Chicago is my kind of town

Advertising is a funny old business. I should know, I've been employed as a copywriter for more years than I'd care to remember. But one of the perks, if you happen to work for a large international agency, is the opportunity to occasionally work abroad.

Not so long ago I took a business trip at the last minute to Chicago.Our Creative Director's PA who was frighteningly efficient managed to arrange a flight for my working partner and myself to fly American Airlines the next morning, first thing. Better still, when the following morning dawned and my colleague and I shuffled, bleary-eyed, to the check-in desk at Heathrow, we were, for some unfathomable reason, upgraded from Business to First Class. So the pair of us in our tee shirts and jeans traipsed over to the First Class Departure Lounge to take our place among the dapper suited businessmen.

It was a good start to what turned out to be a thoroughly enjoyable business trip. This was largely down to the fact that we hadn't been asked to the Chicago office to produce any creative work. Instead we had been invited to take part in an advertising awards scheme. Let me explain: advertising agencies are obsessed with winning industry awards to demonstrate to potential clients and the world at large how brilliantly clever they are at selling stuff in a creative and intelligent way.

Now, as it happens, this rather large global agency for whom I worked (and I won't name names) didn't have a terribly good track record in this department, so not to be outdone, some bright spark in the New York office had suggested the idea of creating an awards scheme just for the agency's own offices around the globe. This way the agency could award itself the awards it so desperately craved. Brilliant.

So there we were, locked in a room with representatives of the creative departments from New York, Paris, Milan, Barcelona and Helsinki, deliberating over a bunch of ads and direct mail pieces which had been submitted by all the offices in the network in the hope of winning one of these fabulous awards. I might add here that the awards themselves had been created at great expense and did look rather splendid.

The very good news, however, was that judging would only take place in the morning, and following lunch, we'd be free to explore the Windy City before flying back home.

As a result, we wasted little time in setting off for the Willis Tower (formerly known as the Sears Tower). From its 103rd floor you can walk around its Skydeck, 1,353 feet up, and take in the most spectacular views of this majestic city of handsome skyscrapers set against the backdrop of the vast Lake Michigan, and the surrounding areas of Illinois, Indiana and Michigan.

Back at street level we headed for the famous Marshall Fields department store (now Macy's). I'm not a keen shopper but this building is well worth a visit. The store can trace its heritage back to 1880 and this lovely building was completed in 1906. On the top floor there is an impressive and rather touching plaque proudly displaying the names of all employees who had completed 50 years of loyal service. The list is remarkably long.

As for those advertising awards, I remember very little indeed.

Alex Pearl is author of Sleeping with the Blackbirds 

No Gold Medals for Team GD

Graphic Design is a subject I studied many years ago at art college. I suppose back then I was inspired by the world of inventive visual ideas, and it's probably why I ended up entering the world of advertising as a copywriter where the creative idea is king. I have always held the view that intelligent graphic design has to abide by four simple rules:

1) It has to convey an appealing idea that encapsulates its subject's essence
2) It has to be universally understood
3) It has to be readable
4) It has to be aesthetically pleasing

And I would apply these simple rules to all forms of graphic design, whether we're looking at a book jacket, postage stamp or logo.

Now that the Olympics are looming, it occurs to me that none of my four simple rules can receive a single tick when it comes to the logo for said games.

This logo, which was created by Wolff Olins for the cost of £400,000 "isn't a logo", according to Lord Coe. "It's a brand that will take us forward for the next five years." As for it not being a logo, I couldn't agree more. The date 2012 rendered like a piece of graffiti does not, in my humble opinion, encapsulate the spirit of the world's most prestigious games. And in the light of the rioting across the nation not so long ago, I'm not sure that the association with graffiti and urban decay is one the games should want to embrace.

Then, of course, there's the legibility issue. A simple piece of market research would have made it plain as daylight that most people can't read the bloody thing. But having said this, why do we need to be reminded that it's 2012 anyway?

Finally, there's the question of its aesthetic appeal, which will always draw a subjective response. Here's mine: it's bloody ugly.  

I'm instantly reminded of those immortal words uttered by the late William Hill, founder of the betting empire, who on casting an eye over the latest creative offering from his advertising agency, declared bluntly: "Call that an advert? I could do better with my nob and a pot of paint."  

Alex Pearl is author of Sleeping with the Blackbirds 

Beware the psychotherapist of Berkhamsted

He was a perfectly credible character: bespectacled, reasonably well dressed, somewhere in his early 50s. He sidled up to me as I struggled with my bag having stepped out of East Finchley underground station.

"I'm terribly sorry, I really don't know how to put this." He looked flustered. "I've just visited one of my clients; I'm a psychotherapist, and I've just had my wallet stolen." I immediately offered my sympathy, but he wasn't looking for sympathy. "I have to get to Berkhamsted and I need £15. I hate to ask you this, but can you possibly lend me the fare? I'm really sorry."

At this point, alarm bells began to ring in the back of my brain. I stammered something incomprehensible.

"Look, I know what you're thinking, but let me assure you..." He paused. Then came his killer line, his unique selling proposition: "Do you know Lawrence at the bakery on Market Place?" As a reasonably loyal customer of said bakery, I did know Lawrence well enough to know his name. He's a genial and affable sort; the kind of person you wouldn't think twice about helping. "I'm his brother", he exclaimed.

It was, of course, the most brilliant line. How on earth could I ever let myself not help Lawrence's brother in his hour of need? I wouldn't be able to live with myself. I envisaged Lawrence telling me about his poor brother getting mugged in this leafy London suburb, his failure to elicit the help of a passer-by, and my feeble attempt at feigning surprise and disgust.

I pulled £15 out of my wallet and thrust it into his palm. "Please let me have your mobile number and I'll arrange to pay you back", he said, and pulled an old-fashioned mobile from his pocket and dialled my number into the phone.

As soon as he'd turned in the direction of the station I knew instinctively that I'd never hear from this stranger ever again. I knew in my heart of hearts that I'd been had, been diddled, and for a moment I felt stupid and gullible. But then again, had I refused, I'd have felt mean spirited, callous and inhuman. But by the time I returned home I had put the whole thing out of my mind.

It wasn't until a few weeks later, while on the phone to my brother, that I was reminded of the incident. "A strange thing happened to me on the way home the other day", I said. "A complete stranger managed to wangle fifteen quid out of me in a few seconds. Said he was a psychotherapist and had just been mugged."

"What did he look like?" came my brother's swift response.

"He was in his 50s, well spoken, thinning hair, fairly innocuous I'd say."

"He wasn't going to Berkhamsted was he?"

"Bloody hell, how did you know?"

"I don't believe it, I got diddled by the same bugger last week coming out of the Wigmore Hall."

On hearing this, I have to say that I felt a great deal less stupid. Anyone who can pull a fast one on my elder brother has to be pretty bloody good. This guy knew exactly how to make his victims search their own souls and question their own sense of compassion and fair play.

I have since learned that this particular confidence trickster has taken in a number of well respected journalists. So if by chance a respectable, well dressed man should approach you in the street and ask politely for £15 to get to Berkhamsted, I'd urge you to administer a sharp, well aimed knee in the knackers and continue on your way.

Alex Pearl is author of Sleeping with the Blackbirds