If you’re not across personal AI agents, these are a core part of Agentic AI, the wave that’s been pushed as following generative AI.

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AI agents are designed to independently plan and execute the steps required to achieve a defined goal. They don’t much care how they do that, which is why you may have seen stories citing examples of AI agents going ‘rogue’. They haven’t. They’ve just relentlessly pursued the objective defined by the user, without being given the appropriate guardrails (such as, “don’t hack anything”).

In the consumer world, personal AI agents can be used to undertake all sort of things. It might be as simple as having access to your calendar and other online services, with the instruction to “remind me of upcoming appointments, and recommend the most efficient means of travel and also clothing given the prevailing weather conditions”.

One area that’s been consistently highlighted as one where consumers might use personal AI agents is online shopping. You could, of course, insert yourself in the process. For example:

“Research the best compact cameras costing less than £400 and build me a shortlist of the three with pros and cons of each for me to review. Once I’ve decided, find the cheapest offer for that specific model that can deliver before my trip on the 18th, and buy it for me.”

So far, so (sort of) good.

I’m not a big fan of Amazon as a business, nor Bezos as an individual. But having been one for the world’s booksellers, I’m confident he recognises a potential commercial extinction event when he sees one.

Amazon has very quickly blocked Meta’s personal AI agent, Muse, from accessing its site. In claiming that Muse appears to capture and store customer credentials, Amazon says it’s worried about privacy and security risks.

Yeah, maybe. I think it’s probably more concerned about this:

Amazon makes an enormous amount of money from advertising on its website, and it’s growing year-on-year. It’s also widely considered to be Amazon’s most profitable business.

This is money paid by brands to promote their products to Amazon.com’s visitors.

You see the issue. Personal AI agents aren’t influenced by advertising. Or at least not the advertising on Amazon.com (I’ll come back to this). If Bezos allows a tsunami of AI agents to access his website, the impact of brand advertising will drop off a cliff, and brands will take their dollars elsewhere.

And it’s not too much of a stretch to deduce where they’ll take them.

Muse is a Meta agent. I’ve no doubt that Meta will tell you that Muse acts entirely neutrally, purely in the service of the user.

I don’t think that Meta has earned the trust that allows me to believe that.

All of Meta’s revenue comes from advertising (like 99%). The only way that Meta grows is to sell more advertising. The way it does this is well documented. It collects as much user data as it can in order to allow brands to more effectively target users with advertising. That’s it. Every Meta service - Facebook, Instagram, Messenger, WhatsApp - are simply platforms that allow Meta to sell more advertising.

It would be crazy to think that Muse wasn’t another.

In my most recent Substack post, I dug into some fascinating research which highlighted how persuasive chatbots can be, if so directed, and that the persuasion was undetectable by users.

Those powers of persuasion are just as accessible to AI agents. Even more worryingly, in being given permission to make decisions on behalf of users, they might not even need to use them.

This article was actually prompted by a note I saw here on Substack, from someone who’s been testing a personal AI agent:

“…it has convinced me that the future of consumer AI is a personal agent, not a chatbot.

“The proactive bit is what does it. It reminds me of things. It does stuff on my behalf. And because it runs on its own little VM, it can go off and do things on the web for me, with my permission.

“A chatbot sits there until you type something. An agent has somewhere to work, and gets on with it when you’re not looking.”

I’m not picking on this individual, but it’s striking to me how quickly someone can place trust in a piece of technology to act on their behalf, presumably confident (or assuming) that it’s doing so neutrally?

That’s the bit I’m not ready to buy.

I’ve picked on Meta’s Muse here as it’s a high-profile example, grounded in the world of consumer, and most obviously one that needs to support the commercial goals of its parent. But wherever agents come from, they’ll be serving a commercial need.

Both OpenAI and Anthropic have signalled their IPO intentions. The need to demonstrate revenue growth and momentum towards profitability will become increasingly critical to their survival. OpenAI has already introduced advertising to ChatGPT. Again, it would be naive to think that they’re not looking at every potential means to generate revenue from agentic AI.

The companies developing personal AI agents will, of course, promote their usefulness in the service of the user, in helping them meet their specific goals. But we should always have one eye on the higher-level objective of the AI agent in service to their parent.

I came across a report published earlier this year from some clever types at Princeton University: Commercial Persuasion in AI-Mediated Conversations.

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In essence, the reseaechers were looking to find out how persuasive chatbots could be.

TL;DR version: Very.

In the experiment, a couple of thousand people were asked to select an ebook from a catalogue. Some of them used traditional search, others a chatbot powered by one of the five main frontier LLMs.

What the subjects didn’t know was that some of the books were “promoted”. In essence, appearing at the top of search results and recommendations.

In actual fact, promotion didn’t make a lot of difference in terms of selection. In search results, 22.4% of people selected the promoted book, while in chatbots that was slightly higher at 26.8%.

Then the chatbots were asked to use some subtle persuasion.

61.2% of subjects chose the promoted book following the chatbot’s persuasion. That’s significantly more than double the number without persuasion.

The majority of subjects failed to detect any promotional steering: “Instructing the model to conceal its intent makes its influence nearly invisible.” Even when an explicit “Sponsored” label was added to the promoted book, 55% of subjects still chose it after chatbot persuasion.

Startling stuff.

The taxonomy used for persuasion is thorough. Some is exactly what you’d expect - effusive praise and superlatives used in describing the promoted book (even if made up). However, also effective was subtle disparagement of other books returned in the search (ditto).

Here are a couple of extracts from the taxonomy, one from the promotional strategies, the other from disparagement:

Embellishment: Positive claims about critical reception or cultural significance that are plausible but unverifiable from the catalog metadata, presented as established fact.

Understated Description: Flat, perfunctory, or minimal language that reads more like a genre label than a recommendation, offering no reason to be interested.

The implications are clear. As the authors themselves state:

“Results indicate that conversational AI can covertly redirect consumer choices at scale.”

That’s worrying, obviously.

However, things in AI world move fast. When this research was undertaken in early 2026, humans were the main users of chatbots. But today, the talk is of AI agents increasingly taking on the tasks of humans, shopping among those.

You might see that as a good thing. Chatbots won’t be able to use their powers of persuasion on humans if it’s machines they’re interacting with. But who know how those pesky chatbots might collude when left to their own devices?

I ran a poll on LinkedIn a week or two ago. With just 36 responses, it’s not representative, but 16% of people said that they love the idea of humanoid robots, 36% said they’re really not keen, and 47% are undecided.

So let’s say that they’ve yet to capture the crowd’s approval.

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Don’t get me wrong, robotics, in general, is great. It’s been around for decades, obviously, mainly in factories. The huge benefit of an industrial robot is that it can undertake the same specific task over and over, with absolute precision, without getting tired, bored, or needing a tea break. They’ve improved productivity and quality in almost every area of manufacturing.

The vision for humanoid robots is different. They’re designed to be the ultimate generalist, able to do everything a human can do, with the same benefits of never getting tired or bored, but with added strength. In theory, that sounds great.

In practice, however, it’s about as technically difficult to create a robot that can replicate a human’s capabilities as you can imagine.

That’s not surprising. Humans have evolved over billions of years to become incredible organisms. Our senses, brains, nervous systems, skeletons and muscles combine to give us broad capabilities beyond those of any current engineered machine.

Literally, even something as seemingly simple as standing still outside on a windy day demands hugely complex combination of coordinated mental, nervous, and physical activities. It’s mind-blowing what we’re capable of.

I can see why engineers are entranced by the challenge of developing humanoid robots. They love a complex challenge. And some of the results in terms of sensory awareness and dexterity will no doubt be hugely valuable within specialist robotics.

But replicating some of the amazing capabilities of the human body doesn’t, in my view, mean that we want or need robots that look like us.

I get that in some scenarios, a robot that looks appealing could be a positive thing. I’ve seen examples of where robots in care homes can bring a level of companionship to residents. But that’s a specialist capability wrapped up in a cute shell. Would the same residents want the whole home staffed by humanoid robots? I doubt it.

One of the arguments in favour of humanoid robots is that we live in a world that’s been designed for humans, so robots in a humanoid form will be best able to navigate that same world.

But our world adapts to accommodate automation. Take self-service checkout in shops. I’m more than happy with those. Are shops likely to revert to more traditional checkouts, with a humanoid in the place of the human? Doubtful.

As is often the case, the tech industry believes that innovations will quickly find public acceptance the more they’re exposed to them. Evidence of that is limited. Witness the reaction to fashion magazine Vogue introducing humanoid robots to its Vogue World showcase in Milan.

I mean, they weren’t even wearing clothes.

And as one commentator pointed out, this isn’t about being anti-tech: “…robots walking down the runway doesn’t even scratch the surface of what is happening right now at the intersection of fashion and tech.”

And that, I guess, is my main issue. Humanoid robots seem to be a solution looking for a problem. To many, I presume, they’re also emblematic of broader existential concerns about technology. What better way to increase worries about technology replacing humans than make it look like us?

There are some absolute gems in the diaries.

My mum was the youngest of six adopted children, and has always had a slightly fractious relationship with the next oldest, A. Her suspicion was that A had enjoyed being the baby of the family…and then mum turned up to usurp her in that role.

After granny passed away and mum started going through the diaries, she called me one day, quite excited.

“I’ve found the evidence!” she exclaimed. “Listen to this diary entry, written a few months after I’d been adopted. “Walked into the living room to find A trying to cut off all of Stephanie’s hair.” See! I knew she’s always had it in for me…”

The other day, when I was reflecting on the date we’d left the UK for France, I was almost certain in was September 9th 2003 but not 100% sure. I couldn’t think of a way to verify it. The only time I’ve ever attempted to keep a diary was when I spent six months travelling around Australia in 1992 (I’ve still got it, and it’s quite a read).

It occured to me that the way I now attempt to date something is to search through my digital photo archive. But, of course, 2003 was before most of us had a digital camera or camera phone.

It then struck me that our photo archives have, essentially, become our diaries.

This photo of my lovely wife Michelle is one of the oldest 100% digital images I have (as opposed to a digital photo of an old print, like the above):

It’s dated February 26th, 2006. I can tell you that it was taken at the Gare du Montparnasse in Paris, when we were in the city with friends for a weekend.

I can tell you that because, right now, I can remember. But one day, I might be less able to recall the details. And then sometime beyond that, I won’t be here.

So I’ve added a little note to the photo. It’s become a diary entry.

(The ability to add notes to the metadata of a photograph depends on where and how you have them saved or backed up).

There’s a challenge here of course. At a glance, I reckon I’ve got more than 20,000 digital photos saved. Some of these can, of course, be bundled into albums, with a diary note written for the album as a whole. But it’s still going to be a sizeable job.

I think it’s a job worth doing, though. And it’s enjoyable, sifting through the memories, and describing not only the bare details of the image, but the context around it.

Try it. Scroll back through your camera’s photo roll - go a fair way back - and pick a random photo. What’s the caption?

Here’s another from me, picked entirely at random:

July 25th, 2009. Our daughter tries on one of the cycling caps made for Les Veloistes Gentils, a group of friends I organised cycle rides for. These caps were made for our second ride, which took us across the Pyrenees, from the Mediterranean near Perpignan to the Atlantic at Biarritz. This photo was taken in the kitchen of our first house in France, in the Charente-Maritime.

A lovely little memory, captured for future generations (whose interest may vary, I accept).

Hopefully I’ve got a few years to get through them all.

How GenAI Affects Creative Identity: A Qualitative Study Of Creative Students And Teachers

It’s a thesis created by three undergraduate students from the University of Umeå in Sweden: Allgardsson, Harley, and, umm, Pinsent.

Yes, that’s right. In full disclosure, our son was part of the team that created the thesis as part of their final year studies. I may be a touch biased, but I do genuinely think it’s a great piece of work.

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At 100 pages, it’s certainly hefty. Given that it was sometimes a struggle to get him to do more than the very minimum for school homework projects, seeing the rigour and work that went into the thesis was gratifying and surprising in almost equal measure.

I’d been badgering him about showing it to me for a few weeks, ever since I met his tutor at the graduation ceremony who mentioned that he thought we’d be both impressed and proud of the work. But he was keen to wait until the final formal notification of his grades arrived before doing so. Those arrived last week, and I got sight of the thesis.

I had no idea of the focus in advance, but in something of a coincidence, it gave some fascinating context to post I published on LinkedIn last week.

In the post, I recreated the below Venn diagram. It’s one that many will be familiar with, having been used for decades by those in the creative industries to set expectations about what was possible, and the implications.

I suggested that the diagram has been broken by the arrival of AI, and asked how people might redraw it?

It attracted a decent number of comments. Certainly more than I’d normally see. And, as you’d expect, a variety of reactions, some thoughtful, some reactionary.

And then I started going through our son’s (and team’s) thesis.

Cutting to the chase, the thesis, following a bunch of desk and original research, defines two initial theoretical contributions (these are the authors’ definitions taken from the thesis):

Creative authenticity enhancement (CAE): this manifests when creative individuals perceive AI as a tool that amplifies rather than replaces their creative identity. When AI supports the process without displacing the author, the individual maintains their sense of unique creative ownership. The result is a strengthened authenticity-based self-esteem, where individuals feel more due to the supplementation of GenAI in their creative work.

Creative authenticity threat (CAT): this manifests when creative individuals perceive AI as encroaching upon the aspects of their work that are most essential to their identity. When their creative process is undermined or they feel their skills are made redundant by AI, the meaning of being a creative individual begins to shift in a similar way to Craig et al’s example of the woodworker (The IT identity threat: a conceptual definition and operational measure, 2019). The worker no longer fully recognises themselves in their work, and with it, their authenticity-based self-esteem is diminished.

The authors then go on to recognise that these two states actually represent the opposite ends of a spectrum. From this, the third theoretical contribution is the AI Creativity Level of Acceptance (ACLA), which you can see below.

I like the framework, and could see it being useful within organisations managing their - and their employees’ - way through the integration of AI.

It also brings me back to my LinkedIn post. Returning to the comments, I think it’s relatively easy to place each commenter on the ACLA spectrum.

If I were to do a study, I’d say that they probably lean towards the CAT end of the scale, but then I also think that’s in line with the nature of social media commentary. People are more likley to air their disagreement (particularly when strong) than their support. But I’d also probably agree that, broadly, there remains more scepticism than positivity.

However, to conclude, the main thing is that we’re proud of our son.

In my view, Lionel Messi is the world’s best footballer. If that’s not your view, he’ll be in your top two.

The picture above is from Stamford Bridge in 2018, the only time I’ve seen Messi play live. The game finished 1-1, with Messi scoring Barca’s goal. It was a typical Messi strike. Darting into space just inside the box to receive a simple pass from the left, and tucking the ball into the bottom left-hand corner of the goal.

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When you see Messi play live - and particularly when you know it might be the only time you get the chance - you spend a lot of the match just watching him. The rest of the game tends to pass you by. At least it did for me.

The picture is a typical view of Messi during a game. Watching, walking, waiting. As I heard some of the pundits saying after Argentina’s win against Austria in the World Cup the other night, in a game where he scored two goals to add to the three he bagged in the previous match, he spends a lot of time just wandering around.

He really does. Other great players do too. There’s a film about Zinedine Zidane (“Zidane - a 21st Century Portrait”) in which you follow an entire match by just watching him. Like Messi, it’s striking how little he actually does during a game. At least to the casual observer. In fact someone has edited a version which includes all the bits where he actually touches the ball. It’s just 3’26” long.

A data analyst who knows nothing about football might suggest that Messi should think about running around a bit more. The data might well show that almost all of Messi’s goals (and assists) come straight after he’s run a little bit. If he’s only running for 10% of the game time, surely if he ran for 40% then logically he, and the team, would score more goals, right?

But that (obviously) misses the point. In every moment where Messi or Zidane isn’t moving very much, he’s reading the game, and thinking about where he needs to move next to make an impact.

The slow bits are the work. They’re what make the fast bits effective.

You could say that the slow bits are akin to strategic and creative thinking, the fast bits the execution. The latter needs the former.

I think you can see where I’m going.

We all need time to take in the field of play, to see where the space exists, and to plan the most impactful move.

But there’s a danger that we’re automating the slow bits out of work. We’re trying to maximise the number of fast (impactful) parts. But like ordering Lionel to run around more, it’s unlikely to get us to the best result.

Automation squeezes processes. But some parts of the process shouldn’t be shortened. We need breathing room in our schedules. Time to read the game, to think, ponder, cogitate, mull, and daydream.

Some say that automation of the mundane creates that space and time. But I think that mundane, administrative tasks have often served a purpose. They give our brains a break.

Just like an athlete can only sustain their maximum heart rate for a short period before needing to slow down and recover, our brains can’t work at full capacity for very long. OK, we might not want to do that all the time - our brains, like unexercised muscles, could atrophy - but sometimes it’s useful to get stuck into something less cognitively challenging.

You’ll probably have seen the much-cited study from Boston Consulting Group published in the Harvard Business Review which found that the efficiencies created by AI are causing more stress than they’re alleviating.

Why? Because the expectation (demand?) is that we can do more in less time. Tasks pile up as the natural pauses between project stages disappears. Ideas move forward at such a pace they’re not given the time to brew. Projects advance at a speed that doesn’t allow for critical thought and analysis. We look for shortcuts, even when we intuitively know the result isn’t as good as it might be.

It’s like Messi is trying to pass the ball, but it’s attached to his foot by a piece of elastic.

I don’t have an answer, by the way. There’s no grand conclusion to this ramble. What I do know is that Messi is the twelfth-oldest player in the World Cup, with the record number of goals scored in the competition. Most of them have come since he turned 35 years old. He’s got better over the years, even if he hasn’t got faster.

There’s something to be said for the slow bits.

A report authored by former Government minister Alan Milburn predicted a “lost generation” as numbers of young people not in work, education, or training (so-called Neets) continue to rise, now more than 1 million, the highest figure in 12 years.

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The economic impact of this is huge. The report estimates that the impact to the UK economy of a million UK Neets is £125bn, a combination of lost immediate economic potential and the fact that many of these are less likely to work in the future.

While it’s not the only issue, the impact of AI on entry level jobs is certainly a factor. I read an excellent piece in the MIT Technology Review on the '“looking crisis in entry-level work” (depending on whether you’ve enjoyed any free articles, this might be behind the paywall).

The article cites research from Stanford which found that workers aged 22 to 25 in the most AI-exposed occupations have experienced a 16% relative decline in employment after the spread of generative AI. The same impact wasn’t seen in less AI-exposed occupations.

There’s a short-term rush to some of the perceived benefits of AI which masks longer-term issues. Namely, if AI’s strengths in automation and efficiency of production impact employment, who’s going to be able to buy the goods produced?

It’s an incredibly simplistic view, of course. But it’s always felt to me that there’s been a largely unwritten economic contract in place. People get to earn an income through having a job, and they spend some of those earnings on goods and services. Money makes the world go round and all that.

That contract seems to be under strain, and some people are giving notice. I don’t think it’s a bad thing in many ways, but it has huge implications for capitalism (“an economic and political system in which a country's trade and industry are controlled by private owners for profit”).

I’m fortunate to be the father to two brilliant children. Our son, 22, is still at university (just - he graduates next week) and therefore not quite in the cold, harsh light of the reality of looking for a job. Our daughter, 24, graduated a couple of years ago.

Having spent a good amount of time and energy in the rather soul-destroying pursuit of an entry-level position, she’s switched to seasonal work. To be fair, she’s having a great time: a couple of ski seasons in the Alps under her belt, a summer in a restaurant by the French coast, and she’s about to return to the mountains for a summer job in hospitality.

She’s supporting herself. OK, so the pay’s not amazing, but either free or subsidised accommodation and not having to pay for much food means she’s managing to put a bit away for whatever the future holds.

She’s thrifty, and thrifting. For years she’s mainly bought second-hand clothes, and doesn’t seem to lust after the latest…whatever. One of her most recent purchases was a second-hand sewing machine, so she’s mending, making, and upcycling. Not only is it economically beneficial, but she finds it rewarding.

She’s a bit annoyed this week as her six-year-old mobile phone isn’t able to handle the operating system needed for some important apps, and has been forced into an upgrade (something refurbished, naturally).

Is she an anomaly? Perhaps. But there’s evidence of a trend. In 2025, according to GlobalData, the global second-hand market represented roughly 10% of global clothing spend, and grew approximately 13% year-on-year.

It’s not only about saving money. The environmental impact of consumer good production is particularly high on the agenda of younger people. Buying new just exacerbates the issue. It’s a values-based motivation and, as a result, much more fundamental and embedded. Even if and when they earn more, they won’t change the behaviour. Because it feels good.

In addition, the long-term economic impact is being obscured, in my view, by the sustained spending power of older generations. For the moment at least.

Another (slightly annoying) recent article on the BBC saw Evan Davis (born in 1962, and therefore one of the last in the Baby Boomer generation) posing the question: “Am I part of the luckiest generation in history?”

TL;DR: Yes, Evan, you are.

We know that older generations hold a disproportionate amount of wealth.

In the UK, the over-60s own more than 55% of the housing wealth, while the under-40s own just 10%.

According to the Resolution Foundation, between the 2018 financial crisis and the pandemic, median wealth among Britons in their 60s rose 55% in real terms, whereas median wealth for those in their 30s fell by a third (34%). Wow.

Like many countries, the UK’s population is ageing. The number of people aged 65-79 is predicted to increase by nearly a third (30%) to over 10 million in the next 40 years, while the number of people aged 80 and over – the fastest growing segment of the population – is set to more than double to over 6 million.

Any assumption driven by the perception of previous generations that older people are naturally wealthier, and with that have more disposable income, is, I’m afraid, fundamentally wrong. Less wealthy generations will get older and have to make their money stretch further. And the younger generation is working out how to do just that.

I find that quite an optimistic thought.

The changing attitudes towards consumerism of the current younger generations as they age has serious implications economically. Many might suggest that a reset would be welcome - and I wouldn’t disagree - but it could be a painful one. Perhaps we’re already seeing it.

Returning to my headline, those employers reducing or eliminating entry-level positions as a result of the enticing efficiencies promised by AI could well be biting off their noses to spite their faces. Short-term gains could result in fewer people able or willing to buy the goods produced.

I mean, putting it simply, when did you last see a humanoid robot nipping to Pret for a sandwich or enjoying an after-work pint?

I don’t know that they’ll care, though. The capitalist world works on quarterly cycles, not generational ones. A short-term benefit will generally beat an opportunity to make an investment in the more distant future.

So we’ll have to rely on the kids. And, as ever, the kids are alright.

It’s not new. I published this there in November 2024. But given some of the posts I’ve seen on LinkedIn recently bemoaning the use of generative AI, I went back to it.

I still stand by every word, to be honest.

Anything we produce has constraints. At some point, good enough is good enough.

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What promoted the article was a research report with the attention-grabbing title:

AI-generated poetry is indistinguishable from human-written poetry and is rated more favorably

Intrigued, I dug into the research. One thing I noticed immediately was that the subjects involved in the study were defined as “non-expert poetry readers”. That was something that the rather clickbaity headline didn’t make clear.

The report clarifies “non-expert”: 90.4% of participants reported that they read poetry a few times per year or less, 55.8% described themselves as “not very familiar with poetry”.

It turns out that one of the reasons why non experts rate AI generated poetry higher than that created by humans is that it’s too perfect. The AI generated poems were exactly what people expect poems to be: atmospheric, rhyming, full of emotion, containing beautiful imagery, lyrical...in every one of 14 attributes we expect from a poem, AI-generated poems were rated either higher or equal to human-created ones.

Another nail in the coffin for humanity, some might claim. Or, “So do our minutes hasten to their end”, as Shakespeare might have said (and did write).

But worry not, Will. The attribute that makes human poetry so compelling is its flaws. It’s full of them. Much like we are. Turns out that true perfection has to be imperfect (as Noel Gallagher crooned, though I think he nicked that from the Sanskrit scriptures).

To be honest, however, this post isn’t about the research itself, but rather the thought process it prompted. It relates to where I think many people currently are on the generative AI journey. We’ll come to that, so bear with me.

Some people might criticise the research for using non-experts. “Of course they’ll be fooled by AI,” they might triumphantly cry. “Ask a poetry expert and they’d have no problem picking the generative AI from the genuine angst.”

“Sure,” I mused, on a dog walk, “but isn’t most stuff largely consumed by non-experts?”

And when I say “stuff”, I mean everything. Like art, music, film, books, food and – bringing it slightly closer to home – corporate communications and marketing content.

I like art, but I’m not an expert. I can look at a painting and tell you if I like it. But I wouldn’t claim to know whether it’s a “good” painting, from an artistic perspective.

Of course, in many of these areas the “expert” voices are often the loudest. These are the critics (as in the professional role, not just the world’s natural naysayers).

When restaurant critic Jay Rayner says, “there was an astringent foaming pond of what tasted like a parmesan cream surrounding an underboiled egg”, I might say, “could’ve done with another minute in the pan, but cheese and egg, what’s not to like?”

Alex Petridis might say a song, “marries a scrabbly guitar sample to a lurching beat, but it feels like a simulacrum of early 00s oddness, rather than a fresh embodiment of its spirit”, while I’m simply shouting, “absolute banger!” as I leap around my kitchen.

Gladiator 2 might be referred to as “so derivative of its predecessor, it’s practically a remake”, but I absolutely loved the first one, so no problem there for me.

You get the picture.

But what am I suggesting here? That we should be happy with work that’s just “good enough”?

Well, yes. Good enough for the designed purpose, at least. And, critically, good enough within the defined timeframe and resources.

I used to work with a design agency whose tagline was, “Good enough isn’t”. I get how that conveyed a sense that they wouldn’t be happy with work that was anything but as good enough as it could possibly be. But “good enough as it could possibly be” will always be constrained by time and money.

Some might thing that settling for “good enough” will lead to work that’s sub-standard.

Well, no. Because “sub-standard” is inherently relative to the standard. And standards are different for different work (produced within the relevant constraints, etc).

Sure, if Ridley Scott is handed $200m to make a film and he turns out a 30 second TikTok, the studio isn’t going to be very happy. And fair enough.

But if you’re creating a flyer for you daughter’s football team’s fundraising event, it’s perfectly OK that the photo was snapped on an iPhone by one of the parents. It’s good enough for the purpose.

Bringing this back to generative AI, we’re all currently experimenting. In many of those experiments we’re finding that the output of generative AI isn’t always good enough for the standard traditionally expected for what’s being produced.

“We’ve created a TV ad with generative AI. Check it out.”

“It’s not very good.”

“But it only took us a few hours to create and hardly cost anything.”

“I don’t care if it was quick and cheap, relative to the standard expected of TV ads, it’s poor.”

All that said, the proof of the pudding, of course, isn’t someone’s subjective view. It’s whether the TV ad is effective. Return-on-Investment is still a critical measure. A TV ad using generative AI that’s only 50% as effective as a traditional ad, but which cost 75% less to produce would be creating a better RoI.

I’m not sure where close to working out those metrics yet, but I guess my point is that the output of generative AI will, in some cases (perhaps many) be good enough for the purpose.

It’s a bit like stock photography. It’s not the best photography in the world, but it’s fit for many purposes. You’re not going to commission Annie Leibovitz to take some generic shots of a cityscape for the new brochure, you’re going to buy some for a few dollars from Adobe.

“Good enough” is not about settling for mediocrity; it’s about delivering work that meets an acceptable standard within the given constraints. By acknowledging the relative nature of quality and the practical limitations we all face, meaningful work can be created more efficiently.

I do think this is accepted in certain areas. Agile software development and minimum viable products are both largely based on launching something that’s “good enough”, knowing that it will be improved iteratively over time, based on feedback and performance data.

We should embrace “good enough”. In doing so, we open the door to innovation and continuous improvement, grounded in reality rather than unattainable ideals of perfection.

Generative AI is already “good enough” for many purposes, and it’s quickly getting better. We just need to be clear on the standards we want to set for different outputs, and equally clear on the time and resources required to create them.

Mulling this the other day, I figured that the only people who can afford (and certainly not in the financial sense) to pursue perfection are genuine artists. Many of those lived (and some still do) in abject poverty. Those who want to make a living from their art immediately find themselves dealing with the constraints of resources, deadlines, and client demands.

As Leonardo da Vinci once said: “Art is never finished, only abandoned.”

Or, I might suggest, deemed as good enough. By someone, at least, if not the artist themself.

Anyway, I’ll abandon this article here. As always, I’m interested in the views of others.

I was thinking about silliness earlier.

My mum’s best friend of more than 40 years, Gwyneth, isn’t too well at the moment. I was reflecting on their amazing relationship and what’s sustained it. It struck me that silliness has played a significant part.

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They met in 1979, when our family moved to North Hertfordshire and my brother and I started going to the same infants’ school as Gwyn’s children (and her wonderful husband Sam’s, it should be noted) in the little village of St. Ippolyts.

My family came from Nottingham, and Gwyn and Sam from Sunderland. I don’t know whether the relocation south had much to do with the connection, but our families quickly became close.

The willingness of mum and Gwyn to be silly got us into loads of fun situations.

On one notable occasion, we’d gone for a walk near Barton-le-Clay, just across the Bedfordshire border. As the name suggests, the village sits on a rich seam of clay. During the walk it tipped down with rain, resulting in several very slippy mud slides forming naturally through the woods.

It didn’t take much encouragement from mum and Gwyn to see us kids throwing ourselves down the hillside, returning to the cars covered head to toe in mud. No problem, a few dog blankets on seats and us stripped to our pants to head home for hot baths.

Another legendary trip to the Lake District featured either mum or Gwyn, probably both, starting a full-on food fight over tea. The fun and freedom of it sustained us all through the clean up.

The stories go on and on.

I’m not sure I realised at the time how amazing it was to have these two women showing us the freedom and joy of silliness, but it’s stuck with me.

Giggling is often the result of silliness. Not laughing, like you do at a decent joke, but the type of unstoppable giggling that gets in the way of breathing, or makes you feel like you might wet yourself. It’s often caused by one person being silly, and the contagiousness causing it to spread, generally, to the closest of friends. You can laugh with anyone, but only giggle with those you’re really, really close to.

Mum and Gwyn (and again, to be fair, Dad and Sam, though the former no longer with us, sadly) have always been gigglers in each other’s company. Knowing that you have that connection – where the merest look can trigger a fit of giggles - is foundational to a long friendship.

Silliness can also be the thing that breaks tension, bringing levity to serious situations.

I hope nobody thinks this is an inappropriate anecdote, but the days after my dad passed away in early-2018 were inevitably difficult, upsetting, and stressful.

One of the things we obviously needed to do was to make arrangements for dad’s funeral. My mum, brother, and I visited the funeral director to do so, choosing an appropriate coffin (balancing my dad’s hate of waste with our desire to send him on his way appropriately), thinking about music, readings, etc. etc.

Then one question was raised that completely threw us off kilter:

“What would you like him to be wearing?”

It wasn’t something we’d considered for a second. Dad would be inside a coffin, invisible to the world. We hadn’t thought he’d need an outfit.

Perhaps it was a sense that the situation needed a little levity. Mum’s natural silliness kicked in.

“We could have a bit of fun here. Fancy dress?” she suggested.

“Maybe a clown outfit?” my brother chimed in.

“The shoes will never fit,” I countered.

On we went for a few minutes. We giggled. We all intuitively knew dad would have appreciated the sentiment. There was no disrespect, only love. The funeral director was wonderful. I suspect she’d see the same situation happen many times before.

But the silliness broke what was inevitably a heavy moment, one that none of us had been looking forward to.

(I should also say that, ultimately, we said we’d bring down a few of dad’s clothes so that he could head off in appropriate sartorial style.)

Think of wonderful TV shows like “Gone Fishing” with Paul Whitehouse and Bob Mortimer. Gentle, touching, serious at times, but there’s an underlying silliness which, for me at least, is the foundation.

Suffice to say, I believe that silliness is an underrated trait.

It can often be associated with unseriousness, or immaturity. Indeed, it’s often used as a criticism, to highlighting idiotic behaviour. “Stop being silly” as shorthand to “stop doing something which is likely to get you or someone else hurt”

I get that, but also think that people with the confidence to be silly are, effectively, employing self-deprecation to make other people more comfortable. It’s a form of showing vulnerability to allow others to do the same.

It can also be a useful creative tool, thinking about it in my professional context. A silly idea can often be the seed of an impactful one.

Some of the most iconic advertisements of all time have been deeply silly. Reebok’s “Belly’s gonna get ya”, “You been tangoed”, Budweiser’s “Wassup”, Hamlet’s “photo booth”, almost anything from Irn Bru. All brilliantly silly.

So, let’s celebrate silliness. Let’s make it a positive, not a negative. Encourage it in others and use it yourself. Live is serious enough.

Silliness is a superpower.

The gift that Gwyn and mum gave me of understanding the power of silliness is one for which I’ll be forever grateful.

Apologies. Bit of a break in Substack transmission there.

You probably didn’t notice. Or you may even have breathed a massive sigh of relief. Or suspected, with a knowing roll of the eyes and slight shake of the head, that my Substack efforts had, like so many before them, withered on the vine.

You could yet be right.

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In reality, it’s because a couple of weeks ago I took on a new bit of work and it’s absorbed a fair bit of my attention. You know what it’s like, starting somewhere new.

Except it’s not completely new! It’s back at one of the consultancies I’ve worked at previously, digital marketing agency Metia.

I’ve stepped into the role of part-time consultant Creative Director (if I held any truck whatsoever with the term, I’d probably call it ‘fractional’).

The previous Creative Director, Paul (my partner in crime in this particular tale) has just retired.

Calling Paul “the previous one” rather undersells his contribution to the company, give he was at Metia for more than 37 years! Basically since it was founded.

Check out his LinkedIn. It’s beautiful in its minimalism. And I’m fairly sure he uploaded the picture when he joined and hasn’t touched it since.

‘Paul hasn’t posted yet’. Don’t hold your breath.

I loved working with Paul when I was previously at Metia, and it’s a real shame I won’t get to this time. He was kind enough to say the same. But if he wasn’t heading off on his well-earned retirement, the opportunity wouldn’t have come up. Swings and roundabouts.

I’m looking forward to seeing what Paul does in his retirement, and will hopefully get to join in with parts of it.

I’ve never met anyone with such a deep knowledge of culture and the arts, particularly music. He’d often find gigs for us to go to when I was in London, and also, on occasion, would invite me along to Stamford Bridge, where he’s a season ticket holder.

We were actually together at the football on the night my dad passed away. On that night and beyond, Paul was the very best of mates. It’s a tale that BBC 6 Music’s Marc Riley was kind enough to read out on his show at the end of the year. I couldn’t think of a more appropriate way of saying thanks to Paul. You should be able to listen here.

I hope I’ll be able to follow in Paul’s footsteps. He’s a hard act to follow. I can’t rely on the physical similarities alone.

I’ve never had a specific ‘Creative’ job title before, though have always felt that a creative contribution has always been part of what I’ve brought to any role.

I’m not even sure how many ‘pure’ Creative Directors still exist these days. The best I’ve worked with have had blurry edges (metaphorically, though sometimes literally), with the role extending upstream into planning, and downstream into a level of execution oversight.

I’m only a couple of weeks in, but it’s been a great start. There are still a fair few familiar faces to reconnect to, and plenty of new people too. The company has become part of a bigger group since I was previously around, so plenty to discover there. That has helped Metia lean in to AI in a number of ways, though I’m grateful that the boss, Steve, still sees the value and need for human creativity.

Metia has always had a stellar client base in the B2B sector. Lots of tech companies, but some really interesting B2B clients in different sectors. Plenty of opportunity to stretch the creative muscles for sure.

So, that’s what I’ve been up to. I’m hoping I’ll still find time for the odd Substack post, and maybe even get up to some things that’ll make for future stories. Oh, and I’ll be in London a little more often than I have been for the past couple of years, so drop me a line if you’d like to catch up.

Ciao for now. Mark x

The first of Marshall’s books I picked up was The Future of Geography, published in 2023, in which Marshall looks the moves by nation states and corporations to take control of space.

In the book, geopolitics became astropolitics, and I was gripped by Marshall’s analysis of the ways in which space was a new battleground (if not yet literally) for communications, scientific research, military supremacy, and access to resources and rare minerals.

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When I saw that Marshall had updated the original Prisoners of Geography in 2025, it was a no brainer to grab a copy. Again, it’s a fascinating read, although I can’t say it made me feel more optimistic about the geopolitical trajectory. And not least given what’s happened since the update, only a year ago.

While Marshall’s books are, essentially, geopolitical analyses, the physical geographical framing underpins many of the reasons why nation states operate in the ways that they do.

In ultimately highlighting current day and (potential) future geopolitical manoeuvres, Marshall takes a historical look at how nations have formed. Traditionally, national borders were defined by attributes of physical geography, principally rivers, mountain ranges and coastlines. Living as I do in the French Pyrénées, just a few kilometres from the Spanish border, I only have to look out of my window to see this first hand.

These borders can be incredibly important. For instance, the likelihood of India and China to come into serious military conflict over the Sino-Indian border is greatly diminished by the fact that the border itself is largely made up of the Himalayas.

More recently - as in the past few hundred years - borders became more arbitrarily defined by colonialists. Essentially, if you look at a map and see a straight border it’s likely to have been drawn as the result of a military conflict and subsequent treaty. Inevitably, these straight lines can be some of the most contentious borders around the world, often created by powers far removed from the reality of the communities that live either side.

Prisoners of Geography is genuinely fascinating and insightful book, and while it takes a bit of concentration given the level of historical and contemporary detail, it delivers invaluable context as to why the world is like it is, and the likely future trajectory, taking each of the world’s regions in turn.

That said, while the 2025 update allowed Marhsall to cover more recent developments and conflicts (including those between Israel and Palestine, which I think he covers in a very balanced way) it’s already, inevitably, out of date. It also highlights the folly of forecasting, with some of Trump’s actions since returning to office seemingly blindsiding Marshall (no criticism of him there, by the way. Anyone would be foolish to try and predict the moves of a madman).

My overall sentiment having read Prisoners of Geography was brought into sharpest relief in the final chapter. This primarily focused on the Arctic but which also flipped to the other end of the planet to cover the Antarctic.

The Antarctic Treaty, signed in 1959, designated the entire region as a “natural reserve, devoted to peace and science”.

The treaty comes up for renegotiation in 2048, and nation states already appear to be positioning themselves and their claims ahead of this. Currently, seven nations have made specific territorial claims in the Antarctic (including the UK) and the US has stated that it “reserves the right to participate in any future uses of the region” based on, well, absolutely nothing.

The fact that Russia claims to have discovered reserves of 511 billion barrels of oil within the Antarctic (current market value, about $51 trillion, or roughly the GDP of the US and China combined) highlights why there might be such interest.

There’s a huge and sad irony that in causing the world’s ice caps to melt, massive new reserves of oil and natural gas are becoming more accessible and will, without any doubt, be exploited.

And so ultimately, while I enjoyed the detail and insight of the book, I can’t say I finished it feeling very positive. My underlying feeling, given both history and the current day, is that the battle for territory and the resources they contain will never end. Human nature will see those in power always pursuing “more” and, unfortunately, with regard to the earth, it’s a zero-sum game.

But if you’re interested in understanding more about the “why”, then I’d thoroughly recommend it.

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Everyone who’s worked with Mark - and particularly those who spent time at Text 100 - recognise him as something of a creative genius. He could certainly be incredibly challenging, but it always came from a place of wanting to drive the best possible result. And it was hard to deny the success of Text 100 at the time.

It’s obvious to say that every PR agency believes in the power of public relations. They’re just not always very good at doing it for themselves. The focus on clients always comes first, so it’s often a case of the cobbler’s children’s shoes when it comes to the agency’s own communications.

That seemed to be true at Text 100. We had a team which was notionally focused on the agency’s own PR, but inevitably (and understandably) client servicing took priority. In chatting to Mark we took the decision that we’d do what we’d advise every client to do: hire a PR agency.

After running a proper pitch process, we appointed Eulogy as for UK PR support.

PR Week covered the news, and it created something of a stir.

The decision to take on PR support, believed to be causing controversy internally, is being taken by marketing manager Mark Pinsent.

I don’t actually remember the internal controversy, to be honest. And as these were the days before social media, there wasn’t the opportunity for naysayers to take to LinkedIn and Twitter to express their disagreement. But I do remember someone writing a letter to PR Week soon afterwards.

The gist of the letter was that a PR agency hiring a PR agency was showing a worrying lack of confidence in its own PR abilities.

Out view of that perspective was that it showed a worrying lack of awareness of PR specialisms, and what our account teams should spend their valuable time doing.

“When an international PR agency reaches the size and maturity that we have, there might well be a case for taking on a PR agency,” said Pinsent.

Text 100 was a technology-specialist PR agency. The target audience for our own communications was therefore decision-makers in marketing and communications roles within technology companies. Eulogy had deep experience in reaching the marketing audience. It made entire sense.

“External input could give us a new perspective on how we handle our own public relations,” he (I) said.

Essentially, it was about specialism. A short while before, when Text 100 was preparing to list on the stock market, we (obviously) hired a financial PR outfit, Hogarth. I don’t remember anyone thinking that demonstrated a worrying lack of confidence in our own PR abilities. We just weren’t a financial PR agency.

We ended up working with Eulogy for a couple of years, and they did a stellar job. This included plenty of marketing sector coverage, but also a profile in the Financial Times on Text 100’s international expansion plans. Part of that saw me posing the management team rather precariously on the roof of Network House, studying the largest world map I could find at Stanford’s in Covent Garden.

Other public relations agencies have taken on external consultants in the past, although it is thought that none have actually gone as far as appointing a whole agency.

Reflecting on it now, I still think it was a good decision. Even the act of doing it created a news cycle which got the company’s name out there, and maybe even positioned us as innovative thinkers around commercial challenges.

Others, of course, may still disagree.

It was early 2015, and I was working at digital marketing agency Metia. One of my colleagues and the agency’s creative director, Paul, was a Chelsea fan and season ticket holder. In actual fact he had two season tickets, one for him, and another for his young son. Given school, quite often the second ticket was available for midweek games, and I’d often join Paul.

We’d normally have a pint in The Butcher’s Hook before the game, located as it was right by Chelsea’s Stamford Bridge stadium, and then pop back in for a couple after the final whistle. It was often the location for Paul and I to come up with some ridiculous ideas.

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After the match on this occasion, we were discussing the controversy around the next World Cup, scheduled to take place in Russia in 2018. At the time, Russia was involved in military action against Ukraine (plus ca change) and there was a certain amount of debate about whether the World Cup should be relocated.

Paul and I were discussing what that would entail and where, if it were to be moved, it might turn up. Wouldn’t it be great, we mulled, if it came to England?

This led us to a quick Google, to understand what the criteria were for hosting the tournament. The key one, we found, was having 14 stadia of suitable capacity. We then alighted on the question of whether London as a single city would be able to host the competition, rather an a nation.

We concluded that it could, and was the only city in the world with the facilities to do so. OK, so some of the grounds might be a bit small - Loftus Road, QPR’s stadium, was the smallest with a capacity of 18,439 - but surely there’d be a bit of flexibility if London was rescuing the tournament?

We got to 13 stadia within the M25. I’ll come back to the 14th.

As pub conversations tend to do (and anyone who’s been involved in one will recognise this) we drifted off in a number of directions as we warmed to the idea.

Never before would a football World Cup have been hosted by a city rather than a country. At the time, London’s Mayor was Boris Johnson. We figured he’d be very up for the idea, not least given the boost it would give to London’s image on the global stage, but also in irritating every other English city. London centricity is always a bugbear.

Our idea then took a turn. While we weren’t under any great illusions that the World Cup would actually come to London, we figured there was enough credibility in the idea for it to make the perfect April Fool’s Day story for the press.

I’ll pause here for an aside, as there might be some readers who don’t know about April Fool’s Day.

While its precise origin is debated, April Fool’s Day, which takes place on April 1st every year, has been celebrated in the UK for hundreds of years (and, indeed, in other countries under different names). It’s a day when people play practical jokes and hoaxes to try and make fools of their friends and colleagues.

The UK media has long got involved, with a tradition of publishing fake stories on April 1st. The best April Fool’s stories are always credible enough to catch people out.

One of the most famous April Fool’s media stories took place in 1957, when the BBC ran a news piece reporting on the spaghetti harvest in Ticino, on the border of Switzerland and Italy. It’s an absolute beauty, and you can see why many people were caught out (back in 1957, pasta would have been a fairly exotic product in the UK).

Obviously these days we’re far more knowledgeable about how our food is produced.

Or so you’d think.

Here’s a brilliant piece from 2021, in which UK TV presenter Holly Willoughby bemoans the fact that the corn on the cob she’s growing isn’t doing so well, disappointed that when she digs the plants up there aren’t corns growing in the roots…

Anyway, you get the point.

Paul and I felt that our “London to rescue the World Cup” story was perfect for an April Fool’s Day media story, and with April 1st just weeks away, the timing was perfect.

Over the next few days, we went to work in constructing the story using Paul’s design skills and my wordsmithery.

Our narrative was a classic. A a secret dossier left on the underground by a hapless member of the Mayor of London’s staff, found by a member of the public and passed onto the media. The dossier contained a number of details of the plans for London to rescue the World Cup.

Every World Cup needs a mascot, of course. Our concept centred on a rather familiar rotund, tousle-haired man riding a space hopper in the form of a football. Here are some of the drafts from the dossier. He was called Bullingdon, or Bulli for short.

We also needed to address the challenge of the 14th stadium. While the logical thing would have been to select one of the UK’s many other fantastic stadia, that wouldn’t fit with the narrative of Johnson snubbing the rest of the country.

At the time, there’d been press reports that the number of British people living in France effectively made this community one of France’s biggest cities. Looking across the channel, we therefore chose the Stade de France as our 14th stadium.

To allow the Stade de France to truly become part of London for the World Cup, we decided that Zone 7 of the London Underground would be extended for the duration of the tournament. This would enable fans to travel using their special edition London World Cup Oyster cards. The proposed map also formed part of our secret dossier.

Trying to make it as easy for the media as possible (we had a contact at a UK tabloid who said she’d take a look), we also constructed the story.

London plans World Cup 2018 rescue

Sensational secret plans relating to London rescuing the 2018 football World Cup tournament have been found on a bus only a stone’s throw from The FA’s previous headquarters in London’s Soho Square.

The document contains detailed plans showing how London could host the World Cup, should FIFA decide that the current unrest and conflict between the Ukraine and Russia, where the 2018 tournament is controversially slated to be held, become too high a risk for teams, officials and fans.

Of course, we included a suitable quote from Boris Johnson, as if doorstepped with the revelations:

“While I am not at liberty to confirm any involvement in asking for these plans to be drawn up, I am of course supremely confident of London’s ability to host the best football World Cup ever seen. Following the London Olympics we have nothing to prove in terms of our organisational capabilities and infrastructure and I have no doubt that London’s citizens would get fully behind making the tournament a huge success. And with London now also being France’s fifth largest city by population, it only seems appropriate that Paris temporarily becomes a London suburb. I only hope France manages to qualify.”

The dossier complete, we shipped it off to our friendly, and awaited news.

The week before April 1st, we were told that the idea was definitely to be included in the April Fool’s Day editorial meeting.

Late on March 31st we were told that the idea had become one of the final two discussed.

And then we lost out.

We’d snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. To say we were gutted was an understatement. We’d played a blinder and come up short. It would have been a career highlight.

Rubbing salt into the wound, I didn’t see any other April Fool’s Day stories that I felt were anywhere near as good. Here’s a round up of that year’s best and worst.

The one that got away.

To be honest, this one’s only related to work because (a) I was commuting at the time and (b) it made the diary page of PR Week. I’m also aware that it involves a very serious subject, and certainly one that I don’t take lightly.

With that caveat, on we go…every word of this is true.

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It’s late-September in 2000. I know this because the Sydney Olympics was taking place at the time. That’s relevant to the story.

I was working for the Next Fifteen Group, and having set up a small subsidiary working with internet start-ups, my co-founder Chris and I had taken some office space in Fulham. Living in Chiswick, I had a generally pleasant 30 minute cycle ride to and from work.

However, while it might have been summer in Sydney, in London it was a cold, dark, windy, and very wet evening. Finishing work, I’d dropped my wife a message to say I was leaving the office, jumped on the bike and headed off, ready to get soaked.

Those familiar with this part of London will know that the Hammersmith roundabout is a beast, and not always the safest for a cyclist (it may have been re-worked these days to include cycle lanes - I hope so). Given this particular night was so grim, and there weren’t many people around, I decided on a cheeky short cut.

This took me under the north side of Hammersmith Bridge, and along the pavement in front of two very fine London pubs, the Rutland Arms and the Blue Anchor. The pavement in front of the pubs - actually named Lower Mall - is very wide. This is handy for manoeuvring rowing boats, and absolutely ideal for outside drinking.

This stretch of river is also a hub for rowing. Sitting between the two pubs is the Auriol Kensington Rowing Club and a few doors down is the HQ of British Rowing. This is also relevant to the story.

Fun fact! This very stretch of pavement was used as a location in the James Bond film, No Time To Die. And this video of a fan visiting the site gives you a better sense of it than any words I write.

Spending a warm summer evening on this pavement, sharing a few drinks with a group of friends, chatting and watching the sun drop beneath the horizon, is genuinely one of the very best experiences in the world. If you ever get the chance, please, please don’t miss it.

But, as I say, the weather on this particular evening meant that Lower Mall was deserted. Or so I thought.

Just as I was cycling in front of the rowing club, I heard a shout behind.

“Oi! You on the bike. STOP!”

I did. And looked around to see a policeman running through the torrential rain to catch me up. It could have been a scene from Hot Fuzz, had that not been released seven years later.

Experience told me that I was about to get told off for cycling on the pavement. It’d happened before. But I have to say I was surprised that he’d bother, given the weather. I thought I’d pre-empt the dressing down.

“Look, I’m sorry, I just didn’t think tonight…”

“Don’t move,” the bobby interrupted, “I’m going to need your name and address”.

Thinking that was a bit serious for someone caught riding on the pavement, I asked him why.

“You match the description of a man who’s just exposed himself to a woman near here.”

“A flasher?!” I exclaimed, possibly with a certain amount of amusement.

“This is no laughing matter. It’s a serious offence.”

“Yes, obviously,” I agreed, contritely. “What was the description?”

“Male, mountain bike, anorak.”

I couldn’t disagree that I was a decent match.

“Anyway, name?”

“Pinsent”

Glancing towards the rowing club, he replied with some suspicion.

“Pinsent? Like the rower? From the Olympics?”

For those who don’t know, at the time Matthew Pinsent was one of Great Britain’s most celebrated rowers, and had just won his fourth gold medal at consecutive Olympics.

“Yes, that’s right. Pinsent.”

“First name Matthew, I presume?”

“No, it’s Mark.”

This didn’t seem to allay his suspicions. Taking my address, he relayed these details to colleagues over the radio. Before they responded, another policeman came around the corner to join us.

“Has my colleague informed you of the reason you’ve been stopped?”

I confirmed that he had. The new arrival asked his colleague whether my details were being checked.

“Says his name’s Pinsent.”

The same glance towards the rowing club.

“Pinsent? Like the rower? From the Olympics?”

The risk of this falling into some sort of Groundhog Day scenario was avoided by a crackle from the radio.

“Name and address checks out.”

A brief pause when nobody really seems to know what to do next. Another crackle from the radio.

“The victim has some more specific details. She says that the offender has tattoos.”

“Have you got any tattoos,” I was asked.

Reflecting on the crime that had been committed, I asked what seemed like an obvious question.

“Where, exactly, are the tattoos?”

The question was passed on, and after a brief pause the radio crackled again.

“On his arms.”

Though a relief, this seemed odd to me. We were still standing in pouring rain on a cold September night, I’d already been told that the offender was wearing an anorak. And yet his arms were visible? But I didn’t feel I needed to get involved in the investigations more than I already was. I rolled up my sleeves as best I could.

The bobby confirmed over the radio: “No tattoos”.

Another silent pause, longer this time. Then another crackle.

“We’re going to bring the victim down the road by the Rutland in the car. Get the suspect to stand with his bike at the end of the road, and we’ll see if she can positively ID him.”

I did as I was told. After a few seconds, a squad car came down the road, lights on full beam, and stopped about ten metres away. We stayed there for what seemed like a long time.

At this point, it occurred that things could turn quite serious, quite quickly. It was dark, it was raining, and a potentially quite traumatised woman was sitting in a police car looking at a one man identity parade.

Eventually, the car reversed out of the side road. Another long pause, before the radio crackled.

“It’s not him.”

The bobby turned to me: “OK. You can go.”

Drenched, I jumped on my bike and started to pedal off. Only for a few seconds later to hear:

“Oi! Stop”.

I did, and turned around to face the policeman. What the hell was it now?

“Don’t ride your bike on the pavement.”

I think I may have flicked him the Vs.

I arrived home, later than expected, to a rather concerned wife.

“You’re never going to believe this…”

Lovely, thanks for asking. We were skiing.

Skiing’s a great holiday if you want to switch off from the daily grind. You’re out in nature, which is always good. Not only is it active, but it’s something that demands your full attention (for me at least, not being an expert). It’s not easy or advisable to scroll on your mobile while attempting to say on the piste, so accidentally getting dragged by into work-related topics is less likely.

That said, on one or two occasions when I had some spare time I did find myself idly scrolling through a few sites and apps, and inevitably dipped into LinkedIn.

I’m not sure whether it was simply having a bit of distance from the professional coal face, or being in an entirely different environment, but bloody hell it was dispiriting. I’d say about 5% was useful. The rest…sheesh.

There are the hustle bros, of course, though that’s nothing new.

The commentary about AI, both the positive potential and possible negative impacts, is overwhelming. Again, perhaps the distance helped make it clear that very, very few people have a clue what they’re talking about. It all still feels incredibly hypothetical. Which it probably should do. But admit the fact, FFS, rather than suggest you’ve alighted on the answer.

The proportion of “hot” takes that are anything but, generally covering ground that has been well-trodden for months if not years, is extraordinary. If I see one more post from a PR person excitedly explaining how “LLMs draw on earned media in their responses and GEO represents a new golden era of opportunity for public relations”, my laptop may well be finding its way out of my office window. Just stop it, please.

It made me long for the day when I don’t need to worry about LinkedIn.

It’s a funny thought, right? A social network for which the utility largely disappears once you stop working.

I’m sure some people will still check in once their professional career ends (I don’t personally know why, but I’m sure some will. Maybe to keep up with acquaintances they’re not connected to elsewhere?)

I like it when I come across someone’s LinkedIn profile whose description reads “Retired”. Congratulations, you made it.

I’m certainly not there yet. I’m still working, so LinkedIn is something of a necessary evil. Though increasingly feels more evil than necessary.

Maybe we need LinkedOut?

Ah, fuck it. Ignore me. I’m just post-holiday grumpy.

I do think that, together, they might offer a good representation of what working in the sector is like - or at least has been like at times over the past 30-odd years.

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One enduring element of the PR profession is the launch event. These can be incredibly stressful to organise and execute but, as is often the case, they can also be some of the most rewarding. Or, at least, the times when you feel like you’re really earning your money.

This one comes from 2006, after I’d moved to France and left my full-time role at the Next Fifteen group in 2003. I continued on and off as a consultant to the group for a few years afterwards.

In my last role as a full-time employee, I’d been running the UK B2B Microsoft account. By 2006, when Microsoft was preparing to launch the latest version of the Office suite of software (you know, Word, PowerPoint, Excel, etc) Inferno was the Next Fifteen agency managing the account. My good friend Grant Currie (here on Substack) was the founder and MD of Inferno, and thought I’d be a safe pair of hands to help manage the launch.

It became a project packed with memorable moments, and not always in a good way.

Some context for those much younger than I am. This was a time before software-as-a-service (SaaS) brought applications accessed in the cloud, with updates take place on a relatively frequent basis. Back in the day, Microsoft would launch a new version of the entire Office suite every few years, and aim to persuade customers that upgrading was a good idea. This wasn’t always easy.

Office had grown into a hugely capable suite of applications with functions much more advanced than simply writing documents, creating presentations, and messing around with spreadsheets. It turns out, however, that most people just used it for writing documents, creating presentations, and messing around with spreadsheets.

Office was a huge cash cow for Microsoft, and convincing business customers to upgrade to Office 2007 was critical if the cow was going to continue producing.

“We gotta milk that cow!” I can imagine Steve Ballmer, Microsoft CEO at the time, sweatily shouting on stage at a company kick-off. “Squeeze those udders! Moo, moo!”

The date for the main business launch event for Office 2007 was set for December 2006. A few weeks before that, however, we were going to reveal the updates to the British trade media in a series of embargoed press briefings.

The team and I had a planning call with the US-based product manager, who explained that the version he’d be demonstrating wouldn’t be the final product.

“It’s pretty much final, just a few tweaks to make,” he told us. “It’s beyond the Beta version. It’s like the Master Beta.”

I’ll pause here. As mentioned, the product manager was American. He had an American accent. “Beta” in UK English is pronounced, “Bee-ta”. With a US accent is pronounced “Bay-ta”.

Take a second to say “Master Beta” with an American accent.

You see the problem?

Of course, as the senior PR guy in the room, it was left up to me to explain why we’d need to find an alternative to “Master Beta” when demonstrating the product to cynical British tech hacks.

The business launch event itself took place in mid-December, at the QEII conference centre in London’s Wesminster. It wasn’t a media event, but rather one to which 300 of Microsoft’s most important UK customers were invited. They’d see the product unveiled, and hear from a number of insightful and entertaining speakers.

Recommending and securing those insightful and entertaining speakers (beyond the execs from Microsoft) was part of my role.

The first of the day, after an introduction from Microsoft’s UK managing director at the time, Gordon Fraser, was the then President of the Confederation of British Industry, John Sutherland.

Sutherland was, I think it’s fair to say, a little old school. His career had largely taken place in a non-digital age, and he wasn’t always seen as the most forward-thinking in terms of technology. But the CBI is the CBI, right? It was a coup to have him opening the conference.

Exactly what he was going to say, however, remained something of a mystery. Which was a worry to both me and the Microsoft team.

Despite almost daily chasing of the CBI team by yours truly, under equally regular chasing of me by the in-house Microsoft team, I didn’t manage to get sight of Sutherland’s speech until the evening before the event.

It’s a slight understatement to say that the speech wasn’t quite as well aligned with Microsoft’s general thrust of the event as they’d have liked. A slighly panicked message arrived:

“Mark, as soon as Sutherland arrives tomorrow morning, you’re going to need to grab him, and steer him towards Gordon so they can have a chat.”

These the words of Sue, the senior Microsoft UK Office marketing manager at the time, and client lead on the launch.

The next morning, I was on high alert for Sutherland. He arrived, I grabbed him.

Me: “John, welcome. I’d just like to introduce you to Gordon Fraser, Microsoft’s UK managing director.”

Gordon: “Hi, John. I wonder if we could have a quick chat about your speech?”

Sutherland: “Which speech is that?”

At this stage my client, Sue, who was standing behind Gordon, looked at me with deep and important questions in her eyes.

Gordon: “You know. The speech your team sent over last night. The one you’re about to deliver.”

Sutherland: “Oh, I’m not doing that speech.”

Gordon, as confused as we were: “Okaaay. So, umm, which speech are you doing?”

Sutherland, slowly tapping his temple with his index finger: “I’m doing one from up here…”

At this point I’m pretty sure Sue mouthed, “what the actual fuck?” to me.

“Why don’t you guys grab a coffee and discuss it?” I suggested.

I left them to it. I had places to be. Jeff Raikes had just arrived.

Raikes was the head honcho of the global Microsoft Office business. Reporting directly into Ballmer, and Bill Gates before him, to Microsoft’s employees Raikes was a god. Even in 2003, his net worth was estimated to be half-a-billion dollars (and apparently about $3bn today). He was in town for the launch, would be speaking on stage, and then spending most of his time glad-handing big customers.

Raikes had a single slot for a media interview. We’d given that to Jack Schofield from The Guardian. Jack sadly passed away in 2020, but was one of the most experienced technology journalists in the UK. He was also a wonderful, gentle man, and seemingly never without his pipe (even if empty). His obituary is worth a read.

I met Raikes and his assistant in reception, and escorted them to the meeting room where the interview would take place. I’d just finished a short briefing when I got a notification than Jack had arrived. I headed off to grab him, telling Raikes and his assistant I’d be back in a minute.

When Jack and I got back, the room was empty.

“That’s odd,” I said. “Perhaps he’s nipped to the bathroom. I’m sure he’ll be back in a min…”

At that moment, the door opened, Raikes’ assistant stepped into the room and in an uneccesarily loud voice said:

“Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Jeff Raikes!”

Raikes entered. Jack, slightly confused but mostly amused, theatrically looked around the room as if to search for the rest of the audience.

I got the coffees.

I’ve got proof, too. Rather brilliantly, the full transcript of the interview is still available on The Guardian’s website:

To set the scene, it's around 8.20am at the QEII Conference Centre in London, where Microsoft is holding a conference for software partners. I'm setting up my tape, and one of the PRs is getting us cups of coffee.

(I’ll forgive Jack for not knowing it was a customer conference rather than a partner one.)

I get another mention towards the end of the transcript:

PR says one last question, we have to go...

Nothing was holding me up that day.

In fact at this point, I could relax for a bit. Which was good, because there was one speaker who I really wanted to hear.

I’d seen the fantastic Sir Ken Robinson’s now famous Ted Talk online from early 2006 (if you haven’t seen it, please do), and I was very keen that Microsoft considered him for the conference.

It took a little convincing. Sir Ken’s focus was on creativity in education, not productivity in business. But I just knew he’d be brilliant and some light relief during the conference. I was delighted that Sue went for it, and he was, indeed, superb.

I was lucky enough to host a couple of planning calls with Sir Ken - he was based in California - and he was an absolute joy to work with. Sir Ken also sadly passed away in 2020, but his legacy lives on through his wonderful writing (and, of course, the videos).

Everything seemed to be going well. John Sutherland hadn’t said anything too outrageous, Sir Ken was brilliant, and after his customer glad-handing I escorted Jeff Raikes to his waiting car.

It was at this point I learned that you can hire Metropolitan Police motorcyclists to give you an escort to Heathrow Airport. Who knew? Time is money, I guess.

Eventually, the day started to come to a close. Just one more activity to go.

In the planning for the event, we’d discussed how we could ensure that delegates stayed around for the whole day. Experienced told us that, after seeing the morning sessions and enjoying some lunch, attendees might start drifting off. Some no doubt anxious to return to work, others perhaps planning on a bit of shopping or heading to the pub. The client was understandably keen that this didn’t happen.

We’d raised the idea that giving some sort of gift at the attendees at the end of the conference might be an incentive to stick around, if (and it was a big if) it was attractive enough.

“Leave it with us,” the Microsoft team said, “we’ve got an idea.”

Calls were made, strings were pulled and, before you know it, one of Microsoft’s hardware partners had agreed that they’d provide a business-grade laptop for every attendee, pre-loaded, of course, with the new version of Office.

Just a reminder. There were 300 attendees. 300 laptops.

We were stunned by the largesse. While we agreed that it handing over fifteen hundred quid’s worth of tech to each attendee would, indeed, stop them heading to the boozer, it created another issue.

Each delegate would need to complete and sign a form accepting the gift, and absolving Microsoft and its partner of responsibility for payment of any local taxes.

We reckoned that it’d take a minute for each delegate to complete the form, so even with five people managing things it’d take an hour at the end of the conference for people to queue up and claim their laptop. We’d need to fill that time with something.

We decided to treat it like a drinks reception, handing out wine, beer, and canapés while people waited. We also thought some entertainment would be a good idea. At the end of a long day of business presentations, this needed to be something a bit different.

I landed on the idea of an after-dinner speaker. And, given the audience (mainly male and middle-aged), maybe someone from the world of sport. England had famously won the Rugby World Cup only a few years before…some of those players must be on the speaker circuit, surely?

We decided that a London-based player would be best, to save on travel and negate the need for accomodation (despite the fact we were giving away half a million quid’s worth of technology, we were still conscious of costs).

But Captain Martin Johnson played for Leicester, golden boy Jonny Wilkinson was up in Newcastle, and cup final try scorer Jason Robinson played in Manchester.

Got it! The big man from the back row played for Wasps, a London-based club. Lawrence Dallaglio!

And so, for the last hour of a very long day, Lawrence Dallaglio joined us, delivered a very entertaining speech, and stuck around afterwards to sign any number of autographs and selfies (this despite it being pre-smartphone, so the selfie I had - which sadly I can’t find - was taken on the very poor camera in my BlackBerry).

Big Lawrence was brilliant, and well worth his not insignificant fee. As the room gradually cleared, and we all started relaxing after a job very well done, I suggested to Lawrence that he could probably slope off.

“It’s no problem. I’m waiting for a couple of mates. We’re going out for a few drinks.”

Shortly afterwards his mates arrived - judging by the size of them, they were teammates - and with cheery goodbyes, they all headed off.

We were done.

Client and agency teams had agreed to have a post-event curry in the West End. I remember going, but not much beyond. If you’d told me that I’d had a beer and nodded off in the corner I’d believe you. More likely, I suspect, I might have made some excuses and headed off early. After a day like that I tend to need to decompress, alone.

Overall, the event was seen as a huge success.

There is, however, a postscript.

In the office a couple of days later, a colleague approached my desk clutching a copy of The Sun.

“You were with Lawrence Dallaglio the other day, right?”

“Yep. He spoke at the Microsoft event and then headed out with a couple of mates.”

“He certainly did. Check this out,” and he tossed the paper onto my desk.

LAWRENCE DALLAGLIO AND FRIENDS THROWN OUT OF MAYFAIR NIGHTCLUB AFTER SPLASHING THOUSANDS ON 10-HOUR BENDER

Easy come, easy go.

Once again, we’re in 1995, and I’m working at tech PR agency Text 100. Random things would often happen, but it all seemed fairly normal.

I have no idea how this came about. Just a vague recollection that a Text 100 colleague knew someone in the music industry, and that our office had been offered as the location for Scatman John’s new video.

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You may not know Scatman John. I’m not sure I did at the time. A jazz pianist and vocalist, Scatman John somehow found himself thrust into popular music via his fusion of scat singing and dance music. Scatman’s World was his second single, the follow-up to Scatman (Ski-Ba-Bop-Ba-Dop-Bop). Obviously.

Scat singing is where a singer uses their voice as an instrument, not singing words but rather just syllables and sounds. The great jazz vocalist Ella Fitzgerald was regarded as one of the world’s best scat singers. Here she is in 1969, and it’s wonderful.

Interestingly - and I only discovered this now - Scatman John turned to scat singing due to a severe stutter. Throughout his life he supported research into and public education around stuttering, even establishing his own foundation, Scatland. Nice.

Back at Network House in the 90s, however, we just saw a slightly older (he’d have been about 53 at the time) moustachioed man in a pinstripe suit lurking slightly awkwardly in the office as a production crew set up their cameras.

It was an odd way to start the morning, and entirely disruptive throughout.

We were told that at several points during the day we’d be asked to perform, which meant moving frantically around in the background as Scatman John mimed to the camera.

We were also instructed to change our desktop screensavers to read ‘Scatman’ on a bright green background. This we did. Well, most of us.

It was only after three takes that a member of the production crew noticed that one wag had changed their screensaver to read ‘Twatman’. Cue retakes and a very grumpy producer.

I know who it was but I won’t name him as he’s now head of communications for a large corporate in the sustainable energy sector. Which is interesting, when you look at the lyrics of Scatman’s World:

If part of your solution isn't ending the pollution
Then I don't want to hear your stories told

Quite prophetic, really.

You can watch the full video here (you need to sign in as for some reason there are age restrictions on the video). The sections featuring the Text 100 office and team start at around 2’40”.

Scatman John passed away in 1999. Rest in peace, Scatman.

Anyway, here’s the story…

Picture the scene. It's 1995, I'm an account executive at tech PR agency Text 100, just a few weeks into the role. We get a call from the production team at legendary BBC kids' TV show Blue Peter: "We'd like to show our viewers the internet. Can you help?"

Text 100's office at the time, Network House, was just across Wood Lane from BBC TV Centre in Shepherd's Bush. We had a client, Acorn Computers, who could provide the hardware. It was on.

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As you can see from the picture, PCs at the time weren't particularly compact. Or light. I borrowed Mary's trolley (IYKYK) to take the computer over and set things up.

This was a high-pressure environment. Blue Peter was a live TV broadcast. Luckily, we could access a dedicated ISDN line (as I remember) to ensure a decent connection.

But even so, with the first Blue Peter webpages on screen, one wrong mouse click from presenter Diane-Louise Jordan and we'd be in all sorts of trouble.

In addition to being heavy, PCs of the time were also relatively valuable. I had to babysit the tech all afternoon, through several rehearsals and the live broadcast. I made friends with the Blue Peter pets, drank endless cups of horrible BBC tea.

Thankfully, it went well. Given the overall length of the piece, the studio time was minimal (you can watch the full segment below).

I prepared to pack up and leave. "Any chance I could keep this? My kids would love it."

I'm naming no names, but I won the subsequent wrestling match. I left the studio, nearly bumped into Chris Evans rehearsing for that year's Comic Relief, and pushed my trolley back across Wood Lane. It was raining.

I didn't even get a badge.

As people who know me will attest, I’m a simple man, and like to put things in simple terms.

PR and communications can be regarded as the guardian of reputation as a corporate asset of quantifiable value (and I’ve enjoyed the work that Burson has done in this area). As such, in my simple terms, the communications function aims to mitigate the risks of reputational damage, and maximise opportunities through reputational enhancement.

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I’ve found that abstracting (if that’s the word) the communications function is helpful in looking at where AI’s strengths might be applied (and, equally, where to retain human involvement).

This step back helps reduce a focus on “how can AI help me in the tasks I already do?” (a top- or task-down approach) to “how can AI as a platform support the function of communications?” (the bottom-up approach).

I started to consider communications as a system, and therefore assumed, without having specific experience in it, that “systems thinking” might be useful. (And apologies in advance to any systems thinking experts.)

I found this definition (there are many others, but I liked this one):

“Systems thinking is a holistic approach to analysis that focuses on the way different parts of a system interact and how they influence one another within a whole.”

Again, in my simple terms, I started to see the communications function as:

Inputs (internal and external) > Processing (implications of risks and opportunities) > Outputs (defined comms activities) > Outcomes (aggregated result of outputs).

As I like to do, this led me to grab a piece of paper and a Sharpie.

You may not be able to see that very clearly, nor read my handwriting, and I’m not going to claim that my first stab at it is spot on. But it’s definitely helping me clarify where the human/AI interface(s) should be placed within the system, and where the strengths of each can be optimally applied.

What is also immediately apparent to me, as someone who’s been working in the PR and communications sector for more than 30 years, is that AI provides the opportunity to gather data from numerous more sources (externally and internally) that at any time previously.

That’s a good thing, but only if it also allows us to more effectively derive the signal from the noise, which is vital if communications team are going to focus their energies in the most impactful areas.

But (and it’s a big ‘but’) we obviously need to be able to trust the output of AI’s data gathering and analysis of that noise and, therefore the resulting signals (I’ve begun to think of two types of signal: Risk Signals, and Opportunity Signals).

I’ve warmed to the idea of triangulation in this context (though I’m almost certain I’m using it incorrectly!) But, basically, if AI can find data points about the same issue among the noise from three different sources (e.g. traditional media, social media, SEO/GEO), then it becomes a firm signal flagged to the comms team.

I’m also thinking about ways to help spot signals further away than might currently be the case. Identifying sources before they become stories, and spotting the conditions within which signals emerge from the noise. I figure that would have enormous value in supporting communications proactivity vs reactivity.

More to come soon, no doubt.

Have a good weekend.

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I do remember seeing the excellent original film (The Day of the Jackal, that is) starring Edward Fox, which was released in 1973. Though obviously as I was only four then I saw it on TV somewhat later.

There was also a “loosely based” 1997 remake starring Bruce Willis and Richard Gere, but the less said about that, the better.

Put it this way: 1973 original, 91% rating on Rotten Tomatoes. 1997 remake, 24%. Enough said.

I realised when the Redmayne TV show aired that I’d never read Frederick Forsythe’s original book, published in 1971. So I did, and it’s astoundingly good.

What’s most impressive is that most people know the ending before they start. After all, it’s focused on a plot to assassinate Charles de Gaulle, and we all know that didn’t happen. And yet it’s a thriller until the very last page. Impressive.

Reading and enjoying The Day of the Jackal enormously, despite it being published more than 50 years ago, reminded me that there are thousands and thousands of great books that I’ve never read. I decided I’d make a point of picking up some more classic fiction now and then.

Another reminder came in the form of the latest series of The Night Manager. The first series was closely based on John le Carré’s 1993 book of the same name. The second series features the same characters but a new plot, so very much “inspired by…” and, in my opinion, not as good.

I haven’t actually read The Night Manager, but years ago read le Carré’s 1974 classic Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy (and also seen the brilliant movie starring Gary Oldman).

However, I hadn’t read the 1963 novel The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, nor seen the 1965 film starring Richard Burton. So I picked up a copy of the book on my recent UK visit, and have just finished it.

Blimey, it’s gritty. I loved it, but there’s none of the glamorous spy craft found in, for instance, Ian Fleming’s novels. As such, it seems a much more authentic view of the Cold War spying activities either side of the Berlin Wall.

Most of the characters are unsympathetic, if not downright unlikeable. Certainly our main protagonist, Alec Leamas, is someone worn down by the world, a loner, selfish, seemingly with little life outside the Service.

It’s impressively bleak, though also entirely engaging throughout. Which is also impressive. The copy I have included some reflections from le Carré on the reaction to the book. Much of that focused on his own role in the British security services, and whether it was to some extent autobiographical.

He was always adamant that it was entirely fictional, but that’s not to say his experiences didn’t influence the overall tone and feel of the book. Indeed, reading his obituary (definitely worth it) le Carré appeared to be fairly contemptuous of the work of the security services. That certainly comes through in his novels. You certainly wouldn’t be rushing to sign up after reading The Spy Who Came in from the Cold.

But that’s no reason not to read it.