Slightly Askew

I’ve been catching up with my Campaign reading. And with Adland currently welcoming its new breed of graduates, the 25th September 2009 issue is dedicated to the great unwashed.

I wish I’d known that advertising was for me back when I was a spotty 18 year old with a trio of okayish A levels. (Looking back, it should’ve been obvious: I liked business, media, art and psychology. Honestly, where was a good Careers Adviser when I needed one?)

Alas, I didn’t go to Watford or Central Saint Martins to learn about great advertising. No, I got a job at an American diner on a retail park on the edge of Ipswich. Not a brilliant decision. But to cover up such an arse-about-face choice, I’m going to tell you that regrets are silly things to have, and instead look on the positive side of life.

Here’s two good lessons I learnt whilst surrounded by microwaved meat and cheap salsa:

Sometimes you need to make a decision. Even if it’s the wrong one.

Because you learn a lot more about things when you make a decision and start. Thinking is fine. But doing is better. So start and, if necessary, adapt. And if you can’t adapt, just learn. And apologise profusely when everything goes tits up. Which occasionally it inevitably will.

If give you give people the opportunity to say no, they probably will. So don’t give them the opportunity.

“Do you want to wash up?”
“No.”
“Do you want to dry up?”
“No.”
“Do you want to do the ironing?”
“No.”
“Do you want to take the rubbish out?”
“No.”

See? It’s really, really easy. No. No no no. Oh it might be negative. But who cares? No. No no no.

Consider this rephrase: “Would you rather wash up, dry up, do the ironing or take the rubbish out? Choose two.”

You don’t always get the perfect result. But you get a result that isn’t “no”. Which is a good start, I think.

* * *

Of course, I could’ve probably learnt these pithy lessons from a business book at university. But at university you don’t have to empty freezers after a sixteen hour shift. And you don’t have to drain the dirty fat out fryers and then scrub the things so people can eat cleaner chips.

So, graduates to Adland: your qualifications make you the chip leaders. But when it comes to motivation – the motivation to not go back to that rather miserable existence where everything comes with a side order of onion rings – I’m all in.

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16 months ago, I flew from Las Vegas to Gatwick with Virgin Atlantic.

I wasn’t impressed.

And so I emailed them. I didn’t ask for a refund or any free stuff, I just thought they should know. Because if I didn’t tell them what was wrong, how could I be upset if they didn’t improve? My email wasn’t horrid (I like Virgin – they have some damn fine copywriters), more a plea for them to try a bit harder.

Here’s an excerpt:

It felt as if you’ve given up trying to be better, trying to stand out.  You could almost smell the apathy.

They had a chance to make amends last week – I made the very same flight.

But it was the same old story.

Virgin Atlantic is twenty-five years old this year.  The aircraft (a Boeing 747-400, enthusiasts) was probably the same age. And its “award winning in-flight entertainment” didn’t seem too far behind, either.

It was the system where all the channels are on loops. So only once the longest film is finished can everything start again. Granted, I was only in economy. Perhaps in First Class they were giving out Sega Game Gears to keep the patrons entertained.

Although limited, this poor excuse for in-flight entertainment would’ve been welcome in seat 48J. Because the only thing the poor sod in that seat could see is the image you see above. For nine and a half fucking hours.

No points for guessing who that poor sod was.

I did point out the problem, obviously. Three times, no less. And each time the member of Virgin Atlantic’s (award winning, no doubt) cabin crew toddled off and never toddled back with an explanation, apology or alternative.

Perhaps it’s time for another email.

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I hate supermarkets. But they do serve a purpose.

The purpose they serve isn’t, of course, that you can get everything in one place – you can get everything in a town centre or farmers’ market that you can get in a supermarket (nearly). And you don’t have to stroll around with the complexion of a heroin addict underneath all those fluorescent lights.

No, ladies and gentlemen. Supermarkets are brilliant because they allow us to form an opinion on the seven and a half million brands vying for our attention. Because in the throng of the supermarket (Side Issue: old people, don’t go shopping on a fucking Saturday. You’re not welcome. You’ve had all week to trundle around the aisles bemoaning the effect inflation has had on marmalade. Not in my time, please.) …

Where was I? That’s it: In the throng of the supermarket, I have neither the time nor the inclination to compare the average cost of a baked bean, sheet of toilet paper, or millilitre (there’s a word you don’t see written down often) of piss-weak lager. I pick Heinz, Andrex and Carlsberg.

Heinz because they probably invented baked beans. (And if they didn’t, I don’t give shit.) Andrex because a cute little Labrador might run in and cuddle me after a sweaty poo. Carlsberg because it’s probably the best lager in the world. (I find ‘probably’ is certain enough in most situations – except during marriage vows, I suspect.)

These opinions are etched into my minuscule, toxic brain. Every decision is a snap one when I’m in the supermarket.

So here’s an idea: Market Research Mondays. Because if the inane twerps who insist on compiling these silly brand indexes (or ‘indices’, if you’re being pedantic) really want some qualitative data, just ask opinionated twerps like me. And let’s make a night of it. I can grumble with like-minded miseries while performing this weekly dash of frustration. Bring a fucking clipboard.

Tropicana: Nice but expensive – I’ll buy it if it’s on offer. No, I don’t give a shit whether it’s ‘with bits’ or ‘no bits’; I’m not eight years old or a complete simpleton.

Kellogg’s Cornflakes: Every day of the week! Have you tried supermarket branded cornflakes? They’re revolting. I wouldn’t feed them to my cat. She’d disown me. And rightly so.

Heinz Tomato Ketchup: Of course. I never trust people with unbranded condiments. Would you feel safe getting into an unbranded car? It’s the same thing with condiments. Those unbranded viscous squirts could be anything.

And I could go on and on and on.

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