Over and out: By @PhilipLeBrun

By Phil Le Brun


Over and out:


Over three hundred days since the course started. Three hundred days of synapse frazzling, brain sweats. Three hundred days and they haven’t sussed me out yet. The imposter behind the posters. That fraud with the words. Maybe they’ll never figure it out. Might have got away with this.


SCABs, Town Halls, Dun Bar, Reflections. Squirrelling and Squirrel. Collecting dots and connecting dots.  All part of the nomenclature of the cult of Marc. The SCA. Up the spiralling stairs and through the fire doors. The music blares. The paint flakes. The room ebbs and flows with energy and anxiety.  A melting pot of weirdos and legends. Three hundred days since that first sweaty morning.


A morning of false starts, mumbled intros and awkward handshakes. Putting names to facebooks and meeting scholarship video heroes in the flesh.


Rita The Revolutionary, Joe ‘Fake News’ Sare, Ben off of Ben Nevis. Who’s SCA, Who’s Sup De Pub? What does that make Gary? Sat on the floor. Hands up who feels like they’re back at school. The first taste of sphincter shrinking public speaking. A bunch of mugs painting mugs without a care in the world. Sitting at the front so you forget how many people there are. It makes it easier to put up your hand, when you think there’s only four of you in the room. Mentor intros. Ian. Pete. Vikki. Dusty. Cazza. Alex. Dee. And more. Names, names, names. So many names. Talks, classes, and time management seminars. Story telling through song and dance. Scampering through scamps. Training to become time bending chunk-masters. Introduction to the world of words and pictures, the tools at our disposal. Agency visits. A return to the place I’d left behind 9 months before. Actual teams doing actual work. Will that be us? Will people actually come see us? Defining masterclasses and masterful definitions.


Notes of the year and decoding strategy. Deanna’s soul-wrenching poetry and enlightening word games. Ian’s patience while the room muddles through charcoal smears. Improv and games. Laughs. Playful children and mindfulness in the dark. Code school. Rush Hour Crush. Name you agency. Paint the room. Stop people bullying on facebook. Make a music video. Can I do this? Writing raps. Shooting on Brick lane, Sup De Pub bringing that Noughties Chic while Martin nails the green-screen. Then came the dawning of the Age of Darius. A leather-clad, art-school genius who added some Portuguese baritone flavour to the melting pot. Twitter monsters and topical fame chasing. PB1 Scouts and animation. PB2 pensions rule breaking with Sare the Fox-hunter. PB3, PB4… Dildos and Darius. More and more. Comedy school, learning to stand up for jokes and ideas. Then came the weeks of the portfolio. Lines, layouts campaigns. Finding our feet and finding our voice. Type with Ian. Lines with Cazza. Layouts with Alex. Then we were let loose on D&AD. Heads down chasing pencils. Late nights in Peckham in the snow. Ideas crushed and pivoted. No pencils… Worth every minute though. Then the partner arms race. Love Island, but everyone was pale and tired. Push came to shove. Adeline and I became a thing and the rest is now. Crits coming out of our ears. Iteration for the nation. Hot summer days of propositions and pushing campaigns. Crits. Crits. Crits. Stress. Then the portfolio day. It’s all over soon, but it’s been a hell of a ride. Ups, downs, slumps and bumps but wouldn’t swap it to the world.

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