Chris Eubank Senior is, I think, one of the very best examples of how any business should present itself to the world.

First, because Chris Eubank Senior is fearless. And second, because Chris Eubank Senior is fearless.

When he fought, Chris Eubank Senior didn’t present like any other fighter. Because he didn’t think like any other fighter. Because when others were wanting to intimidate or distract their opponent, at weigh-ins or ring walks, all Chris Eubank wanted to say was one thing.

“I’m ready.”

Because for Chris Eubank Senior it was never about the competition. It was always about him. Chris Eubank Senior knew that when you’re  ready, fearlessness is automatic.

The second reason I think Chris Eubank Senior is one of the very best examples of how any business should present themselves to the world, is because he’s fearless.

I wonder how many people’s opinions Chris Eubank Senior fears when picking his next jacket? Or hat. Or when he’s reciting his next poem. Or when he’s regurgitating his next philosophical quote. Or practicing his next pose in the mirror.

I think business can learn from these two kinds of fearlessness – one stemming from forensic preparedness and therefore excellence, the other from notgivingashitedness – because consumers love quality and they love different, too.

Search and watch Chris Eubank Senior, on Tik Tok, talking about his fight with Mauricio Amaral on July 8th 1994.

Like the best businesses, the 8 seconds Chris Eubank Senior took to win this fight, like any 8 seconds it takes for us to win a new customer, it only took Chris Eubank about 8 hours per day, every day, for 6 months to achieve.

Do the work. Be ready. And just as importantly, make sure the world knows you’re ready, too.

There’s a tiny little shop in the tiny little village where I live.

And yes. Both the shop and the village, are both tiny and little. Because the admittedly twice-as-long-as-it-needs-to-be ‘tiny little’ descriptor somehow makes everything sound quainter.

Two months ago, the tiny little shop in the tiny little village where I live changed hands. The newbies bought a new counter, twiddled the food menu, twiddled the coffee menu, twiddled the opening hours, and moved the shelves and stock about a bit.

You know what they didn’t do though? They didn’t ask anybody, in the tiny little village, anything at all.

I know this because when any one of the 400 people in the tiny little village where I live ties their shoelace, sneezes, puts their bins out eight minutes early or spots a dragonfly – everybody knows.

Business communication is strange.

From tiny little shops, to big giant* businesses, lots of effort is invested in telling us what they’re up to, when asking us what we want is just as important. More so, sometimes. Especially because the 400 people in our tiny little village are so accessible and chatty.

But before we Wicker Man them (as we do with all undesirables that enter the village) I’ll first consider whether I’m any better at asking my own customers and clients what they want. Hmm.

*Extra unnecessary size descriptor. For consistency.

When storytelling about your business, very often, the best way to say what you mean – is to not say what you mean.

Years ago, I wrote and designed for a protective packaging company. We wanted them to be famous for how amazingly resilient their bespoke packaging actually was.

Of course, we could have waxed lyrical about the technical wonder of how they did what they did. But instead, I asked one of my design team to visualise stacked boxes for me. On them, I asked him to write:

“THIS WAY UP.”

And then, upside down on the same side of the same box,

“OR THIS WAY IF YOU LIKE.”

Nonchalant boxes. I still like that. And, of course, I didn’t mean it. But at the same time – you do know what I mean.

Being logical or rational in the way we describe what we do is very boring. Avoid that. Because boring is forgettable. And that’s the last thing you want when telling stories about your business.

When storytelling about your business, very often, the best way to say what you mean – is to not say what you mean.

Today, I got up very early to focus on some very important client work.

Shower.

Coffee.

Banana and peanut butter wrap.

More coffee.

Laptop…

And FOCUS.

On the question that arrived whilst showering.

‘Where did lolly stick jokes go?’

Wikipedia, mumsnet and Iceland (the shop not the country) between them suggest that globalisation has something to do with it. You know, a joke in English is no good for some exports. Or it is that kids gobble lollies too quick to see the answer? I’m not sure.

As you birth your own theories, here are Iceland’s (the shop not the country) favourite lolly stick jokes from 2021.

You’re welcome.

1. What does a lolly do when it gets a cold? It Self-ice-olates (36%)

2. What do you call a car being driven by a sheep in a swimsuit? A lamb bikini (28%)

3. What is an ice cream’s favourite TV series? Game of Cones (25%)

4. I just had some green coloured ice cream. It was mint (23%)

5. What do bees say in the summer? Swarm, isn’t it? (21%)

6. What do you call a beach party that gets out of hand? Sandemonium (20%)

7. Why do bananas wear sunscreen? Because they peel (18%)

8. What do you call a funny dessert? A LOLly (16%)

9. What did the ice cream seller win on the lottery? Hundreds and thousands! (14%)

10. How many lollipops can a T-Rex eat? None – They’re extinct (12%)

Boring questions. Boring answers. Boring business.

‘What’s your favourite flavour crayon?’ is an unusual question. Unusually brilliant.

Not just because of the raw content, but because of the picture it paints of the person asking it. And the conversation it might trigger.

I imagine the question-asker to be a wide-eyed little boy. Rocking right-left, from foot-to-foot. Eyebrows high. Nodding the answer out of you. His eyes locked on yours.

I see the question-asker as fearless and unworried about being judged. And I love him.

I mention this because, in my role around the board table as Brand Director, it’s my job to ask unusual, arresting, different and (whenever I can) weird questions. It’s the job of all comms leaders to do that. We should see more of it. And if that turns us into the little boy or little girl I describe here, that’s a good thing.

Boring questions. Boring answers. Boring business.

(By the way, 8-year old Freddie asked 8-year old Izobel this question a few weeks ago. I think Izobel just smiled, silently. That was enough. They’re friends forever).

A bacon sandwich and a flat white from Greggs is £3.55. Early Easter Sunday morning, at 8.10am, in I wandered – and ordered.

Behind the counter, I was surprised to see Bishop Myriel smiling and serving. I smiled back as I scanned my phone to pay. It was declined. So I plucked a card from my purse only to see that declined too. The still smiling Bishop watched silently as I apologised, retreated, and slunk into a nearby seat to text-seek a bank transfer from Lisa.

Another Greggs worker, Javert (badge check), scowled. After just a few seconds, Javert’s gaze was blocked by Bishop Myriel crossing the small Greggs concession, to where I sat. The Bishop was carrying two things.

Candlesticks, I assumed.

But no. It was one flat white and one bacon sandwich. He smiled, muttered, ‘Jean. Don’t worry’, left them on my table, touched my hand, and walked back behind the counter.

I felt awkward and alone as I glared at my phone, waiting for rescue by text. I could have walked away. Bishop Myriel was not watching me. He was serving others. I thought about doing the wrong thing – or the right thing. One would make me a worse man. The other, a better one.

I stayed. And after a few more minutes, money appeared – and I paid my dues.

This entire episode lasted ten minutes, one Sunday morning in 2025. Les Misérables spanned 17 years, from 1815 to 1832. But, I think, both stories would be just as important as a film, film musical, or record breaking musical theatre.

I’ll see if Hugh Jackman is free to play me.

There’s a little shop in Hexham that I love more than any other. Because even though the person I love most thinks she loved it first. She didn’t.

Last Sunday, Izobel and I went to the secret sweetshop. As we queued, two pound coins grew hot in her hand.

The shop is too small.
It hasn’t updated in 50 years.
Shelves heave.
It’s slow to get served.
You must learn odd opening times to get in.
And a narrow, shadowy arch keeps it a secret.

These are 6 reasons that a 50odd-year-old me dislikes retail. They are the same 6 reasons that an 8-year-old Izobel loves it. And they are the same 6 reasons that the 8-year-old me, stood silently alongside Izobel last Sunday, loved it too.

There’s a little shop in Hexham that I love more than any other. Because even though the person I love most thinks she loved it first. She didn’t.

We can read whatever we like into this super little BBC Bitesize survey. It explores the top ten jobs teenagers want when they’re older, and why. The sample of 4,000 kids, from across the UK, was quizzed at the end of 2024.

It’s interesting because there’s probably a gap between what a youngster thinks the job’s like, and what it is like. Perhaps that’s why the NHS lists number one in ‘Desirable Companies’. TV’s Casualty looks dramatic and interesting. But to my brother-in-law Lee, this week, casualty (with a little ‘c’) looked like two visits resulting in being sent home, unseen. And a third visit with an 11 hour wait time.

And for the cynical… I don’t know whether, ‘feeling good about what I do’ – which lists as the most important thing about my job, means ‘meaningful’ or ‘I get to do what I want.’ And I don’t know whether, ‘happiness’ – which lists as the second most important thing about my job means ‘meaningful’ or ‘I get to do what I want.’

More positively perhaps, 85% said they felt confident about getting the job they want. Doctors, engineers and teachers are the top three desirable roles. And ‘jobs’ like influencer don’t list.

But here’s what I think is a bit of a shame. The most desirable (listed) companies to work for are either big, noisy, or both. Fame, it seems, in the minds of the young, is the reward for scale and bluster. Whereas in my world, there are lots of smaller, worthier, lovelier businesses and brands that, in actual fact, would be fabulous places to work. I know that this piece of work is macro not micro. But it’s a reminder, to me at very least, of the gap that still exists between young people and the educational institutions meant to support them – and a very best local, realistic, reachable workplace.

Here’s the link: https://www.bbc.co.uk/bitesize/articles/zrfknk7.

Izobel asked me, ‘Can a person think themselves to death?’ this week. Funny question for an 8 year old. But also insightful.

I said no, a person can’t think themselves to death. But that a business can, and very often does. Izobel got bored by that point. Sniffed. And wandered off. So I’ll bore you with 20 seconds of exposition here, instead.

Most businesses I work with these days are established, steady and profitable. They’re just a bit… staid. They’re thinking. But mostly about the wrong things, and for far too long. So, together, we stop that and reinvest the time thinking, much more quickly, about what what we should be thinking about. And instead of the business stagnating, or dying (back to Izobel’s question) – it wakes up.

Don’t think your business to death. Wake your business up instead. By thinking – at pace – about what you should be thinking about.

Much better.