Well, the original idea if you can grace it with that term, was a to find a career in advertising. It seemed glamorous and exciting and involved meeting loads of people, as a gregarious type it seemed to fit the bill. I'd been at art college for the allotted time, some of my fellow art students too were looking in the same place for work as I was, though all of them better qualified, they did better in the results than I had and consequently had much better quality portfolios to drag around the ad agencies. The portfolio was almost everything you needed to gain the job, no one was interested in your qualification certificate or any previous convictions, in fact the kiss of death in an interview was is if they asked you what hobbies you had, to me it was a signal that they were not even remotely interested in the answer and were being polite.
I had done my usual trick at college of working only just hard enough to stay on the course, the work being lower on my priority list than enjoying myself. After all I was free from boarding school, could smoke and drink openly and meet girls, creatures from another planet, or so it seemed. I did carry some of my boarding school ethos with me on my pre diploma year, my mother supplying me with a brown coat for use in the studio to keep any painterly splash back mess from my sports jacket. My fellow students then looked like aliens. Boys wearing tank tops and flared trousers and stunning looking young women in mini skirts. I looked like "the technician from Openshaw",and some of my fellow students thought I was. This wore off by the time I managed to talk myself onto the degree course, I had worked hard on the pre diploma by way of a change. I entered the degree course with ever so slightly longer hair, sideburns, and a parka coat from an old street market market, the coat had seen better days. I thought this rather unfortunate garment gave me a certain credibilityt, but on reflection it probably repelled most people. I called it "Chip Shop" style with slight Mod influences". I never graduated to tank tops, much favoured by fellow bird chested chums, as they looked ridiculous on my larger turkey chested frame.
I got the degree, or as it was then called, a Diploma in Art and Design. Dip AD dooh dah, Dip AD Dee day! In a fit of moodiness and somewhat disappointed at my result I refused to go to the presentation day ( an action I regret for my parents sake to this day ) My good friends from college did go along and told me later that my name was read out twice as I'd also neglected to tell them I would be sulking in Ashton under Lyne where my parents lived just along from the garden centre where the renowned Bill Sowerbutts grew his vegetables. Look him up, he was a star of the radio at the time.
I had no job, was living with the 'rents' and a pretty sketchy portfolio as ammunition to get my preferred job as a rising junior art director in London.
I had no money to go to London so devised a plan to get some. Local work driving in order to save enough to get down to the smoke and start my glamorous career. After two weeks sweeping loading bays in an old mill in Oldham I was fired. I'd been told that the job might involve driving a fork lift truck but that never happened and all they gave me was a large brush, and then the brush off,in friendly sort of way. Though the contempt that emanated from the brown coated foreman ( it looked exactly like the one my mother had given me for my pre diploma year but with a row of 4 blue biros in the top breast pocket, seemingly glued in there, I never saw him write ) with the pencil moustache was very apparent. I was told, by himself, that he hated students, but I was comforted by the fact that all the people working for him hated him in equal measure. Eric Sykes's brother was the accountant and handed me my P45. Look up Eric too. He was a big name in those days, his brother, not. They didn't need me. I was then lucky enough to get a job driving for a huge bakery: Park Cakes, again in Oldham, driving a lorry delivering their wonderful pastries and bright yellow sponges to shops and branches of Marks and Spencer all over the North West and at times into Yorkshire. I had to get up at 3.00 in the morning! I also needed to get to bed by 9.00 at the latest. The one time I stayed up late I had to pull in the next day in a lay-by near Macclesfield and fell asleep instantly with my head on the steering wheel. After an hour or so I woke up and carried on with the day, vowing to get an early night. Generally I loved the work and saved up my generous wages for my planned trip to London. My mother was a little concerned that this job suited me a little too much.
One cake shop near Macclesfield was manned by two stout ladies both made up like Dame Edna Everidge, who tackled me one morning with ' I saw you this morning down the road, and yet we didn't get our cakes till 2.00 "int th 'afternoon? ' she stared at me blinking with her huge false eyelashes close enough to me to cause a small waft of air, her firm jaw and clenched bright red lipstick a jammy dodger distance from my face. I recoiled as politely as I could and stammered about having to go to all the M and S stores in the area before delivering to the fine independent bakeries, like hers. Her expession softened, she leant forward her considerable bulk and responded in a somewhat foward manner and in a breathless voice said: "If you come to us first, I'll personally make it worth your while luv". I headed for the door with a little squeak of 'Ok!" wondering quite what she had in mind. The next time in Macclesfield I dropped in early, she beamed and squeezed a brown paper bag into my hand. Two cream buns every morning did nothing for my diet. I was glad to be assigned another route before too long.
I was under strict instructions at these independent bakeries to make all deliveries around the back of the shop. Home made was blazoned on their front windows, rather than "Factory Bought from Oldham". Parking in front of one of them one day brought out an overexcited small man with very large invective who doubted my mother's marital status when I was born.
When the bank balance was healthy I planned my trip, with the intention of staying a couple of months in London and getting as many job interviews as possible. I started writing to potential employers, all big grand ad agencies. Some said 'No' but enough offered me an interview to put a trip on the cards. My plan was to stay about 2 or three months, or as long as my money lasted. I was comforted by the fact that my Cake factory employers said I'd be welcome back anytime.
Where to stay? A friend in Ealing said I could sleep on the floor of his flat, and that's what I did. He neglected to tell me that he was likely to stand on me each morning as he got up.
My interviews were numerous and all unsuccessful at first. I only ever went to see people with an appointment but walking past Doyle Dane Bernbach, a large American Ad agency with a famous creative reputation I decided to chance my arm, walked into reception and asked to see a senior art director who I knew used to take the time to interview students. " Can I see Mike Walsh ( I think he had. a name like that ) I asked the Ice Maiden on reception. I could see her shudder as my Northern Accent offended her. " Do you have an appointment?" she asked " No, but I won't take up much time" I promised with my best winning smile. " No you can't see him" she said without returning any semblance of a smile. I tried again and she simply responded "Leave". I chanced my arm again and started to say something else but she simply interrupted me and said "OUT!" Pointing to the door. I never went back to try again.
Eventually I was offered a job, at a small agency down Piccadilly, called T B Browne. I was to be Assistant to the Creative Director. The salary was 500 quid a year less than I got for delivering cakes with no cream buns. It was a start.
That's me contemplating my future on the floor of Bamber Bridge Methodists School near Preston, Lancashire. A surprisingly arty shot for a school mugshot..
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