How they brought the good news from Ghent...

I talk a lot about people as brands. In my time I’ve done some branding work with towns and cities as brands. Or even their surrounding regions. Plymouth. Dublin. North West England. In Stratford upon Avon, I live in a town that’s dominated by an aged mindset and is badly in need of a better reputation. As is not-too-distant Birmingham, the UK’s second (from last) city. Taking things wider still, raised in the Midlands as I was, I am only too aware of the poor standing of the entire region. What is the Midlands but the North/South divide? So, I know how hard it is to make a geographical anomaly stand out. Which is why it’s great to see the Belgian city of Ghent getting a good part of the glory across webworld today. Ghent is going to be the first city in the world to go vegetarian at least once a week. All based on a recognition of the impact of livestock on our environment. I admire this stance. If you’re going to go vegetarian, stand on the biggest platform. While this country is mired in the usual petty-minded politics of expense claims and pot-kettle-black journalism, those we often look down upon are dealing with more significant issues (personally, I’ve never understood why Belgium gets such a bad press from the UK – I’ve always enjoyed my time in Brussels, Bruges and Liege.) In this country the move would be called PC, a basket used by all lazy-minded conservatives with a small or large C. Debbie and I are peskies (pescetarians, or fish eaters). There are many arguments which tell us we should revert to being vegetarians. We need to be sure of the provenance of the fish we eat, whether it is farmed or wild, how it is caught, treated, killed. But, in pointing out the big problem with meat, we stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the people of Ghent and their galloping good news. Just how many 21st century years is it going to take before the rest of the so-called civilised world acts on the realisation that meat-eating is just a throwback to our Neanderthal roots?

Mark Griffiths http://www.idealconsulting.co.uk/

He ain't fat, but he ain't thin

My long-lost friend, Martin, is 50 today. Well done, Martin, you made it. And, as with most things, except fatherhood, you made it before me (including getting married – you still haven’t paid me yet for that bet I won!). For those of you who don’t know Martin, he runs a business from Cork, Ireland which operates both here and there. The aim of Smart Tactics is to help business leaders within large companies who are united by one desire - they want more from their business. And he responds to some of these blogs with incisive insight and not a little insider knowledge. Martin and I grew up 17 Staffordshire miles from one another without meeting until we were 18, at Bradford University, on Thursday 6th October, 1977, introduced by one Daska Barnett, optometry student, now pursuing a career as an optician in Hammersmith, London. Unknowingly, we’d even attended one rock concert at Birmingham Odeon a year earlier, on 27 October, 1976. Not uncommon. But when I was waiting in the dental surgery yesterday, I heard that song by Peter Frampton that recalled the gig – Show Me The Way. I still have that concert ticket on my toilet wall. Alongside the tickets from the three consecutive nights Martin and I saw David Bowie play the cow shed of Stafford Bingley Hall on 24/25/26 June, 1978. He liked The Stooges and Marvin Gaye. I liked The Ramones and David Sylvian. We both shared an absolute love of reggae and dub. But we never had cocaine running around our brain. I had a yen for dates. He had a head for figs. Strange fruits. We were different. We were similar. Look where we both ended up – working with and advising businesses on how best to promote themselves. Those late night conversations in Room C26 of Revis Barber Hall, surrounded by the paraphernalia of punk and other new friends new to it all, were where it all started. We’ve been talking about the mechanics and messaging of brands for over 30 years. On this day 30 years ago, Martin’s 20th, we saw Iggy Pop live at Leeds University together. Now, I haven’t seen or even talked to Martin since Sunday, 12th March, 2000. But he’s often been in my thoughts. He’s tried phoning – but I have to say that, when you’re wearing the suit of armour I am, it’s very difficult to pick up a telephone receiver. He’s invited me to Cork, but that would be taking the Michael O’Leary. My long-lost friend, Dean (another exile – and the first person I met at Bradford University, on top of a wall we were both scaling), writes from France to describe Martin in the following electrically engineered words: intelligent, unsure, live, persistent, changing, family, contradictory, ‘contestateur’. Back in our careworn London days, some of us had a little rhyme which called Martin to mind: Martin Finn, he’s a grin, he ain’t fat, but he ain’t thin. And, I reckon that’s still probably the case. Me, I’m struggling to find the exact words to describe Martin. I know he shares a birthday with everyone from Dante Gabriel Rossetti to Tony Hancock, Alan Ball to Ian Dury. And let’s not forget Burt Bacharach, with whom he probably wouldn’t mind linking up with. And I have a strange feeling that we’ll actually get around to having our first conversation in the best part of a decade in the week beginning 8th June 2009. Until then, Happy 50th, Martin!

Mark Griffiths http://www.idealconsulting.co.uk/