I made the creative collective my space. Pub in creative hot spots, creative meetups. The Chartered Society of Designers. Anywhere I could get proper feedback from people actually doing the work. I refined it relentlessly until I knew, without ego but with confidence, that it was strong enough to get me in the room.
Then I did my homework. There was a street near Barbican that was electric. A proper creative artery. Design agencies, print studios, paper engineers, craft everywhere. It felt alive. So I printed my portfolio, got on the train and walked that street, knocking on doors like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Some people were genuinely shocked I’d just walked in. Others were frosty, dismissive, straight no’s. But a few respected the confidence. I wasn’t asking for money or titles. I was asking for a chance to prove my value, even if it meant working for free.
One agency sat me down. The creative director flipped through my work, we talked, and half an hour later he asked, “When can you start?” I said, “Now.” Thirty minutes later I was in the middle of a busy design studio working on live creative for Savills. No ceremony. Just straight into it.
That six months changed everything.
London at that time was raw and creative in a way that’s hard to describe unless you lived it. The studio was buzzing, Macs humming, designers, art workers and creative directors constantly bouncing ideas. But the inspiration didn’t stop at the desk. It spilled out into the streets. Conversations in sandwich shops weren’t about fillings, they were about typography, campaigns, music, ideas. You’d be queuing for lunch and end up talking to another creative about a project they were obsessed with or a poster they’d just seen.
My daily walk from Waterloo into the City was part of the education. Gritty London streets covered in street art, layers of early 2000s rave posters half torn from brick walls, flyers stapled to lampposts, bold DIY typography everywhere. The fashion was loud, experimental, unapologetic. It felt like the city itself was designing alongside you. That walk alone could spark ideas before you’d even sat down at your desk.
Every Friday I picked up Design Week and Creative Review from Waterloo. Those magazines were the industry. Inspiration at the front, opportunity at the back. One week an advert jumped out at me. Not because of the job title, Creative Director, which I clearly wasn’t, but because the design was bold, illustrative, confident. It felt like my kind of place.
The studio was in Ascot, close to home. I cut the ad out, phoned up and got an interview. Years of school conditioning kicked in so I turned up in a suit. The moment I walked into the studio I knew I’d fucked it. Jeans, T-shirts, loud trainers, creative chaos. I clocked the looks immediately. The suit was not the one. The funny thing was, that vibe was completely my vibe. I just didn’t realise yet that I was allowed, actually expected, to show up as myself. Lesson learned. Never again.
At the back of the studio sat Nigel Burt. A serious creative director. A proper advertising man. Cut in the 1980s a “golden age” for UK advertising, marked by iconic creative work and significant global expansion. Ted Bates and D&AD awards. Someone who would go on to become one of the most important mentors in my career. I showed him my portfolio and told him straight. “I’m not a creative director.” Eyebrows raised, glasses off. He got it immediately. I wasn’t seasoned, but I was hungry, prepared and confident in my work. I wanted in.
He told me he’d create a space for me once the senior role was filled. Four weeks passed. Then five. Then six. I stayed visible, followed up, didn’t disappear. Eight weeks later the call came. “We’re ready. Come in.”
On my first day I was handed a pad, a pen and layout paper and asked to sketch ideas. Proper concepts. I couldn’t believe I was getting paid to do the thing I loved most. That feeling never left.
From there I went on to run half the business and lead what was then called “new media”. This was pioneering territory. The dotcom bubble had just burst and people were questioning whether the web even had a future. I believed in it completely. I earned a degree with honours in multimedia, was selected by Apple to represent the UK at Creative Jam in Paris, and learned under Nigel’s mentorship from one of the best creative minds in the game.
Nearly 30 years later, I still feel lucky to be getting out of bed each day, feeling pumped to do what I love to do, to solve creative problems and be challenged by a new design brief. It’s life’s true wealth. But luck didn’t get me here.
I made it. My hustle created it.
So why did I write this article? Because it’s more relevant than it’s ever been with jobs getting tougher to get hold of and AI as much as threat as it is an opportunity. For youngsters leaving education, I’m here to tell you, make your own luck.
Be you a fresh young creative or looking for your next creative move. Today is your opportunity. And I want you to ask yourself… What are you going to do with it?
