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DON'T CRY FOR ME, SERGEANT MAJOR
I'm currently working on a fascinating feature which delves into the current status of women in Britain's armed forces. The logistics of pulling it all together are rather challenging, involving far more research than I envisaged initially and countless interviews to conduct with women based not only the length and breadth of Britain, but overseas too. Spent one day last week with a 37 year old female Major commissioned to the Royal Military Police, awarded MBE for her role in regenerating the Iraqi Police force in Basra during Operation Telic. With just 67 men under her command, and working with minimal infrastructure, she became Basra's Chief of Police overnight and within six weeks, had overseen the building of six new police stations, the appointment and training of locally-recruited police officers and the drawing up of a new legal and judicial structure including prisons and judges. Last friday, I went to the Ministry of Defence in Whitehall to interview a lady who until recently, was the most senior female officer in any of Britain's services, Brigadier General Jean Dowson. Her's is a tri-service appointment at one-star rank, encompassing responsibility for pay and conditions across the Army, Royal Navy and Royal Air Force and as you might expect, she's a sharp, capable and immensely likeable woman.
After the change in legislation sixteen years ago, which opened the door to women serving with operational units in Britain's military, we're now starting to see the first appointments to positions of influence and note. Three years ago, the RAF appointed its first female operational squadron commander and last year, the Navy followed suit, appoining Lt. Commander Charlotte Atkinson as the first female commander of an operational warship.
Another first occurred at last month's unveiling of the Memorial of Women in World War II by the Queen when, in tribute to their predecessors, seven female pilots from all three Services flew five military helicopters - Apache, Sea King, Lynx, Chinook and Merlin - and two Tornado F3 fighter jets, over the Memorial.
Despite the positives, women still only account for 9% of total strength across all of Britain's services and are denied serving in combat units that 'close with the enemy'. As Brig. Dowson told me though, "Things are changing and there's an inordinate number of talented women at senior level within the military. I know of several who have got 'two and three-star (General) potential' and it can only be a matter of time before we see the appointment of Briatin's first female Chief of the Defence Staff ".
In other news, my cousin and his wife flew over from their home in San Francisco and we spent a lot of time catching up - well, a lot happens in 21 years, which is the time since I last saw them. Met them after my meeting at the MoD last week, they came over for dinner on Saturday night and then on Tuesday of this week, we spent a pleasant afternoon enjoying lunch. First to a deserted Vertigo on the top floor of Tower 42 for drinks, followed by a long and lazy lunch at Sri Siam City, one of my old haunts from my City days.
We chatted, we laughed, we discussed every topic under the sun, and I marvelled at how much we had in common - despite growing up on opposite sides of the globe and speaking with different accents.
I've been wasting an extraordinary amount of time being impressed by the Google Earth Project and playing around with it. After several days, I'm still amazed by its capabilities. It features satellite imagery of the entire planet, and like Google Maps, integrates Google search results right onto the globe. It allows you to zoom from space right down to your city, take a virtual tour of the globe, or share what you've found by utilizing the XML data exchange system. One of the most useful features is layers, which show users restaurants, banks, bars, gas stations, hospitals, and more in any given area, all with a single click. You can add or remove layers to suit your search. Google Earth will even display crime statistics, or postal code boundaries for a given zone. The tour feature allows you to bookmark and append your own descriptions to numerous places all over the globe, then fly between them with the earth spinning below. Google Earth also features 3D terrain mapping, which is stunning at places such as the Hoover Dam or the Grand Canyon, allowing users to see the contours of the land (you'll have to install Google Earth in order to follow these destination links). Google has added 3D buildings in major U.S. cities, which offers a far richer 3D experience than the terrain alone. And unlike Keyhole 2 LT, Google Earth is free. Chances are, you probably know all about Google Earth already, so I'm preaching to the converted. On the off-chance you haven't though, go check it out - you'll find it worthwhile. |
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11.8.05 09:57 |
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SOMEONE ELSE'S LIFE, TWO YEARS ON: PICKING OVER THE CARCASS
Two years ago today, my life had rather a different hue to it. I'd been the founding editor of a successful lifestyle magazine but had just discovered that my business partner was a little less trustworthy than my earlier assessments had perhaps warranted. I was just coming to terms with my newly minted status - adrift with a team of writers and photographers behind me, armed only with the knowledge that the title we'd worked so hard to build had floundered. So, it was back to freelancing for me. And in the midst of researching a feature for a newly-received commission, I stumbled across 20six. I wasn't new to blogging; I'd started a blog at Blogspot a month or so earlier, but 20six seemed to offer something different. I browsed, read a few entries on the front page (which looked rather different in those days!) and suddenly, the research I'd been doing was forgotten as I became immeresed in the worlds of other people. And I was hooked. Two hours later, I started this blog and...well, if you're a regular reader, you know the rest. Of course, blogging was nothing like as popular then as it is now, but those of us involved knew the allure; the inescapable fact is that the lives of others - the ups and downs, the minutiae, the thoughts, aspirations and dreams - are a draw. As a journalist who's interviewed countless 'celebrities', blogs proved something I'd long believed, too - that the lives of 'ordinary' people are so much more interesting than those of the average pop star or actor. For me, blogging has served a number of purposes. Like many journalists, I enjoy writing, and blogging offers an opportunity for me to publish all the thoughts and opinions that I'd shrink from pitching to editors. It's good practice too, keeping me disciplined at writing regularly. It's cathartic, and useful - as well as a forum for discussion, my blog is also a reference point for me when looking back at the landscape of my life. Entries, such as my pictorial retrospectives of the past twelve months each December, serve as a ready reckoner of what I've achieved (or not) over the year as well evoking vivid memories of the experiences. I've made a number of friends through this blog, recieved commissions, and had a steady stream of emails from strangers praising my writing, taking issue with some of the more debatable points, or simply passing the time of day. So two years on, what's changed? The traffic, for starters. Over a quarter of a million hits and a steady stream of regular readers, as well as a number who take the time to comment, adding erudite, constructive perspectives to some of my entries. I work from home, so you - my readers - are like an extension of my virtual office. My entries - and your comments - are the virtual equivalent of chatting by the water cooler! I, like everybody else who's made the leap from cyberpsace to reality by meeting up with other bloggers, have had to redraw my frame of reference in terms of social interaction. It's a little disconcerting initially, meeting somebody for the first time and having them ask after somebody, or refer to something in your life that even your closest friends don't know about - but you soon get used to it. It's just another step along the learning curve. The irony of course is that for many, what makes blogging so attractive - the oppportunity to write online behind an annonymous veil - is illusory. You start off unkown, pouring out confessions, secrets that you've never shared with anybody. You write about the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to you, share anecdotes about your sex life, secure in the knowledge that the blog name you've chosen protects you from discovery. But as time passes and people comment regularly on your entries, so you too return the favour. You get a few emails, you respond, and before you know it, you've established 'friendships' with other bloggers. Someone suggests meeting up and lured by the prospect of putting faces to names in a social environment, you go. Bang goes the 'anonymity'! Two years on then, I'm still here, still blogging, although life seems to intefere rather more frequently than it did last year; more time away on assignment (and more of them) means that I don't update this blog half as frequently as I'd like to. I wonder too, at the fortunes of some of those who shaped my percepion of blogging (and 20six) but are no longer with us. Where's threesixfive, Best Wishes Adam, Oberon, Mirandlake, Black Box, Funeral Director et al? We followed their progress, took interest and were left hanging as they departed in dramatic fashion, or more often than not, simply stopped writing. And what of poor Agony Bitch, whose premature death in a car crash last year left a gaping hole for those closest to her? Reading her words, written in anger, or passion when she was so full of life make us all aware of the fragility of existence. There but for the grace of God. So, I'd like to say thank you; to everybody who has ever taken the time to stop by, comment, browse the archives, email me, or taken the trouble to get out there and meet up with me. Thank you too for sharing your lives through your own blogs and for your erudite, eloquent writing - the quality of some of the prose here is a revelation, streets ahead of that of some professional 'so-called' journalists.
As last year, There's a case of virtual Champagne behind the bar (Perrier Jouet belle Epoque this year) and some glasses in the freezer - help yourselves, and who will join me in a toast? |
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12.8.05 11:13 |
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A WORLD OF PAIN
These have been a difficult few days for me. Unfortunately, what the medical profession terms 'acute pain' has become my unwanted, but constant companion since Thursday and it's leeched to me like a stalker granted one-to-one time with the object of their deluded affection. I've had Sciatica for the best part of a year now, although it's been largely tolerable with the intermittent bouts of pain managed via a repeat prescription of anti-inflammatory drugs (50mg Volatrol). Of late though, I've been pain-free, fully mobile and active. I'm fit (a non-smoker, with a resting heart rate of 60 b.p.m, blood pressure 130 systolic/86 diastolic), my weight is well within range for my height and I'm generally pretty flexible. And I'm 37 years old, hardly on the downslope of life. So it came as something of a shock when I collapsed at home at around 12:00 on Thursday afternoon after the sudden onset of what I can only describe as the most utterly debilitating and all-consuming pain I've ever experienced - a pain which radiated the length of my right leg from my groin to my foot. I popped two 30/500 Co-Codamol tablets and another 50mg Volatrol as I lay in agony, but the pain just laughed in their pathetic drug faces and they fled in abject humiliation. Me? I just lay there, moaning like a...well, like a girl, really. The pain is not so difficult to describe, because it's with me still - constant, white hot, relentless, searing and intense. I know that pain is subjective, but by any reasonable yardstick, I'm no baby. I’ve put up with the sciatica without any major grumbles. Cuts, slashes, scrapes, abscesses; I'm on more than nodding terms with them all and you won't find me moaning out loud about them. This though, is something different entirely - my most recent excursion into the realms of agony has been a new journey for me. If the pain I felt on having my Prince Albert done was a fluffy white polar bear cub with soft paws and a downy tummy, then what I'm currently experiencing is a Canadian Brown Bear who's fallen out with Mrs Bear, has a 7.62mm sniper round through its stomach, a thorn in all four paws and a headache of Herculean proportions. It is, not to put to fine a point on it, a fucking monster. Working from home has many advantages, but they tend to be found a bit wanting when one collapses in a quivering heap on the floor and there's nobody around to proffer assistance. With the pain so intense that rivulets of perspiration were forming on my brow, my breathing was a little erratic, to say the least. My leg had pins and needles, felt paradoxically numb (unable to feel any stimulus along its length), the muscles were in spasm and it ached seemingly from from within its core. Unable to think of anything else to do (the doctors' surgery I belong to is in a neighbouring village and closes between 13:00-15:00 daily) I rang NHS Direct where a nurse, on identifying my symptoms, called an ambulance to despatch me to hospital.
I'd like to say that, having been stretchered somewhat unceremoniously from my home to the ambulance and on to the local A+E where I was dosed up on analgesics, I felt somewhat better. That having been given an intramuscular injection of 50mg of Codeine, 100mg of Dihydrocodeine and another 100mg of Diclofenac, I felt that the pain was within manageable limits; I'd like to say all of that, but I can't because I didn't. I felt groggy, like I was viewing the world through a veil, speaking in slow motion, but the pain was still there, still raw, still the centre of my universe. The drugs hadn't touched it. Which was a bit of a bitch seeing as the consultant attending to me told me there was nothing else they could do: "Indications are that it's your sciatica - you're in chronic pain, likely caused by a prolapsed disc causing compression to the sciatic nerve...all we can do is bring the pain to within manageable levels, but there's nothing else we can administer now - you've had everything we can offer. We'll refer you to a physio once you're able to attend, but if this continues, you'll need to see your G.P for for a referral for an M.R.I scan..." So, basically, after all that, I'm no better off, then? Er...yeah, that's about the size of it. Except, I've got a nice set of crutches to 'help' me move around. Which is all well and good except I'm still doubled over in pain and there's no respite on the horizon; sleep's a stranger as I'm unable to get sufficient relief to drop off at night and the pain is exhausting me. Oh, and I'm not a lot of fun to be around at the moment. Yeah, I sat there on Friday morning and, through gritted teeth, penned a blog entry. Yes, I spent Saturday evening watching the incredibly moving and beautiful DVD, Inside I'm Dancing. But on both occasions, I was fighting a losing battle with the pain which is now hanging around like an unwanted lover after a one-night stand. I've given up with the pain-killers - they don't touch the pain, so they're not worth the myriad side effects they all carry with them. The pain is trying to play 'tag' with me in a very unamusing and unilateral game of hide and seek - whenever I get acquainted with its capacity, forge a frame of reference for it in one spot, it moves on me. From my groin, to my knee, my knee to my thigh, to my lower back... What it means is that there's no position that offers respite from the neurotransmitters bombarding my synapses with useless information telling me I'm in agony. My body and mind are exhausted from the combined lack of sleep, and figthing this losing battle. Nothing else exists, nothing matters, except the awareness of pain, which seems intent on consuming me whole. It demands an audience that I feel compelled to give it, all-consuming, nauseating and intense, with a purity that would be alluring were it not so debilitating. The drugs don't work, yet I crave their release in much the same way that one would imagine an addict chasing that elusive high from his first hit of heroin - yet like that addict, there's no release for me, either. There's nothing to wash over me , nothing to block the pain receptors in my brain, denying the neurons travelling along the pathways of my nerves an audience for the information they possess. The best I can achieve is to occasionally shift my position, yet all it affords me is an illusion; the pain recedes, but it leaves in its place a shell of pain, an empty space where there should be pain, but which is instead occupied by an expectation of hurt - the net result is the same. Sympathy is all well and good, but I need advice. Somebody must know; surely the hospital could have done better than to send me home feeling no better than when I arrived, with no expectation of improvement? I know physio will help, but that's no good for me now; I want release from the agony, which is dictating to me, colouring my life at the moment. Somebody help? |
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14.8.05 17:57 |
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TAKE ME HIGHER
There's not much to report in respect of what I've been up to since my last entry, but to be honest, I'm rather fed up with seeing it (and its attendent picture - too depressing by half) each time I log on. Time for an update, then. Sadly though, given that I've been unable to set foot outside of my house for the past seven days, rendered immobile by the intense pain of my ruptured/herniated disc, my home has become my prison and my life has shrunk to what occurs within its four walls, so bear with me. That said, I can at least see some light on the horizon; the increased dose of anti-inflammatories, coupled with the analgesia and Diazepam have offered a degree of succour that mean I'm now able to stand upright for short periods and move around in a parody of walking, although the pain is still there. All things considered, I'd say that the analgesic effect of the drugs I'm taking has reduced the pain I'm feeling by a factor of around 30%, so instead of being in debilitatiing agony, I'm now experiencing good old inense pain, which by comparison is cause for delight. I'm fortunate that work-wise, this is traditionally a quiet time for me so my incapacity hasn't really impacted on any assignments. That said, September looks like being my busiest month in a long time with several assignments throughout. A 747 to South Africa, a sortie in a Harrier Jump Jet, an assignment in Gibraltar with a very unconventional return to the UK, two motorcycles to road test, a five star hotel to stay at and review and a live firepower exercise in Cumbria with the army all feature in my diary next month and come what may, I have to be fit to undertake each assignment; the logistics involved in pulling them all together have been too complex for me to fall at the last hurdle. On top of all that, I've got several written features to complete and a trip to Scotland to interview a female fighter pilot to organise, so time's running short - I need to be match-fit, and soon!
Take me to the Moon: How the combination of Tramadol, Valium and Diclofenac leaves me feeling each morning (c) NASA If that lot don't motivate me to health, then the sheer boredom I'm feeling at being confined to barracks should. The last few days have consisted of me awaking feeling rather drowsy, but strangely chilled out (a side-effect of the Diazepam) and it's not unusual for me to drop off for 20 minutes or so of strangely hallucinogenic sleep several times throughout the day. I've existed on a diet of programs from The Discovery Channel, the History Channel and National Geographic, interspersed with DVDs and a book. However, cabin fever is starting to set in - there's only so much one can do to entertain oneself! So far, I've rewatched the 200minute Director's Cut of Das Boot, The Hunt for Red October, The Interpreter, Someone to Watch Over Me, Enduring Love and Hotel Rwanda but I'm beginning to lose interest in watching any more - there's little that I haven't seen and even fewer I'm happy to watch again. Still, it's not all bad; Extras and Catherine Tate are both on TV this evening, and what with the drugs I'm on, tonight will be my fourth without any alcohol!
Ah, I make it Pymm's O'Clock! In an image redolent of a scene from the film Enduring Love, a hot air balloon sails low over my garden bathed in the golden light of yesterday evening's setting sun (c) Black Rat. I can't thank you all enough for the sympathy, empathy, tips and advice I was offered in my previous entry. It means a lot to know that there are people out there I've never met, but who have gone out of their way to seek help, ask friends/relatives/colleagues for advice, and email me. Thank you all; your support is greatly appreciated. |
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18.8.05 11:52 |
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ALL PROMISE WITH NO DELIVERY
Before you start reading this and then stop because you notice the entry is about bikes (and you've no interest in them, have you?), bear with me; I'd like to paint you a picture of what the allure is, just what it's like to experience riding through London on two wheels. There's something truly magical about riding a motorcycle; it's not about the speed for a lot of London's bikers; there are neither the roads, nor the conditions for that kind of adrenaline buzz in the capital, and besides, I prefer a racetrack for when I've got that red mist fomenting - there's less likelihood of street furniture severing arms or legs should the worst happen and I go surfing the tarmac. No, it's the involvement that riding gifts you, the interaction with your environment that makes each and every journey so memorable - you shape the dynamic. By contrast, a car journey sets you apart from your surroundings, you're a mere observer, viewing the world about you as if through a movie. To a degree, the sense of watching a film is heightened by the view through the windscreen, which both frames the scene and mutes the soundtrack; you're an observer, not a player. You know the road is there beneath your wheels, but you don't see it. To a degree, it's academic anyway - in central London, you're not going anywhere, you're immobile, a cog in a great machine, part of a continuous thread of rubber and metal that runs through London like the line in a banknote. Riding a bike, you are your environment. Riding through London, you stitch the city together, flow through it like the blood in its veins. You distort time as you arrive at destinations far quicker than your brain allows you to consider when driving a car. Traffic proves academic; through London, you ride on the offside of the white line, toward oncoming traffic, cutting your own lane and travelling at your own speed. It's an adrenaline rush, gap chasing, switching back and forth for a better view, despatching hesitant motorists with a twist of the wrist. The road is there under you, you're aware of your speed courtesy of the blurring tarmac that strips rubber from your tyres.
BMW R1200RT: The comfort of a tourer allied to the handling of a sportstourer. 109Bhp from its 1200cc engine, 44lb lighter than the bike it replaced, it delivers fuel economy of 59mpg at 75mph. Your senses are overwhelmed; you hear snippets of conversation from passers by, your synapses in overdrive as you inhale the perfume of the beautiful woman you just admired when she crossed at the lights in front of you. You feel the changes in temperature, the pockets of cooler air that give way to warm, hot, unbearable and back to cool depending on where your journey takes you. You chase the weather, leaving the rain behind or watching it run in rivulets down your visor. You hear, smell and taste the environment, the unique sense of identity and character that define each of London's unique areas - to outsiders, they're just postal codes, names on a map - it's London isn't it, a big, impersonal place that sprawls across the South East eating everything in its path? Er, no actually. It's not. To us, its inhabitants, it's like nowhere on earth. We love it because we know it intimately, know all its secrets. We know what makes each area unique; the village atmosphere and social structure that chages from post code to post code, each with a history that reaches through the years to colour its character. Riding a bike makes each journey a three dimensional memory like interacting with a peice of conceptual art. The bike needs your input otherwise it falls over so every movement you make, every subconcious twitch results in cause and effect; it's fluid, poetic, like ballet. You dance all over the bike, leaning into corners, throwing your weight forward, back, as you accelerate, brake. Balance is all, as you anticipate light changes, never quite stopping but maintaining just enough forward motion to stay 'feet up'. The challenge in London is 'no dabs' - just how far can you get on a journey without putting your feet down. You 'feel' each trip through the colours that a blue iridium visor gives depth and contrast to, the smells and tastes and sounds of each part of the journey. Each road, each town is an adventure in itself, each journey a montage of threads drawn together and remembered.
Cockpit: Bikes have evolved. The R1200RT features an integrated CD/Radio with auto-adjust volume and handlebar controls, cruise control, sat-nav, on-board computer, heated grips, electrically adjustable screen and a host of other features to make the rider's life easy. And why am I waxing so lyrical? Because it's as close as I'm going to get to riding for a bit. Until two years ago, I considered myself a biker in that I owned a gorgeous, shiny, Yamaha R6. I bought the bike in March 2001 as a commuter tool, fed up with the rocketing prices and appalling service levied by WAGN trains. Even on finance, bought new, the bike was cheaper per month than a season ticket for the train. I could also guarantee my journey time on the bike, regardless of weather or traffic, and I had massive fun each morning 'doing battle' with the traffic on my way in. Homebound, I would leave all the day's stresses behind as I rode home. Weighing in at just 169kgs and with its 600cc engine producing 100bhp, it had an astonishing power to weight ratio that could propel it to 169mph. Razor-sharp handling, race tuned and anchors so powerful that just one finger on the front brake lever could lift the rear end and stand the bike on its front wheel. I loved bikes so much that I built a career in journalism around them, writing for motorcycle magazines. Three years ago though, my life changed as my writing broadened to encompass news and features. It was my assignment to Baghdad when the trouble kicked off after the war that proved to be the final nail in the coffin of my biking days. Since my return from there, my working life seems to consist of a series of assignments overseas, interspersed with a few weeks of working from home and hence, no opportunity to ride. I took the painful decision to dispose of the R6 last year though, because I couldn't justify having £5,000 tied up in what was essentially an ornament sitting idle in the garage. And aside from a brief ride into central London in November 2003, I haven't ridden since.
Another Life: This bike weighs an incredible 44lbs less than the one it replaces, achieves 59mpg (10% greater than its predecessor). The fairing design sheilds the rider from the weather, it has a heated seat and grips and it features CAN-bus single wire technology, which means all electrical systems are programmable, operated and controlled by a microprocessor; it also means an end to conventional fuses - there aren't any.. Earlier this summer I resolved to do something about it. One of the perks of journalism is that if I want a bike, it's simply a matter of placing a call to the relevant manufacturer's press office and there it is; a brand new, shiny model of my choice at my disposal for two weeks. So a month or so ago, I arranged for two bikes from BMW, back to back over a four week period. That period started yesterday and due to my current incapacity, I'm stuck here at home for the 12th successive day whilst my friend Ian has collected, and is riding around on the bike pictured at the top of this entry, a BMW R1200RT - what should be my plaything! He's promised to drop it round at mine this weekend where, come what may, I will be riding it, even if my face is a rictus of pain inside my helmet. If ever I needed an incentive to get better, it's this. Leave me a comment and wish me luck? |
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23.8.05 12:08 |
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A SENSE OF PERSPECTIVE
The fatal shooting of Jean Charles de Menezes by police in London the day after the failed bombing of the Tube system on July 21st was clearly a terrible tragedy. An innocent man, de Menezes met his death at the hands of British police officers in circumstances which are yet to be adequately explained. Over the past couple of weeks, various details of investigation papers have been leaked to the media which seem to directly contradict the initial police statements and eyewitness accounts of events as they were reported at the time. And the IPCC has said Scotland Yard "initially resisted" the regulator's attempts to launch an investigation into the shooting. Since the news broke of the leaked papers, there have been claims and counterclaims by various parties, accusations of a cover-up and numerous conspiracy theories aimed at the establishment. All this, despite the fact that the official inquiry into the shooting has barely started, and there is no evidence yet in the public arena to support or disprove any of the spurious theories thus far proffered into the circumstances under which Mr de Menezes was shot. Relatives of Mr Menezes have demanded the resignation of London's top officer and the prosecution of those responsible for his death. They accused Met Police chief Sir Ian Blair of lying about aspects of the shooting, and of attempting a cover-up.
But let's get a sense of perspective. According to Amnesty International, in Mr Mr Menezes' home country of Brazil last year, there were consistent reports from around the country of corrupt, violent and discriminatory policing. Official figures cite more than 1500 killings by police in just twelve months. Across the country 'death squads' continued to participate in the extrajudicial executions of criminal suspects, torture continued to be widespread and systematic in prisons, police stations and at the point of arrest. It's also worth bearing in mind that Mr Menezes was in this country illegally and possessed a forged stamp in his passport, but the focus seems to be on the circumstances of his death, rather than the fact that had he left when he should have done, he'd probably still be alive. None of this justifies, Mr Menezes' killing, of course. Whatever the intital perceptions, which the Metropolitan police did nothing to counter, something clearly went badly wrong at Stockwell Station on July 22nd and his family are right to want the truth to be made public. But those currently attacking the Metropolitan Police - and in particular, the Brazilian government officials who sought to make most capital out of the tragedy - would do well to remember the situation closer to home as well. |
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24.8.05 11:33 |
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BEER AD HITS THE SPOT
Regular readers of this blog will know of my interest in the advertising industry and my fascination for well-scripted and produced adverts. From the understated, dry humour of some of British TV's parochial ads to the big-budget epics, directed by some of the film world's best and made by some of Hollywood's top producers, good, inspired, creative advertising is often the zenith of the filmaker's art. In essence, they have to filter everything they know down into a 60 second slot, storyboard it to catch your attention, make you laugh, and raise the profile of whatever the ad is trying to sell you without patronising you. Not easy. It used to seem like Britain had cornered the market for creativity in epic advertising with many of the most memorable ads of recent years emanating from London-based ad agencies. Recently though, Australia seems to be making a name for itself, first with the Sure/Rexona Deodrant 'Stunt City' Ad which I posted here in June, and now with a 'Big' ad for Carlton Beer. Produced for Carlton Draught by George Patterson Partners, a Melbourne-based agency, the 60-second ad parodies epic blockbusters that have marched relentlessly across our screens, chock-full of big scenery, big effects and big music. The big ad has widely been tipped as one of Australia's most successful for the way it has generated its own momentum, successfully migrating through the internet, television and print. Rival agencies are already naming it as a good prospect for a Lion at the Cannes advertising festival next year.
It's redolent of the epic ad that Saatchi & Saatchi made for British Airways more than a decade ago, the one where they assembled more than 6000 children in Utah to re-create a human face at a cost of more than £1 million (mega bucks in those days). Taking a cue from that - and the Ronseal Woodcare ads, with their no-nonsense strapline that 'It does exactly what it says on the tin' - the big ad opens with two armies marching slowly towards each other singing to the instantly recognisable and suitably epic Carmina Burana (by Carl Orff). Filmed in Queenstown, New Zealand, the mountain scenery is breathtaking. In a pure Hollywood moment, the music builds to a crescendo and the armies charge behind a standard bearer on a galloping Clydesdale. Viewed from the air, the streaming armies form a glass of Carlton Draught, a face and a hand. As the armies combine, the beer is lifted by the hand to the face and swallowed. The Big ad makes no pretensions about its message, using 300 people, a CGI-generated army of thousands and a budget, which according to industry sources, was little more than £500,000. The secret of the ad's success, apart from Australians' ability to take the piss out of almost any situation, is state-of-the art software. Digital production company Animal Logic, which worked on The Matrix and Moulin Rouge, created 3-D computer-generated human extras for the nine aerial crowd shots and then, using crowd simulation software called Massive, they replicated them thousands of times over. Each character was assigned its own random movement and direction. The ad was created by George Patterson Agency's creative Ant Keogh, and art director Grant Rutherford. "Carlton Draught is a mid-range beer, high in quality but low on pretension. This is the third ad in a series which cuts through the pretentious advertising out there," Mr Keogh said. "A lot of agencies act as though we haven't been watching ads for the last 50 years. We all know what marketing is about. So the big ad is brutally honest - the cast sings, 'this ad had better sell some bloody beer'," he said. Beer drinkers have been under-represented in this area so we decided to send up the epic.
"Once we had the idea, we just tried to cram in as much big cliched stuff as we could," Mr Keogh said. "We thought of Carmina Burana, which must be the biggest, most amazing, most pompous track ever written. The words just came simultaneously with the music. The first lines 'It's a big ad, very big ad' fit perfectly over that melody. So then it was just a matter of writing the rest of the song," he said. The music, re-scored by Cezary Skubiszewski, was played by the Melbourne Philharmonic Orchestra and sung by a massive choir. "As they slowly became aware of the lyrics, the choir were laughing, so we thought that was a good sign," Mr Keogh said. "We wanted to do the ad the Australian way. We felt if Aussie beer drinkers were doing an epic, it wouldn't be buttoned down - for example, the army gets to a fence and they fall over it," Mr Rutherford said. "The cast was made up of ordinary blokes, not good-looking agency models. I think we got every backpacker in Queenstown to join in," he said. In the closing scenes of the ad, an aerial shot reveals the two groups of men coming together to form a gigantic image of a man drinking a schooner of beer.
Sadly, although currently gracing TV and Cinema screens across Australia, the ad will not be shown anywhere else in the world. But that's okay becuase thanks to the power of the internet, you can download it yourself and watch it at your leisure. The ad is just over 5Mb in size and is in .avi format; just right click the image above and Save Target As to download it to your hard drive. Leave me a comment, let me know what you think. Enjoy! |
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25.8.05 10:13 |
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