Hard Graft

PR: It ain't like this, kids

Many years ago, in the days when dinosaurs roamed the earth, I started my career in PR. 

I was fortunate enough to cut my teeth at one of the UK's best agencies. We romped through awards ceremonies like rumbunctious toddlers, drunk on our own fabulosity and success, collecting awards like sweets, for hundreds of campaigns, for Agency of the Year, hell, we even won Agency of the Decade. 

We were young, we were hungry, we were ambitious, we were the epitome of work hard play hard. We were out every other night of the week, but always in the office first thing the next day. Sometimes we'd go in at the weekend, just to get a steal on the (inevitably) crazy week ahead. We knew that there were hundreds of people who wanted our jobs, and they were good. So we had to be better.

It was a whirl of hard work, hysteria and happiness. 

Let's be clear: it was extremely tough too. It wasn't nicknamed the 'House of Pain' for nothing: there were regular tears in the toilets and throwing up in the car park due to the pressure. But some of my best and most enduring friendships were forged there as we bonded through the grind. And I can honestly say the leadership and the talent that I met, worked with and learned from, was the best in the business. It is no surprise that everyone who worked there has gone on to be successful in their careers, and we all attribute that in part, to the time we spent there.

So when I first arrived in the Middle East I was truly knocked for six by what I encountered. Apparently, it was perfectly acceptable to send a text informing your director that you couldn't make it into work because you suffered period pains, a headache, or (my personal favourite) 'my eyes feel funny'. It was also a normal occurrence to be late for work. Every day. With excuses more weird and wonderful each week.

Six years on and I'm happy to say that standards have improved massively and we've (mostly) moved beyond this. But I'm still gobsmacked by the people that I interview. They frequently come with a list of demands: not just salary and package, but what they will and won't do (mainly won't), whch areas/sectors they want to work on, which clients they want to dedicate their time to....the list is endless.

Sometimes at the end of a hard day I ponder what would happen to these precious little darlings if they were dropped into a UK PR agency. Better still, if I put them in front of some of my ex-employers for interview. I think I know the answer. And it isn't pretty....

The Big, the Fabulous 4 - OHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

A very dear friend of mine turns 40 this week. We met when we were in our twenties, hard at the PR coal face, regularly clocking in 12-14 hour days (hang on, why hasn't that changed?!) dreaming up crazy PR stunts...we were the very epitome of work hard, play hard. In our agency gang the dreaded communal carpark 'walk of shame' was a regular occurrence - it was no surprise to see someone turn up sheepishly at their desks in yesterday's or last night's clothes.

Our regular Friday night happy hour in the bar under our office (think Ally McBeal but less annoying) also meant that it was no surprise to find yourself on a dancefloor, at 3am, still dressed in your work suit. 

They were heady, heady days.

As lives and jobs changed, our friendship didn't. We might not have been crying in  the work toilets or throwing up in the carpark together (mainly stress, sometimes hangovers) but we were always joined together spiritually.

It seems inconceivable that said friend is turning 40 - aside from looking fabulous and easily ten years younger than her birth certificate, it also seems like just 5 minutes ago that we were muntering our way around the Miami Winter Music Conference, throwing ourselves onto dance floors, gatecrashing pool parties and dj booths with abandon.

And yet that was ten years ago. 

I still have a few years (honest!) before I reach the same milestone, but it has made me a little reflective nonetheless. I'd like to think that with the advent of fabulous skincare (most of which I've been taking advantage of since my teens - thanks mum!) and some good genes, the ageing process shouldn't be too horrendous. But there's no escaping that inside, I still feel like the footloose and fancy free crazy twenty-something I once was. 

The beauty of living in Dubai, is that you can indulge that on quite a regular basis. It feels like a young person's city and is abuzz with social misbehaving every night of the week, should you wish to partake (we do!).

So there seems only real way to avoid any 40th birthday malaise: make sure you celebrate it in my fair city! You're welcome any time, Birthday Bird xxx

Munters til we die!

Three Year Anniversary

How many more?

Honestly can't believe that it's been three years since I arrived in Dubai.

Here's my very first post.

And my first day at work.

I think you can smell the excitement and glee that was present in my first few weeks.  There's no denying that Dubai got worse for me before it got better (about nine months after I arrived, yay).....enough said.

But I'm so happy that the very initial giddiness that I felt (three days in and I wrote: "It's the weirdest sensation being here. It feels like home already") has embraced and enveloped me to the point where I'm overwhelmed with love for my new home, on a daily basis.  Dubai, thank you for having me.

Old

The girls, soon?!

Dubai is full of bright young things, throwing themselves around the city, getting jobs and positions they'd never get back home, and falling down drunk at Friday brunches.  Sometimes it seems like everyone in the city is in their twenties, displaying the vigour and lack of sense that you'd expect from ones so young.

Working as I do in a (sometimes) creative industry, I'm surrounded by whippersnappers like this, and luckily, they are, in the main, great fun and lovely people.  Last week it was the birthday of one of our newest interns, a lovely young man.  He was 22.

After I stopped gnashing my teeth at having to work with one so young, I tried to remember how I celebrated by 22nd birthday....I remember my 21st, in a very dodgy club in Sheffield which I took over with a variety of uni mates.  This being the 90's I had a boyfriend with decks who aspired to be an international superstar dj, so that was the music sorted.

I can remember my other significant birthday - 30 - as I jetted off to Marbella with the girls, as we did every year for a very long time.  We spent an entire week lounging on king sized beds at Nikki Beach and drinking champagne.

Hello 22 and I was living in Manchester, making my first forays into PR.  I honestly can't remember what I did.  Quite possibly hiked back over the Pennines to Sheffield.  Despite yearning for those hedonistic days when all we cared about was Fridays, podiums and corsets, I also remember living in a teeny tiny bedsit, being constantly overdrawn, and suffering from daily career and relationship angst.  Whilst I'd gladly embrace my 22 year old weight, the rest can stay firmly in the past.....and for those who don't know when my birthday is (shame on you!) you have plenty of time to start planning fabulous gifts and treats before June...

No Job for a Lady

Roman Gladiators: Preferable to a job in PR

Another day, another 6 am start to man a client event. I won't bore you with the details for fear of a) boring you to death b) being unprofessional and revealing said dull event, just take it from me: you wouldn't take a day off work to attend. 

After managing client dramas (unnecessary) and a million ridiculous requests (exhausting) I  had a minute to switch on my Blackberry and check emails.  One of the four local ladies manning the help desk next to us sidled over shyly.  "What EXACTLY do you do" she asked.  "My daughter wants to work in PR or the Media, tell me what your job is like."  Having at this point been on my feet for three hours, I didn't hold back in explaining the gruelling hard work, long hours and mediocre pay. To say she looked aghast was an understatement.

"Just to be clear," she asked. "You sometimes work 12 hours a day?" Yes, I responded. "But I only work 9-1.30," she exclaimed. (I resisted the urge to strangle her, as she was so lovely.)  "My husband will never let my daughter work hours that long." (Are you listening, Dad???!!)

Not to be deterred, she tried to find the positive in the situation.  "But you enjoy what you do?"  At this point I had to break off to answer one of the myriad of questions that you face when the Media Desk is placed next to the Help Desk. My favourites so far have been: where can I get business cards printed/where are the toilets/how do I claim back my travel expenses/where is Hall 4, 6, 10/what is my 4 digit speaker code......

I didn't get to answer her question but I think she got a good idea of the answer....

Fast-forward another two hours and me and the gang of local ladies were all firm friends, this, despite the fact that they spoke little English and my Arabic is non existent. It got to the point where I was included in a variety of group photos, simply because: "You work so hard and this way we will always remember you."  Bless.  Joy in the simple things.....

Take Me Away From All This....

Should I run away and join the circus?!

I just ate for the first time today. Time-check: approx 4 pm.  It's days like these when I long for an escape from being a wage slave.  Many years ago, when in the first throws of agency life, working 14 hour days, dry heaving in the car park as so stressed before work, and generally being run into the ground (hello House of Pain survivors!) I read this book.  It's extremely interesting; chronicling a variety of people who made a drastic career change, and what subsequently happened to them. The problem I had with the book was that there were no hard and fast answers.  I'm a solutions and actions kind of gal, so a summary of  "it works for some people, it doesn't for others" didn't really help my thought process.

As I ran downstairs to fetch an over-priced Costa sandwich (almost 5 quid, uk peeps, and it wasn't THAT good), I took advantage of the 4 minutes I had to myself without emails, calls and general pestering, and let my mind wander to alternative careers that I might enjoy.  The short-list:

• Zoo-keeper: Yes I KNOW I bang on about this all the time, but it really was THE most fabulous day ever.  Downside: These days to even be considered you have to have a medical degree.  I do not fancy studying biology for 3 years to spend the following 3 shoveling shit, however lovely the animals are.  Also: Not many zoos in this region.
• Hotel Receptionist: I spend much of my time on the phone, being nice to unpleasant people.  Surely not that much difference in the roles?  I also have great teeth for smiling at people all day long.  Downside: The uniforms.
• Train Conductor: Lots of forms, lots of people to co-ordinate.  Making sure trains run on time.  Sounds familiar....Downside: No trains in this region.
• Dog Groomer: This was oft discussed by me and the Sass PR babes: cute dogs, and being around animal type people all day who are usually bonkers ie great fun.  Downside: A glut of these in Dubai.  Potential biting issues.
• Squirrel Trainer: I was reminded of this when recently re-watching the Johnny Depp version of Charlie and the Chocolate factory. have you ever seen anything more hilarious! Downside: No squirrels in this region.  Potential biting issues as above.
• PA: Extremely organised, making lots of bookings, dealing with difficult people and managing a diary like a menace.  hello,this is me every day!  Downside:  No desire to mother a grown man.
• Artist: Back in the day I was all over art, and was always painting or drawing.  When time became more critical I limited these creative expressions to customizing my various apartments with homemade artworks.  Since moving to the Twilight Zone it's been lacking in my life.  Downside: Do I have to wear tie dye clothing and survive on a diet of gruel and hummus?

So, those are the options.  Not sure whether to be inspired or defeated.  Maybe the women in this region have the right idea: hold out for a rich husband to take you away from your life of stress and chaos.  Or as they also do, get married at 22 and let your life become stressed and chaotic for a whole host of other reasons!  In the time it's taken me to write this another 45 emails have arrived.  Best dash....

Laugh or Cry

I think I made it clear that the last week or so has been a mad scramble where work I s concerned. Pitch after pitch after pitch. Endless meetings. The usual. Responding to new business requests is always a bit of a tango when it comes to negotiating on the submission date:


Them: Can you turn something around in two days?
Us: No, two weeks is the usual if you want something of a decent standard.
Them: Sorry, it’s super urgent. The MD/decision maker is out of town/going to the moon/such an important person that they can only read your proposal between 2 and 2.10 pm on Thursday.
Us: When should we bend over?

We had just such a situation last week. We dropped everything. We worked like dogs. We submitted the proposal with 5 minutes to spare (quite an achievement, it’s normally about 25 seconds.)

This is response we received: I am out of town on leave – I will review when I get back on Sunday, 8th August.

Nice. Kill us. Kill the international team who supplied us with huge amounts of information, in record time. When you’re off on holiday anyway? Hello Twilight Zone!

I thought twice about putting this on my blog in case it was being professionally indiscrete – then I realized that this happens so often in Dubai that it could probably be any number of businesses on any given day. In with anger, out with love….

PR not ER

We had an intern in the office last week - the son of a good friend, and a lovely young man. I say man, he was 15, with a confidence that belied his years (is this the case with all teenagers these days? Is it just my age?!) and a great attitude towards work and life in general. Something that young people in this region could learn a lot from. Anyway, I digress.

It fell to me to sort his schedule, and it got me thinking back to the days when I did work experience. Mine was mainly journalism based - the Jersey Evening Post, Island Eye (a short-lived weekly freebie) and then in later life, and on a more permanent, if unpaid basis, the Sheffield Star. I was never one of those teenagers who didn't know what they wanted to do. I only ever wanted to be a journalist. My degree was in journalism. And then somehow I ended up in PR. How?

Back in those days (ha ha) PR was in its infancy. It certainly wasn't a well-know career choice - unlike now where every 12 year old or 21 year old that I interview seems to want a PR job. When I ask them why, they can't articulate it. At best they come out with some clap-trap about 'being good with people'. There's no understanding of the fundamental skills needed such as writing, and don't get me stated on strategy, new business, pitching, handling clients etc etc.

I think I fell into PR as seemed to have a lot of transferable skills: writing, interviewing, and a strong news sense (or nosiness you could say). If I’d known then what I know now about just how hard it was going to be, would I have made that choice? Hard to say.

For the most, I enjoy my job – just as well as I’m not really equipped to do anything else. In an ideal world I’d be a zoo keeper or veterinary nurse (in no way influenced by Frank Harvarde’s very hot vet back in Manchester, honest) but the amount of studying needed, combined with pitiful salaries has always ruled out those options. So for now, I’ll keep slogging away at the coal face. But there are times when I think longingly back to those early work experience days, and wonder…what if…

The Office

Some of you asked for photos of the office - here's a feature which tells you more.