Many years ago, I worked in London, in advertising. I was a creative person.
It was a crazy time and I wouldn’t have changed any of it for the world. There were typesetters, printers, re-touchers and proof-readers. There were plate makers, typographers, illustrators’ agents and photographers.
In those days, the working week finished on a Friday lunchtime when Roger, the Chief Executive, would head off down the A3 to join his boat and crew on the Solent. Nice.
The crew left in London headed straight into Soho to meet an assortment of the aforementioned skilled practitioners. Most of the typesetters were from East London, supported West Ham and were called Ken. The proof-readers were from top notch universities and had disappointed their parents. The re-touchers and photographers had fallen into their careers without knowing how, or why, and the illustrator agents were ever so nice but always let themselves down on Beaujolais Day.
Kevin was a junior trainee at a London printer and couldn’t drink very much. He was in Soho one Friday and drank far too much. He left around 11 pm to catch the last train to Carlisle for the Spurs fixture the following day. The following day, Spurs played Carlisle at White Hart Lane and won 2-0.
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