The baddies in Scooby-do don’t like it. And neither do I.

The baddies in Scooby-do don’t like meddling as it means, because of those pesky kids – the baddies don’t get away with it.

And as a Brand Director, I don’t like meddling because it means, because of those pesky micromanaging boardroom bods – meddling marketers end up buggering about with little things that don’t matter, instead of big things that do.

Or in other words, meddling marketers end up doing what nobody cares about except people inside the business, instead of what the audience does care about – outside the business. Something daring and connecting to get the brand noticed, remembered and chosen.

Yes, the meddlers might get just the right Pantone across touchpoints. But – in business – to prioritise things like that over clear strategy, character, distinctiveness, edge and memorability is just plain silly.

So whilst meddling marketers switch this one word for that one word, Bic’s magnificent marketers are turning their key brand asset – the iconic pen – into MASSIVE (and massively desirable) wall lights.

And whilst meddling marketers switch this photo for that photo, Lego and Croc’s magnificent marketers are collaborating to make crazy shoes.

And whilst meddling marketers shift from this blue to that a-little-bit-darker blue, Tesco’s magnificent marketers create floor-mounted ‘Need anything from Tesco?’ billboards from flowers, that you can pick up and take home.

And whilst meddling marketers rush to get that one insta post out at this time not that time, Chupa Chup’s magnificent marketers are taking the piss out of themselves by launching Limited Edition easy-open lollies.

(By the way, these are big brand examples, but any brand thinking).

One more thing.

Do you know how you can tell the most prolific marketing meddlers?

They work in packs.

Optimum meddling happens when meddlers flock. All as short sighted as each other. Unaware that to market quickly and well, one marketing mind with a focus on clear strategy, character, distinctiveness, edge and memorability – if trusted to lead – moves infinitely faster and further than half a dozen meddling ones.

Meddling marketers end up doing what nobody cares about except people inside the business, instead of what the audience does care about – outside the business. Something daring and connecting to get the brand noticed, remembered and chosen.

The baddies in Scooby-do don’t like it. And neither do I.

Wincing.
A business skill.
Who knew?

Most days, I wince at something that’s just not good enough at our Old Post Office Riverside Holiday Cottages in Northumberland.

I could avoid this uncomfortable wincing, of course. If I wasn’t so bothered about our hospitality business, life would be far less… wincey.

We roam cottages and gardens with magnifying glasses.

Noticing.
Painting.
Repairing.
Polishing.
Replacing.
Upgrading.
Inventing.
Giggling as we add new stuff…

New vinyl for to the vinyl collections (Human League’s ‘Dare’. Fab!)
New midnight snacks for fridges (BIG Tony Chocolonely ‘Everything’ bars).
New squeaky donut toys for doggo guests to make annoying noises with, then take home.
New Do Books for the mini Do Book Libraries.
New warm sourdough and cinnamon bun deliveries from our local The Grateful Bread Bakery.

We look.
Then notice.
Then wince.
Then act.

In 2025, 96% of reviews for Old Post Office Riverside Holiday Cottages in Northumberland were a perfect 10/10.

In 2026, the last 30 reviews are all 10/10. So our 10/10 reviews are, at least for a little while, 100%.

Why?

I think it’s the wincing.

Wincing.
A business skill.
Who knew?

Most times, when I’m lucky enough to be plonked at a board table as Fractional Brand Director, I’m flanked by (some or all of) an Operations, Finance, HR, Sales and Managing Director. Lovely people as a rule. But, when I first arrive, they don’t half talk a lot of sense.

For my liking, there’s nowhere near enough nonsense talked in boardrooms these days.

When I first arrive, those fine Director-types don’t half talk a lot of sense about turnover, conversion rates, profit, seo, followers, average transaction value, market share, waste, ai findability, staff turnover, client attrition and marketing spend versus turnover etc.

You know, stuff you can measure. And whilst all this sensibleness is important, so too is nonsense.

Nonsense like warm cookies, puddles, potatoes, cardboard chickens, recommending the competition, loss-making unlimited delivery for a small fixed fee, contradictory customer instructions that don’t make sense, showing crap to customers (when everybody else hides it), when you’re competing in a market with a ‘we’ve got a longer warranty than you’ game – don’t offer any warranty at all, watching cabbage pickle on a webcam – over 6 months, and describing the models your agency represents as daft and underfed.

All nonsense. Interesting, noticeable, jarring, attention-grabbing, ‘eh?-inducing’ memory moulding nonsense.

When I first arrive in a boardroom as Fractional Brand Director, the people around the table don’t half talk sense. For my liking, there’s nowhere near enough nonsense talked in board rooms these days.

…

1. Warm Cookies. DoubleTree Hilton give away 20 million warm cookies at check-in, every year.
2. Puddles. Drummond Central’s Puddle Cam, capturing people navigating a big puddle outside their office in 2016, had over half a million views.
3. Potatoes. A New York creative agency didn’t bother investing in a glossy brochure direct mail and follow up call, they sent a potato instead. How many targets remembered receiving the potato, smiling and chatting when called? About 90%.
4. Chickens (and eggs). I recommended a print company sent amazingly printed die cut chickens to a mailing list. Then amazingly printed die cut eggs to the same list. Then rang them and asked, well, you know. How many targets remembered receiving the chicken or the egg, smiling and chatting when called? About 80%.
5. Recommending the competition. I recommended that a category leading engineering brand, famous for accurately prescribing only the correct tools, recommended the competition, with this line: “If you want the wrong cutting tool much, much faster than we can manage, call <competitor name>.”
6. Loss-making unlimited free delivery for a small fixed fee. Amazon Prime.
7. Contradictory customer instructions that don’t make sense. I recommended a packaging company, famous for protecting contents better than anybody else, printed boxes with, “This Way Up” and, on the same box upside down, “Or This Way Up If You Like. Not Bothered.”
8. Showing crap to customers (when everybody else hides it). Dyson’s transparent dirt bins.
9. Offer no warranty at all when the entire market is playing the ‘Our warranty is longer than your warranty’ game. I recommended brand positioning (measurably) as the worlds toughest, and make sure you never fail against the criteria you set.
10. Watching cabbage pickle on a webcam – over 6 months. I recommended this for a brand famous for its obsession with time as as the most important ingredient in the delivery of premium weddings, category-leading wellness events – and Michelin star quality food.
11. Describe the models your agency represents as daft and underfed. I recommended the campaign headline, for a modelling agency, of “Thick and Thin”. Thus triggering a flipped narrative that this agency had the most informed, mission-focussed, real and diverse models in the category.

All nonsense. All brilliant.

PS. If you’d like me to talk nonsense with you about your business, please drop me a line. I can take on one more client in 2026.

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.