by Annabel Port
I consider ringing up Focus Theatre Workshop to see if they have detailed audience records from a pantomime twenty-six years ago. But it’s closed down.
I think to myself, okay, this boy was from Southend so he may well still live there. That narrows it down. I know that he must have some kind of interest in the theatre. (I’m overlooking the fact his parents probably made him go.) And I also know that he’s outspoken and confident enough to say this cruel thing about me loudly.
All this points to someone who could now very possibly be active in the Southend am-dram community.
I look for an am-dram society in the area and find Starlight productions. They’ve got a website and their tagline is, “Where everyone’s a star”. There’s no telephone number, but there is an email address so I send this message:
Dear Sir/Madam,
I wonder if you could help. In 1986 I starred as Morpheus the Sprite of Sleep in a Focus Theatre Workshop production of Sleeping Beauty. During my performance I sang the “Frog Chorus” by Paul McCartney. When watching back the video, you could quite clearly hear a young boy in the audience say in a stage whisper, “She can’t sing.”
I imagine that today he would be between thirty-two and thirty-five and quite possibly still with an interest in amateur dramatics. It is also likely that he has remained opinionated and rude. Is there anybody like that at Starlight Productions as I’d dearly like to get in contact with him.
Please do let me know.
Many thanks and all best wishes,
Annabel
I hear back two hours later. The lady says she will ask if any of the members remember this incident. Then she adds: And I’m sure you can sing – must’ve been jealousy.
I recall their tagline, “Where everyone’s a star”. This woman has clearly never heard me sing, but I feel I’m getting closer to identifying this boy. When I do, I’m going to find out what he does for a living. Then if he’s, say, a car salesman, I’ll go to his forecourt and follow him around while he’s with customers and say in a loud stage whisper, “You can’t sell cars.”
This may take some time but I’m setting myself a ten-year deadline. When that person said that revenge is a dish best served cold, I just hope they meant as cold as thirty-six years.
15
The Challenge:
To become a brand ambassador
The golfer Rory McIlroy is being paid £150 million to become a brand ambassador for Nike. £150 million. It’s not even like it’s a job where he’s got to turn up every day.
“That’s nice work if you can get it,” says Geoff. “So why don’t you see if you can get it? Why don’t you become a brand ambassador?”
Being a brand ambassador means that you embody the brand’s image in appearance, demeanour, values and ethics. I know this because of Wikipedia. What I don’t need Wikipedia to tell me is that it’s always a celebrity. But this could be a world first, a nobody brand ambassador. I could be good at it. You just need to be loyal to the brand, and I’m someone who’s been to Pret A Manger every weekday lunchtime for the last twelve years, including the week when we did the radio show from New York. I’m good at loyalty. And perhaps not too adventurous with food.
To give myself an easy start, I decide to choose a company that has already invested in having a brand ambassador. Then I just need to find a way to replace them.
I look at who’s getting all these brand-ambassador jobs. George Clooney’s name seems to come up a bit. One of his brands is Omega watches. How hard can this job be, wearing a watch? I’ve not worn one since I was a teenager so I haven’t got any watch fatigue. I’d be a very fresh watch-wearer.
I look more closely into Clooney’s involvement and it turns out Omega have several brand ambassadors: Nicole Kidman, Daniel Craig, Cindy Crawford, Ellen MacArthur, Buzz Aldrin and Vanessa Mae.
That is a lot of celebrities to keep track of. I call the marketing department and tell the woman who answers that I have some important information. She tells me that most of the team are out at an event this evening.
It’s three o’clock! Their evenings start early. I’m even more surprised when she carries on by saying that they won’t be back in the office until Thursday. It’s Tuesday! This is the number-one party office in the UK. I want to work there. If I were around fifteen years younger.
The lady says that she might be able to help me.
I say, “The thing is, I saw George Clooney and Cindy Crawford wearing Swatch watches even though they are Omega ambassadors.”
“Yes?” she says.
She sounds very interested. But let’s bear in mind how bored she must be, stuck alone in the office while everyone else is on some hedonistic forty-eight-hour bender.
I add a bit more detail. “Yeah and they were those Swatch watches with the interchangeable rims around the faces.”
I wanted those so much when I was ten. I have no idea if they still exist.
“Where did you see this?” she asks me.
“In London.”
She wants more information. “Where in London?”
My brain tries to think of somewhere George Clooney and Cindy Crawford might be in London.
“Near the Dorchester Hotel.”
“What, on an advertising hoarding?” she asks.
“No, actually on them. I saw them in real life.”
“Oh!” she exclaims. “The actual people.”
“And with interchangeable rims on the watch face,” I emphasise.
She seems very interested in this detail. Much more so than the detail that I saw George Clooney and Cindy Crawford together.
She says, “I’m not aware of interchangeable rims. I’ll talk to the Swatch manager.”
I realise now I’ve made a slight error. Swatch appear to be part of the same company and it looks a lot like they probably stopped doing the interchangeable rings sometime around 1986.
But it’s not bothering her. “And sorry, why are you asking? Did you want to buy them?”
She’s not yet grasped the full implication. I spell it out for her.
“No, I just wanted to make you aware that George Clooney and Cindy Crawford were wearing non-Omega watches, which seems really bad, considering how much you’re paying them.”
“Interesting,” she says, almost to herself.
Now’s my big chance. “And I just wanted you to know that I’m available to become an ambassador when you get rid of those two.”
This is it, surely. Here we go. I start limbering up my wrist for some serious watch-wearing.
“Well, most are high-profile people,” she says. “We do have some friends of the brand, like some of the Olympic team, but we don’t normally have consumers.”
“Don’t normally”. “Normally”. This deal is as good as done.
She tells me she’s going to follow it all up with the marketing manager, then adds, “And thank you very much for letting them know about George Clooney and, erm . . .”
There’s a pause. I tell her Cindy Crawford. I have concerns that she hasn’t written all this information down but she does take my email address. I’ve pretty much got my first brand-ambassador job.
Just one job is not enough though. Where would George Clooney be if he’d just settled for Omega? Not everywhere holding a Nespresso, for a start.
I need to find a company that can’t say no to me as it’s just so obvious how much I embody the brand. It’s hard to know what would be a good fit for me though. I turn to a friend for help.
“If I were a company, what company would it be?”
“Definitely not a charity,” she says immediately. Without any thought. Then she goes quiet for a long time. This appears to be an extremely difficult question. Eventually she says, “Not anything to do with the environment, nothing technological, definitely not a car.” There’s another long silence.
If you ever want to know what your friends really think about you, this is a good question to ask. I don’t recommend it.
Af
ter a long time she says, “Maybe a bookshop. You like books. What about Borders?”
I tell her Borders has closed down. There’s a pause where I consider that might be her point.
“Well, I don’t know then,” she says.
This has given me an idea though. It’s been in the news that video rental store Blockbuster has gone into administration. Surely other retailers are suffering the effects of Internet sales. Like the bookshop Waterstones. It’s like Borders, but open. And I do like reading. It’s clear that they need me urgently.
I call up head office. I worry briefly that they’ll be on a two-day bender but then figure they’re probably too bookish for that. I’m right. I get put through to a stressed-sounding man in marketing. I reassure myself that I’m not wasting his time, I’m saving his job. I say to him, “I’m really worried about Waterstones. Have you considered getting a brand ambassador to save it?”
“Now is not a good time,” he says. “I’m in a meeting. Can you call me back in an hour and a half?”
It’s a bit weird that he’s answering his phone, his desk landline, during a meeting. It almost feels like a lie. And it almost feels like he’s asked me to call back when he knows he’ll have gone home.
It just makes me worry about Waterstones even more. So instead of calling back, I send him a lovely email.
Dear Jon,
I’m very concerned about the future of Waterstones as it seems the British high street is currently melting into a pool of liquidised shops.
I have a suggestion. What about getting yourself a brand ambassador? I understand you’ve probably sorted out your marketing budget for this year, but I think it would only need a small re-jiggle to put aside money for the ambassador’s wages. Perhaps you could close one store. There’s a lot in London, two on Oxford Street, in fact, so maybe get rid of one of those. Preferably the one closer to the Marble Arch end as the other one is nearer my work.
You are probably wondering now who this brand ambassador should be. Well, I have a suggestion. What about me? I love books. I read on the Tube and most nights before bedtime. I really enjoy browsing in Waterstones before buying the book I want cheaper on Amazon. I’m perfect.
Here are my ideas as to how I could do this job:
Always have a Waterstones carrier bag on me. Maybe several of them. Filled up with all my stuff.
Tweet about how good the shop is.
Put a sticker on all my books saying “bought in Waterstones”. This would work well in spreading the word when I’m reading on the Tube, less so when I’m in bed.
When I buy books on Amazon, I’ll do it under a false name so no one knows.
These are just some initial thoughts. Once I’ve got the go-ahead and we’ve agreed a fee, I can give you loads more.
Well, I hope to hear from you soon.
Many thanks and all best wishes,
Annabel
I wait to hear back. And I do! Not in the conventional replying to an email way. He’s far too busy for that. He lets me know by following me on Twitter. This is clearly the nod, his way of telling me I’ve got the go-ahead.
I won’t bother him any more as I get a tip-off that one of the Waterstones on Oxford Street has a very active Twitter account. It says on the little blurb that it’s done by someone called Jonathan.
I tweet them: I’m your new brand ambassador (unofficial). What do you want me to do?
I get a reply quickly: Find the Sword of Rakaka, slay the Hod Clan.
How exciting! I reply straight away: I’ll do it!
I’ve no idea what he means but I’m guessing it’s some kind of test and probably all brand ambassadors have to go through this. I wouldn’t be surprised if George Clooney only got the Nespresso gig after some similar challenge.
The best place to start is the source of the quest, Waterstones on Oxford Street. I scout around for someone who looks like a Jonathan. I see a man on the shop floor who could be a likely candidate. I sidle up to him with a knowing look and say, “Excuse me, I’m looking for the Sword of Rakaka.”
He says, “Okay, I’ll just find that for you.”
This is so exciting.
He goes behind the till to the book search computer. He’s typing in “Sword of Rakaka”. He thinks it’s a book. Perhaps it is a book. Perhaps it’s a book and when I open it, it’s got my million-pound ambassador contract inside.
The man is saying now, “Oh right, oh no. No, I can’t find it.”
He lets me go behind the till so I can see and asks me who the author is. I show him the tweet from Waterstones but this doesn’t seem to clarify the situation in any way. He appears to be very confused. He still wants to help though so he searches for “slay hod” and “hod clan” but finds nothing.
I say, “Maybe it’s not a book but an actual sword.”
I’d say that he now goes from 0% scared of me to 11% scared of me.
“What, like a toy?” he asks.
“No, a real one,” I say. “You couldn’t slay hods with a toy. Or a book, come to think of it.”
He reluctantly agrees.
I need the help of the official tweeter. I need Jonathan. I ask if he’s there. It turns out he’s at the other store on Oxford Street.
“Okay I’ll go there,” I tell him.
He seems very relieved.
I find Jonathan shelf stacking.
“Hi, I’m looking for the Sword of Rakaka.”
“Oh,” he says, “I spoke to you before.”
There’s something in his tone of voice that suggests he hadn’t expected me to come in.
He’s now forced to confess that the Sword of Rakaka is made up. Undeterred, I ask him what I can do instead.
He seems a bit flummoxed by this, so I make a few suggestions.
“What about if I stand outside and encourage people to come in?”
He thinks that this sounds like hassling people. I have another idea. “What if I pick up a book in front of someone and make faces and noises like it’s the greatest thing I’ve ever read? Then they might want to buy it.”
“Well, I suppose that would be okay,” he says with a hint of reluctance, which I choose to ignore.
There’s a lady browsing cookery books. I pick one up.
“Oh wow, oh my God, so interesting!” My enthusiasm is unmistakable.
I see out of the corner of my eye that she’s looked up. I keep going. “Noo! Wow. Incredible! Fascinating.”
She moves away.
There’s a man looking at “Smart Thinking” books. I pick up Blink by Malcolm Gladwell.
“Ooh! Oh so great. Ooooh! Yesss! What a book!”
Then I put it back and wait. The man goes to pick up a book. It’s not Blink though. It’s called The Wisdom of Psychopaths. I move away.
Jonathan comes over now. “How’s it going?”
“Great!” I lie. “Can I have a present for my hard work?”
“Erm, what about a biro?” he says, taking one from behind the till. It’s a blue one and I prefer black but I don’t make a fuss. I have an image to maintain. I’ve done it: I’m a paid brand ambassador.
16
The Challenge:
To re-enact a TV show
Geoff has started watching a TV show called Sing Date. He says it’s better than Breaking Bad, The Sopranos and Game of Thrones. I think he’s joking. It’s a dating show where a single person picks from three videos of people singing karaoke-style into a webcam. They then meet in the Sing Date studio and sing a ballad together. It’s very weird.
We watch it together one evening and I make the mistake of saying that I’d love to go on it. Geoff has the next best thing: this challenge.
He wants me to re-enact three TV shows, like you do when you’re a kid. When you’re a kid you’re always pretending to be on your favourite show, like make-believing you are Doctor Who. Me, my sister and our friend Helen were always doing TJ Hooker. It’s loads of fun. Why don’t we do this in adult life? I’m probably about to answer
this question in a way that means no one will ever do this in adult life again.
Geoff is very insistent that I start with Sing Date. The thought of singing a duet with a stranger, sober and in real life, makes me wonder whether it wouldn’t be less humiliating to recreate the dating show Take Me Out instead. Even though that would mean thirty tipsy men buzzing their light out straight away, as I’m thirty-seven and haven’t got big boobs.
But I get on with it and start by picking the duet. This is the easy bit. It has to be “You’re the One that I Want” from Grease. There is no better duet.
I download the karaoke version on to my phone. Then I realise I probably need the lyrics for my partner in case they don’t know it as well as me. (The relationship will never last if they don’t, though.)
I rip a bit of paper out of my Pukka Pad to write them on, but I need to indicate the two different voices somehow and I only have a black biro. I contemplate for a short time writing the Olivia Newton-John part in black biro and the John Travolta part in blood. Just so the difference is clearly seen. But then luckily I remember I’ve got a pencil tucked into my sudoku book.
I’m ready. The best place to go is where people definitely like singing: a karaoke bar. I’m worried I won’t find one that’s open during the day, as who does karaoke in daylight hours? But remarkably there is one that’s open in Soho from 12 p.m. every day.
I arrive there at about three. There’s a man just inside the door. This is great. People do go to karaoke during the working day. It turns out he works there, but that doesn’t stop me thrusting the lyrics under his nose and playing the backing music out of my phone.
He protests quite a lot. So I try the man behind the till. He says he can’t sing unless he’s drunk. I’m not sure either have made the right career choices. I give up as I’ve got a better idea.
When I was going into the karaoke bar I noticed some building work going on a few doors down. I know builders like singing as I remember that advert for Birds Eye Steakhouse grills, where some builders are singing in the back of a van.