Dear Adland,

I believe that you would like me to fuck off and die.
Look, maybe not “die”, per se – but I certainly get the ‘you should fuck off’ message, loud and clear. But, I guess perhaps should have seen it coming. Given that it’s coming from an industry I’ve not just been in, but given my all to, for, well –over 20 years.

You see, I’m in advertising. I’m a Creative Director. Actually, while I’m talking about me – I’ll add this. I’m strategic. I’m multi-disciplinary. I’m award-winning. I have presented to the CEO’s of some of the biggest companies in Australia. And I’ve nailed it.

The thing is, a lot of Creative Directors have. But that’s where the similarities end.

Because the majority of Creative Directors are men.

Blokes.

Males.

Or, “you know – just one of the guys” as I’ve most recently heard.

Not me. I’m a woman. Yes, I am. A woman, one of only 3%, who had the audacity to crawl into a place that is very clearly reserved for a man.

And apparently when you get to that place that you’ve been working towards for 20 years, the industry’s response is to pull a couple of blokes in in your place, and shuffle you out the back door.

Delightful. Clearly it doesn’t matter that I’ve done the hard yards. I’ve worked my way through all the lofty titles of copywriter, senior copywriter, creative group head and creative director. Apparently, I hit the ceiling. I went as far as someone with ladybits could go.

Now – and I am desperately trying to be diplomatic here – this would be fine, if the consequences were just mine. But they’re not. I mentor a lot of young creatives, both male and female – and I encourage them all to continue, because, and I say this to them “the industry is fucking great and it needs them all”. Man, woman, gay, straight, amish, catholic, have-no-idea-but-still-scrabbling-for-a-belief-system. The industry needs to speak to an amazingly diverse society – and can only do so successfully if it is filled with the diverse voices to speak with. I really believe that by the time these young creatives reach the top – things will be better. So I want them to stay in it – and in the meantime, I’ll do whatever I can, and fight as hard as I can, to make it better.

While the laws of, well “lawland”, forbid me to talk about what exactly that entails, or the particular previous employer that I have been fighting – I will say this.

They may well believe that the opinion of a woman is worthless.

They may well believe that a female creative director can never be as good as the men.

They may well have kicked me to the curb and assumed that I’d shut the fuck up and crawl away.

They. Were. Wrong.

I have no idea how, yet.

But I will be heard from again.

Today I sat in a room with positive, inspirational, motivated, creative people.

I walked in and no one gave a shit about who I was or whose arse I had kissed.

I walked in and no one cared if I was man, woman or neither.

I walked in and no one, but no one, had heard defamatory things about me before hand.

I walked in and found a diverse group of people who gave, shared, laughed, cried and wanted everyone else in the room to kick arse – regardless of who they were or what genitals they had.

How fucking refreshing.

Check out more jenspeirs.com.

Once upon a time there was a girl who was very pretty. She was in the air force and all the air force blokes enjoyed playing stacks on with her. One day the air force men went on a special trip to Japan where they dropped a huge bomb that pretty much wiped out the whole city of Hiroshima. Talk about a stacks on!

As homage to what they had done, the men created a lovely little crown for the pretty girl to wear. It was in the shape of the mushroom cloud the bomb made when it exploded. Every day she wore her crown. Every day. It reminded the men of how powerful they were, how they could destroy the lives of millions of people in one quick game of stacks on. The girl didn’t think it was amazing. She thought the crown looked like a cock.

One day she decided not to wear it anymore. It made her uncomfortable. She kept thinking of all the people who had died – all of the dreams and hopes that would never come to fruition. She didn’t like the men who glorified it – that big penis shaped mushroom cloud. The fact that they also wanted her to wear it all the time just felt wrong.

The men didn’t like that she refused to wear the crown. They told her she was being unpatriotic and dismissive of their achievements. Who did she think she was – suddenly developing morals and ethics. Because of that she decided to leave the air force. It no longer held any charms for her. She felt she was being used, that she had no worth. Instead of trying to do something about it – challenging the men and their adulation of the bomb, she quit.

And because of that the men found another girl to use because they thought their behaviour was okay and that there was something wrong with HER, not them. And so they never learned. As for the girl, she lived her days in sadness. Sad because of the bomb. Sad because of the way the men had treated her. Sad because she had done nothing about it. Until finally, one day the sadness overwhelmed her. She descended into a state of bitterness and hatred, mostly against herself. She decided to do something about it.

She killed herself.

When reports of her death came out, young girls everywhere walked out of their jobs or out of their homes. They left behind families, children, lovers. They walked and walked and walked until each of them found a cliff or an ocean or a bridge. They fell over, into, off – to their deaths. Never again would young women be used to celebrate wholesale destruction.

Once upon a time there was a man who lived in a small little hut at the end of a long windy road in a rainforest.  The hut had some very basic amenities: a single bed, a light hanging from the ceiling, small kitchen and a small table.

The man kept to himself mainly.  He grew his own vegetables in a little garden out the back, he was completely self sufficient for food and so rarely needed to leave his property.  The man was generally very happy, although sometimes the sadness would come for his dog that had recently passed away and when that happened he couldn’t remember ever being happy.

One dark and stormy night a strong wind blew through the trees.  The man was sitting inside the hut on his bed listening to the sounds.  It was a little scary being alone in the middle of a rainforest listening to the wind. If Molly was alive she would be in the bed with him whimpering, keeping him company and he would be telling her not to be silly, that it was just a little storm.  Part of nature.

Suddenly the light went out.  The power was gone.  It was pitch black and there was no light from the moon because the clouds were so thick.  It started to rain and the wind started to howl. It was an unnatural sounding noise even if it was part of nature.

The man lay down in his bed and curled up into a ball with tears in his eyes thinking of Molly.  It was a long restless night full of bangs and crashes and once the front door to the hut even opened and smashed against the outside of the house scaring the man terribly.

Eventually the storm passed, the rain stopped and man was able to go to sleep.

Every day when this man woke up he took himself down to the nearest creek for a wash.  And today was no different.  When he opened the door to his hut however he was not prepared for what he was seeing.  The terrible mess left by the storm – it was a much bigger storm than he thought possible.  There were plant pots broken, the fence had been pushed over, the trees were either bent, broken or on their back and his vegetable garden was in complete disarray.  Even the nearby power lines were in twisted and hanging.   The man knew this was going to be a problem because the power lines near his house powered the nearby village.  Without this power the village would be in trouble.
One day a few weeks ago the man had been down to the village to find a coffin for Molly, he wanted to build a nice grave for her at the other side of his vegetable garden so he could visit her and give her flowers. On his way to town he noticed that there was a new hospital wing that had been built for children since the last time he had come – which was a while ago he must admit, perhaps even longer than he originally thought.  The man walked past the hospital on his way to the pet store and he noticed all these new fangled electronics lighting up, beeping and pulsing through one of the open windows.  Technology. He watched the kids wired up to these machines.  Some with shaved heads.  Some asleep.

Because of that visit to town he knew that electricity was important.  Important for the kids, for the parents and probably important for many other reasons too.  He was worried about it and so he was very grateful when a ute from the local power company turned up with two men in it with hard hats on.  They were going to fix the power lines.  He waved good morning to them and sat down to watch what they did from the ratty old armchair that was sitting at the front corner of his tiny porch at the front of his little hut.

The other men waved back and then put on their protective gear and placed a large ladder up against the electricity pole.  They slowly climbed the ladder and then attached themselves to the pole using thick long leather belts that were clipped to their respective harnesses.  These two men were very fit and obviously experienced in power poles because they were able to climb to the top of the pole in no time.

Perhaps they were a little too arrogant.  Perhaps they weren’t used to people watching them do their job.  Perhaps they looked at the man from the hut and wanted to show them how good they were at what they did.  Was he jealous of their fitness?  Maybe. But whatever it was the man sitting at the front of his hut thought they were showing off a bit too much, they were being a bit too cocky.
And because of that, maybe, these men forgot to do something very important. They forgot to check the neighbouring power pole to see if there was any immediate danger – if they were to but look they would have see a dangerous loose cable dangling precariously.

The two men didn’t notice when another strong gust came and blew this dangerous cable towards them where it snapped and bit and cracked and somehow hit one of the men, even though the man at the front of the hut didn’t see exactly what happened, he knew it was serious.  One of the men dropped immediately unconscious hanging loosely in the air – his leather belts and harnesses the only thing holding him up ten metres in the air. The other man stopped with his eyes wide open looking for any danger for himself, he now saw the loose cable but must have decided that he wasn’t in any immediate danger. The unconscious mans head was swinging slowly just above him so he climbed up and steadied him, feeling for a pulse.  There was none.  He immediately grabbed his workmates upside down mouth with his own to give him mouth to mouth resuscitation. The tears were coming.  He yelled at the unconscious man, slapped his face, reached up and banged on his chest with his fists and continued trying to resuscitate him.  It was all from the worst possible angle but he tried anyway for a long time. Nothing changed.  He kept trying and trying.  His eyes were blurry with tears.

Until finally, he gave up.  The electrocuted man lay with his back against the pole and his friend was crumpled against him with his arms around his chest, tears streaming down his face.
By this time the man in the hut was underneath them calling out asking how he could help.  The man on the pole screamed for him to call an ambulance but the man from the hut couldn’t do that.  He didn’t have a phone.  So the man on the pole screamed with frustration and snot and tears and saliva all mixed together spraying the man from the hut underneath him.  The man on the pole awkwardly pulled out a mobile phone from deep in his pocket hoping and praying that there would be reception this far out of town.

One bar of reception showed on the screen – but one bar was enough.  He called an ambulance and spoke to the operator about what he could do to bring the other man back to life.  She told him to try to bring the man down to the ground but it was impossible just by himself. The unconscious man was too heavy. Tears continued to roll down his face.  It was taking too long.  He knew it was too long.
The man from the hut had climbed up the ladder and did his best to help the other man bring his body down from the pole.  Then the ambulance arrived from nowhere and for a few minutes it was very busy. A rush of people to get the dying man into the vehicle. Which was gone as quickly as it came.

And then there was no one but the man from the hut.  Left standing alone out the front of his home.

Sad and alone and still missing his dog Molly.

Once upon a time, there was a laugher. She laughed at everything. It was a language, a way of being, a communication although limited, it had a range – the laughter could be raucous, sarcastic, thunderous. It could be sad, low and guttural, or even tittering on hysteria. She was a laugher and the laugh was from her body, her ribs expanding and contracting, breath sometimes high or low or snorting out her nose. Of course she drew attention. She didn’t mean to, but to laugh at everything does that.

Every day she rode the bus into town, sometimes at peak hour where she blended into the crowd. Everyone in their own personal space, looking at their phone, talking on their phone, perhaps talking to a friend or brief interaction with a fellow commuter, she blended in with her laughing. No-one usually paid attention, her laughing another background noise. But when she caught the bus at quiet times of the day, her laughter drew attention, drew concerned looks for her wellbeing, for the safety of the onlookers. Who is this woman? Why is she laughing? And sometimes she looked back in mirth, or gently giggled as she looked out the window. She sometimes started a laughing party on the bus with infectious laughter.

One day the bus driver asked her why she laughed. And she just laughed and smiled. He asked if she would like to ride the bus in the afternoon when he picks up the school kids. Some in the area were particularly unhappy. Life had been tough. The kids were still quite young but had stopped that spontaneous joyful laughter as they were rushed towards adulthood, not ready for the strain of life too soon. Because of that, she remembered when she had started laughing. She laughed because she could. Because it felt good. Because she was a child again and the angst of adult worries would loosen from her body with each laugh. She agreed to ride the afternoon school bus. The kids were talking about “party tricks” and how that was a way to make others laugh. Each child  took turns standing in the aisle to perform their trick, each was seen, each offered joy. And the laugher laughed. She did this each day until finally the children were there just for each other.

The laugher had not always been so well appreciated. Her sister was calmer, cooler, hair perfectly in place, cigarette elegantly drawn, beautifully dressed. She was elusive, distant. Her cares slipped over and from her body, never taking hold. Definitely not penetrating her body like her sister’s mirth. The coolness left her remote and beautiful, like a sculpture or artwork. Life fell around her but no longer bubbled up inside of her, no imperfections. She’d cultivated the behaviour so perfectly.

Yet there they were – no makeup, hair done with a rough comb and every day the same thing: a dress. Maybe a grey dress this day, maybe a blue dress like mine if they had a bit of style about them – am I right? But the fact is they don’t have to think about their clothes.

It’s men who have to consider what to a wear: the floral shirt with the baggy pants or the skinny pants with the tunic, do I need a tie, a cravat, a bow tie, a scarf? It’s enough to drive a boy crazy, am I right?

And then, once we’re absolutely certain we look good enough for that lady in our lives, we have to apply our makeup – but how!?! What with the baby and the washing, the ironing and the cleaning, there is hardly a moment in a man’s day when his hands were free!

Well today, all of your worries are over, fellas. Today, I present to you The Applicatron! That’s right, this miraculous device is the technology of the future, delivered to you today! This wonderful little headpiece can save you hours of foundation application, eyeliner, mascara, beard-trim, beard-colour, eyeshadow, blush, concealer, lipstick, highlighting and touch-ups.

That’s right, gentlemen, one day you will say to yourself “how did we ever live without our Applicatron?”. When housework and cooking can be done with ease while the Applicatron applies, touches up and fixes your makeup for you – all for the one low price of just $359.99 or five easy payments of just $129.99.

The Applicatron – have that special lady in your life swooning when she returns home from work. She can’t ignore you anymore! You’ll be the centrepiece of the home day and night and all because of that clever little secret you keep hidden away in your briefcase.

Don’t tell her how you do it – it will be your little secret!

But, you ask – how does it work? Well, fellas, it’s all to do with the miracle of electronics! That’s right, this tiny device carries within its stylish, contemporary plastic case an advanced integrated circuit board and because of that magic of modern engineering, the Applicatron will allow you – the hardworking, everyday househusband – to not only apply your makeup hand-free in minutes, but to program the style which you want to wear for any occasion!

That’s right boys, not only will the Applicatron do your work for you, but you can tell it exactly how you want that work done! The Applicatron comes with five programmable styles and a selection of twelve different colours for eyes, cheeks, lips, a choice of three colours for your beard and a choice of three fabulous foundation colours.

Let me show you how we do it, fellas. I’ll need a volunteer – yes, you sweety, why don’t you come up here and show us that wonderful beard. Oh I do envy you boys and your beards. Now all you other gorgeous gents take a look at…Mike here. Thanks, Mike. I am going to program the Applicatron now – what’s your favourite colour, Mike?

Green! That’s a bit different. No, don’t be shy, Mike – I like different. Maybe we can get a drink you and me after you buy your Applicatron. HAHAHA!

Now – Mike here likes green, I’m gonna go ahead and give him some gorgeous green eyeshadow. Mike, what colour do you like your beard? You a brown kind of guy – I could hardly tell. HAHA! Brown it is and I’m programming this directly into the Applicatron. Now, how heavy do you like your makeup, Mike? I can see you’re a medium-to-heavy kind o’ guy. Heavy? You bet, Mike – heavy it is!

OK, now I’ve programmed all of Mike’s options into the Applicatron and I’m going to fix it to his pretty little head here and I’m gonna…Mike, you OK in there? You are? It’s comfortable? Good! Well of course it’s comfortable, the good women of our science and technology labs work night and day to make sure every Applicatron feels like a gentle kiss against your cheek.

And now The Applicatron…Oh boy, Mike, stay still darlin’. Now the Applicatron is laying foundation, you can see it as it moves down his face, you might be able to see the beautiful, rich colour coming down there. Now the Applicatron is coming back up, applying beard colour,  highlights, lipstick, blush and eyeliner, eyeshadow and mascara.

And the Applicatron keeps going up – don’t worry Mike , it won’t touch your gorgeous hair. Until finally…there we go, gentlemen – look at his amazing face!

All thanks to the Applicatron! Your miraculous little secret in your briefcase.

Don’t tell you wife!

I’m taking orders!

How many do you need, Mike?

Once upon a time there was a circus performer. She arrived from the old country, landing in NYC with a babe on her front and a gold coin in her pocket.

Central Park was the largest open aired big top she had ever laid her eyes upon. Her son, happy in his place, woven to her back, participated with or without conscious knowledge of drawing in the crowds as his Mother performed feats of dare defying acts on a tight rope she pulled from the only bag she arrived with on the Island. It also contained an image of her husband. He was killed before her babe was born. He too a circus performer, killed in a train derailing.

The New World called her, NYC, the place of her dreams. The place she knew, mythologically as where she could be free and find her place of belonging.

Between two old Oaks she walked the tight rope, babe in tow, day after day after day. At night she slept in the shade of the Oaks, knowing full well from the life of her past that the earth beneath her feet and at times the air beneath her feet held her solid.

Every day she drew the crowds, everyday they grew larger and larger. Everyday she gave thanks for this life that meant she was free to do what she loved, feed her baby and sleep on the green, green grass of the beauty that is Central Park.

It did begin to get cold. The leaves did begin to fall from the Oaks. And nights did begin to cool right down. In her evenings, she began to knit and knit and knit in preparation for the cold that would come. Not a cold like she had experienced before, but a NYC cold. A cold that would bring the joy of the skaters to the park, that would bring the smell of roasted chestnuts and the joy of hot chocolate.

Warming her nest, her baby grew and he grew and he grew towards the dawning of winter. Autumn came and autumn went, and the snow mounted in the skies above.

One day as she was devising a winter hammock home for her and her babe, when a package appeared. It was addressed to the Tightrope Walker and her Son. She looked around her. In the distance she could see a bicycle crossing the bridge over Swan Lake.

Because of that moment, that magical moment (as it became known to her), the moment she saw the bicycle and the bridge and the frozen Swan Lake, she found herself no longer living in what was becoming a crumpled, too small life for her and her soon to be crawling babe, she found herself on top of the world.

A key. An address. A miracle.

A high rise, empty but clean apartment with furnishings unlike she had ever imagined before and knew could have only been dreamed up by the kindness of hearts, a window open and caged and soft with the fur skins of sheep, a place for her babe.

And because of that, she found her self at HOME in NYC.

Her child free to breathe the air of the birds, her soul free to dream and imagine and realise a soft place for she and her babe to watch the snow fall.

And still she walked the tight rope by day and in the spring and summer by night.

Until finally She was the Woman who came to NYC from the Motherland with a babe on her back, who walked the tightrope between the Oaks of NYC and by winter, watching Swan Lake turn to ice and the last of the bicycles head into hibernation, she and her son, now toddling learned to skate.

Wollman Rink the playground of a boy and his mother. Smiling as flakes of snow danced this snow globe of wonderland into the good life and the magical reality.

THE END

Once upon a time there was a land of death. We could smell it. The decay. We could hear it. The screams. We could see it. The blood. And we lived it. The hopelessness.

We knew that in all of this assault on our senses and our spirit we had to find a way to survive, to fight. Not to fight our enemy but to fight ourselves, our fear, our desire to just give up. It wasn’t like we could just go down the pub and drown our sorrows. Or wrap ourselves in the arms of a lover hoping that, if they held us long enough and hard enough, that the pain and the fear would disappear like gun-smoke in the wind.

Some days all you could do was stay alive and stay sane. And that’s where He came in. For us, Jimmy, Steve, Billy and me, He became our symbol of life and survival.

Every day became like the next. An endless stream of a bitter cocktail of boredom, fear and waiting. Waiting for the next assault, the next bomb, the next wave of death or despair.

But he changed all that when He came into our lives. As mates, we always looked after each other and had each other’s backs, kept each other warm and listened to each other when fear and pain and loneliness had to be vomited out so that it didn’t fester like a pus filled sore. But sometimes friendship wasn’t enough. We all started to live within ourselves, to withdraw from the madness.

One day he just appeared. We don’t know how he came to be in this hell or how he made it to us alive. But He did. And He changed everything. It was like we became one man with one purpose and that was to protect Him, to make sure that whatever else happened He survived. It was like the tiny slivers of hope that remained within each of us had morphed into this solid bundle of furry love and if that hope was to remain alive, He too had to survive.

Because of that we became better soldiers, we became a team, closely knit with a common goal, a sense of purpose that had deserted us. At night we’d surround him to make sure that even when hands turned blue with cold He stayed warm. If He whimpered in the night, the act of providing comfort would warm the coldest heart. A lick on the face, as weird as it sounds, was a salve for a wounded soul. And His antics brought laughter where there had been none.

And because of that, we did survive. And as dawn came, the word spread that peace had risen with the sun. As the cheers of excitement washed through the crowd, cleansing away despair and fear like a sudden rain washes away the dust, we stood and embraced each other. Friends through war, friends for life. And He just stood there, a straggly skinny stranger wagging his tail and watching us with a smile that looked so human. And then He barked, as if saying farewell, and ran off over the hill. We thought he was just having a joyous run into territory that had been denied him. And we waited.

Until finally we knew he wasn’t coming back. We saw no rhyme or reason to explain his appearance nor why he chose to leave us. We just had to accept that He would always be one of life’s mysteries, a blessing, a savior.

So to this day Jimmy, Steve, Billy and me meet each year on this day to celebrate life and salute Him, the one soldier who we believe saved our lives and our sanity. Who we only knew as Dog.