench T-shirts, not the bed fellow of enhancing the bottom line. How do you introduce a culture of creative thinking into a company? I’ll ponder that one and get back to you. There are companies who value creativity and courage, to the point where they employ expensive business strategists and futurologists to do what they could be doing themselves. If only they were brave enough.

Courage can be defined as the ability to confront uncertainty. Creativity thrives on the uncertainty of an outcome to generate new ideas. Therefore, it can be said that creativity incites courage. Or put another way, creativity encourages people to be brave.

What are we teaching our kids?

I'm going to my first school parent's evening tonight. Nothing unusual in that except my kids don't start school till next year. So why bother? Well, the school invited mrs pigs & bees and myself along to meet the teachers and ask any questions we might have. This is a lot different to how it was in my day when you presented yourself before the headmaster to receive your school tie and a pep talk on what was expected of you. You're 4 years old, you have responsibilities now. But have things really changed that much? Getting 15 GCSEs at A * grade is easier than getting to £32,000 on 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire?', everyone has a degree in 'Media Studies' or 'Women's Studies' or 'The Study of Studying' yet once they start work people behave the same way they behaved 50 years ago. So what are we teaching them? Or more importantly, what are people learning?

Edward de Bono has spent his life promoting the need to teach people how to think. No, not people who have had an axe stuck in their head and need to relearn the basics. You. Me. Everyone. His argument is that schools don't teach kids how to think yet with a few hours tuition people can really unleash their potential creativity. Ah, but I'm not creative, I hear you say. Well, actually you are. You may not be a Van Gogh or Da Vinci but creativity isn't something bestowed upon the chosen few, like a hump on the back, it's a skill that can be learned just like mathematics and reading and writing. Check out Dr Ed's website for more info: http://www.edwdebono.com

This got me thinking to what else we might never have been taught at school. Now, if there's one thing that anyone in this crazy business needs it's a firm belief that they've got a set of stones on them like a pair of granite space hoppers. (Yes, especially the women.) Yessiree, when it comes to courage creatives are kicking the Army Rangers out of the way. We know no fear. We laugh in the face of failure, sat here in our world of comfy chairs and marker pens that smell like Bakewell Tart. Unlike the people we work for. Clients, we sometimes feel, are bereft of even the smallest plums. A distant cousin to the jelly fish, as my art teacher at school used to say. But can we really be that different? We are all trying to do well. All worried about paying the mortgage.

Is courage something that you can learn? I don't have the answer but welcome comments.

Fork in hell

The common or garden fork is an often-seen creature at this time of year.

He spends most of his time nestled amongst the other members of his brood in a little compartment in the cutlery drawer, but a couple of times a day the humble fork leaves the confines of his nest and goes out to feed.

This is when sightings are most common. The fork loves to frolic with his close cousin, the knife. The knife is an altogether different beast, although she sleeps with her family in a compartment just a couple of inches from the forks.

Together they feed, plunging together into steaks and vegetables and sausages, rubbing against each other in a merry dance, celebrating the pleasure of food, and being cutlery.

There are some foods, however, the knife and fork do not like so much. Nachos are always difficult, and so is soup. For these, the plate must be cleared by the Great Speckled Spoon, who sometimes returns after the main feeding has done and helps with pudding.

However, though the fork and knife are indeed similar, they differ in a few important details. One of these is that only the fork is allowed to venture into the mystical land of The Mouth. This is sacred ground on which the knife must never tread. She must hold back, lying discarded in the gravy while the fork, his tines plunged deep into a juicy piece of pie, heads onwards and upwards for the land of The Mouth.

Despite this, the fork is unhappy. He mourns because he must spend his life upside down. He is sentenced to this punishment by the evil Table Manners - the same mysterious powers that decree that the humble knife should never venture to The Mouth.

You see, the fork evolved over millions of years into a special shape which makes him ideal for scooping up food. His tines curve gracefully upwards from base to tip, creating a perfect recess for holding porridge, or beans or rice.

How he would long to carry food to the land of The Mouth nestled in his scoop-like shape, but the evil Table Manners have decreed otherwise. Throughout his long life, since his birth in Sheffield (all forks are born in Sheffield), the Table Manners have forced him to carry tiny, insignificant portions of food balanced upon his back. Over and over he journeys to The Mouth, dreaming of the day the evil Table Manners will be overthrown.

You can help poor little forks the world over. Would you use a spade upside-down? Then why do something equally silly with a fork?

Help us liberate forks the world over - turn them back the right way up and scoop away to your heart's content.

The menswear department? Yes it's just up the stairs...

...through children's wear, ladies' wear, homewares and DIY, then carry straight on through the home entertainment department, past tools and DIY (DIY is so popular we've devoted two areas of the store to it), straight through the food court and you'll find it right in front of you.

This is how some people treat Google keywords advertising, assuming that you'll jump through hoops to see if their offering is actually the product you want. Well I, and millions of others like me, don't do hoops. We know what we want and if you can't show it to us we'll go elsewhere. Bye bye.

It's not hard to have people land at the page of the thing they are searching for when they click your sponsored link. If you don't know how to do it, visit our website and send us a message. We'll tell you how.

Training flight

I want one. Hours of fun with the theme from Airwolf playing on surround sound as I take chunks out of the paint on the ceiling.

Chocks Away!

Tally ho chaps, a fine day for flying, what?

Ten hundred hours: Pigs & Bees HQ, station scrambled. New Company Helicopter arrived. Rather a poor show on the first flight, a few near misses and whatnot, but with the addition of some precision blue-tack ballast we soon had her flying.

Ten Thirty Hours: Refueled and took on a scouting mission downstairs. Extended flight with Flight Lieutenant Bob at the stick. Jolly good show!

Twelve Hundred Hours: Papa Alpha Bravo One flew a recce over Ubergruppemeister Mike's Giant Pie of Mass Destruction. Wing Commander Phillips was at the controls when the crate got into a bit of a scrape down the back of the cupboard. A full scale rescue mission had to be launched, but proved to be successful.

Thirteen thirty Hours: Refueled and ready for flight again but all evidence of Ubergruppemeister Mike's Giant Pie of Mass Destruction has disappeared....

I know how Hans Blix felt.

Roger and Out.

The Gus Gorman road to riches

In Superman III Gus Gorman hit upon the genius idea of transfering all the half cents that were lost in the system, when people's salaries were rounded down the nearest whole cent, to his own bank account. Of course, this scam having appeared in a Superman film no one was stupid enough to try it for real. It would be just too obvious and people would know they are being stiffed. Until now. Only now the small quantities of salami slicing (as web literate types know this sort of crime) are deemed to be small change and today's Gus Gormans will take you for anything up to £1-80 at a time if my experiences today are anything to go by.

The first experience was the air machine at a petrol station. Now despite vending in 20p increments, the machine only accepts 20p, 50p, £1, and £2 coins. And it doesn't give change. Hmmmmm. So either I have the right money (a 20p coin) or I can choose to pay up to £2 for my 3 minutes of air. Gus Gorman take a bow.

Fast forward to 10 minutes later. Tyres inflated to the correct pressure I deftly manoeuvre the pigs & bees mobile into a city centre parking space and go to get a pay and display ticket. The minimum tariff is a hefty 70p. Only the machine doesn't give change, so the minimum tariff is really £1 for most people (based on the number of motorists wandering up and down the pavement with pound coins in their outstretched hands). Now if they (in this case Kirklees Council) said it was a pound I could live with it. Granted I would probably be living with it like a chronic Tourettes sufferer, but it's there in black and white and that's the price. But the Council has seen Superman III and they are sticking it to the motorist like old Gus stuck it to the man.

Could this trend catch on? Could we send out invoices rounded up to the nearest £500 and claim that our accounting system only accepts thousands or half thousands? I doubt it.

bloody students

Imran Khan, politician and former cricket star, is also the Chancellor of Bradford University. Following his imprisonment during the current state of emergency in Pakistan the university has started a campaign for his release. Now, this is admirable behaviour. Most of us are happy to tut-tut-and-don't-get-involved when we learn of injustice on the other side of the road let alone the far side of the world. So off toddled the local news team to get a few sound bites from the students of Bradford University. Now here is where it all starts to go a bit Pete Tong. You see, of the half dozen or so people interviewed on camera, only one could muster comments beyond 'It's so unfair' or 'He's our Chancellor' and "I like Imran Khan, he's really popular here'. Only one actually gave an example of Khan's philanthropy and the injstuce of his imprisonment (and one of those interviewed was the Dean). I suspect had you told most of the interviewees that Simon Cowell had changed his mind and Imran would be released and back on X-Factor next week they would have been happy.

Students have always come in for plenty of stick. Work shy lay abouts wasting the tax payers' money and in need of a good wash, is just one such example. The thing that really grates about students is the selective washing up. They will happily spend 5 minutes searching a sink full of cups and plates for the one mug that they have used, refill the sink with the dirty crockery, and wash just their own cup. This is fine when you are living in the squalor of your student house, but not so when you join the world of work.

Innit.

Donald Trump's hair

I'm sorry we can't show you a picture of it here. He's very rich and no doubt has teams of people scouring the Internet for mention of his name to keep his lawyers busy so here's a picture of some noodles instead. Google it. Make sure the kids are asleep and the curtains are closed before you do. Oh, and turn off safe search. It's got to be seen to be believed.

something that really is Marvelous!

I went to the doctors today. I had an unsightly growth on my wrist and I was beginning to lose sensation in two fingers (not those two). Before setting out for my appointment I did what any responsible person with dependents would do and made my own diagnosis with the help of Google. A ganglion. A pocket of synovial fluid that has leaked from the joint as a result of trauma. The prognosis was for a ganglionectomy by aspiration or excision (if you didn't know me you'd swear I was a doctor using such big words). Aspiration involves draining the fluid with a large gauge needle, injecting cortisone into the now empty lump and then having the patient lay down for 30 minutes to recover. Excision means cutting the skin, removing the offending item without damaging any blood vessels or nerves and stitching the wound up. So off I go and present myself as John Merrick to the GP.

"I think it's a ganglion," I say, as he squeezes it from all angles. "According to Google."

"It is indeed," concurs the good doctor, before snapping on the latex gloves and, with a quick rub of a sterile swab, plunges what is best described as a sterile prison shank into my wrist and squeezing an aspic like fluid out of it. Elastoplast on (optional) and I'm restored to my lump free self.

So why am I telling you this? Because, dear reader, Google also listed the cost of having a ganglion removed in a private hospital. £900 - £1500. Isn't the NHS marvelous!

I mean, how hard is it?

There are some things in life that are unquestionably hard to do. Performing vascular surgery, managing the England football team, or being a friend of Dorothy in a South Yorkshire mining village are some examples. Then there are things at the other end of the difficult-o-meter that require minimal, if any, effort - getting drunk and breathing would be two examples, listening to what your customer actually said to you 3 seconds ago is another. Step into my time machine and let us re-traverse the temporal plane to a time hitherto spent and we will find my younger self sat at his desk trying to pay some bills using HSBC's online banking system. Only the chuffin' thing isn't there. It's not working because it's not there. The box to log in has disappeared like a Romulan vessel before the tightening sphincters of the crew of the USS Enterprise. So I picks up me phone (I often act like Popeye when I'm frustrated) and ring the number buried deep within the HSBC website. Naturally, being in Yorkshire and having an account holding branch in Manchester I'm greeted by a woman who can barely speak English.

Me: "Hello, I'm trying to log on to Internet Banking but the log in box isn't there"

Cusotmer Care: "I see. Well we've had no reports that it's not working."

Me: "Really?"

Customer Care: "Yes, there are no reports of any problems."

Me: "So what did I just report to you?"

Now please don't take this as condemnation of foreign call centers. Our web hosting company is based in Blighty and their staff announce themselves with a grandeur straight out of Dickens.

"Good afternoon, Hostway Sales. Charles De Vries the third, grandson of the late Admiral De Vries, great grandson of the Fifteenth Earl of Tossington, and generally thoroughbred Englishman. How may I help you?"

"Your website isn't working."

"I see. Well it seems fine at this end..."

My favourite courier service

Long ago, back in the dawn of time, whilst woolly mammoths frolicked in the snow covered mountains of England, and far below in the glacial meltwaters primitive lifeforms began to contemplate evolving into something slightly less primitive, in a stunning anachronism I ordered something from Ebay.

Years passed. To quote Monty Python; Winter changed into Spring. Spring changed into Summer. Summer changed back into Winter. And Winter gave Spring and Summer a miss and went straight on into Autumn. Not having received anything I dispatched an urgent message by Pterodactyl to the sender of my package.

A short while later a message was returned, by a runner from Olympia who managed to gasp his reply before he sadly expired on the floor. The delivery man was unable to find my address. His gnat-nav must have failed him. The runner however, was duly honoured for his fine work. They named a famous sporting event after him. The Rutland County Biannual Trout Tickling Championships will now and forevermore be known as 'Dave'.

As the final throes of the Ice-Age began to subside I contacted the courier service, and asked that they deliver the package to my work address. They responded heroically and flung the full weight of their Tortoise Department behind the task of delivering my parcel. A particularly slow Tortoise was selected for the job, and began his laborious journey.

Several years later I phoned the courier service. Unfortunately the Tortoise had neglected to yet make it out of the depot, probably having been distracted by a small piece of lettuce. The managerial staff duly issued him with a kick up the arse, and as the 21st century dawned my package finally arrived.

Imagine my excitement when I discovered on opening that they had included a special free 'Missing Part' with my order. At first I was thankful, then on later reflection I came to the conclusion I would actually like the aforementioned component - it being necessary for the correct functioning of the product. And so, a flea-mail was sent asking if the Special Missing Part could actually be included after all.

After a while I received a reply. Their flea mail took slightly longer than mine - the carrier dog being distracted en-route and having to spend a few minutes sniffing other dogs' bottoms before resuming his journey. Many apologies were offered and the component would duly be dispatched.

Another bold Tortoise commenced his journey. For years he trekked through snowy topped mountains and windswept plains. And finally, in my absence, delivered his burden to a neighbour of mine. Or possibly someone in the same road, or maybe the one next to it. Come to think of it, it could have been anywhere. Having completed his task, he fell exhausted into a ditch, where he was picked up by MI5 and taken off to have his memory erased.

Further contact with the courier service confirmed that the delivery Tortoise had completely forgotten where he had left my parcel. He also forgot to put one of those little cards through the door at the time of delivery telling me where he'd left it. Bastard Tortoise.

And so, time slips on. In a few years, after the end of World War Three, and when global warming has destroyed all the crops and flooded most low lying countries, just before we slip into the next Ice Age a package will turn up in a sorting depot somewhere near Wyre on Piddle. A look of astonishment will come over the old Tortoise's face as he remembers that day years ago when he stopped for a nibble at a brussel sprout and mistakenly left this package here.

With a sudden burst of enthusiasm surging through his old rheumatic tortoise limbs, he decides then and there to complete his long lost mission and deliver the parcel safely to me. Just at this moment however, as Historians tell us has happened several times in the history of the world, the Earth's magnetic polarity suddenly switches.

Guided by his faithful internal compass, the old tortoise lumbars off into the sunset, my package on his back, bound for Tahiti.

GRRRRRRRRRROOGLE!

I have a sneaking suspicion that Google is owned by the People's Post Office. Now I know that Google is a work of genius, provides this lovely blog for free, has totally improved our lives and done more for mathematics than even Carol Vorderman reciting Pi to 58 decimal places while wearing nothing but a mortar board could do but is it really that hard for them to test their websites? Perhaps test is the wrong word. Google employs more people with doctorates than any other organisation on the planet. Maybe 'testing' to them means interrogating the code and comparing the speed of algorithms like a high brow game of paper-scissors-stone. Unfortunately most of us speak in a language where words have vowels as well as consonants and we value simplicity above all else. Have you ever tried to contact Google? Their sites (Google Maps, Google Webmaster, Google Adwords) all have links to contact them but invariably link you back to a help page that has no doubt been shortlisted for the Long John Silver Arse Kicking Web Awards for Usefulness. If you do manage to get an email to them you'll get a standard cut and paste reply. We know it's a cut and paste job because half the last sentence was missing one time they deemed us worthy of a reply (and the content is exactly the same every time they do reply).

It's not rocket science to have a website that is logical to navigate (the rocket science graduates are probably not clever enough to work at Google) so please, Sergey and Larry, take a random selection of non-egg heads and ask them to test your websites. I'm not talking window lickers, just everyday computer users who are only interested in what a website can do for them.

New statistics say the heaviest users of computers are now men aged 50+. I suspect many of these are simply unsuspecting forty somethings who went onto a Google help page a few years ago and were unable to find their way out.

Bob, have you looked outside since you put us on Google Maps?!!

What are the neighbours going to say?

The People's Post Office

A client just rang us up. He has a problem in that if you put their business' post code into Google Maps or Multi Map, you can't find it. I checked on the Royal Mail's own postcode checker and they too can't find it. No worries, I thought (I sometimes think in an Australian accent) I'll call the People's Post Office and find out what the problem is. The problem is the helpline is only open between the hours of 6-00pm and 8-00pm Monday to Friday and 9-30am to 5-00pm on Saturdays.

I'll let you guess what I think of that.

some things I learnt at a conference

We've just spent two days at a conference. Here's what I learned:

1. Alliteration Alludes to Above Average Ability.

2. Using capitals on every letter makes you a gifted child.

3. "The most complex of ideas can be expressed in the simplest language," said Wittgenstein. Clearly he'd sat through a few PowerPoint presentations in his time. If you need to use a yellow and red sunburst colour scheme on your presentation the content is dull. One font. Two sizes. Maybe some judicious italics. If it ain't working like that then it's time to think about what you are saying and say it in small, easy to digest chunks.

4. If you are going to use PowerPoint learn how to change between slides. I hate all things Microsoft with a passion but they got this bit right. You simply press a button.

5. Talking of things that are easy to digest, it's an immutable law of biology that your bowels will fill with gas the second the room falls silent yet be as calm as a Bhuddist on Mogadon the moment you leave the room to fart.

6. The large coffee pots are not a challenge. That caffeine will play havoc with your digestion. See point 5 above.

7. Whenever a group of parents get together over alcohol the topic of conversation will always include their children's bowel movements.

8. Whenever a group of creatives get together over alcohol the topic of conversation will always include their own bowel movements.

9. When you've heard the keynote speaker singing rugby songs in the bar the night before, their presentation takes on a whole new meaning.

10. If you put party poppers and empty balloons on the dinner table expect people to use them.

11. The 3rd sector is and always has been a hiding place for people who just aren't very good. It is also the vocation of some very talented, passionate, and modest people. Don't confuse the two.

Reality TV hits a new low

As if being crap and having your staff constantly walk out on strike wasn't bad enough, the Post Office seems intent on killing itself with its new TV advertising campaign. Now, when I'm not thinking the Post Office provides a service that is akin to something that fell out of a dog's behind, I'm probably queuing for an interminably long time in some poorly laid out building that has at least twice as many service windows as people willing or able to serve, and have not only lost the ability to think but also the will to live. This whole psychic and spiritual collapse is only enhanced by the Post Office's insistence on decorating their buildings a la mode du World War II. So imagine my delight at seeing the money the Post Office extort from us, the public, for such terrible service is being spent on a TV advertising campaign that depicts the Post Office as an organisation staffed by half whits. Now hats off to the production team: the casting is superb (I doubt there's a collective full whit amongst the lot of them), the sets have any hope of life leaving my soul at the sight of those biege-cum-pea-green-cum-not-really-a-colour-more-a-feeling-of nausea walls. But it gets better! The People's Post Office (clearly that World War II decor is having an effect on the creative team to come up with such an inspirational line as that) is a place where Z-list celebs go to buy their TV licence, stamps, and probably to lose the will to live just like the rest of us. These celebs are so well known that the Post Office 'staff' have to announce who they are, like some piss poor impressionist at a working men's club who begins his impersonations with 'Ay up, I'm Frank Bruno. Know what I mean 'Arry?'. Only in this case we've got Wendy Richards, Bill 'I'm not really difficult' Oddie, and Boy's Life or West Zone (I'm not sure which, but I do know it's not that other collection of middle aged men who once upon a time were known as Take That because they're starring in some pretty frightening POS in Marks and Spencer).

An intellectual might call this paradoxical intention. Depict the Post Office as an anachronism run by morons and the morons who really run it might actually buck their ideas up. I'd call it the beginning of the end. It only serves to remind me that my local courier will deliver a box as big as you like anywhere in the country the next day for only £10. They've never let us down. The Post Office, on the other hand, charged £10-95 to deliver a CD before 9-00am the next day. Guaranteed. Only it didn't show up. Twice.


With these new ads it seems that the message is finally getting through and they are ready to stand up and admit it. The Post Office is rubbish. Well done, Royal Mail. You've finally got something right.

natural selection in action

From our friends at Burn:

http://www.burnmarketing.com/bang/


(Cut and paste it into your browser if the link doesn't work. It's not going to kill you.)

The Blazeman

Live more than your neighbours
Unleash yourself upon the world and go places
Go now
Giggle
No, laugh
And bark at the world like the wild dog that you are

Understand that this is not a dress rehearsal
This is it, your life
Face your fears and live your dreams
Take it all in
Yes, every chance you get
Come close
And by all means, whatever you do, get it on film.

Jon 'Blazeman' Blais
1971 - 2007