Today we made a triangle, and it was great.

Because this morning, following the obligatory egg-white omlette at Balthazar with Marc, my partner in crime and TRUE digital maven, I went to their beautifully designed offices, got some of my work done and then started something we hadn’t yet done. I briefed Marc’s team on a significant business opportunity. Now, it’s going to take a lot to pull it off, but as I sit there on those days when I’m in, I’m bowled over by the agency’s apparently easy approach to creativity coupled with process (because if you can’t get a good idea to market properly it’s dead)… 

 

Electric Artists is calm yet over-flowing with ideas, it has precisely the right amount of very big clients and clients that excite in other ways and its headed by a true visionary who mingles creative excellence with smart business savvy. I was going to say I envied Marc, but in fact I’m incredible proud to work with them and I fee that a triangle is starting to grow there that could be very powerful and good for him, Electric and me. I like triangles, they are incredibly powerful when used properly. Strong, connected yet with angles of specialism. I think this could really work.

For what it’s worth, it was Paul Melody at Freud who taught me this. Although we don’t speak any more (following my poorly executed departure from that agency) I know I’ll always respect him for what he taught me. It was a lot and I’m grateful for it. Whilst we’re on Paul I had the oddest dream the other night that we pitched something together and he was bloody incredible and then I feel into an ornamental late.

What the hell does THAT mean?

 

Then off to the 

A good place NOT to eat oysters.

Now, although Leslie and Joe are relatively new friends, and although we are almost always smashed whenever we meet I can’t deny one thing. They are smart, fast, funny and handsome (I know that’s more that one thing, give me a break).

 

So we met tonight (after a day of split base clienting, which sounds more painful than it is but requires quick thinking to not confuse magazines with ad agencies with online eperiential. To consult is to switch brief at the speed of light - or at least before the subway clatters into Grand Central. And I had an 7pm appointment with Ben and Leslie and Joe at AquaGrill on 6th.

 

We had a rapid G and T amidst the burble of interior design gossip - Joe whipped out his unit, a brand spanding new Canon G9 I think it is - the very camera I craved just last week and snapped a bit (after telling me I don’t in appear in any pictures EVER. It’s true. You’d think I was Michael J. Fox in BTTF when he starts to fade ‘Earth Angel…’. Anyway that’s all besides the point (or context as my wonderful mother would proffer).

Joe returned to the table and announced that he had witnessed a waiter go to the restroom and not abide by the sign for staff (which is, Wash You Hands, Smile and Don’t Clone Cards’. He was NOT happy. And indeed on departure kind manager said to him, with all the trainer of an Abu Ghraib therapist ‘I don’t know what the fuck you 

We departed for Mason Dixon. A dive on the LES for carbs and been and whilst Leslie headed up his obviously exhaustion from a hard day at being Captain America, Leslie shot about 14 deer on the video game.

It just goes to prove, you can buy fashion but you can’t buy class. I type this feeling a knot of macaroni and cheese (my diet Lex Luther) balling in my stomach - which does NOT bode well for Miami in the morning.

Checked, packed, boarding pass in hand. We are seriously ready to go. Thank God. We actually really need this. Our last break was at the very birth of this blog (go back and see) some 17 months ago. It’s only Miami, but it will be our Miami and we’ve got a lot of work to do.

I’ll try to check in. But frankly my envy for Joe’s camera now means I want to destroy mine and buy that one immediately. Thankfully I find this image of the balcony I expect, and frankly deserve quite  restorative. We might check in over the next few.

 

There will be hell to pay if it’s not identical or superior. I know what soft-opening means. It means be soft on the consumer whilst you’re working out your kinks. I’ll be watching.

If I was any more excited I’d make a mess.

It’s true. 5 days in Miami beckon, in the brand spanking ‘not-quite-open’ Gansevoort South hotel on South Beach. For clarity, I would rather stick a red hot poker in my eye than stay in the Meat-packing variety, but for the 700 square foot room with a balcon, I’ll permit my standards to slip.

 

This hotel is SO new it’s got less than 10 reviews on TripAdvisor (the Oracle of travel). It’s so new that apparently Lance Bass had his 29th birthday party there (we’ll gloss over that bit). It’s so new, I’m hoping, that the Miami Shiterrati won’t have landed.

 

So much so that I pushed myself so hard in the gym today I had to have a cup of tea and a nice lay down.

 

As will Ben when he sees this car waiting for him to drive us at the airport:

 

A world without Cheese.

So just back from dinner with B and B at the Odeon. Apart from Ben’s 30 minute rendition (play by play) of the roller-derby, the meal was spanking good. In fact, the tuna was cooked to perfection - just as I had requested - and I had requested ‘however you think it should be done’ as I’m not used to asking how my fish should be cooked. Ask me if my goose is cooked and I’ll tell you, but fish? That’s just not cricket.

 

So, we eat, we chat we ‘do’ grappa and then we dessert. Well at least B and B do. Upon asking for a cheese plate by a waiter we presume was called Todd (no reason, he just looked like a Todd) we were told ‘we don’t do cheese plates, it’s just not on the menu’.

 

Holy moly. So they can offer 3 types of cheese on a cheeseburger but not 3, or even British Airways style, 2 types of cheese and a bloody water biscuit? 

 

It’s not like I’m asking for unicorn tears; I’m asking for what is proper and normal. And yet the Odeon can’t bring me this passed your eyes delight. So passed my eyes it’s clearly in the next sodding restaurant.

 

Shame on you Odeon, with you lovely meal and your fabulous grappa  - is a little cheese too much to ask?

Damn Time Warner Cable to HELL

It’s not that our cable-guy is ginger (you’d think with all those advances in gene technology they’d be able to fix that) nor that he looked like Frodo’s twin, it’s more that having waiting about 243 years for them to fix our internet (well 5 days but have you lived without broadband recently?) he turns up, twiddles with a few knobs and then tells me I need a level 3 because he doesn’t do computers.

 

Well fuck you very much.

 

For the record ALL my computers are in tip-top shiny condition - could he not tell on entry that he was in a place of great reverence to technology? The countless USB cables strewn like electronic cobwebs across most seating areas?

The warm hum of adaptors stepping down voltage like a heroin addict on meth; oh, do you think “they’ll” ever think to install 12 or 24 volt power sockets in new homes - think of the oil we’d save….

 

Level 3? What was he? What is Level 3? 3 times more intellect than what? Plankton? Give me a break, your box of cable magick is screwed and so are my nerves.

 

Perhaps if Time Warner spent less time building this:

And more time fixing these:

 

Maybe we wouldn’t all want to keep those engineers hostage every time they offer complete failure coupled with telling us to book ‘level 3′. Fuckers. Except I wouldn’t clearly keep a ginger hostage - not in my house.

 

Women/Blades/Fear/Fun

Now, before we get into an in-depth conversation as to what precisely a brown-derby is, I happened to find myself on Saturday night at Hunter College in the gym. No, this wasn’t some fantasy (and by that I specifically mean my fantasy of being in Teen Wolf) but it was the Gotham Girls Roller Derby event and boy was it good.

 

Naturally we turned up good half an hour early, and was greeted by metal detectors (in a college really) once through the scan (the detectors were removed for half-time, so then was the time to slip in a terrorist, we took our seats on the ‘bleachers’ and waited.

 

Yes I’m a cynical tyrant at times, and having watched the clock tick down from 31 minutes to 29 I was about to break lose and hit an Irish bar in the vicinity, but I perservered. Joe, next to me, reacted in another unique way - by just about falling asleep. Which given that there were some 300 people in the stadium playing roller-bingo as warm up (I’m serious) was some achievement.

 

Wow can these bitches skate. I can’t even begin to tell you how it  works or what the rules are but it’s totally captivating. I suggest you do it promptly. During half time we escaped to a local Irish Bar (you’re never far from an Irish Bar) and the 4 of us, in polo’s shorts and associated poofery took out seats and ordered cocktails amidst the dark wood, ESPN and tacky floor.

 

The second half seemed to go way more quickly after that. 

 

When you are no longer unique.

 

Picture the scene, a balmy Wednesday evening on the roof deck at Soho House. The pool lapping the edges of the deck, the new influx of Russian’s in speedos chain smoking on a sun bed (is the opposite of influx ‘outflux’?) and calamari served in portion sizes that makes you think it’s a part-work meal.

 

I’m with the ‘Chologist’ as we’ll call him, the strategy guy and we’re talking over stuff. Deep stuff (deeper than the Soho House pool - that’s as deep as an eyebath) and what would catch my eye other than my Doxa 750t watch. The unique watch with the orange face. On someone else’s arm!

 

I’ve owned this watch for about 4 years and I’ve NEVER seen one other person watch it. And I didn’t buy it because it was rare, I bought it because I simply love orange but am in no fit state to wear it (ie. I own a fashion conscience, not too much, but enough). 

 

This guy, this watch thief walks past and I’m tranfixed, like a Magpie stumbling across the Gerald Ratner rejects piles (ie. anything he ever sold). I break conversation and remark to the Chologist that someone is wearing my watch. Complete indifference. I’m wounded.

 

I discovered the Doxa when I was upgraded to First Class on British Airways returning from Mumbai some years ago. I was given the originally titled ‘Watch’ magazine, and upon further investigation discovered it was about timepieces. This Doxa was slap on the cover. Resplendent in its orange beauty. I had to have it. And I ordered it the next day.

 

And to this day I really believed I was the only one. Oh well - next time.

 

Cannes and Nokia. A smart match.

So here I am. 2 years later and still I’m completely bemused by this event. Needless to say it costs close on 4 thousand dollars to take part and get access to the Palais (where the seminars are) and I’ve yet to see anyone significant go in and spend any time in there.

But I did have one great experience. The Nokia counter (my client’s client) had 40 modified N95’s on show, each with one of 4 different lenses, Holga, wangle, Fish eye and Macro. I borrowed the Fish Eye.
The concept is you take the camera, and a brief (on a small card) and go and make content. Well blow me if it’s not a lot of fun. I’d actually buy one of those bastards. They are incredibly cool

Here’s some proof of that. It’s Colvyn and the team, and that piece of metal is the Grand Prix for the OUTSTANDING Times of India campaign that my client won. The first ever Grand Prix for India. A brilliant start to the week (33 Lions so far)…

Terminal 5 - the solution arrives, on time.

So I flew to Cannes, for that so called ‘advertising festival’. And I flew British Airways, why? Because when I travel I value consistency over character.

But on arrival to Terminal 5 I was taken aback; it was like being in Singapore (I don’t mean hot, sticky and full of filthy Australians) but it was ordered, fluid and classy. Yes, classy, I actually loathe that word but given it’s nearly 2am here in Nice I can’t be arsed.

Once off the plane (and the inevitable ‘if I keep my legs in the walking position but sprint to arrivals I won’t look like I’m rushing event) it was through immigration in less than 2 minutes, straight to the baggage belt and all done and dusted in 10 mins. Blow me if the arrivals lounge doesn’t trump the Virgin Clubhouse. It really does. It’s remarkable. Shower rooms with hot strong water, Elemis toiletries, a pressing service (where they ask you the same question urgently and many times) and a hot breakfast bar that extols all the virtues of what I call a ‘hotel breakfast’ - namely one where your aorta doesn’t groan ’should you oughta’ when your eyes clap sight of a sump of oil over a depressed egg…

The colours work - and by that I mean the lounge dragons actually have a skin-tone, the coffee is strong and the  blend of space planning, food, spa and calm is captivating.

Until I was called for my car (on time) ‘Mr. San-chaze’. ‘Mr. San-chaze’ flooded the lounge. But I was at one. In to the car and speed to Knightsbridge in just shy of three weeks (that traffic sucks).

So good was the flight and arrival experience (I refused ALL service on the plane, it’s the only way I know I won’t be let down) that I proceeded to spend all day working really bloody hard. Which is some achievement given the aggregated exhaustion of the previous weeks.

Then to Nice. Not so good. Terminal 1. Everything about check-in was great. In fact BA and BAA did all they could. It’s fair to say I was a little ‘over-refreshed’ the previous night, so probably not in the best of spirits. I thought to myself that the only thing that could break the miasma was a Pret a Manger latte. So I approached, paid ordered and waited. And waited and waited. The only aroma coming towards me was the subtle fumes of anger.

No coffee 5 minutes later. So I complained. Abruptly. Lied through my teeth and said that my flight was boarding. No help. The till-bitch called the manager, he continued to clear tables. ‘Fine,’ I said ‘I can’t be bothered’ and walked away leaving said tepid late latte on the counter. As I walked past Mr. Can I help You I have a Badge and Stars, I spat out ‘Well thank you for your customer service, top bloody marks’ and did the ill-fated and loathed ‘GFOTHAA’ - that’s ‘Gay Flourish of the Hand And Arm’ without once casting my eye back.

So frankly, I was a bit of a dick. But boy is terminal 5 an improvement. If you’re listening Julian, sort it.

Huzzah! A night on the ’tiles’!

Tonight the city beckons with her dainty hand, which belies a wicked wicked core.

We’re off to Country, on Madison for dinner with Over Qualified Many Secret Skills Friend in the city who’s just returned from Long Island. We are VERY excited.

Today Ben has remodelled the entire flat.

Well, we’ve moved the bed, but above our bed, lies a super chic hospital bed curtain (but in aluminium and lined fabric) and to move it was an act that involved a mop,  4 seperate trips to the ‘hardware store’ and plenty of ‘arrghhhs’ and flat batteries on a drill.

Why does a rechargable drill never really recharge?

Ben can be so manly at times it hurts.

Something of vital importance.

It has occured to me that no matter where I’ve lived, be it shared, solo, with partner, flat, house, tent, whatever, there’s on thing I’ve never been without.

Moreover it’s something I don’t think I’ve ever ever used. But something I always buy when I go and do that ‘just moving in shop’ at Woolworth’s or Arthur Price…

It’s a kitchen implement/tool that seems to knock about the world’s utensil drawers, a miniature fencing mask of uselessness, totally superceded by advances in modern technology, yet we seem to have given it an eternal role in the hope that one day we’ll need it.

A tea-strainer. I mean, who uses a tea-strainer? And specifically I mean the 99p ones you buy that are too broad to focus your pour - and too big to be Barbie’s colander?

How is it whenever I lunge for the bottle opener (a dying breed given today’s obsession with screw-tops, something that only sours my mind because it makes me think of Australians) the tea-strainer appears. Taunting me. Go on, make a cup of gunpowder tea, go on, call your grandmother (well not mine, she was nuts), go on, be retro.

Ok. I’m sure there are some sandal wearing green-tea drinkers, but even when I was in Shanghai this month that was in a bag (for everyday wellbeing)…

So I salute you tea-strainer or is it teastrainer?

You’re like a bit like Marilyn Monroe’s 6th toe really - barely visible, but you’d miss it if it wasn’t there (if you were Marilyn Monroe that is).

Oh my god, the telephone!

What joy, what sweet embrace! As the scratch resistant glass kissed my cheek and I had the briefest of chats today with ‘Dear Friend in Advertising in London who Is The Funniest Man I Know’…

Not only was it a total pleasure to step outside of the artifice of Facebook, or email or whatever, it was nice to hear a human VOICE (remember those?).

I recall Barry Diller, when asked if he was into social networking simply saying ‘I’ve been social networking all my life, I have a telephone’.

So it was with trepidation that I called, I had some news to share, but immediately it was like we were back in Joe Allen’s gabbling the night away over 4 bottles of Crozes Hermitage.

He’s a man I was trying to describe to a colleague today and continued to fail until I spluttered out ‘He’s a touch Stephen Fry… but straight’ - which was immediately recognised as a ‘type’ and made the mental image I was painting much clearer.

Thank God for the Footlights (and the bloody iPhone).

A great weekend.

Well thanks to Marie and Julian we’re all clinically exhausted. Manhattan is fresh out of Gin, there’s nothing left in ANY store, and that includes most of fifth avenue, but what’s missing is our sense of love at a great weekend. We did laugh. We did certainly drink, and all the while Marie and I were under the influence of cold medication and warm hearts. Thanks for the flowers guys - it was very sweet.

So life returns to (ab)normal, no one’s here, it’s just the two of us and Top Chef. Sweet joy and sorrow.

In other news, I’ve had to put a note under the downstairs neighbour’s door. Their bass is kicking out and literally moving our sofa with every Def Leppard record they play (I’m not sure it’s Def Leppard - and isn’t it amazing that man can play the drums with one arm?)… but it’s bass-y. I drafted it in a warm and friendly way, simply saying could they please turn down the bass before we come down there and rip their feet off. (Seemed like a novel way to make a point: as is writing a book I suppose).

You may or maynot know that when we lived in Islington, London, we had some serious noisy neighbour issues, so although I’m lighthearted right now, it could all change. If you turn on Sky News/CNN and see a 23 pound lighter communications ‘whizz-kid’ holding a bunch of shabby chic loft dwellers hostage - c’est moi.

Is there anything left to buy?

So Marie and Julian are here. That’s Ben’s Sister and her husband. And they’re a big part of my family. It’s Julian’s first visit to New York and I have to say his wit is really refreshing; as is his addiction to shirt buying. In effect we are both shirt-lifters - albeit in different areas… as it were.

Marie looks amazing - she really has lost a lot of weight (not that it was at all necessary)  and she radiates in her brand spanking new Uniqlo adjusted-for-free jeans. Ben, meanwhile adjusted the fragrance shelf once more with more Tom Ford. It smells good on him, you’d think given that he’s told me countless times he’d drop me in a heatbeat for Mr. Ford I’d be against it - but I’m not.

And me? Well I’ve got into pants. That’s American for trousers.

With having lost nearly 24 pounds in the past 3 months (don’t ask me how - I just ate less) I was overjoyed to find trousers in The Gap of all places, that fitted and looked quite nice… Clearly my recent adult life has been based in the small cul-de-sac’d town of ‘Low-Self Esteem’, twinned with ‘does my head look big in this?’… so to enjoy being in a changing room was quite some moment.

So we’ve actually been ’shopping’ for 7 hours. 7 hours. Can you Adam and Eve it? And you know what? It was FUN. A lot of fun. That’s me saying I enjoyed shopping. As Shaun would say ‘well shit in your hat and punch it’.

Anyhoo. We’re back home now. I’m sipping beer and and we’re preparing for a last-night dinner at BoBo - in the West Village, it’s tres tres

More later.

Ready for Cannes.

Ready for Cannes., originally uploaded by English Man in New York City.

Who would have thought the Gap could be so pret-a-croissette?

Clearly I bought every colourway in both shirt and pant.

From my iPhone

Look hard.

Look hard., originally uploaded by English Man in New York City.

From my iPhone

Newman Street, London W1.

This I took for Marc Schiller, owner of the Wooster Collective, a blog about street-art. It was a total surprise to me and I thought it was brilliant. So I sent it to him.

A vision of joy.

Imagine my delight to see such a passionate football supporter standing so engaged in his environment wearing his passion upon his chest close to his beating heart. Oh suh joy at the human endeavours, the human passion - the irreplaceable drive and commitment to one’s pride and joy - the sport of kings.

Another year… another oyster.

So, cast your mind back to May 8th. That’s the night before the ‘Epic Trip’ began. But I’m not sure we’ve talked much about it. It was the beard’s birthday and for his birthday I had booked an epicurean feast for those who are passionate about LSOS (Little Shells Of Snot) - or Oysters as they are more commonly known.

Batia joined us for a SUMPTUOUS dinner at the Grand Central Oyster Bar, deep in the bowels of the station and a New York Classic. Ben’s face lit up as we approached (not just because of the self-tanning) and he looked as excited to be there as I did to be there with him.

Shortly after Batia arrived, looking PRECISELY like your best dream of Chanel - in delicate layers, precise quilting and hair as sleek as it was raven. Stunning frankly.

Nearly as stunning as the nigh on 30 oysters that Ben pretty much consumed on his own with a face of such abject delight that I could cast aside any thoughts for his poor insides.

An experience is often worth more than a gift, and this experience with some very special people was both a wonderful birthday present for him - and a great parting memory before my big old tour.

Sublime.

Its gone far enough.

I don’t know. Maybe as one gets older one gets more cantankerous. Or maybe I’m becoming the sort of person I hate. But one thing is for sure, the more I whore myself in the whacky world of media and marketing the more difficult I become to live with.

And the intolerance levels… dear GOD you had better not catch me on a bad day. I suppose you have to accept the things you can’t - or frankly - can’t be bothered to change.

One thing you should change however is a national print advertising campaign if it had a typographical error of such stupidity even a jetlagged, exhausted down-on-his-luck consulting deadbeat like me could spot it.

Shame on you Reebok and you’re stinking trainer fetish laced retail emorium for chavs ‘JD Sports’…

So long Singapore.

Here I am, firmly ensconced in the brand spanking new Terminal 3 and Changi airport. It’s really something. More like a hotel lobby than a departure terminal (can you have a departure terminal? Isn’t that a contradiction?)

It is good apart from the carpet. I know, I’m not one to complain, but everytime you look down you feel like you’ve been sectioned and are taking a Rorschach test. So, as they all say, always look up. That’s what I’ve been doing.

The retail is tempting but I haven’t committed. That might have a lot to do with the two beers and a gin and tonic with Ms Davis this evening as we celebrated her impending first day in her new WPP owned job. So I’ve been feeling slightly tired and frankly my brain is to exhausted to compile some weak-willed rationale to spend 800 SGD on the white Asus eee PC - which is calling to me now as I write this.

Singapore is great. But this time the combination of some pretty hard work and some big flights meant the time here was mostly to recouperate. Time to chill and recharge before the madness of London. Apart from last night. Ann and I spent yesterday by the pool in that ‘no one actually has to speak’ silence of friendship, stopping only to cynically scoff at any other poolside prey that peaked our interest.

She’d asked me to go with her to the Hacienda, a small bar a few miles from Orchard Road, that she assured me was cool. So cool in turned out, that it took us half an hour to find the way in. Drinks were served and new friends were met, all beside a floor-standing fan that could probably power a British Airways 777.

Within one cocktail I was hit by jetlag - on a gargantuan scale. It was like being bitten by that spider you talked about at school - where you were slowly paralysed and couldn’t speak but were aware that you were being frozen with venom. Well that and the irritating bald ex-pat sitting opposite me (who I later discovered claimed to be an interior designer. Given that he couldn’t understand why I was wearing a tie begs the question; would you trust this man with your house?) I decided it was time to retire.

And retire I did up until this morning when sunshine flooded into my room. I’d forgetton to shut the drapes and once more I was awoken by the sound of freshly squeezed children shreaking into the pool - God bless resort hotels.

Cut to now, and I’m awaiting boarding for SQ322 which just happens to be the new airbus A380 - so that should be fun, as long as I can keep my eyes open that is. Toodle pip!

Kurosawa

Is a Japenese film director in who’s restaurant we had dinner last night. I’ve never been a fan of cold soba noodles - in fact I’ve always thought soba was the last thing you wanted to be should be in a place where you’re forced to consume them. But, as is obvious, the food in Japan is not the same as Noodle Nation or ‘Wok this Way’ in downtown Manhattan or St.Austell.
Rather it was sublime. Small portions but sublime. I think the addition of a single grilled tip (and by tip I mean thumbnail) of asparagus on a plate the size of an SUV was testament to the quality of ingredients - I think.

There was tofu that tasted like cheese (why does tofu taste like everything? As a vegetarian is tofu to unidentified tastes the same as the ‘tastes like chicken’  response from a carnivore?

The great thing about good Asian food is you feel clean and refreshed after it - which is of course identical to the feeling you have after biffing a 22″ family pizza from Dominoes.

The taxi’s here are all designed by your grandmother, with lace antimacassars, drivers wearing white gloves and electronic doors - not sliding doors mind you, rather an aggressive crank which pushes the door wide open (the sort of technique you want to tamper with to aid with the de-biking of the millions of frenetic street-goers, a slam here, a trip over there.

The hotel I’m staying in - the Grand Hyatt Roppongi, as previously discussed is expensive but excellent. This may sound uncomfortable and inappropriate but I’m certain I now have the cleanest bum in the West due to the electronic squirty toilet - which once you’re over the initial shock makes perfect sense.

The office here are proud to tell me that Japan is unlike anywhere else in the world. Maybe that comes from being an island nation - maybe that comes from little interest with America and its ideals (KFC and Starbucks aside). I think it’s brilliant, the fact that we classify it as slightly odd or off-the-wall a demonstration of our stereotype of what a good modern city is.

I leave you with a shot of a run of the mill old TV tower. Apart from the fact that it is elegant, stylish and somewhat inspired by a distant culture. That’s my Japan.

Is that you? Thank god you’re here.

Pull up a chair, no closer — not over there next to the LED light fitting. Mind that touch sensitive panel. Woa-ha don’t press that button next to the toilet, you might get a startle. And for heavens sake don’t, even for one second, try to figure out how a cesar salad can arrive the second you put the phone done having muttered the last syllable of the word humiliated by your own bad English.

Welcome to Tokyo.  This is a town-for-type-a’s the Royal Town of Retentive. The most organised chaos I’ve ever seen (during rush hour). This is the town that makes Singapore look like a noodle bloated slut. Tokyo is WHERE IT IS AT.

That is, if you’re wearing a suit cut from the finest 100 dollar bills. Or perhaps if, like tonight, you regularly sit at a dinner table with over half a million dollars worth of watch on 8 people’s watches, sorry, I mean ‘pieces’ .

It’s not a cheap date this city, but from what I’ve seen I think we’re going to get on. It’s not Shanghai, dear god no, it’s much more ordered. It’s not New York, it’s too restrained. It’s like no other place on earth and that demands inspection.

The Grand Hyatt in Roppongi (to which the spell check suggests ‘Sponginess’) seems to be a well-to-do area in the center of the city, oh, did I tell you it took 4 light years to get from Narita to Tokyo? Wlel-to-do in the Roppongi Hills locale, but I hear Roppongi proper is a bit more seedy and dripping with expats. Clearly to me that means large photographic menu’s with pictures of breakfasts and big numbers, and Paddy McIncest’s Irish Pubbe. Oh, and I don’t think they’ll be a Roppongi version of The Hills anytime soon; imagine the listing:

‘JoeSan and MarieSan have a climactic day at Starbucks when they recieve less than 20 icecubes, followed by disaster as the small pipe which extends into the loo to spray you shoots cold and not hot water.’

Tomorrow is another day, and we’re off early to CNBC to do a live. Should be fun.

More from Shanghai.

More from Shanghai., originally uploaded by English Man in New York City.

It’s clear that I had no concept of the scale of the earthquake until a day later; as was the case with many involved here in the recovery and aid to those affected in Chengdu. There’s no doubt it’s a terrible terrible disaster and I’m proud that my client made a substantial donation to relief efforts promptly and with good grace just the very next morning. We shared that news with all their APAC employees and mentioned it to some of the press we were meeting. As always in China the news was met with polite respect.

It’s simply dominating the press and papers over here. China Daily has a wrap-around front cover showing a sea of orange suited rescue workers trying their best to save lives. And it is the conversation. What impressed me was the speed of mobilisation of both rescue workers and the travel to the affected area by China’s premier almost immediately after the disaster - that’s the sort of response we can’t imagine in our country at times. China’s leader, Wen Jaibao got on the ground and lead operations - I’m sure his history as a geologist gave him some special insight. My point is, he didn’t just fly over the area in Air Force One - remember Katrina?

In other news, we did do our press meetings yesterday and they did go well. It always impresses me how interpreters manage to digest and translate long passages of comment seemingly flawlessly, although Judy did restrain my praise by deftly telling me that I couldn’t really commend her on her work as I obviously didn’t have a clue what was being said. Fair point.

Translated interviews may seem tiring and hard work, but in fact to a PR they can be highly effective - why? Well because during translation out from the response to a question the subject can be given relevant pointers and facts to support a point. You effectively have a lag that enables you to assist your talent in making sure they make the best point. And that was yesterday, I had a brilliant array of tabbed facts and statements at hand; including the interesting fact that less than 2% of China’s investment in the Olympics is actually building stadiums and venues - the rest is infrastructure and real estate.

There was a speech to write and we worked on that ‘West-Wing’ style in the clients suite over intravenous coffee and after a predictably pointless interview by phone with a journalist who had an axe to grind. I stepped in a number of times to keep our messaging ‘on-track’. We piled into a Buick (referred to as a Brick by bad itinerary translations) and trekked to The Door - a stunning period Chinese building that I can only imagine was a communal apartment block from the 1900’s. A massive stone central staircase roped around and atrium and the building was dominated by incredible Chinese art. The room in which we ate (well I didn’t ) was topped with a dark-wood vaulted ceiling and precisely the right blend of old and new ie. not some Pottery Barn/West Elm imitation claptrap type roomset.

I was blown away by my clients’ ability to memorize the entire speech without once referring to the prompt cards; something you see rarely in a work dominated by tele-prompting or script reading. The speech got a great response and I retired to my room to sleep for 90 minutes before beginning working on other clients at Midnight local time (morning Mountain time in the USA).

Off to sleep at about 2am having persuaded the client to finally put me in the same hotel as our CEO (which met with no actual resistance - you see it’s not WHAT you ask it’s HOW you ask) and it makes sense considering I have to manage his CNBC live interview in Japan on Friday morning.

Today, first time to have free time, a leisurely breakfast and online check-in to my ANA flight to Tokyo. I was impressed that instead of a boarding pass they send you a link to a 2D code which you can show on your phone and have read at a counter in the airport. I’m scared of Japan.

Finally, today’s picture, which was taken in a shaky taxi yesterday and clearly illegible (is that tortology?)… demonstrates that although I think Shanghai is one of my top three cities on earth (the other two being London and New York) there’s still a little way to go with tact.

Yes, it’s instructions to tell you that ‘pycho’s and drunkards’ may not ride in the taxi alone. I’m more former right now than latter.

Shanghai, shaken.

Shanghai, shaken., originally uploaded by English Man in New York City.

I was at my computer, on the 21st floor of the Four Seasons hotel here in wonderful Shanghai, having just eaten a dish of Hainan chicken when suddenly I felt VERY odd.

This is a stupid thing to think, but initially I thought I’d been drugged. You know, the room service woman deftly slipping a date rape drug into my rice so she can come back and rob me. Foolish (in China they’d rather steal their own things than yours). Then I thought maybe I had food poisoning, as the room started to sway a bit.

I stood up and went to the window. It was then that I spotted the vase of flowers in my room, a welcome gift from the agency here. On closer inspection - and not unlike a scene from Jurassic Park, I noticed the water was swaying gently in the vase. At this point I realised that my stomach was settled, but the earth wasn’t.

I’ve not experienced an earthquake before and my initial reaction was one of disbelief. Suddenly I had the urge to get down to terra firma, and let’s be honest, at a time like this the more firma the less terra. So even in my jog pants and t-shirt I picked up my phone and wallet, grabbed my room key and swiftly hit the elevator. Now I know that you’re not supposed to, but I had this insight that I was ahead of the curve on this one, no alarm, no panic and a quick ride down, punctuated only by the terrifying scraping sound which I think must have been the elevator swaying against the wires, like a colossal pendulum swinging within the hotel.

Then, I didn’t know what to do really. There was no scene of panic, no shouting to evacuate - nothing. Maybe these Chinese people are used to disaster, or just so reserved and polite they wouldn’t dream of hurrying you. I circled the elevator - looking for anyone else as wide eyed as me, and then, being who and what I am realised my sartorial standard was low and a revisit to the room was in order.

So, foolhardy Jonathan goes back UP to the room, gets dressed (put on my favourite jacket in preparation for the many media interviews I would surely be offered) went back downstairs; well actually I stopped for a second and looked out of the window over to the STV building (that’s Shanghai TV) I saw a stream of hundreds of people leaving the building. Either my fears were confirmed or they’d all just heard about the same amazing cake shop I found yesterday. I’ve taken a picture of the STV building and that’s what you see attached. If the TV guys are running I thought it was a good bet to leave too.

I took a walk ‘around the block’ still not really knowing what was happening and slipped into a side street, away from tall buildings which clearly would miss me as long as I hid under a street-hawker’s food stand. Foolish man. Everyone was evacuating buildings and looking up. There is no stranger feeling than being in an earthquake and moreover being in a country in which you can’t read the words let alone say them.

I’m thankful for the message of confirmation from my hosts. And returned to the hotel. However, a little scared I stayed in reception, acting as if I was clearly waiting for someone important and after ten minutes (and a lot of ‘news’ searching on my blackberry)… I’ve returned.

Falling Up.

Another great phrase which Good Friend In Advertising Who Has Just Started at My Client’s Agency, mentioned this phrase last week when describing MY career. He told me that I was one of those people who always seem to ‘fall up’ the career path. IE. Unplanned, unintentional and erratic but always gathering momentum.

I’m not sure how right he is, but I think it’s a great descriptor.

NSFW - Career hopes.

Basically means ‘Not Suitable For Work’ but I have to share this one-liner from a colleague. We were discussing success and goals yesterday and suddenly it all became clear. This is what was said:

‘Well I went to Princeton, and now I look at what all my alumni are doing and there’s this one guy, who used to drink his own pee at parties - he was wild and whilst I was concentrating on getting good grades, he was at parties doing his ‘trick’. Well today he’s making 6 million dollars a year at an investment bank and I’m making next to nothing. Hell for 6 million dollars I’d drink my pee, in fact for 6 million dollars I’d drink his pee.’

Good work.

Is the tide turning?

The very fact that North Carolina is now seemingly hanging in the balance is incredibly refreshing to me. As it the fact that Obama has really had a couple of bad weeks press-wise. It feels like the political playing field might just be looking a bit more level now.

It’s not that I loathe Obama (I don’t, I just don’t think he plays the game well enough to be president) but I wanted the press to turn a bit. The media have put him on such a pedestal that he to take a tumble and tumble he has.

He may still win, but now we see a bit more of the real issues coming through with Barack and the main one is beyond big speeches and rallies - he doesn’t cope well in debate. Although we say this through the lens of CNN - isn’t debate a critical asset of democracy? Should the American president be at the top if his or her game in this crucial category? And if he’s about hope and a new beginning, why wait so long to condemn the people and influences on his life that he has refused to do so for so many months?

And Guam, dear God I never thought I’d right about Guam, gave Obama a win by 7 votes. Hardly the touted landslides and ‘movement based politics’ of last year. And Guam aside, Pennsylvania was a good win for Mrs. Clinton.

Hillary - on the other hand - seems to fail a bit at public speaking, she seems distant, or exhausted or just aloof. I think she’s got to watch that. However, I think her relationship with real Americans seems to be more ‘real’ and ‘earned’ than the highly managed, single stump speech based Obama. That’s not to say that she’s down with the kids - her tax returns certainly show us how privileged her life is - but maybe because Americans trumpet success, living the “American Dream” as it were - they applaud her for her wealth.

I’d rather have someone in the White House who could work the internal machinations of America government than someone who can fill a stadium; I’d rather vote (remember, I can’t so these views are already irrelevant) for a candidate who’s been there and mostly done that.

You know, I’ve worked in radio, news and PR most of my career - there was such a momentum behind Obama at the beginning that it looked like a one horse race and yes, I was excited - Democrats are gifted with such brilliant candidates. But things change, the media has changed and it seems that those in the know might be starting to put experience and empathy above hope and haughtiness.

And those in the know seem to be real Americans.

Pet ‘dander’?

What is this word ‘dander’ which my ears are full of whenever I put on the television? What does dander mean? I tell you what it means, it means you have a dirty stinking pet covered in dead skin, fleas, ticks, dirt and shit. But being American, you can’t possibly say that, so you say ‘dander’. Fools.

It’s up there with the new ad for some teen-girl nonsense - which is called ‘OMG!’; not as it should be Oh my God! but OMG because, heaven forbid (literally) that we mention HIS name.

And finally someone needs to kill that singing dog on the K9 Pet Advantix at from those Bayer people. If I had a dog that sung like that, I’d drown it.

America takes Visa

So it’s in. The new Visa was approved and we’re all set!

This is great news. In case you don’t know this is my 3rd Visa to work here in the US of A and probably the most exciting one given my new consulting career.

I’m fortunate to be working with a creative communications genius (and maven street-art expert) and time spent with him is time well spent. I feel that things could work out very well here. We just have to wait for Ben’s now - and if that comes through (I want to hear you all touching wood now…) then we’ll be in a very good place indeed

So this means another 3 years possibly of being in New York. That’s some thought isn’t it? You’d think this news would be greeting with cheers of joy and celebration - but with my friends back in the U of K it’s quite the opposite. Which I suppose is a little sad, but in a sense underlines their importance to me and I hope mine to them.

What’s exciting is that in order to receive said Visa I’ll have to stop in the UK for up to 5 days. Clearly it’s another 5 days away from my pocket rocket, but it’s a good chance to spend some time reminding my London friends why they must be delighted that I now live a safe 3000 miles away.