19/08/09 - To me, U2

Fresh from solving my lunch riddle by combining carbs and salad in some kind of jacket potato goliath, I’m taking this opportunity to draw some breath, turn up The Dead Weather and ignore my emails long enough to do what I was hired for (sic), and update the world on the goings on at F1 Rocks HQ.

Distressingly, that’s three straight meals at my desk, including dinner last night and brunch this morning and conveniently forgetting my bagel (sliced in true American wannabe style by my bagel slicer – I don’t have internet or a television but all about the culinary accessories) from this morning. Last night’s post watershed working special did come with the consolation prize of finding a stray box decorated with pornography in the street as I left, which I approached with caution a la Morgan Freeman in Se7en, only to disappointingly find plastic bags instead of Gwyneth Paltrow’s head (or more transport friendly ‘reading’ material).


Combine this futility with the truly terrible haircut I received last week (too short at the back, too long at the front), which left me resembling an extra from Coneheads in a Johnny Borrell wig, my haphazard attempts at securing somewhere to live beyond the next two weeks, and missing an explosion that apparently shook the building (potential chance to enlist disaster movie survival 101), I’d almost go as far to say it was nearly a lousy week. However, the perks of employment here reared their head again when a Friday afternoon whip round produced some luxury seats to see U2 at Wembley – two of which were handed to me, and although not a single person in the office cared to spend the evening in close quarters listening to MOR ‘rock’ music with me, my constantly bewildered flatmate Jack was more than happy to leave his grind at the Job Centre early and act as my accomplice.

(Lengthy pause of writing here lasting almost a day – distracted by a meeting with the Three Wise Men from our digital agency. New music choice: The Strokes ‘Is This It’ – oldie but a goodie)

Again, my lack of slickness when faced with VIP style situations where one is supposed to act suave resulted in refusing to believe that we could possibly be seated in an area attended by security guards, and the usual autograph hungry slobbering when confronted with someone I recognised from television (‘Holy smoke! It’s Eddie Jordan!’). U2 themselves washed over me in a wave of indifference, they’re not a band I have any allegiance to, but I begrudgingly admit to howling along with the massed ranks during ‘In the Name of Love’, and I couldn’t fail to be impressed by the space station that passed for a stage (see below). Although not as delighted as I was with the tog rating on our seat cushions… God bless the joys of VIP treatment.



Nemesis update: the enemy is out of the country topping up his fake tan with some real sunlight. My mind’s eye conjures up Wham’s ‘Club Tropicana’ video as an indication of how he’ll be spending his time.

I was getting ready today to move desks to cohabit with the freakishly tall new legal intern, but rank has been pulled and I’m staying put, which probably comes in handy for general spying and subterfuge, but is less useful for things such as playing loud music, making personal calls, illicit social networking and whiling away the hours staring pointlessly out of the window. Not that I’m sulking. Anyhow, back to my morning of drafting invites for VIPs and VVIPs (and probably VVVIPs too – although I’m not sure who’d have such a status – Dolph Lundgren if I had my way), staring lovingly at my teenage boy style pinup of Jenson Button’s mistress, and pretending I know how to use Excel.

Launch Week 5/8/09

Apparently F1 Rocks went live and dangerous this week and was unleashed upon the world. Hooray for us. I’d always assumed that launch events and press conferences at glamorous hotels as seen in the newspapers were quick and easy to organise, but our astoundingly devout and thorough, yet ad-hoc approach, put the ‘ic’ in ridiculous, and has left me exhausted and looking like a thinner, mulleted version of Skeletor (well, I am Master of the Extranet Universe I suppose).

So we worked silly hours on the weekend (much to the dismay of the security guard who refused to be bribed with pizza and just wanted to get home to his wife and kids), until midnight on Monday before the launch, and those lucky enough to have Blackberrys were probably squinting furiously at them in the red morning light as news of yet another alteration to the logo broke from Asia. As someone who watches disaster movies and imagines themselves being awesome in high stakes peril, I always figured I’d find my niche when under siege. I genuinely enjoyed the manic days, whether it was my over-exuberant explanations of Subway’s condiment range to those in the office who were new to the sandwich phenomenon, breaking a string on a priceless Gibson Les Paul delivered to the office for the launch and stuffing it back in the case hoping nobody would notice, debating the best choices for a fantasy football team for the new season over takeout Pad Thai and beer in the boardroom or stealing paper bags from the cafe to load with goodies for the world’s press to take home with them in a spectacularly low budget solution to a branding oversight, I definitely ended up with enough material to write a genius sitcom about office life. Oh, wait.

The nemesis just walked into a pillar. I’m grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat with a warm bowl of cream in front of a hot fireplace on a winter’s day…

The launch went well enough to facilitate some kind of celebratory drink or two, and to my surprise this meant making my wide-eyed private members club debut. Distressingly, having not been briefed that this could be a location, and having not been dressed up to attend the launch as I was manning the office, I was less than impressively attired in my homemade ‘Jigga-what’ T shirt (a supposedly ironic play on a Jay-Z song title as I’m not a fan of hip and hop music). I stuck out somewhat amongst the shirts and jackets, but put it behind me long enough to mistake Fearne Cotton for Katherine Jenkins, and then proceed to play it cool by continually trying to catch her eye over the top of my champagne flute, which as I discovered is the worst of all beverage containers to try and hide behind. For some reason I go to pieces when confronted by famous folk, like the time I gushingly invited We Are Scientists for dinner and cocktails at a cross dressing Dutchman’s house.

Anyway, I need to get back on it, there’s a legion of new staff who are outshining me a little too thoroughly and I need to compete on an activity front, especially as I can’t contend with their clean cut crisply pressed shirts..

Welcome to the office - 31/7/09

Welcome to the madhouse, where those whose brains haven’t yet been addled by the incessant pressure of deadlines, overly efficient and enthusiastic Asian rival employees (and delicious Asian snacks perched on my desk), and the caffeine intake required by successive 7 – 7 days are off having babies or negotiating with Britain’s public enemy number one: the swine flu. Or continuing their idyllic sojourns to exotic locations under the pretence of work. Having never been on a business trip to anywhere beyond the postroom, I feel perfectly well positioned to judge them from afar as a holiday where you wear a suit to the beach and take your blackberry out to dinner instead of your wife, but a holiday nonetheless.

The countdown clock on the website shows an ominous 54 days until Singapore, so I guess our current candle burning is a necessary evil, especially with our launch on Monday, featuring celebs, an excellent PR stunt (check the streets outside the Metropolitan Hotel in London on Monday), and international syndication to match the Singaporean press meaning we’re flat out to get all the assets for our artists delivered on time. Luckily for me, occasionally this means I get added into emails that reveal passport pictures of international icons, which are always worth a giggle, although the Americans definitely don’t seem as strict as us on the whole ‘no hats in your passport picture’ thing. As the old saying goes, it’s one rule for ZZ Top..

Sorry, I just had to pause for a mass premiere viewing of a press release video featuring Lady Gaga, Jenson Button, Fernando Alonso, and a contagious Black Eyed Peas song around my desk, which seems an odd place to gather for such an event, but I guess everyone is following their noses to the Asian snacks..

So what do we actually busy doing? I’ve been employed as a part time travel agent and bloodhound of artist paraphanalia, while donning my extranet guru glasses and trying to harmonise content while providing the occasional morale boosting dose of sarcastic wit (pure Brent that sentence), opposite me Andy has spent most of his day negotiating furiously with the potential manufacturers of a giant cake to be adorned with the Singapore flag, and Steve to my left has had a fun time trying to cajole some much needed competency out of our hapless creative designer. Damn logistics. But on a depleted office team of 11, there’s no room for task snobbery. So I think we’re storing up a pretty large quota of glitz and glamour for Singapore, as it seems to have been in absentia lately.

I did find the time to make an arch nemesis this week though, which was an important development as I haven’t had one since exchanging furious stares with a foe across my dissertation notes in the university library. I’m a big believer in balancing the general goodwill I express with unbridled and illogical hatred towards the occasional individual, and I believe from my vantage point here I’ve successfully found a victim for my vitriol (anyone remember them from the late ‘90s?).I’ll update on this situation as it develops, hopefully to some kind of showdown..

Anyway, my belly is rumbling – I’ve got a fever, and screw tamiflu, the only prescription is prawn crackers.