The Irish Tales

Second Life (9)
　
They were the best of times, they were the worst of times; but in the end, they were the only times we had, so we made the most of them.
The temptation of course is to see them in a roseate hue and sigh deeply as one falls asleep over the third brandy.
Which, naturally enough, is how I look back on my First Life – in public, at any rate.
Privately, the whole thing perplexes me. When I reflect on some of the things I did and some of the people who let me get away with doing them, I feel a tiny thrill of horror.
How could I ? How could they ? Surely they must have seen through me ?
The answer, of course, is that they did. But they just didn’t care.
As long as they got what they thought they’d asked for, they were happy.
And as long as I got the freedom to write what I wanted and travel the world for gratis to make it happen, I was happy too.
In truth though, none of us were.
For every client who revelled in seeing his ads win some award, presented at some dreadful central London hotel, there were a hundred more who seethed quietly at the expense.
(The bean-counters didn’t quite hold sway then, but their time was coming and they would revel in it.)
For every outward journey to somewhere rather exotic, there was always, for me, the deflated homebound journey when I realised that all I had seen of Argentina, or Alaska, or The Phillipines or Guatemala, or Tokyo or California, was the inside of yet another chain hotel.
There were exceptions, naturally. (I wouldn’t want you to think that we never ever had any fun.)
One such still fills me with shame. We’d been asked to pitch for a well-known Yorkshire beer. Now, I’m not a beer-drinker and at the time I’d never even visited Yorkshire. Puddings, Boycott and flat caps were the limit of my knowledge.
For once, we had plenty of time on this job and it seemed to me that a familiarisation trip was needed.
Al, my art director, was all for it. So was the client, who was impressed by our zeal. David Abbot, my boss at the time, merely looked sceptical, but signed it off anyway.
"Just don’t come back empty-handed," were his parting words.
As if ! I recall chortling to Al as we settled down for the long, but very pleasant train trip up north.
And so began seven days of sheer self-indulgence. We hired a Golf Cabriolet, the height of style then. (Which gives a you a clue as to the timing.)
We stayed at five different, delightful hostelries, Al drank what he assured me were the finest beers in England (though oddly, none of them belonged to our client) and I was surprised and delighted to discover that the words "claret" and "burgundy" were not unknown in the county.
We drove and walked through some of the finest scenery in the land and I began to see why Yorkshiremen asserted that it was God’s own country. (Naturally, we avoided the cities.)
The food was sumptious and the air so invigorating that in a fit of energy brought on by superb eggs and bacon, we decided one fine morning to climb the nearest fell.
It was a little taller than we thought, but we managed it easily enough.
(You must understand, dear reader, that in those days I was fit and lithe and up for anything. Oh dear, how exhausting that now sounds.)
Anyhoo, as I approached the summit, Al turned to me and put his fingers to his lips. Ssssh.
I peaked over the top and there, not 4 feet away, were at least 20 rabbits, munching away at silflay.
A lovely sight, until Al began to sing "Run, rabbit, run" in a deep bass.
Then they scattered like, well, frightened rabbits.
Occasionally, we’d have an attack of guilt and sit outside the inn with pads of A4 paper and some pens and pretend to be thinking.
Only occasionally, mind. We weren’t that far gone.
By day four, we still had nothing approaching an idea.
By day five, an undercurrent of anxiety started to make its presence felt. But we ignored it.
On the last night before returning home, we were desperate. We took our pads down to dinner, (which was the best roast beef I have ever not eaten) and chewed our nails.
Then….
"What if…" Al began, a light in his eye.
"Yes, yes ?" I replied, eagerly, pen poised.
For a moment, I was excited. Then Al’s face dropped, he shrugged.
"Nah. Nothing. Fancy a brandy ?"
The next morning, as I settled the bill on my own credit card, I had to admit to a feeling of sick desperation. We drove quickly back to whatever town it was, dropped off the Golf and just made the noon train to London.
Massively hungover, twitchy and hyper, we knocked off six scripts on the journey back.
They were scripts. I didn’t say they were any good.
As I sat in my office the next morning, looking at the expenses bill and nervously awaiting Abbot’s call, the door opened and the man himself appeared.
He asked how it went and we muttered something. He seemed a little diffident. Then we found out why.
"Sorry to tell you this, but the pitch is off. They’ve given it to BMP on the basis of their credentials meeting."
"Still, love to see what you’ve come up with, when you have a minute. No rush."
And he walked out with a huge grin on his face.
They were the best of times, they were the worst of times.
Bloody Dickens.