Back in the 1970s the world of squash - that's the game, not the drink - was dominated by players who hailed from a small part of Pakistan. If my memory serves me correctly they may even have all been from the same village. And many of them were related.

In the 1980s and 1990s in advertising, production men, were much the same. Except it wasn't Pakistan that they all hailed from.

For a very long time every production man in London seemed to have come from a small 'tahn' somewhere in Essex. Or they were East End boys. East End boys who put the graft in, enjoyed the occasional sherbert with the stream of print, typo and photographers reps who paid homage at their desks, and who all seemed to own the back end of a greyhound that was running next week at Walthamstow Dog Track.

What the production man did in an agency was make sure that the stuff that had to actually physically get made, got made. And for a price that ensured the agency could carry on affording those fancy chairs in reception.

What the production man wanted at all costs to avoid was 'being done up like a kipper'. And the way to steer clear of this sorry, piscatorial, state was, whenever a quote for some work came in from a supplier, to ring up said supplier and enquire whether he was 'aving a larf?'

There then followed a period of negotiations. And these negotiations would often reveal that yes, indeed a 'larf' was being had. So prices would go down, eyebrows would go up, prices would go down a bit more, and eventually a deal would be struck and everyone would be happy.

However, the precise details of the negotiations would always remain a secret more closely guarded than the initiation ceremonies of the Freemasons. And therein lay the power of the production man.

If there was an equivalent position in civilian life it would have been that of the print unions in  Fleet Street. They were that powerful. Yes, it was a power that had to be wielded cautiously, but it was real none the less.

Given this power it should come as no surprise that very few production men ended up short of a bob or two. Indeed, while they may have all come from the same 'tahn' in Essex, they tended to end up on the outskirts of that 'tahn', in a very large gaff, with a very long drive, and a very big Range Rover to drive up it in.

And why not?

Because computers were on their way, and they would change everything.

The thing I could never figure out was whether it was a legal requirement that they had to be called Larry, Barry or Gary. I mean, I once knew one called Steve, but he had no chance of making it.