Not the ideal way to spend Christmas Eve

I was asked recently, while playing one of those silly board games after a couple of glasses of very drinkable Rioja, to describe the most embarrassing situation I've ever found myself in. I imagine we could all dredge up something from the past, but in my case, there were only two incidents that immediately sprung to mind.

The first was when I took a summer holiday job while at school as the mail-room assistant in a fairly stuffy firm of solicitors off Fleet Street. On my first day, having delivered mail to all the senior partners, I distinctly remember, to my embarrassment, hastily making an exit through a rather large broom cupboard. This was probably the funniest thing that those solicitors had ever witnessed, judging from the guffaws and bursts of uncontrollable laughter that ensued. To be the focus of attention for all the wrong reasons feels utterly humiliating if you're a spotty adolescent with very little self-confidence. It was, I have to admit, a horribly embarrassing experience.

But possibly less embarrassing though far more surreal, was the Guy Norris Christmas Eve episode, which took place the following year. Guy Norris was the name of a record shop I used to frequent in Gants Hill where I lived as a teenager with my parents. Unlike most kids who were into The Stranglers or Sex Pistols, I was into Joseph Haydn, and had set myself the hair-brained mission to collect every one of his 106 symphonies on vinyl. And it was over one particular Christmas Eve that I found myself riffling through the record shop's entire collection of classical music in search of the maestro’s early works - a search that turned up very little. So disappointedly, I trudged to the entrance and pulled the door, and in the process nearly yanked my arm off. The door wouldn't budge for good reason; it had been locked and the lights had been left on, along with the Christmas tree lights which twinkled away merrily.

When you are 15 years of age and locked in a record shop on Christmas Eve, you are faced with a difficult dilemma: do you knock manically on the glass window to attract the passers-by who may just think you're part of a rather novel Christmas display, or do you spare yourself the embarrassment and just sit it out until New Year? It was a tough one, but thankfully, I was saved by a third option in the form of a telephone, which sat on the counter.

Having spoken to my father, who then spoke to the police, who then spoke to the manager, who then went in search of the caretaker who was no doubt in his local boozer knocking back a pre-Christmas pint, it took another three hours before I was released from my temporary prison.

Funnily enough, I didn't listen to much Haydn after that.

Alex Pearl is author of Sleeping with the Blackbirds 

A peculiar kind of brand loyalty

We advertising copywriters are often accused of perverting what skills we have to merely flog a load of fairly dodgy merchandise that nobody in their right mind would ever consider parting money for. To some extent I suppose there is a grain of truth here. I have, in my time, had the dubious pleasure of writing ads for real stinkers. I won't name names but suffice it to say that I have written for at least one truly appalling motor car, more than one disastrous investment fund, a pretty horrid soft drink, a particularly unpleasant lager, a fairly unreliable brand of boiler, a telecoms company whose wireless routers are utterly hopeless... I could go on.

But the sad truth is that it isn't just members of the unsuspecting public who have the wool pulled over their eyes. You see, before any copywriter worth his salt can embark on the task of creating an idea and putting pen to paper, or indeed, fingers to keyboard, he has to immerse himself in the world of his client's. This invariably means visiting factories, warehouses or call centres, and experiencing the brand first hand. And, of course, to write convincingly and passionately about anything, whether it be a boiled sweet or a dirty lump of coal, a copywriter has to embrace it wholeheartedly and have utmost faith and confidence in it.

In my case, this has meant buying into the product quite literally. So I can now confess that I too have been gullible enough to believe my own advertising, and for years, have put up with investments that have gone nowhere other than downwards, temperamental cars that have decided to stop working on the North Circular, boilers that have quite literally blown up, and theme parks that, well, even my kids wouldn’t touch with the longest of barge poles.

So the next time someone infers at a dinner party or social gathering that those employed in the shady world of marketing are no better than brainwashers employed by the Moonies, I shall have to point out that some of the world’s biggest victims of advertising, aren’t members of the public, but the poor sods who write the ads in the first place.

Alex Pearl is author of Sleeping with the Blackbirds 

Marvellous Margate?

Margate is one of those places that never seems to shake off its rather tacky image of a down-at-heel seaside town with its fair share of amusement arcades, 'kiss-me-quick' hats and peeling paint. As you pass the once fashionable Lido and the countless boarded up shops and grotty bedsits with their filthy nylon curtains and ugly double-glazed units of the greying plastic variety, it's not particularly hard to see why. But if you half close your eyes and look beyond the years of filth and neglect, you can just make out a town of grand Georgian, Victorian and Edwardian proportions. For this indeed was once a fashionable resort for the wealthy residents of London's middle classes. The golden age of the railways brought families with their maids and housekeepers to Margate in their droves. The wealthy bought themselves summer retreats here, and no expense was spared.

Friends of ours have, almost 130 years later, decided to move from London to buy one of these grand properties as a permanent home. Margate may desperately need a makeover, but if you are prepared to see its potential, property here is astonishing value for money. Our friends now live in a majestic Victorian home built in 1890 with incredibly high ceilings and much of the original features like panelling, architraves, ceiling roses and fireplaces all intact. When fitting period chandeliers to the downstairs ceiling, our friends discovered the original wires for bell-pulls that were employed by its very first occupants to summon their servants.

The house boasts five large bedrooms. The master bedroom is enormous and includes a large bathroom-en-suite. And even the rooms on the third floor have ceilings far higher than you'd expect.

I didn't get to see the cellar, but I'm reliably informed by my wife that it's large enough to house a reasonably sized gym - our friends' next project.

The house came with a quality fitted kitchen incorporating an impressive double stove and gigantic American fridge, as well as a separate utility room - all for the price of a one bedroom basement flat in Kentish Town, North London with just about enough room to swing a small cat.

Now that Tracy Emin has opened the lovely Turner Gallery - the town's one cultural claim to fame, one wonders how long it'll be before hordes of Londoners up sticks and seek affordable splendour in this much neglected neck of the woods.

Alex Pearl is author of Sleeping with the Blackbirds 

In Memoriam - 18 Feb, 2010

At times like this, it’s always difficult to know quite where to start. How to attempt in a short space of time to try and sum up an extraordinary life.

Well, while looking for a notebook to jot my thoughts I inadvertently knocked a box of children's chess pieces off one of our book shelves. And as the pieces flew every which way and the lid fell to the floor, the answer lay there staring me in the face. Because in the corner of the broken hinged lid my eye fell upon the spidery handwriting of a child. In clear pencil the words were quite legible. They read: A. M.Pearl, Avondale Road, Liverpool.

Dad would probably have been no more than ten years of age when he left his mark on the lid. And it’s touching that a piece of his childhood should manifest itself in our children's world of board games two generations later.

One of eight children, he was brought up in Liverpool’s poorest back streets and had no formal education to speak of. Indeed, I remember him telling me that some of his teachers were the poor wretched souls who had seen action in the trenches of the first world war and were still suffering the effects of shell shock. But despite the obvious hardships, he never spoke a bad word about his childhood and bore no grudges over the very obvious lack of opportunities that presented themselves. Indeed, his memories of childhood were always recounted with great affection. One gets a sense that any shortfalls in material possessions were more than made up for by a loving family environment. And I guess it was these formative years that helped shape those qualities that we remember him for. His modesty, generosity of spirit, selflessness and desire to help others. These were traits that certainly carried his name.

He will always remain in my memory as a remarkable husband to our dear mother – caring for her right up until he went into the home three weeks ago; an incredibly supportive father to his two sons; a loving grandpa to his four grandchildren who he adored; and a cherished friend to so many. And today as we remember him for his generosity, wisdom and good humour, I’m comforted by the thought that these qualities will undoubtedly live on. Because in no small way, he left his mark on all of us.

Alex Pearl is author of Sleeping with the Blackbirds 

The story behind my story

Four years ago I was working as a copywriter at the London office of a large global advertising agency that was going through a huge international merger with one of New York’s oldest agencies. The merger of these two lumbering and ailing giants that had both seen better days was a prolonged and messy business that had the air of desperation about it. You could liken the whole exercise to the Hindenburg coming to the rescue of the Titanic.

During this time, the workflow slowed to a trickle, so that copywriters like myself invariably found themselves twiddling their thumbs, reading the papers and in some cases calling their headhunters. I, for my part, decided to at least look busy by writing a story for my kids.

Doing so in company time was admittedly a bit naughty, particularly since it also created the false impression that I was far too busy to take on any of the new and rather scarce advertising briefs that very occasionally floated through the agency’s doors. But for me, doing nothing constructive with the time would have been even worse.

This strange state of affairs continued for many months until eventually the newly merged company in its wisdom employed a new Creative Director - a diminutive, bald Irishman who bounced around the place like a small child let loose in a large toy department. His chirpiness was, however, something of a front. Within a few months he had fired his entire creative department – me included, and replaced all the coveted awards in the agency’s awards cabinet with house plants.

So I was out on my ear with a few tatty crates of personal effects and an even tattier manuscript entitled ‘Sleeping with the Blackbirds’.

Today, the book is available in paperback. And the Kindle version is now available to download at: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sleeping-Blackbirds-Alex-Pearl-ebook/dp/B00FK14Y74/ref=sr_1_1_bnp_1_kin?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1387469906&sr=1-1&keywords=sleeping+with+the+blackbirds

Sleeping with the Blackbirds 

Bored by Sundays? Then spend them in a graveyard.

This was the headline I penned way back in the '90s for an advertisement that appeared in Time Out magazine advertising the unusual services of a good friend who is simultaneously by far the most brilliant and barmy person I've ever known. At the time this friend, who will remain nameless, was a psychiatrist by day, college lecturer by night and tour guide at the weekend. The tour company he operated was unusual in that it specialized in sites of psychic interest. Needless to say, the advert succeeded in attracting a weird and wonderful clientele.

The trips themselves, which I sampled myself were pretty colourful affairs. On one occasion, the fairly ropy old minibus in which a dozen paying customers found themselves sitting, developed a flat tyre on the M25. While most tour guides might have been perturbed by such a potentially disastrous mishap, my friend relished the opportunity to regale his captive audience with a tirade of anecdotes, fascinating insights and some of the funniest jokes you could ever wish to hear.

It later transpired that 90% of these delightful passengers were in fact my friend' s psychiatric patients.

This Sunday my friend's wife is arranging a fairly swanky surprise 50th birthday party for her extraordinary husband. To my knowledge, no minibuses have been lined up.

Family Reflections

It was purchased before the war by a balding, stocky man with a warm smile and a booming, resonant voice. His name was Bertram Davis – though his original Russian surname was the more exotic Bolzwinick. He was the grandfather I never knew. By all accounts, he was the life and soul of the party; a witty chap with a story to tell and a joke to crack. Until, that is, life was cruelly cut short by asthma at the tender age of 54.

I was born into this world five years after his departure. According to my grandmother, Bert would spend many happy hours pottering in dusty antique shops in the Mile End Road, and was in the habit of buying things on a whim.

As a young child I remember setting eyes on my grandfather’s purchase and being drawn by its mesmerizing contents and the way it magnified and distorted itself. This shiny, glassy orb with its intricate geometry of bright lapis lazuli, pink and white sunk deep into a sea of solid glass, never ceased to fascinate my young eyes. How did the coloured glass get inside the see-though glass? And how could this iridescent globule of sheer beauty have no more meaningful a role in life than a mere paperweight?

For many years it was the family tradition for all my uncles and aunts and cousins on my mother’s side of the family to descend in droves on my grandmother’s house every Saturday afternoon for tea. It was invariably a jovial affair with lively children, lively conversation, a real fire sizzling and crackling in the grate and, of course, my grandmother’s famous apple and blackberry pie with its delicate coat of latticed pastry.

My grandmother was a fiercely independent woman with a heart of gold and a particularly soft spot for her short-sighted grandson. So when she passed away quite suddenly and unexpectedly when I was 14, Saturday afternoons never quite felt the same again.

I can recollect helping my father clear her large Victorian house and standing on the threshold of the sitting room where the fire once danced and laughter once filled the air. All that was left was a bare room with bare floor boards. A room stripped of its personality; stripped of life itself.

Some weeks later the paperweight that had sat for so many years on my grandmother’s sideboard, now found a new home on my bedroom desk. Sometimes I look into it and try and make out fleeting reflections of those joyful childhood memories.

Today, 35 years on my mother, now showing the early signs of dementia, lets slip the darkest of family secrets. Her father with whom she was incredibly close did not die from asthma. This jovial man who still laughs and smiles to this day from those black and white snap shots from yesteryear, actually took his own life – following a serious bout of depression.

It explains a lot. It explains why my grandmother’s top floor was always occupied by lodgers – since life assurance policies are never honoured in the event of suicide.

More significantly, it also explains our family tradition and why every Saturday afternoon all her grandchildren would descend and fill her house with laughter.

If you are affected by this article and would like to speak to mental health experts for support and guidance, please contact www.betterhelp.com/advice/ for free advice.

Alex Pearl is author of Sleeping with the Blackbirds and The Chair Man