Ranting about creatives here. I have a hard time squaring the idea that there are people who describe themselves as 'Creatives' in their job description. It's fairly short-sighted, given that if I'm going to make any money in the world of freelance journalism I'll have to work in advertising to some extent (sorry, Mr. Hicks). But if I didn't put this in there would be a gaping hole where January 2008's column should be and that wouldn't do at all.
I can think of absolutely nothing to write for the column this month – which should be a subtle indication of the treats in store for the reader. At this (eleventh) hour, several ideas that seemed funny in that happy, innocent time called Before Deadline now crawl wretchedly around the dusty corners of my computer, taunting me. In common with about 96% of Ireland’s columnists, I was about to write about how annoying social networks like Facebook are. I had lots of clever ideas that had been thought up by other, cleverer people – mainly to push the idea of a ‘I’m sorry, I’m going through a tunnel’ function to deal with friend requests that you don’t want to grant but feel obligated for some reason to accept. Then, of course, I realised all originality had leaked from my life and I may as well give up and try to get a new job, maybe as Barry from the Cilit Bang adverts, who I think may be some advanced Japanese robot designed to clean toilets through the use of an irritatingly loud monotone.
I then remembered a conversation from some months ago, with a delightful and blameless lady whose only mistake was introducing me to the career of ‘Creative’. It’s almost too easy to take the proverbial here, because clearly anybody who is able to tie their own shoelaces and operate doors will say, as I did, that these people are dead inside. And perhaps they are. Or possibly, they aren’t, but I think I’m with Hicks on this one. Either way, it wasn’t enough to string out an article, even a fluffy and light one like this, so on I went, scraping barrel after barrel, until I came to that lightning rod of tedium, the ‘new year’ themed box. For the uninitiated, these articles are like a negative of truth for any given year, so if we were going to talk 2007, we might suggest that online social networking is going to crash and burn, and all the hippest areas in town will become a cobweb of multicoloured string as trendsetters take to communicating via tin cans, using carrier pigeons for carbon-friendly transatlantic video conferences. Something like that.
The alternative to the prediction is to parade your new resolutions. Normally, this requires motivation, so it’s an area I’m unfamiliar with. Suffice it to say that I’m inordinately pleased with all my bad habits. They’re like a comfortable armchair, so the idea of reupholstering it doesn’t really grab me. What I can complain about, however, is Christmas shopping. I know that you’re reading this in January and are now cobbling together three pennies and an old button in the hope of feeding yourself until March because you spent all your money on illegally imported iPhones and champagne (or mince pies and novelty ceramics, I don’t know what you do with your money). I understand that you want to forget about the tinsel, the office parties, the uncomfortable silences, the hangovers, but I don’t care. I have to help maintain the good ship Christmas by sourcing Batmen, fairy wands, lego and pink earphones (not all for the same child, happily, otherwise I’d be raising a vigilante hairdresser who moonlights as a civil engineer) and if I have to do it, someone’s going to hear about it. So, first of all, why is it that my children only want toys that don’t exist? There is a conspiracy among toymakers to stop production on anything that I might ever need to buy at the last minute for a small child that doesn’t care about supply-based economics. Ah. I knew I’d find something to rant about if I kept at this long enough. Right. The first thing I hate –.
Breakfast of Champions, Adam Hillman
5 hours ago