• A Sun journalist was already out there keeping tabs on some ex-EastEnders star. Now he’s onto this.
• Brett and Vince had inadvertently shot their mouths off to him before Mel could apply gags.
• Mel had no plans to can the shoot, but that, unfortunately, was already going disastrously.
• No film shot.
• Four cast down to injury/illness.
• There are two shooting days left and Mel promises to sweat blood to get something in the can.
• Simon has not been seen. He barricaded himself in his room upon arrival.
No good news at all, I’m afraid. The best-case scenario is that Ivana decides not to press charges and we can present the whole thing as a silly misunderstanding. I’ve spoken to my Sun contact. It looks like this will be tomorrow’s front page. Well, how could they resist? She says she’ll do what she can to mitigate the damage to us, but expect no favours. Frank Sinton is ex-Sun marketing dept and was none too popular (fired for touching up his secretary and taking kickbacks from his ad agency – good enough reasons for them to twist the knife). She says her editor would dearly like to talk to you. Let me know what else I can do.
David Crutton – 1/12/00, 2:15pm
to: Harriet Greenbaum
cc:
re: LOVE
Thanks. I’ve spoken to Sinton’s boss. He agrees that we should circle the wagons on this. He’s reading Sinton the riot act and asks us to keep him on a short leash. I’m going to see our lawyers in a short while. We’ll speak when I return.
Zoë Clarke – 1/12/00, 2:18pm
to: Lorraine Pallister
cc:
re: the news!!!!
The Crettin swore me to secrecy but I’ll explode if I don’t tell someone!!!! All that stuff about not talking to the papers is cos of what’s happening on the LOVE shoot. Apparently the client attacked Ivana Trump!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Tried to give her one on the beach!!!!!!! It’s gonna be in all the papers tomorrow!!!!!!!!!!!! The Crettin is going ballistic!!!!! Says he’s gonna sue everyone!!!!!! He’s going to see the lawyer in a mo. I’ll come and see you as soon as he’s left and tell you everything!!!!!!! Zxxx
[email protected] 1/12/00, 2:22pm
to: [email protected]
[email protected]
[email protected]
cc: Harriet Greenbaum
re: the six-million-dollar balls-up
Thank you, Melinda, for finally bringing Harriet up to date with your mess. Now that I am fully apprised here are your orders.
Melinda, you are in charge. Take no shit from anybody. Your first priority is to keep whatever lid you can on this fiasco. Do whatever you can to make the peace with the Trump woman and convince her it was an understandable case of mistaken identity. If necessary give her our client list and tell her to name her price for appearing in a high profile campaign for any one of them.
Then you must get the shoot back on the rails and finish the commercial. You will not come home without it.
None of you will speak to any journalists. That goes for production company and crew as well. Melinda, you will take Vince and Brett to one side and tell them that if I read anything in tomorrow’s papers that suggests they have been dragging the good name of this agency into the sewer, then they would be better off not boarding the return flight.
Daniel, you have one job. You will attach yourself at the hip to Frank Sinton. You will keep him out of any further trouble. You will not let him within 200 yards of anyone who possesses so much as a hint of breasts.
Simon, if you have left your room by now you will return there immediately, place the “do not disturb” sign on the door and lock yourself in. You will not come out until Melinda knocks to inform you that it’s time to come home. I have seen you in a crisis. You are not only a cringing embarrassment, you are a liability.
Melinda, I expect you to keep Harriet abreast of any developments, however minor. She will debrief me as necessary. None of you have covered yourselves in glory so far. Spend the next three days doing whatever you can to make amends.
Lorraine Pallister – 1/12/00, 2:24pm
to: Zoë Clarke
cc:
re: the news!!!!
I already know. I’ve seen the e’s from Brett to Liam. In fact the whole department knows now because Liam’s opened a book on tomorrow’s Sun headline:
2/1: THE LADYKILLER AND THE TRUMP
3/1: MAUL-ITIUS
6/1: TOO MUCH TRUMP-TATION
30/1: IVANA BE ALONE
500/1: DOW RISES 2 POINTS AS ASIAN ECONOMIES STABILISE
Come down and have a flutter. By the way, Judge-Dredd is sorted. I took her aside before lunch and had a heart to heart. Told her we had to try a little harder to get along and be friends. (I shoved my nail file up her nostril and said that if she didn’t lay off being queen bitch I’d give her that nose job she’d always wanted but could never afford.) It seems to be working. She just brought me a coffee and asked if there was anything I needed a hand with. Sent her off to get me some fags. Did I do good?
[email protected] 1/12/00, 2:33pm (6:33pm local)
to: [email protected]
cc:
re: what is happening?
I have just awoken and read the oddest e-mail from David. I can raise neither Daniel nor Mel to find out what on earth is going on. Something to do with Ivana Trump? Could you forget your trifling problems at the office for one moment and make a few discreet inquiries on your end to help me get to the bottom of this. I am going to look for my Migraleve now. My head is killing me.
[email protected] 1/12/00, 2:41pm
to: [email protected]
cc:
re: what is happening?
There’s a lot of gossip here, darling. I don’t know how much of it is true but it sounds like your LOVE client molested Ivana Trump and has been arrested. David is ranting and raving and looking for people to blame. It sounds like the shoot isn’t going very well either. If I were you I’d keep your head down, sweetheart. Don’t look for trouble. I’m sorry I bothered you earlier with my Lorraine argument. I’m over it now. I know I just have to follow your usual advice and rise above her cattiness. E me if I can do anything . . . Sx
[email protected] 1/12/00, 2:48pm (6:48pm local)
to: [email protected]
cc:
re: time for action
Tell David not to worry about a thing. I am taking charge of this comedie d’erreurs.
[email protected] 1/12/00, 2:56pm (9:56am local)
to: [email protected]
cc:
re: Coke
I have received the work. Thank you very much for your prompt response. My initial reaction? Outstanding! The creative has the cutting edge we’ll need to land this one. “IT’S IN THE CAN” is a superb encapsulation of the brand promise. The whole campaign feels youthfully zesty. Some of the humour was a little “alternative” for an old man like me, but I take that as a sign that it’s spot on for the target.
I said to David that it would take something special to beat the exceptional campaign that Finland put up, and I believe this is it. I’d love to meet the party responsible. They have a very bright future.
Having skimmed the strategic presentation I think it backs up the ads well and I can see no glaring flaws in the logic. I do feel there are some unexplored avenues, however, and we should discuss these at your earliest convenience. Perhaps your PA could call my executive assistant to set up a video-conference. There is no substitute for dealing with these things face to face.
Jim
[email protected] 1/12/00, 3:02pm
to: [email protected]
cc:
re: Coke
The campaign was originated by Simon Horne but has been embellished enormously by the whole creative department led by Pinki Fallon, our most senior copywriter. She will shy away from the limelight but a great deal of credit must go to her.
I would love to hear your full thoughts and my PA is setting up the call now. I am at your disposal.
Harriet Greenbaum
[email protected] 1/12/00, 3:11pm (7:11pm local)
to: [email protected]
cc:
re: just when you think you’ve hit rock bottom . . .
. . . things take a turn for the worse. Mel knocked for us. Simon has come out of solitary and called us to a “crisis meeting” in the lobby. Oh dearie fucking me . . .
Harriet Greenbaum – 1/12/00, 3:20pm
to: Pinki Fallon
cc:
re: Coke
I am booked in for a video-conference with Jim Weissmuller at 4:00 to go through Coke. He was bowled over by the work and I think you should join me to take a bow.
Pinki Fallon – 1/12/00, 3:27pm
to: Harriet Greenbaum
cc:
re: Coke
I’m supposed to be reviewing some new Freedom work at 4:00 but I can put that off. I’ve never done a video-conference. Is my Kurt Cobain T-shirt OK or should I change?
Harriet Greenbaum – 1/12/00, 3:30pm
to: Pinki Fallon
cc:
re: Coke
Come as you are.
Harriet Greenbaum – 1/12/00, 3:47pm
to: Zoë Clarke
cc:
re: Coke
I am about to step into the boardroom for a very important video-conference with Jim Weissmuller on Coke. I know David is with our lawyers at the moment, but when he’s back could you ask him to join me? Thanks.
Liam O’Keefe – 1/12/00, 3:57pm
to: All Departments
cc:
re: gag
Got the first e-joke of the 21st century. True story apparently. Enjoy:
ATTACHMENT
Father Conor is walking by the Shannon when he sees one of his congregation fishing. He stops for a chat, and mentions that he’s never fished before. “It’s a doddle,” says the angler. “Take a rod and give it a go.”
“Well I suppose the blessed Saint Peter himself was a fisherman. Perhaps I’ll try my hand,” says the priest.
Father Conor sits down and casts his line. After a few minutes he gets a bite and reels in a fat ten-pounder. He’s pleased as punch as his parishioner slaps him on the back and says, “That’s a great big fucker, Father!”
“Language!” replies Father Conor. “I am a priest.”
“No, Father, this fish is called a fucker,” explains the angler, thinking on his feet.
Laughing at the misunderstanding, the proud priest takes his catch home and finds the bishop waiting in his front room.
“That’s a splendid looking fish, Father,” exclaims the bishop.
“Aye,” replies the priest, “it’s a great fucker.”
“Please, Father! Such language,” says the bishop.
“No, no, Your Grace,” replies the priest, “fucker is the name of the fish.”
It being Friday, the reassured bishop suggests they repair to his residence for a fine fish supper. Once there the bishop goes to the kitchen to clean and gut the fish. They are then joined by the mother superior of the local convent. Being no great cook himself, the bishop says, “Reverend Mother, would you mind poaching this fucker for us?”
“Bishop, you cannot say that in the house of God,” gasps the horrified nun.
“You misunderstand, Reverend Mother,” explains the bishop, “this fish is called a fucker.”
Calm again, the mother superior sets to cooking the fish. Shortly they are joined by the Pope who is making a surprise visit (as he does). Delighted, the bishop invites him to supper.
They sit down at the table and the Pope says grace. Then the mother superior brings in the fish on the finest silver platter. Eagerly the three of them await the opinion of God’s Mouthpiece on Earth.
“That is a fine fish,” remarks the impressed pontiff.
“That it is, Your Holiness. I caught the fucker,” says the beaming priest.
“I cleaned the fucker,” adds the bishop.
“And I cooked the fucker,” chips in the mother superior.
The Pope sits back and stares at them for a moment. Then he plants his feet on the table, lets out a huge fart and says, “Know what? You cunts are all right.”
David Crutton – 1/12/00, 4:03pm
to: Zoë Clarke
cc:
re: where is Harriet?
I’ve phoned her but she’s not answering. As soon as you’re back at your desk, find her. Tell her there are pressing legal issues to discuss.
Nigel Godley – 1/12/00, 4:07pm
to: Liam O’Keefe
cc:
re: gag
I myself am a regular churchgoer and like many others I am highly offended by your tasteless and insensitive idea of a “joke.”
And as for it being a true story, I know for a fact that the Pope’s heavy schedule, as well as his need for a constant security presence, would preclude him from making a “surprise visit.” You don’t have me fooled for a moment.
Nige
Zoë Clarke – 1/12/00, 4:10pm
to: David Crutton
cc:
re: where is Harriet?
She’s in the boardroom doing some video-conference. I don’t think she can be disturbed. I’ll grab her as soon as she’s out.
[email protected] 1/12/00, 4:14pm
to: [email protected]
cc:
re: LOVE
David, it was good to see you even in troubled circumstances. Since you left I have had a chance to solidify my thoughts and it would help if I put them in writing.
As I said, I do not believe there is much you can do at the moment apart from wait and see. No judge would award an injunction against the Sun to withhold the story. Involving as it does potential criminal charges, it is unarguably in the public interest.
At this stage you are correct not to cut yourself loose from LOVE, yet neither should you tie your own fortunes too closely to theirs. When the story breaks the fallout may necessitate going to the mattresses.
As far as any civil action that Ms. Trump may pursue, the target of this would probably not be Miller Shanks, since none of your employees appear to have had direct involvement in the alleged offence. That said, I should hate to be in Mr. Sinton’s shoes tonight. If I were Ms. Trump’s lawyer, I’d be putting down a deposit on a ski lodge in Aspen in anticipation of many happy days in court.
In the meantime I suggest the wall of silence be strictly enforced and that we await the Sun and pore over every word, comma and colon of their report. Only then will we know how the land lies.
I will come to your offices immediately after the ballet tonight armed with the First Editions – about 11:00pm. If you have any questions or there are further developments before then, please feel free to contact me – you have all my numbers. I will risk the wrath of Darcy Bussell and leave my mobile on.
May I take this opportunity to thank you again for taking such good care of James. Every time I see him he has nothing but praise for you. He could not wish for a wiser or more benevolent teacher.
Best wishes, Max
[email protected] 1/12/00, 4:24pm (8:24pm local)
to: [email protected]
cc:
re: LOVE update
So David has appointed you Crisis Monitor. You get all the best jobs, you lucky darling! Well here is my first official report for you to digest, regurgitate and do with as you will. I ap
ologise in advance for any tangents – you know what I’m like.
First, I made it my mission to seek out la Trump and make whatever reparations were necessary. I found her in the hot tub and approached with caution. She was understandably frosty so I made great play of the ridiculous resemblance that one and all think we share. This warmed her up a little, so I excused Frank Sinton’s crass behaviour as mistaken identity, pure and simple. I told her that the man was mortified with guilt and even as we spoke was being talked down from the hotel parapet (a wicked lie, but entirely justifiable in the circumstances). She bought this and said she would drop charges in return for a written apology and the immediate repatriation of Frank.
Oh, I did mention to her entirely by the by that we were looking for a spokeswoman for our exciting new Freedom Mail Order TV campaign and that she was tailor made for the role. Do we have an exciting new Freedom campaign? If not, I suggest we write one pronto and that it begins “Open on Ivana Trump.” An $800,000, one-year network buy-out may also have been alluded to.
She is a thoroughly charming and decent lady (a resemblance after all). I took my leave only after she’d given me the number of her hairdresser – well, you never know when I might be shooting in LA. Task one completed, I had myself a well-earned Scotch and American and my first fag since Dec 31st (you could probably omit that from your report to David) before informing Dan and Frank of the glad tidings. Relief was palpable.
I then set about rounding up Nathan, Vincent and Brett to see if we could find a way of finishing this shoot. I was rudely interrupted in my quest by the appearance of Simon. And, my dear, what a frightful appearance – death without so much as a cursory warm-up. Despite David’s express order to the contrary he has decided to assume command. This is not good news. He called an immediate conference of war and launched an assault on all present. He screamed that while we partied in the sun he had been delirious with an unspecified tropical fever. It was, he claimed, only the attentions of the hotel doctor that had prevented death. I’m sure I heard Vincent mumble, “More’s the fucking pity,” but I let it pass.
Horne subsided enough to allow Brett to present his and Vincent’s revised script. This was a masterpiece of improvisation under pressure. They had pared it down to a simple and elegant twohander between our remaining brace of LOVEbirds. Hilarious, clever and (music to the ears of an embattled producer) shoot-able in just one day. Nathan, who’d merely glowered until now, cheered up enormously. Simon, need I add, did not share our enthusiasm and pissed all over it. (Pardon my French, but my frustration is getting the better of me.) He flounced off saying that as usual he would have to write it himself. On his exit he spied la Trump at the bar and made a bee line. Her new bodyguard (courtesy of hotel security) nearly ripped arm from shoulder.
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