The as-yet-unresolved saga concerning ex-TBWA creative director Trevor Beattie has thrown up many intriguing questions and much fervent speculation surrounding the life, loves and future career of this fascinating character.
But there are still pressing questions that no one has dared ask, still one disturbing topic that no one has ventured to broach. It is growing to mythical proportions. Impossible, in fact, to mention Mr Beattie’s name without speaking of it in the same breath. It concerns, of course, That Bus. This is the vehicle with diabolical significance, the self-same charabanc which picks up Mr Beattie every morning to take him to Soho adland and carries him back every evening to his Hackney flat, the big red double-decker thing endlessly mentioned in those respected journals The Guardian, The Independent and the Evening Standard.
The Diary, obviously, is shocked that a man of Mr Beattie’s stature rejects the comfort of a chauffeur-driven, top-of-the-range car in favour of standing on a number 38. However, we feel the time has come for our fellow hacks to curb their transports of delight over this mundane fact and move on.