Last Friday I met Jeremy – watch this space, but watch this first.

I’ve been reading about how people are confused by O2′s pricing strategy for the IPhone 4, so I thought I’d take a look..

These things are designed to be impossible to understand, I’m fairly certain. So I banged the numbers into a spreadsheet (that was hard enough).

Here’s what I discovered…

1: The 18m £209 v 24m £279 for a handset on 100 minutes is a red herring – although the contract costs more over the 24 months than 18, the actual cost per month is £41.61 on 18 months v £36.63 on 24 months.

2: Cost “per minute” is insane on the 100 min contracts, but drops massively at 300m+

3: On a cost per minute basis, there’s not much in it between 18 & 24 months at 600m per month

4: At 600m the 16GB 32GB work out roughly the same per minute cost on 18 or 24 m contracts

5: Mobile phones cost a shit load more than you think.. how did we reach the point where £50/mo is a necessary expense! Wowzer.

Good luck picking your poison!

Whilst de-junking I came across my stash of HST.  So posted here for my buddy C Damian Law @ hardcoreguitar.com, Don’t Ever Give Up.

Can we still do faxtivism in these dull days of email?

Copy from Hunter S Thompson, Better Than Sex.  Fax sent to Bill C during the campaign trail, and an image I’ve often recalled during times of both stress and power. Click for full size.

I’m staying in a hotel that’s given us a broken window, a broken phone and tv, a safety deposit box that wouldn’t open once all our stuff was inside and the most uncomfortable beds ever. But… the staff are so friendly and the food is so good, it trumps most of the 5 star joints I’ve been in…

[tweetmeme]My favourite eating / drinking place in the world today is a tiny little hole in a Tokyo wall called Enoki, partly because of Mama San and partly because of what it stands for – personal(ity).

Across from Shibuya station on a tiny stretch of land, it’s down what roughly translates as Drunkard’s Alley, or Tippler Street for the middle class.  Stepping into this street is like stepping into the first page of a magical world.

Fifty closed doors and curtains across steamed up windows where you might equally glance a man with a knife, or a wife.  Hanging red lanterns, scrappy overhead cables and random trash.  The odd rat.  A security guy for the bit of carpark nearby asleep on the job, loosely holding onto his telephone book sized manga.

Behind one of the doors lies Enoki and its warm, gracious, terrifying owner.

You can’t really step inside, rather you slide the door and immediately sit on one of the 6 chairs that crowds the tiny counter, behind which is Mama-san.

To your left you might have a university professor, the right a bank manager. A stool away is an artist and a familiar, jovial salaryman.  Whoever is there it’s a sure thing that everyone will be chinking glasses and have a story to tell.  Mama-san presides over all and, if you don’t annoy her, will entertain and regale  with countless anecdotes.

The bar has been there years with Mama-san as the boss.  I first went there around 2000, but no matter when I return there always seems to be a familiar face from earlier years.

I got to wondering just why this place is so appealing and its patrons return year after year, day after day. After all it’s a bit expensive (sometimes, prices are random based on Mama-san’s mood), not particularly clean or stylish inside (bit like a broom cupboard), food and drink selection is limited and you may even have to leave if someone else is waiting.

Personal(ity)

I think that’s the answer.  We’re fed up with uber-polished delivery, or lacklustre couldn’t-care-less performance and crave some kind of genuine interaction with a brand.

In one of my own businesses I’ve always been curious as to why we get the best, friendliest response to emails saying that we just screwed up (I remember the day we cut a tax break and dropped our prices by nearly 20% – no-one said a word!)

When those emails are written in a friendly, genuinely personal way – they’re being the electronic equivalent (in as much as they could come even slightly close) of Mama-san.

In Enoki, everyone is spoken to and with.  No waiter shows you to your table – your space is made.  There are no menus – the Boss tells you what you could have, and then makes you what you will have.

In a way it’s a completely stripped down experience, bare and basic but totally immersive.  You are not a party to a transaction in Enoki, you are deep inside it, part of it.

On the flip side, almost everything we buy these days we’re simply facilitators – we provide the money and something happens – the books arrive, a food item off a mass printed jolly menu appears plonked down by an efficious server, the supplier starts doing their thing…

It’s no fun.

So please – next time you’re in Tokyo, head down to Shibuya crossing and follow the rails into the weird world of Enoki, and if you’re let in then take notes and apply!