Re:cycling

In this age of fitness fanaticism and dire public transport, it's not unusual to see people arriving at the office on a bicycle. How they find the stamina, I can’t begin to guess, but I don’t think they take the Lance Armstrong approach.

Lance Armstrong, eh? What a card. One of those human beings always destined to be a celebrity, fulfilling that destiny spectacularly. On watching those Oprah interviews, my abiding impression was of a man who really didn’t care that he had exchanged fame for infamy, merely satisfied that his profile was even more elevated, the reasons be damned. At best his apologies were mealy-mouthed and at worst, he seemed to be suggesting he had somehow been treated unfairly and was anticipating a return to sport. A man in love with himself is something to behold.

But if Lance 'aint so worried about Lance, the same cannot be said of his sponsors.

To be Frank

It was a hell of a brief. The Home Office had a thing called the National Drugs Helpline, which was rightly considered to be terribly staid, unappealing and out of touch. So, a decade ago, several agencies were asked to pitch alternative brands with a view to making the service more credible, accessible and current. Mother won the business and Frank was born.

The demands were as clear as they were challenging. To stand any chance of success, young people would not only need to be aware of the brand, they'd have to trust it. Statistics would suggest this has been achieved. A 2007 awareness survey showed 90% of 11 to 18-year-olds knew about Frank and 81% trusted the service to give more reliable advice than their family, friends or doctor. Over 66% said they would be likely to use Frank in the future.

Although these figures come from Mother, it would be churlish not to acknowledge this progress as substantial. Indeed, the fact the brand is ten years old points to its strength.

But is there's a problem?

The night they murdered pop

Disliking the Brit Awards is a tradition. Like Christmas shopping, we find it draining, annoying, difficult and frustrating - but we put ourselves through it as an important part of something more spectacular and significant.

After all, getting all fired-up about stuff is one of life's great pleasures. Whether it's the dismal state of the railways or some skip-fodder guitar outfit, picking up a gong for their derivative single, we love the thrill of indignation and the heat of the anger. It's the hollow-eyed, bleak and colon shrinking disappointment that kills us. Welcome to The Brit Awards 2013 

Can you hear me at the back?

Last week I gave a presentation in Lincolnshire. It's been a while since I did this (give a presentation I mean, not visit Lincolnshire) and I realised I might be a little rusty. So the night before, I ran through a few 'golden rules' - just a mental checklist of sins and virtues gleaned from years of presenting to clients, students and colleagues.

Now, I'm a bit strange. I actually enjoy addressing groups of people, but I know most people dread it. Indeed, I've worked with a handful of people who flatly refused to do it. Although I quite understand their anxiety and dismay, I would suggest this is something any professional creative should be able to do with confidence. After all, if you can't stand up and sell (and in some cases, defend) your work you can hardly object when nobody buys into it, much less believes in you and your skills.

I'd love to be able to turn every reader into an award-winning public speaker in a single article, but sadly life isn't that simple. However, all is not lost - because I can share those 'golden rules'. With a bit of luck, they will provide some food for thought and remove a sliver of the horror and potential for disaster inherent in pitching, presenting or addressing a meeting.

Pay attention, there'll be a test. (There won't).

A new stink

Helping the postman to haul several swollen mailbags through my front door, it occurs to me that Valentine's Day is also a busy time for the perfume industry.

As most blokes are spectacularly unimaginative when it comes to buying gifts for their beloved, the default purchase is either a bunch of flowers from that odd rack of buckets at the front of the supermarket, or a bottle of scent from Superdrug. It doesn't matter whether the lucky lady has never worn the chosen perfume before, or indeed whether she has actually expressed an active dislike for it. The mud-brained man will just opt for the one priced somewhere between Kerry Katona's 'Problem' range and Jo Malone's 'Extortion' line. J-Lo's 'Bottom' brand would probably do. Or, if a little extravagance is in order, he may just stretch to something from Chanel. (I suspect gay men are much better at Valentine gifts. It just strikes me as the sort of thing they'd do with more class and style than dunderheaded hetero fellas.)

Winter kills ...

It's January 14th 1978 and a band many Brits would be delighted to deport, let alone export, is attempting that evergreen industry challenge: to break America.

The Sex Pistols have all but exhausted the supply of righteous outrage and tabloid-inspired fear back home and are hauling their moral turpitude around the USA. It's the last show of their American trek and, eschewing the obvious choice of Los Angeles for San Francisco, they're booked into the Winterland Ballroom - the same venue The Band chose for their seminal 'Last Waltz' set. The Pistols, at this stage, are unaware this gig will be their last dance too.