During the 4-hour crashing of heads in Dubai.

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"So the bumper cars start, sending the father spinning backward out of control – y'know, kinda goofy like", our Liverpudlian senior-creative enthusiastically illustrated with accompanying jolts and an animated smile. I followed the explanation as we flicked through the booklet, staring down at what appeared like my illustrations, my writing and my hard-work. Our northern friend walked us through an unseen variation of my brainchild, "they've shit on it", I mumbled under my breath in horror.

"Then we see the father making eyes with the boys, y'know, 'I'm after you', y'know, it's that father-son thing, like... y'know, it's gloves-off". I raced further ahead in the booklet, "the boys high-five!", I nudged at my colleague in alarm. Not wanting to interrupting the amateur dramatics, I quietly took it up with our Dubai-based colleague to my right, "they high five!?", I whispered. A strong indian accent responded, "y'know we...", he paused to find the words – 'jazzed it up', 'made it more lively' maybe. 'Shit on it', were the words I refrained from putting in his mouth.

Crafted for the Iranian market and well within the limitations of Iran's culture ministry.

I was sat in the pre-pre-production meeting amidst a cocktail of nationalities representing different interests, gathered to tweak and refine a television advert to be aired in Iran for a Sony camera. It was nearly a proud a moment for me as the excessively long 3-months that it had taken to get to that meeting, my efforts had shone through. Of the 9-concepts proposed the 3-short-listed were of my making. The concept finally selected was a carefully choreographed one, merging cliche with parody resulting in a multi-layered, humorous advert crafted for the Iranian market and well within the limitations of Iran's culture ministry.

It was then the turn of the director to explain his 'treatment', this was a likely clash I'd been concerned about for some time – frighteningly aware of how they've previously butchered concepts. My planned precision in shooting sequence and scenes, all synced to specific music – detailing camera-angles and shot-durations – had left little room for a director's input.

The meeting was more correctly a game of Chinese Whispers – I'd previously sat in our offices in Tehran, being the animated guy, getting provisional confirmation on the script, having gone through all the subtleties – careful to illustrate the details and their meaning, preempting any creative conflict. Yet our indian colleagues had added their 2-Rupees' worth, passing it on for the French director to have his 2-Euros' worth – hugely deviating from the client's prerequisites.

Over 4-hours we'd resolved these embellishments, regrettably concluding on a compromise of everyone's ideas, leaving a tough lesson for me to learn and the ashes of a provisionally excepted concept.

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Playing Risk with my Christianist family, I'm the red player.

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"Watch out for those Christian Fundamentalists on the flight!", popped up the warning message on my screen hour before I was to embark on my winter break to Dubai. "Don't worry, I can spot them a mile off" I tapped, "they're the ones with the pink clean-shaven faces, muttering lines from the Bible", I japed – quietly concerned at the potential damage the corner of a bible could do.

My break from Iran has coincided with a short break from adding words here. Although nothing seems to have changed since I last wrote about my political exercise, I've noticed many changes outside of these borders – one less important change being an arbitrary alteration in a calendar. More interestingly though the British government have decided to abandoned the use of the the term 'War On Terror', yet more interesting still I've noticed a near universal adoption of the term 'Islamist' from the media corporations. This term I've rarely heard before yet by some remarkable coincidence the sources I click through seemed to have employed the usage near simultaneously. I spent my Christmas day spotting Islamists and was surprised to even find a couple in the car radio – in some way I guess they are destroying our way of life.

'Islamic Fundamentalist' without the fundamental part I gathered, meaning maybe all muslims are fundamental or a new art movement is sweeping the world. As I am currently a citizen in an Islamic Republic I guess they also mean me, and as the country I've arrived from will soon have Islam as the dominant religion I guess they also mean a certain majority of their future selves.

7-new members of an average age of around 3-years had enlisted before my eyes

Another change was noticed in my absence, for the first time a Quo'ran was used to swear-in a Democratist – a successfully imbedded Islamists maybe? I'd managed to embed myself also, I'd evaded the racial profiling as I walked down the alter on Christmas day joining the Christianist side of my family for what turned out to be a torturous couple of hours. Their leader seemed a little unstable, imbibed I assumed from what I'd witnessed during the recruitment procedure they called "Christening". 7-new members of an average age of around 3-years had enlisted before my eyes, surely they know not what they are doing I pondered in concern.

My prior concern for the damage one might afflict from the corner of a book, I guess, is shared by few, yet for varying reasons an increasing amount of us seem more concerned with other parts of these books altogether. Although I've browsed through a few of them I'm not too happy about an imminent suffix that is sure to misrepresent me.

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Equipment for grips on the Sony Bravia Iran TVC shoot.

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"Shall we go for another plate and try one of the duck spring-rolls or save ourselves for the deserts?", we toiled while sat in one of the finer skyscrapers on Dubai's Shayk Zayad Road. The international all-one-can-eat buffet was proving to be one of the Middle East's many trouble spots – yet things got worse, having just left enough room for desert it took me a few attempts figure out how to get the best results from the chocolate water fountain and strawberries.

"Daveed, can you go to Dubai the day after tomorrow?", enquired my manager with an unusual caution... I flinched, considered the necessary national documents now available to me and held back a smile, "let me check my diary", I acted out. 'Dinner with uncle' and 'Go to Karaj' – "Yes, it should be ok", I conclude with as serious a face as I could hold. I was chuffed, and for many reasons – being two weeks into this new job and being asked to represent the company abroad was one of the smaller ones.

My agenda was set, quickly scribbled out as the working week ceased. A golden ticket slid across the director's table confirming my virgin voyage with Emirates following by two silver-tinted notes. I counted the zeros unaware of the exchange rate yet aware that zeros are worth more in other countries.

Laptops were set up and cigarettes lit in preparation for a fast paced preproduction meeting between multiple nationalities from multiple companies. 'Creative Director', stood the words beside my name on the first page of the preproduction booklet handed to each of the 15-attendees. Our trio represented the Iranian side of things, mostly drafted in to test credibility and to enlighten others of what little is permitted in our style of republic. Intricacies were presented, debated, altered and possibly embraced. Each frame and square millimeter of it negotiated – add a car – don't, get me a water canal – don't, focus on this – don't, wear a striped t-shirt – don't – "It might be seen as an American flag" we warned.

Music was presented, "too Arabic", the cast was presented, "too poor looking", wardrobe was presented, "too revealing"

The Sony manager – our client – doodled, adding little to the theatre of conceptual contortion as we tore to pieces the delicacies presented by the director. Considering I'd not slept the previous night I was alert and attentive, enjoying the 4-hour episode, thriving from the energy put into getting a workable result. Music was presented, "too Arabic", the cast was presented, "too poor looking", wardrobe was presented, "too revealing".

"We don't have drains like that in Iran", I regretfully informed the Italian director while he was aiming up his shot. I tried explaining the simplicity of Tehran's drainage system, intrigued as to quite what solution the production team would provide in our Dubai location. The director had previously bragged that he'd made Cuba look like London and as we huddled around the monitor we fell for his lie.

I stood back as he raced through the shoot with grips struggling to attend to his demands while those whose work fell between were getting familiar with one another. Iranian extras sat gossiping, cars sat revving and the client sat smoking. For all the "Action! Action! Action!", a few seconds were born, now we sit and wait to see what gets religiously cut.

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