Neil French: The last matador bows out

Just when many of us were still trying to steady ourselves after losing Piyush Pandey, another giant has left the arena. Neil French has passed away. And with him goes a style of advertising, a brand of courage, and a way of being that this industry will never see again.

For me, it is personal.

I met Neil when I was a young creative in Ogilvy—raw, restless, and absurdly impressionable. He was the Worldwide Creative Director then, and once a year he would arrive in India like a storm front.

His reputation travelled ahead of him: the Spanish matador who tamed bulls before he tamed brands. His gaze could slice through your excuses. His words could rearrange your spine. Senior creatives stuttered before him. Sweaty brows were not a reaction—they were a condition. He would tear apart every word in our headlines. He would read aloud the body copy we wrote in his deep baritone, giving cutting lessons on the usage of a comma.

And yet, behind that scathing sharpness, behind that legendary temper and that myth of unapproachability, there was a man who had lived more lives than most of us will ever dare to imagine.

I had the privilege of meeting that man one night in the Jaisalmer dunes. Everyone had returned to their tents. The desert was quiet. I lingered, unsure why. Neil lingered too—definitely sure why. And so there we were: he with his gin, I with my awe. It became one of the most important nights of my creative life.

He spoke of advertising with the clarity of someone who had bled for it. He spoke of life with the irreverence of someone who didn’t care for the rules it imposed.

At one point he said something I have carried for ever: “Most people don’t speak their mind in a boardroom because everyone has loans.”

It sounded so insightful. He told me he never took loans. He drove a hatchback most of his life. He bought a big car only when he could walk into the showroom and pay the entire amount upfront.

That was Neil. No debt. No compromise. No permission.

His work reflected that defiance. The Chivas Regal ads alone remain a masterclass in attitude, craft, provocation—and truth. And “Turn the page, young man” is still one of the ballsiest ads a writer can encounter. The print ad only had a headline. No body copy. No product shot. No logo even. It read: This is an advertisement for Chivas Regal. If you need to see the bottle, you obviously don’t move in the right social circles. If you need to taste it, you just don’t have the experience to appreciate it. If you need to know what it costs, turn the page, young man.

He was one of the 32 greatest writers featured in The Copy Book, that tall bible of advertising craftsmanship. And he deserved that place, not because he was loud or legendary, but because his writing could punch, charm, laugh and sneer—often all in one sentence.

After that night in the dunes, we kept in touch. We wrote each other long emails. I would send him my work, hoping for approval, terrified of criticism. His replies were generous, layered, often brutal, but always honest. When I asked if something I wrote would win an award, he never indulged me.

He’d say, “I hope so. But who can tell? It depends on the category and who else enters.” That was Neil—he never pretended to know the future. He only demanded that you write like you wanted to change it.

Over time, without realising it, I became a little like him. Arrogant. Fearless to the point of foolishness. I tore apart briefs. I growled at mediocrity. I became a shadow of the matador. Only later did I understand that his sharpness came from authenticity. Mine came from influence.

And so I returned to myself—more collaborative, more open, more human. But with Neil permanently etched into my creative DNA.

Neil French was not just a writer. Not just a creative leader. Not just a legend whose larger-than-life stories filled conference rooms, bars and dunes.

He was a force.
A force that made people nervous.
A force that made people better.
A force that made advertising braver.

Tonight, somewhere in the vast sky over Jaisalmer or Singapore or London, or wherever legends go when they exit the stage, I imagine Neil raising his gin again. I imagine him turning the page one last time.

The author is a filmmaker and founder of The Titus Upputuru Company