Second Life, by Archangel
by
, 23-12-2009 at 02:38 (28314 Views)
Second Life
The First Rule of Second Life is simple : say nothing about your First Life. Initially, people ask out of courtesy. But when they persist, it’s usually out of self-interest.
Especially if your First Life was in advertising. The moment you mention this fact, you’ll be awash with requests that inevitably begin with a coy “I don’t suppose you could possibly….”
And end with a plea to do a postery-thing for the local fete, write a pamphlet for the local playgroup, or worse.
(Worse, in my case, was to be inveigled into a community action group to help stop Sainsburys inflict one of their “locals” in our quiet streets. Just when I thought I was out..they pull me back in ! It took over my life, cost me my sleep at night and my anonymity during the day. And yet, there was something strangely exhilarating about it, I have to admit. But more of this another time.)
Much as doctors are always tasked with solving the banal complaints of every dinner companion, ex-copywriters are always faced with two devils once they are unmasked.
One is the aforementioned “I don’t suppose you could possibly knock something off for us, when you have a minute” request.
I dont have a minute, I long to reply. I have hours of blissful peace, of which I don’t intend to give up even a second; not without a fight, anyway.
The other is to be blamed for each and every dumbing down of the media. Even if one didn’t actually conceive the Cillit Bang ads, one is guilty by association.
There is no doubt that the last twenty or so years have seen a combination of self-fulfilling focus groups and cowardly clients wreak havoc on the sweetest, nicest, most civilised of advertising ideas. Some were even mine.
Which makes it rankle even more when I find myself held to blame for the crasser excesses of my former profession.
The late David Ogilvy used to often say, “Remember, you’re a guest in someone’s sitting room, be polite and mind your manners.” I’d go along with that. I’d cheerfully go along with that and I tried hard to do so throughout my career.
(Mind you, he also said that “nobody buys anything from a clown” and that sentiment has been proved devastatingly wrong over the years.)
When I first started, advertising was a blissful place for those who loved word-play, puns and silliness. And long lunches. Especially long lunches. We had a saying : “An ad a day, keeps the sack away.” And if it only took five minutes to think up, why, the rest of the day was yours. Copywriters quite definitely had the best of it, I have to admit.We wrote the headlines or the scripts and then wandered off to lunch, leaving the PBI, (art directors) to work them up into something the client could understand. At lunch we’d pride ourselves on out-doing each other with our gay repartee and immaculate use of word-play. (Or so it seemed after the third large metaxa.) In those days, the Great Gods were David Abbott, Tony Brignall and John Webster. Their work never failed to amuse, entertain and persuade people to buy. And more – they built brands which were loved in the marketplace, because they struck a simple chord with customers, who weren’t called consumers then and therefore never felt patronised.
We had a simple rule – never go back after 3pm. You’d only hit someone and he could just be the new client being given the agency tour.
“Um, Mr.British Telecom, this is one of our writers. No, I don’t know why he has one foot in a waste basket and appears to be racing around the atrium, either. Nor why he is swearing so much. Let’s go and see our Traffic department………”
Ahh, the golden days. If anyone reading this seems to find a striking similarity between ad writers and journos, I wouldn’t be at all surprised. Not a few had private incomes and only did the job because one must occupy the time between breakfast and lunch somehow. One was even the son of a Lord, whose family owned most of Northumbria. He was a damn good writer, too.
These days, I simply wish to be a writer and musician, yearning to see out the autumn of my years in peace and joy. No more moronic clients with their worthless degrees in Media Studies and Marketing from some faceless polytechnic mediocrity somewhere up north.
No more planks of wood, more commonly known as “account handlers”, whose idea of a truly great ad was one the client bought immediately because his logo was bigger than his message.
No more tedious meetings with The Planning Department, who would (and still do) try and out-do each other in meaningless faux sociological jargon.
But sadly, though I long to be considered an amiable if ill-dressed eccentric, who can tickle the ivories reasonably well or turn out an entertaining piece of prose, I fear the opposite is true.
Some of my neighbours seem to see me instead as a kind of just about acceptable anti-christ, who may just have some practical possibilities. As for my friends and family……
The other day, I wrote a short story about some Columbian drug dealers who fell out and murdered each other. I sent it to my daughter, a journalist friend and another good mate, asking for their thoughts on it.
The journo loved it, the friend was horrified that I should be able to write about such disgusting things and my daughter simply refused to believe that it was written by her father.You see my difficulty ? Once typecast, one is set in stone.
But still, I persevere. I deserve, no, I demand, a life outside of the simple commercial, where Mozart is revered for what he did, not for what he could do for some dreadful internet company.
I thought I might have found a kind of solution the other day.
When faced with the usual inquiry at a drinks party, I replied boldly and without fear that I was a retired back-street abortionist. (I got this from the late, great Peter Sellers and I am forever grateful to him.)
The ensuing silence was music to my ears. Ha ! Get out of that without moving, I murmoured to myself.
But then, just as I was making my excuses and leaving, this bloke shuffled up to me and said, sotto voce, : “I don’t suppose you could possibly….”
David Rossiter is an ex-copywriter who once wrote some ads for The Spectator which nobody now remembers. Not even him .