PRIVATEVIEW.

One exercise to separate a great thought from an OK one is to ask: does your idea make you want to race down the pub and tell your mates?

While reviewing this week's batch, I'm going to imagine three things: these are my ideas; I've dashed down the juicer flushed with a pride I'm bursting to share; I have mates.

Cider in hand, the first proofs on the table are 4 for Smart car.

"Breakthrough came when we spotted the car's cheerful expression. And it's friendly in more ways than one -- wallet friendly, London friendly, etc, etc." My imaginary mates are non-plussed. "Not bad Al, but haven't numerous small-car makers configured headlights and grill to form childlike smiles?" one asks. "Isn't The Sopranos on tonight?" another asks. The cider in my mouth turns to ashes. I realise that while the Smart turns heads in the street, these posters never will.

5 A different pub and more posters: Atlantic 252. "Dance station. Get off your tits and dance your tits off--right? Young, cheeky, tips a big wink to drug culture. We've even printed up special 252 nipple-plasters--what do you reckon?"

"Not bad, but it sounds more like a promotion than a campaign though," my imaginary chum declares. "Where does it go from here?" Unsure, I down my pint.

1 Bar three. Weetabix. "Picture this chaps: a magnificent black mare charging riderless over hill and dale to the forgotten strains of ATV's Black Beauty. She reaches the stable, whips off her head and reveals she's a panto horse powered by a couple of Weetabix-fuelled Geordie shop-fitters." "Not bad, very different for a breakfast cereal," a mate says. "Another Heineken Al?" "Just a half, cheers," I answer.