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One morning last year, I awoke to find myself famous. In an orgy of stupidity rivalling its own Olympian standards in the event, the world's media had leapt on a half-arsed and unchecked wire-service report of a poorly attended soiree in Toronto (of all places!), and placed me, nicely demonised, on their front pages.
If you'd written this plot for a movie, it'd been turned down as a) impossible, b( silly, and c) pointless. But there I was, front and centre, in colour, looking like Abanaazer in a cheap pantomime.
Obviously, that day, there had been no wars, no terrorists, no corporate scams, no football, and every editor had left his job to the astrology columnist.
I spent a happy day fielding emails, all expressing more or less the same amused bewilderment. I just carried on regardless.
Until it became clear that the American feminist nazis and their grovelling male minions in American had decided that, being powerless and unrepentant, I was easy meat. This wouldn't have bothered me in the slightest, had not the heat fallen on the blameless shoulders of WPP.This could have meant problems for all my mates in the agencies, and that was not acceptable to me, so I resigned my position, to allow the company to distance itself from both the event and myself.
Since then, I've given many interviews, most of them reported fairly, and I've had not a single message letter or email that wasn't supportive and sympathetic. Many of them from highly successful and canny women, who tended not only to agree with the point I'd fleetingly made, but have examples of their own experiences of the phenomenon.
Still, I hadn't yet been able to put my own side of the story, untrammelled by the 'investigative' ambitions of second-rate journalists.
And, as this is my only skill, I decided to write an ad, to be published in the Trade Press.
Here it is.
Ad agency: Y&R Brands (Singapore)
Copywriter: Neil French
Art Director, Typographer: James Leong