The beautiful game, a footballer named Peter Doherty, and enough Wonga to choke a blue whale...

How to you calculate a person’s worth?

What value do you possibly place on someone who is regarded as irreplaceable?

Is it love? Talent? Money? Humanity?

All of the above?

For instance…

The way things are going, pretty soon footballers will be changing hands, feet, heads, legs, and clubs, for a price equivalent to the national debt of a small country.

The truth is…it’s all really just a board game.

Played with Monopoly money.

It’s numbers on a spreadsheet, understood by bean counters, boasted about to shareholders, fed to the media, and swallowed up (without chewing and without any real understanding) by the fans with their bums on the seats of stadia large enough to hold the adult population of a medium-sized town.

And, of course, it’s all bollocks.

The real worth of a player (male or female) is the value of the kit logos they have on their back, the boots they have on their feet, the skill they have in their body, and the nouse they have in their noggin.

But the thing is this…

As long as there are clubs who want to charge ￡100 MILLION…OR ￡200 MILLION (or more) for all that, there will always be clubs (okay…one or two) willing to fork out the dosh for the deal.

There will always be consortiums, or investors, or stinking rich geezers, willing to dig deep and hand over enough wonga to choke a blue whale.

Remember when it used to be called ‘The Beautiful Game’?

The term was coined, allegedly, by football commentator Stuart Hall way back in 1965 to describe Manchester City’s Peter Doherty’s style of play.

Of course, when he was playing, Doherty, born in 1913, wouldn’t have had the kind of price tag that the average Premier League player would have these days.

Blackpool sold him to Man City in 1936 for the princely sum of ￡10,000.

Not a lot in today’s money.

But back then…no, make that WAY back then… it was a king’s ransom and he was probably, worth every damned penny.

City knew his worth.

But, that was before silly money stepped in and talent was decided by greed, gate receipts, profit margins, and men in grey suits who had probably never kicked a football professionally in their lives.

The thing is…

Can you imagine a situation where top creatives would be switched from one advertising agency to another, with a hefty fee involved?

Can you imagine boardroom suits putting together a humungous transfer deal to bring a hot new CD…or writer…or AD to their agency, with the prospect of landing client accounts worth MILLIONS, or more?

The ability to walk out the door and switch allegiances just because you’re pissed off, or you fancy a change of scenery, or a change of boss, might be an interesting prospect.

But introducing a world-shattering transfer fee into the equation, either on the pitch or in the creative department?

Give me a fucking break!

Now don’t get me wrong. I love the beautiful game as much as the next fan. And anyone who loves stunning creativity is alright in my book.

However…

Success isn’t about how much you think you’re worth.

Or how much wonga you have under the mattress.

It’s a lot more passionate than that.

It’s about what goes on inside your head…and inside your heart.

Remember the great footballer Pelé?

He memorably said this:

“Success is no accident. It’s hard work, perseverance, learning, studying, sacrifice and, most of all, love of what you are doing or learning to do.”

Okay…I know…time moves on, priorities change, and all that jazz.

And, the great man didn’t play in an age of monster transfers.

He sure as hell didn’t play in a world of hundred-million-pound price tags.

He played in a world where the only thing that was important was how much you enjoyed the game.

Beautiful or not.

And how talented you were.

The fact is this…the game is definitely more athletic today. No question.

And talking of no questions…here’s another two…

Are the players as passionate about the game? Or do they care more about the wonga?

And, of course, the biggest questions of all are these…

Is it still as beautiful?

Or is it merely a wonga-making machine for men in grey suits?

Men who have probably never kicked a football professionally in their lives.

Men who probably wouldn’t know a great goal scorer, or a great winger, if their lives depended on it.

And what about those modern ad men who spend their lives counting beans.

The men with grey minds.

The most incendiary question is this.

If they had a great creative talent, standing in front of them, with a brilliant idea for a memorable ad campaign…

Would they be able to tell it from a damned hole in the ground?

Answers on a postcard, please.

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The above is an extract from my as yet unpublished (and mostly unwritten) book Ad Interruptus.

Like its sisters Ad Lib, and Ad Infinitum (NOW AVAILABLE), it's about creativity, advertising, life, and lots of stuff in between.

You'll find Ad Infinitum, Ad Lib, and Ad Hoc on Amazon, along with my other books, Love & Coffee and Heaven Help Us. In print and ebook. Waiting for you.

And the wonderful thing about all three Ad books is… it doesn’t matter where you finish any chapter or episode.

Because it will always be pretty damned close to where you started it…

Ad Infinitum: https://amzn.to/3pof7Uq

Ad Lib: https://amzn.to/2kd4LKf.

Ad Hoc: https://amzn.to/2Nx8GL8

Love & Coffee: https://amzn.to/28IWaHq

Heaven Help Us: https://amzn.to/2nkQ1Jk

Grab a coffee, grab a chair, and grab a sneaky peek.

Then grab a copy...