In 1991 I lived in a house with three friends. I, and they, were 23 years old. That house was plonked near a railway station. And that railway station was plonked at the top left corner of a Z-shaped railway route, a railway route that appeared as a bright green line, on the Metro map. At the bottom right of that green Z, 9 miles and a 30 minute Metro journey from where I lived, was where I worked, managing a McDonald’s Restaurant. Each morning, for two years, I’d snooze that journey listening to a minidisc on headphones.

(I’d have sworn I was listening to Kid A by Radiohead on that train journey. Over and over and over. Kid A came out in 2000, though. So it can’t have been. How odd. Misremembering is real).

I’d asked a friend to advise me about investing some of my £13,000 salary in a minidisc player. ‘Yes’, he’d said. ‘They’re the future’. They weren’t.

That house I rented with three friends, for two years, was semi civilised. By that I mean it was carpeted and presentable. Secure and warm. And we had a cat. We also spoke in a civilised and grown up way to the next door neighbours, an openly gay female couple, which was novel for 1991. Being friends with lesbians, we thought, made us quite cool.

I say semi civilised because of a few things. First, the three piece suite in the lounge was positioned at odd angles. This was not to be inventive or radical, it was to cover where the cat occasionally shitted, on occasions when one or more of us were too tired or drunk or lazy to pick the poo up. Instead, dragging the settee over the shit made it disappear completely. And, over time, harden. There. Much easier. ‘We’ll get it in a bit,’ we’d say. We didn’t.

I say semi civilised because I and we would very often, to save washing up you understand, open tins of beans, remove the label and stand the tin in the oven to bake. There. Much easier. Apart from the one time my tin toppled sideways, spilling beans onto the bottom of the oven. I scooped the beans back up and ate them, of course. Because when the oven was on, it’s black interior looked squeaky clean. It was only when the oven was off, and cold, that the thick, white layer of fat, that sat at the bottom of the oven for our two year tenure, was visible.

I say semi civilised because the three bedrooms all had small internal windows above the doors. And on the rare occasion that I was in my room with a young girl, doing young things, there was the the possibility of a housemate being stood on a chair, in the hall, outside my door, smilingly observing. Never for very long. Never with a box of popcorn, laughing and cheering encouragement. But it did happen.

This house, in 1991, was also where I began a short affair with married Juliana. Juliana was disastrously old, about 30 I think.  And so I, at 23, didn’t tell anybody about Juliana. Not even my housemates. Juliana visited only when my housemates were out.

I don’t remember where I met Juliana, how long the affair lasted, or much that Juliana said, to be honest. I do remember however that Juliana was a teacher with long, dark curly hair. And that her husband wore headphones. Juliana explained to me once that, when her husband came home from work, she’d stand and open their front door for him. Silently, he’d take the plated meal that Juliana had prepared and was holding for him with his right hand, and with his left hand he’d pick up his curly wired headphones from the hall table where he’d deposited them that morning. Then, Juliana’s husband would sit down in his chair that faced the tv, turn the tv on, pop the headphones on his head, plug himself into the tv… and – tea on knee – eat.

‘Ignorant bloody bastard.’ I remember thinking. ‘It’s only 1991…’ I said to Juliana, following up with, ‘…And the internet isn’t even going to be invented for another 12 years, turning every single one of us into ignorant bloody bastards. He’s ahead of his time, your husband!” Except, of course, I didn’t say that.

I liked that house at the top left of the green Z in Kingston Park, in Newcastle, in the early 90’s. We had a VHS video player and the local video shop had hireable VHS videos on display, and hireable VHS videos that weren’t on display. There was one of the very first very big Tescos a few hundred yards away, too. We felt privileged. And the lesbians next door would come to our parties. I remember that I got off with one of the lesbians once, at one of our parties, in the bathroom. And later found out that the same lesbian got off with my friend Gavin, in the same bathroom, at the same party. Growing up was, at times, confusing.

My two year manager job at McDonald’s was, with it’s endless mundanity and trivia, I now realise 35 years later, the most shaping job I have ever had. Come to think of it, I think the most shaping things I’ve experienced in my entire life seemed mundane and trivial at the time they were doing the shaping.

I was 23, running a 4 million pound turnover business and doing my best to stop 40 crew members from fighting or shagging on-shift. I was driven by the monthly salary, the area manager and, somehow, the camaraderie. I hid when my friends came into my McDonald’s because, well, I was working at McDonald’s. And the one crew member I did fancy, I couldn’t get with until she, or I, moved to another restaurant. Rules is rules.

I remember also that I was once called into the office by the Area Manager’s boss, shortly after I’d been transferred to another restaurant in South Shields. I was worried about, and for, the Felling restaurant I’d recently left.

‘Michael,’ the Area Manager’s boss said to me. ‘I want to tell you something about your old restaurant.’

‘Oh.’ said I. Wondering if, somehow, they’d discovered I could tell which of those promotional straws had the £50 notes in, just by rolling them between my fingers on a late night stocktake.

‘We’ve just completed this year’s Crew Survey.’ The Area Manager’s boss continued. ‘You know, the one where one of the questions asks the Crew if they could change anything about their restaurant, anything – pay, shifts, who works where, holidays, perks… anything – it asks what they’d change. The crew all said the same thing. And it’s not happened before. They all want you to go back.’

I remember feeling humbled. I remember feeling warm. Genuinely shocked. And a bit… teary. Because I when I was at the previous restaurant, I was just doing what I thought. Not what I knew. Because, especially at the beginning. I didn’t know… anything.

My time at McDonalds, around 1991, was a time of great responsibility, and great intensity. At least, that’s how it felt. I loved my time there as much as I hated my time there. Sometimes, after a 10 hour dayshift that ended at midnight, I’d get complemented the day after for leaving the restaurant so clean and so good. What they didn’t know was, I’d sometime be there all night. Cleaning. Tidying. On my own. Stocktaking the burger packaging. And the straws.

When I think back to 1991, I am reminded, once again, that the most shaping things I’ve experienced in my entire life seemed mundane and trivial at the time they were actually doing the shaping. And whilst I have – literally, and for decades – had recurring nightmares about the responsibility and the intensity of running those McDonald’s Restaurants – I’m glad that 1991 was like that. A year of good friends, odd tasting baked beans, catshit – and straws.

There are two main reasons I’ve kinda ‘left’ marketing and brand building as my core / day-to-day. Taking on just one brand and marketing project at a time  now, and then only when we’re a really great match.

First, it’s because I don’t like what almost all marketing, and almost marketers, do. Most marketing spouts category norms. That’s it. Loud, expensively and often. There’s zero creative and commercial thought about organisational objectives from a brand and strategic marketing perspective. This is the (weak) marketers fault.

Second, marketing is boring. Marketers choose the ease of remembering over the difficulty of imagining, almost always. They do the safe thing. The done thing. The proven thing. Forgetting that, just maybe, the proven thing worked because, when they did it, they imagined it and did it first.

There is a way around this of course. That’s why I take on just one brand and marketing project at a time  now, and then only when we’re a really great match. The way around this waste-of-time-and-money approach is to choose brand strength over brand awareness, and to choose the difficulty of imagining over the ease of remembering.

It’s only a start, mind. But it’s the best start there is.

To not use ai for anything, is a daft as using ai for everything.

That’s all I have to say about that.

Just this morning, I received the following email from a very nice administrator at the online retailer Vinted. They were great actually. Remaining perfectly professional throughout our telephone conversation earlier this week, and again with the following email.

“Dear Mychael.

Thank you, once again, for talking with me. I am grateful you now accept that the two Vinted autoresponders you set up – one for sellers, and one for buyers – go against Vinted’s Terms and Conditions.

The autoresponder you wanted to send to sellers that rejected your, ‘perfectly reasonable offers’ that read, “Fuck off you bastard!’ has been removed.

And the autoresponder you wanted to send to buyers offering you, ‘stupid low offers that nobody in their right mind would accept’ that also read, “Fuck off you bastard!’ has also been removed.

Thank you for your cooperation…”

Fair enough.

This didn’t happen.

But if Vinted did allowed autoresponders – it might have.

I do still help businesses at board level. One business at a time. Just not in the way I used to. Because of this:

Them: Ah! Thanks for coming.

Me: Thanks for asking. It’s good to be chatting to the main people. At the board table. Decision makers. Now, how can I help?

Them: There’s something we can’t fathom. Each year we spend £100k on comms. And each year this spend doesn’t return what we want. You go on about how you help people get noticed, remembered and chosen. Well that doesn’t happen here. Which drives us mad because we look across our category, and outside our category at all the other options our customers have. The very best of what competitors say – we say. The best of what competitors do – we do. And still nothing changes. I just don’t understand it. We’re doing what they’re doing, and nobody seems to notice us!

(At this point, occasionally but not often enough, the business leader I’m talking to gets what they just said. Which is basically, ‘By doing nothing stand-out and noticeable, we don’t stand out or get noticed.’ If they do realise what they said, a proper conversation can begin. If not, the following happens…)

Me: If you don’t do anything noticeable, nobody will notice. If it’s not memorable, nobody will remember you. And if it’s not compelling and motivating (They’re two different things), they won’t buy. That’s your checklist, really.

Them: So, you’re suggesting we do or say things nobody else is doing or saying? In ways nobody else has thought of?

Me: Yes.

Them: That’s a bit risky isn’t it?

Me: Yes. But not as risky as not taking risks.

Them: Well we can’t do that then.

Me: OK. Bye.

OR

Them: That’s a bit risky isn’t it?

Me: Yes. But not as risky as not taking risks.

Them: OK. Let’s do it! Do different – get different!

Me: Let’s get weird.

I do still help businesses at board level. One business at a time. Just not in the same way I used to.

If the business won’t invest the right time, money, bravery and heart into the work, the work won’t work. And I won’t enjoy it. So we don’t do it.

I’m free later in 2026 for one project if needed. A good one though. Not a rubbish one.

I suppose, now I am out of the closet as a writer, I worry more.

I worry that, because I am writing out loud, in front of you, you’re reading my worst work. It’s likely that my worst work is happening right now because I’ll get better the more I write. Because I’ll meet more experienced writers to advise me. And I’ll meet editors and publishers that will help me see what I can’t see alone.

I worry I am the guy with an iPhone that thinks he’s a photographer. I worry I am the guy with Canva that thinks he’s a graphic designer. I worry I am the guy that moves 26 letters around to make words, and moves words around to make sentences, and moves sentences around to make stories, that thinks he’s a writer.

John Green is a writer I admire. He’s curious and has something to say. In one of his essays in The Anthropocene Reviewed, John is asked by someone he just met if he is a writer. ‘I’m trying to be,’ John replied.

What John doesn’t then do, is explain how and when he thinks he’d become a writer. John doesn’t explain what would have to happen for him to flip from ‘trying’, to ‘being’.

Sales? Readers? Money? Reviews? Awards?

I think I’ll worry less. I’m not a writer. Not yet. I am, however, trying to be.

I get weird in supermarkets.

The only time I actively look for one of those self-serve tills in Tesco, is when I have a yellow sticker thing in my trolley.

If I go to a checkout with an actual person on it, the stress of worrying about the human till person missing my yellow sticker, swiping the original barcode instead, is just too much.

If I go to a checkout with an actual person on it, I have to load one item from my trolley onto the conveyor, then glance up and stare – frozen like a statue – right at the till person for, say, a second. I have to do this over and over as the yellow sticker thing gets closer to them. As discretely as I can. Bread… turn, freeze and stare. Potatoes… turn, freeze and stare. Cheese… turn, freeze and stare.

And Izobel is chattering to me at the same time. Distracting me. So I shush her. I’m concentrating. And our dad/daughter shopping mood gets icy.

After all that I still miss seeing the till person swiping the yellow sticker thing. The yellow sticker thing gets swiped in the split second I’m reaching into my trolley for peanut butter rather than freezing and staring.

Do I want a receipt? Yes! Yes, of course I want a receipt! I have to check if you swiped the yellow sticker barcode or the original barcode by mistake.

Somehow, a pound in the supermarket today is different to a pound in the bar at the weekend. Yes, I paid six pounds for one pint last weekend. But in this supermarket, today, one pound seems like so much more. ‘Probably why I’d wrestle someone for the one pound I put in my trolley coin lock release thing, too.

Like I say.

Weird.

Starting something brand new at 57 years old is hard work. And to make things worse, as well as it being hard work, the thing that I’ve chosen to do for the first time at 57 years old is also bloody hard work.

Writing a book is the hardest kind of work I’ve done in years. Maybe ever. And I’m also having to work really hard at doing this hard kind of work. Investing lots of hours for, sometimes, very little.

One sentence.

Or one word.

Right now, I’m comparing what I think is good writing by others, to my writing. That’s probably a bad idea. Because I am preconditioned to think (know?) that Dave Trott and John Green are good writers both because I really like their work, and because they are commercially successful.

Me? I’ve written and sold nothing. So there’s no external information for me to use. No external information to help me work out if what I write is any good. Even though I quite like writing what I write, it’s hard to work out if I’d like to read my own stuff.

(I don’t like my actual speaking voice either. So when I imagine my written words read out loud in my own voice, they sound worse. To me).

I do, occasionally, get nice email about what I have written on my 50odd blog. That’s valuable. Sometimes, people tell me why they like what I write. It’s normally to do with my perspective. What I notice and how I see things. That’s where, ‘What the world looks like. To me. From here.’ comes from. It comes from 50odd readers.

What I do know is that, when it comes to my writing, at this precise moment I am not disciplined enough, structured enough, brave enough or being bothered enough to be doing exactly what I should be doing. I may be in shock. In shock that the process is so slow, hard and opaque.

But maybe it’s a good sign that I know what I need to do to give me the best possible chance of success. Now, all I have to do, with this brand new and bloody hard work, is work harder.

The best things in my life, are little.

Little is simple.

Pure.

More concentrated and flavoursome.

I understand little better than I understand big.

I prefer life that way.

The little bread maker in our village, Wendy, makes a couple of dozen cheesy loaves each week.

I buy one.

The little honey farm near my house sells honey that’s actually honey.

I like a little flat white in handleless cup from a little independent coffeeshop.

Single malt whisky from a little independent distiller.

Mature cheese from a little cheese maker whose name I know.

Grants cake shop in Corbridge.

Smiles.

They’re all little.

Focused and real.

And… nicer.

When a business is little, the business cycle is little, so shelf life extending bullshit is absent.

And the supply chain is generally happier when whoever made the thing is little.

Because fewer people get treated like shit when one human looks another in the eye.

Generally, the bigger things get, the shitter things get.

When a business gets big, business phones are answered by recorded messages.

When is this OK?

Never.

Not because messages are too long, because the bigger business values their time more than your time.

Not because the message is designed to nudge you out of the way of their business and your money as efficiently as possible.

A recorded message is never, ever OK in business because it is the perfect example of how media becomes message.

“Paul, as MD you have to decide.”
“Decide what?”
“Customers call. Prospects call. They want help. They want to feel valued and heard.”
“So you want to know if I’m going to put our best people on the phones to make the caller feel valued and heard, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Put nobody on the phones. Absolutely fucking nobody. Record something, once, that filters out who we don’t want, and gets the money of those we do want – fast. If the call takes ages, fine. Use a phone number that costs them, not us. And make it horribly convoluted for existing customers to leave. OK?”
“Oh. OK. Thanks.”

I mostly avoid big.

And it’s good advice to avoid big pretending to be little, too.

There’s a lot of that on Instagram.

The brand positioned as the focussed seller of just one, considered, crafted, science-backed, dog-transforming dog toy.

The brand that is then, post purchase, revealed to be the hard-to-contact PlasticBastard & Co., a city-sized-factory five thousand miles away, firing out shoddily made whatnots to the gullible and the disappointed.

The best things in my life, are little.

Little is simple.

Pure.

More concentrated and flavoursome.

I understand little better than I understand big.

I prefer life that way.