Slightly Askew

Lots of clients these days want brand engagement.

“I want people to engage with our brand!” they say, all enthusiastically. At this point, I like to smile, nod and say things that you should say in meetings. Things like “absolutely”. This shows that you are 110% engaged with their idea of brand engagement.

Brand engagement is the marketing industry’s clever term for what mere mortals call ‘quite liking a company’. I quite like Ocado because they’re part of Waitrose (which makes me feel posh), they have an iPhone app (even though I’ve never used it), they text you the name of your delivery driver, call their delivery vans silly names, and bring your shopping straight into your kitchen.

Hardly ground breaking stuff. But they do it. And that makes me like them. So I use them again.

Now, of course, I am engaged.

But engaging little old me isn’t enough; we need mass engagement. So it’s time to measure all these people who are engaged in the brand.

Why? Well, numbers make people happy. Brand managers, marketing directors, online consultants – all of them need numbers. Numbers can be dressed up into KPIs or whored out as pounds and pence. But they’re still numbers.

Numbers fit nicely into spreadsheets. You can plot graphs with numbers. Numbers make performance reviews easier. If your numbers fit, you get numbers added to your salary. No one can question your pay rise – you’ve got the numbers to prove you’re worth it.

“How many people are on your client’s email list?” I was asked a few days ago.
“Just over 3,000.” I replied.
“That’s not very many, is it.” (That sentence shouldn’t have a question mark on the end of it because it was said very much as a statement. This person wanted no further dialogue – he wanted more email addresses.)

Permission marketing isn’t a new idea. But when the industry still ignores it, it feels like it might just be a lost one.

When you next hear a marketer tell you he or she has 150,000 email addresses, don’t think of how many people might read the email, click through and buy your product. Think of how many people don’t want to receive your email. Think of all the people whose trust you’re shattering with a few dollops of HTML.

Engaging people – if that’s what you really must call it – is difficult. Disengaging people is much easier.

Sometimes it’s the numbers you don’t count that are the important ones.

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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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What a difference a year makes.

365 days ago I sat in a dark room and was asked if I’d like a representative from the company to join me in this meeting. If you’re ever asked such a thing, it’s probably not good news. I was told that my position as web editor / copywriter / marketer was “under review”.

“Under review” is the employment equivalent of terminal illness. It means: “you’re a goner – but not quite yet.”

It became apparent that, in three days, I was going to be made redundant. All bar divine intervention. And since I don’t believe in a man upstairs, I asked my employers to take me to metaphorical Switzerland.

“There’s no point in me hanging around where I’m not wanted,” I shrugged. “I’ll go now if you give me a few months’ salary.”

They agreed to pay me what I wanted. I packed up my books and walked out of the office.

* * *

Why did I get made redundant? Good question. I’m still not sure. It wasn’t for financial reasons, I know that much. The company was doing very well. Still is.

The reason, I think, was that they wanted a calculator.

You can put oodles of information into a calculator and it’ll return the right answer. Every sodding time. If it doesn’t, it’s because you put in the wrong data.

I’m being a bit abstract, but bear with me.

This company, you see, liked democracy a lot. Not just a little. A lot. Especially when it came to marketing and anything remotely creative. Everybody had a say. “It’s your company!” the Leader would cry. “And we want everybody’s ideas!”

Which is very nice and empowering, but bloody frustrating if you’ve been employed to do a job that 30 people now believe is sort of their job too. Because I got absolutely nowhere. Because everybody’s opinion had to be collated and considered and calculated – and then, they thought, you’d get the right answer. I didn’t agree with them then and I still don’t. Such an approach is perfect for achieving average, but not for being remarkable or astonishing. I like thinking and creating and doing and improving stuff. I don’t like being a calculator.

So they were right to make me redundant. I wasn’t the calculator they were looking for. The job made me miserable. And I never got to give my opinion on what colour toilet rolls we should buy. So much for democracy.

(Don’t get me wrong, I don’t deliberately stand in the way of apple carts. But I’ll gladly stick a landmine underneath one if I think the apple cart is in fact full of shit.)

I was actually rather ecstatic to be made redundant. Being forced into making a new start is exciting. That night, Caroline and I opened a bottle of champagne and got a greasy takeaway from the chippy down the road. Glasses clinked. “To the future,” we said.

* * *

One year on and I’m working in one of the best creative agencies in the East.

Every day brings a brilliant new project. I get to think and write and program websites for loads of different clients. I get to wear jeans and novelty t-shirts to work. And I get to eat the finest bacon and sausage baguettes known to man whenever I choose.

All that thinking and creating and doing and improving stuff is now my job. I’m a very lucky boy.

I’ve gone from being a web editor at a tiny insurance company that thought it was creative, to a copywriter at a revered creative agency. (Via, it must be said, a joyous summer of watching sport and pretending to freelance.)

I’ve seen my words in big, proper newspapers (The Telegraph, Financial Times, International Herald Tribune) and in London Underground tube trains. On the sides of bus shelters and on the backs of buses. In a specialist luxury watch magazine and on flyers for a major political party. I’ve written loads of scripts for radio ads too.

Not bad for a reject.

I’m still rough around edges and prone to ending up in ridiculous grammar cul-de-sacs where a mistake is bloody obvious to all but me. But I’ve got a boss who’s pretty much omniscient and an incredibly talented creative director to slap me into shape. And I bloody love my job.

What a difference a year makes.

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Annie Lennox usually sticks to butchering Bob Marley songs, but she’s recently taken Ash’s euphoric (in the real sense of the word, rather than the ‘orrible trance sub-genre) Shining Light and diluted it with about eight parts water. It’s safe to say I don’t like her.

So you can understand my dread when I saw her holier-than-thou smirk smirking back at me from this weekend’s Guardian erm… Weekend magazine. Still, I had to read the Q&A, such is human nature and the cause of many a bottleneck.

I’d kept serene throughout the drivel she’d given for answers until I read the last question.

Tell us a secret.
I’m a clone.

There is more than one Annie Lennox. Chilling.

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I was once - I say “once”, it’ll probably happen again - confronted by someone questioning my use of the word and at the start of a sentence.

When I questioned why the position of this little word caused a problem, the response was this:

My teacher at school always told me not to start a sentence with and.

Many of my teachers weren’t particularly clever. My English teacher often changed her mind to go with the general consensus of the class. I swear on at least one occasion she stole my answer and passed it off as her own. So forgive me if I don’t really care for what your English teacher taught you.

Sadly, a simple “fuck off” doesn’t satisfy people; you have to provide evidence. Fortunately I found some on the back cover of Bill Bryson’s Troublesome Words.

The belief that and should not be used to begin a sentence is without foundation. And that’s all there is to it.

Thanks, Bill.

The act of questioning someone else’s work is sadly commonplace. Long gone are the days when people were simply trusted to do a job well. Management consultants probably call it inclusivity. I much prefer interference. Or back-seat driving.

David Ogilvy sums it up brilliantly (as he often does).

Why keep a dog and bark yourself?

Thanks, David.

If your goal is to knock people’s confidence and generate average work, keep opening your mouth. Otherwise, it’s probably better that people wonder why you don’t speak than why you bother to at all.

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Don’t be a dullard.  I’ve probably read it before, I’ll probably read it again.  Make your stab at it interesting.  Please.

If you like looking stupid, continue to spell things the wrong way.  If you don’t, wake up and smell the apostrophe.

Linking to a site in the middle of text is good.  It offers the reader a way out of your boring copy, or provides evidence that you’re not talking utter shit.

Do not even think about using the word solution.  Ever.  You are a fucking gardener.  You do not offer gardening solutions.

Write like you talk.  Unless you speak like a fool.

Punctuation isn’t word-decoration for posh people, you thickie.

You want people to find you in Google for certain words - copywriting, for instance.  So use those words - like copywriting - every now and again.  You can even format those important words - like copywriting - in bold type to really ram the idea down Google’s throat.

But don’t use that word - you know the one I mean - that often, or Google will realise you’re a filthy, cheating, dirty spammer.  With a black hat.

Write lists with irksome headlines like Eleven copywriting tips to turn your ugly ducklings into an elegant swans!

Get your keyword into italics without anyone realising.

Use loads of paragraphs to mask your minimal output.

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I visited McDonald’s today.  I ordered a Big Mac and waited patiently.  A young lady returned with my order and, as she placed it in my hand, said:

You should stop putting fatty foods into your body and get more exercise.  Why do you do it?  You should have more self-respect; a little more care and consideration about what you eat wouldn’t go amiss.

This, of course, didn’t happen.

However, I did go into Next’s town centre store in Ipswich.  It’s a familiar scene: rails and rails of clothes on plastic hangers; greetings cards in cellophane wrappers; and make-up gift sets in clear plastic boxes.

They also had reusable bags with the carrying the slogan ‘dare to care’.

If your company isn’t prepared to put in the effort, why should your customers?

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Me and the lady were being good citizens on Saturday: paying-in some money for a friend at a high street building society who are, apparently, proud to be different.

In walked a young couple.  They went to one of those ask-a-question queues (we were in the cashier queue, there was a queue for the machines, and a queue of people wondering what queue to join).  The male-half of the couple spoke.

I’d like to change my address please.

I really wanted to make an amusing comment about needing an estate agent instead of a building society, but my seldom-seen restraint kicked-in.  The customer services representative (or whatever his job title was) responded.

Okay sir, I’m going to need you to fill in one of these forms.

As if people don’t have enough bloody forms to fill in when they’re moving house, I thought, restraint still intact.

Well, how long’s it gonna take?  Cos I’m trying to buy something over the internet and I can’t cos my address don’t match the one on the card.

Surely it would be instant, wouldn’t it?  All they have to do is change a record on a database.

We have to post it to central records, sir.  It will take a few days….

…but since I’m in a good mood, and it’s an exceptionable circumstance, I’ll do it for you today.

What?

You’re in a good mood?  What’s that got to do with some bloody customer service?  Just change the fucking address!  And if you can do it instantly for them, you can do it instantly for every other person that needs to change their address.  I can’t imagine they get more than five requests a day.

If there’s a logical shortcut that improves the standard of customer service, make that shortcut the standard.

Surely?

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Apostrophes are like knives: bloody dangerous in the wrong hands.

Now, as we know: apostrophes are used to denote possession or to denote missing letters.  Never plurals.  Never.  Even when it (arguably) adds a touch of clarity.

A bugbear of mine is do’s and don’ts.  It should be dos and don’ts.

Yes, dos looks like something computer programmers use, but do’s is just wrong.  There is no missing letter and no possession - so just leave that poor apostrophe out of it.

And if you’re going to persist with do’s, then for the sake of being consistently stupid, you should write don’t’s.

Pluralising common words often leads to trouble.  The following poem is from Woe is I and is rather wonderful.  (And yes, noes is the plural of no.)

Words to the Whys

Ups and downs and ins and outs,
Forevers and nevers and whys.
Befores and afters, dos and don’ts,
Farewells and hellos and goodbyes.
Life is a string of perhapses,
A medley of whens and so whats.
We rise on our yeses and maybes,
Then fall on our noes and our buts.

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