MINISTRY OF TRUTH – Hats off to the madmen

It was a wearisomely humid afternoon in Manhattan,
one of many New Yorkers had suffered that sticky
summer of 1959. The normally sanguine Carl Hahn ran
his finger around the inside of his shirt collar and
bit down on an expletive. He looked at the board on
the desk in front of him and raised the Cross fountain
pen his wife had given him for Christmas. He was about
to put his name to a press advertisement that seriously
worried him.

Simmonds - Gooding flicked through the research report
one more time. He turned to the justifiably nervous
account man in the seat next to him.

“Doesn’t look good does it?” he said. The other guy
said nothing in reply but, almost imperceptibly, shook
his head. Tony looked back at the cover of the report.
It was damning of the campaign he’d helped create.

Gary Haigh paused outside his boss’s office. He was about
to tell him that the TV ad he was working on had changed
from a full colour, Beach Blanket Bongo movie set to a
Beach Boy’s track, into a stark, monochromatic film with
a downbeat voice over and music by a group famous for
their gloomy melodies.

Worse, it was going to cost over £500,000 more than
the budget.

Each one of these guys had to make a really tough decision.
Should they put their necks on the line for this work? Or
should they simply bin it? After all, there were other
ads on the table, other campaigns that could run.

Less creative, admittedly, but hey, they wouldn’t
get you fired.

For any Creative Director worth their salt it was a hell
of a dilemma. But these three weren’t Creative Directors.

They were clients.

The work they went on to champion was ‘Lemon’ for VW of
America, ‘Policemen’s Feet’ for Heineken and ‘Surfer’
for Guinness.

Were they stupid? They had to be a bit soft in the head
to take the options they did.

Who in their right mind would launch a small, ugly foreign
car into a market that worshipped bigness, beauty and Made
in America with an opening ad who’s message was’ ‘This car
is crap’?

Who but an idiot would commit hundreds of thousands of pounds
on a campaign that had some of the worst research results
he’d ever seen? Or persuade his board to invest half a
million pounds more on a commercial for a product that
sold reasonably well anyway?

Thank heavens they did.

The VW work would change 20th Century advertising forever.
The Heineken campaign helped propel a Dutch lager from
obscurity into one of the best-known and best selling
beers in the UK. ‘Surfer’ became one of the most
awarded commercials ever, garnering along the way the
accolade ‘Greatest Ad Of All Time’.

But where are today’s marketing madmen? When was the last
time a press ad made you want to read it, or a poster
stop you in your tracks?

Spend a week watching commercial telly and apart from one
or two shining gems, the rest is dross.

‘But media costs are incredible these days. We just don’t
get the same bangs for our buck’.

True. But if you haven’t got that much to spend, why
not spend it well?

What’s more expensive? Twenty poster ads that have people
walking into lampposts or one hundred that no one notices?
Thirty seconds of bland anonymity or a couple of kicking
tens that start conversations in the pub?

‘Ah, but the agencies aren’t as good these days. They’re
just not as creative as they used to be.’

Well I’m sorry chaps, but it just ain’t so.

The originality is still out there, the innovation is
still out there. But it needs a certain type of Marketing
Director to bring it to light.

People with a supreme confidence in both their own judgement
and the skills and abilities of the agencies they employ.

People like Marsden at Britvic, Marsh at Sony and not
forgetting Honda’s Thompson.

Mavericks, eccentrics and nutters to a man? Hardly.

They’re hard nosed businessmen driven by commercial
success. But like Hahn, Simmons-Gooding and Haigh before
them, they know the value of a well spent dollar. They
understand what distinctive, popular and talked about
advertising can do for the health of a brand.

They’re the real heroes in advertising, the folk who buy
the good stuff.

And they’re not mad, they’re mensch.

Long may they live.

THE MINISTRY OF TRUTH – Speed

A friend of mine has just completed her PHD in Art History.
Her subject was medicine in Art. One of the many books
she used in her research was a nasty little bestiary of
degenerate and diseased genitalia. Highly unpleasant.
I haven’t seen so many so many disgusting pricks since the
last advertising award festival I was dragged along to.
Then again, the penises illustrated where not to blame for
their predicament.
They got like that from having too close a contact with a
poxy twat.

Friends of Jeremy Clarkson, you have been warned.

Not that I dislike the smug, smart-arsed, right wing, gobshite.

Dislike isn’t the word.
I despise him.
Him and his ilk.
Those Destroying Angels of scarce world resources who seem
to believe that all the fossil fuels on the planet are theirs for
the squandering.

Clarkson, known as ‘Jezza’ to his knuckle dragging fans once
drove a Toyota Hilux pick-up truck into a tree in the car park
of St John the Baptist church in Churchill. The council had
thought the damage to the 30 year old horse chestnut was
down to vandals until a local resident saw footage of Cuntson
demonstrating the car’s strength on Top Gear. The BBC
apologised and paid the parish council £250 of our fucking
licence money in compensation.

Of course, not content with ramming Toyota’s into trees,
‘Jizza’ upset conservationists by driving a new Land Rover
Discovery up to the top of Ben Tongue mountain in Scotland.

Naturally, he thought it was highly amusing.

But what I truly find despicable about the mop-headed muppet
and his co-presenters on Top Gear is their constant harping on
about speed.

This car does this, this car does that, this is the fastest road car
on the planet.

Etc etc ad fucking nauseum.

And every week they recruit some equally dim-witted celebrity
to drive a car as fast as possible.

What they seemingly fail to realise is that a vast proportion of
the dildos that watch their benighted programme don’t have
access to disused airfields or specially built test tracks.

But they do have access to long straight roads. And fantastically
bendy roads. Roads where you can really floor it mate.

Sadly these very same roads happen to be shared by the rest of us.
Last year 846 drivers, passengers and cyclists aged between 15
and 25 were killed and 7,362 seriously injured.

One of the worst crashes involving speeding by a young motorist
occurred in May 2004 when a car driven at 100 mph by a
19-year-old, skidded and flipped over the central barrier on the
main road from London to Brighton.

The car smashed into another car coming the opposite way.
In total eight people died.

And I’d bet, just before he lost control, the lad though he was The Stig.

THE MINISTRY OF TRUTH – Research

I often, on my travels..

Honest Punter: You mean when you’re out boozing with your
cronies.

True enough. However it doesn’t detract from the point of my
story, does it?

Honest punter: Sorry.

Thank you. As I was saying, I often, when out boozing with my
cronies..

Honest Punter: Good Man!

..hear the anguished, drink-fuelled cry; “Why are Researchers so
f@$%g useless?” and “What is to be done with them?”

A conundrum indeed. A problem to which I myself once gave a
great deal of thought. Unfortunately even a mind as incisive and
lateral as mine (Two B’s a D and an unclassified in Liberal Studies
to prove it) could not find a solution.

Then the other day, while rooting through the attic, I came across
a dusty, flyblown copy of Mr Barton’s Book on Domestic
Organisation.

Clutching the tome, I retreated to my study and there, amongst the
potted palms and sun-yellowed copies of Campaign, I found the
solution to the aforesaid question.

For Chapter Three of Mr Barton’s excellent work is entitled no less;
“Researchers: The Use Of And Divers Suggestions To Wit”. It
contains several delightful ideas, but I found this one to be the most
imaginative:

“First of all, one must catch your Researcher. Once divested of its
garments lightly tenderise it all over with a wooden mallet purchased
especially for the purpose. Put to one side. Take the research
documents it was carrying and tear them into small fragments of
uniform shape and size. Place these into a bowl and steep for several
minutes in hot water mixed with a little flour. When cool pour the
mixture onto a lightly floured board and gently knead into a sausage
shape. Leave to set.

By now the Researcher may have begun to come round so,taking a
firm grip on the mallet, tenderise it a little more.

Then melt a good two or three pounds of petroleum wax in a very
large stainless steel bowl. (The best wax can be obtained from W. B.
Price in Battersea). Once the wax has melted, carefully place the
papier-mâché sausage into the bowl. Remove and place on a wire rack.
Next, pick up the Researcher and fold in two. Take hold of the waxed
sausage and insert it firmly into the Researcher’s rectal orifice. Then
dip the Buttocks into the rest of the melted wax”.

The result is a quite unique candle, providing an excellent talking point
for dinner party guests and proving once and for all that, despite what
everyone may say, it is possible for a Researcher to provide illumination.