by Bill Whiting
What Miller needed to do was to be incompetent just once: but on a very important matter. He needed to be seriously, damagingly, and yet, unwittingly incompetent. And the opportunity came to Miller quickly, with news that the agency would have to pitch and compete with rivals to retain a lucrative fast-food and ready-meal business and, in particular, its leading brand, Easy-Peasy. Such was the value of this account that not only the agency’s leading creative team, but also the ‘B’ team was given the brief. And Miller was asked to produce a third and so-called ‘filler’ campaign.
The agency management’s plan was to give the client a choice of creative executions. Partly this was based on the fact that the sensed wisdom of the final choice is usually enhanced in direct proportion to the number of rejected choices. Miller considered it was the same psychology which explains why the woman who is hunting for a dress and quickly finds the ‘perfect’ one, cannot actually buy it until a further two hours is invested in the rejection of many more options, which are obviously unsuitable. Also, the presentation of only one execution portraying Easy-Peasy would be a ‘shit or bust’ risk, but giving them a choice, obliging them to consider the best one and discuss its relative merits. And once a bunch of ‘super egos’ do that, they feel ‘bought in’, and indeed, ‘locked in’ once the chief executive pronounces his view on the matter. The agency is most at risk when a proposed campaign stimulates no immediate response or discussion. More often than not, silence is the prequel to termination.
Thus, Miller’s role was to produce a fairly easy-to-eliminate third option, in order that debate would focus on the campaigns proposed by the two leading teams. Accordingly, £100,000 resource and research budgets were allocated to each of the two main teams, while Miller was restricted to a modest £2,000.
Miller knew that, ironically, this was a particular set of circumstances where mediocre work would not attract the opprobrium of his bosses. To suit his purpose, therefore, he needed to make it not just mediocre, but offensively mediocre, and sufficiently offensive for the Easy-Peasy executives to reject the entire agency. In line with his plan, over the two weeks before presentation day, Miller kept his head down and attracted minimal attention. Meanwhile, executives pored over the work of the two main teams, rejecting many options before finally settling on two favourites. Once selected, the ideas were then endlessly honed and tweaked over the following ten days.
Miller wasn’t entirely forgotten, however. “What have you got on Easy-Peasy, Jamie? It’s fucking urgent,” the firm’s creative director, Dean Crombie, would bark at Miller at regular intervals.
“Not there yet,” Miller would answer. “Just can’t seem to be able to get traction on this one. Keep going down blind alleys… got a bit of a block on this one.”
But after a week, Crombie was extremely agitated with Miller. “For fuck’s sake, Jamie,” he screamed. “Every sod in the building is working their arse off on this one and you’ve done fuck all for days. The presentation is tomorrow!”
“I’m nearly there,” Miller replied. “I had a bit of a revelation in the night. Look, I’ll work on it today and through the night. I’ll be there with something presentable in the morning.”
“No good,” Crombie protested. “We need to know what it is and see it before then. We’re not going blind into the biggest pitch we’ve had for ten years.”
“Okay,” Miller said, “look, I can show it to you in the morning at seven. The presentation is at ten. You’ll have time to give it the thumbs up or dump it. You’ve already got the big guns lined up anyway. I’m just making up the numbers.”
Against his better judgement, Crombie agreed to wait. He was very excited about the ‘A’ team’s work, and the ‘B’ team had done a first-class professional job too. The agency could keep the account with just two good pitches. A presentable effort from Miller would be useful, but only as fodder. The next morning at seven, Crombie and the agency’s chief executive gathered in the presentation suite, together with the media, research and account handling executives. It was a confident, but nonetheless tense team.
The account pitch ahead would be like staging a very expensive firework display. Every pyrotechnic detail, every connection and every connecting line had been elaborately and meticulously prepared, checked and triple-checked. But nothing was certain, until the fuse was lit and the faultless spectacular show was over.
But one detail: Miller’s presentation was still missing. The phone rang and Crombie answered.
“Hello, presentation room,” he said. “Jamie! Where the hell are you?”
Seconds elapsed, as Crombie listened with a reddening face. Then he shouted, “You’ve got a fucking fire in your flat! Well let the fucking fire brigade deal with it. Half the agency payroll is here, sat twiddling their thumbs waiting for you.”
Crombie then paused, and listened further to King’s story, before saying, “Okay. Okay. Well fuck you and fuck your fire.” He then threw the phone down and told the assembled brass, “Miller’s out of it. We go with two.”
Miller left his flat at 9.30am with his laptop under his arm. There was no fire or sign of fire. But he had manoeuvred his way into at least a chance of presenting his work on Easy-Peasy, without prior scrutiny by the agency management. At 10.05am Miller entered the presentation room, noisily and looking flustered. The agency chief executive was on his feet going through his thoughtful preamble. All eyes turned towards Miller, and Crombie gestured angrily towards him and pointed him to a seat at the enormous table. Miller sat down, arranged his papers fussily, and then looked up, as the chief executive continued.
An hour and a half later, the two leading creative teams had presented their work. As Miller had hoped, though it was clean and professional, the work produced no animated enthusiasm from the client. The first campaign was humorous and brought a few smiles from the clients, but no laughter or comment. The second campaign was full of happy people, happy music and fast-cut happy scenery, and elicited a few nods, but again, no verbal comment. Crombie was very unsure. It looked to him that the ‘B’ team’s visual feast was the front runner, but he was very nervous as a result of the subdued response. He was desperate to buy more thinking time, before he opened a round-table discussion.
Miller looked at him, raised his eyebrows and said, “Me?”
Crombie nodded affirmatively. His fellow directors shuffled uncomfortably in their seats and beamed smiles, which were tight-lipped and barely masked the grimaces they were intended to hide.
After a brief introduction from Crombie, Miller strode to the front, plugged in his laptop and tapped the instructions to bring his opening slide on the screen. It was an unpleasant photograph of a very obese family.
“Good morning everyone,” Miller said, as he began his carefully prepared career suicide.
“Before I consider a creative approach for a product, I always ask a basic question: is it something which is needed or something which is desired?
“A product which is needed, a vacuum cleaner, for example, needs a factually informative and utilitarian approach. Essentially, the consumer needs to know how well it works, how reliable it is, how easy it is to use, and perhaps above all, how little it costs.
“However, a product which is desired, a pair of high-fashion shoes, for example, needs a different approach: an emotional hook is required. After all, the designer shoes will be likely to wear less well and be less warm and comfortable than a sensible pair. But they do carry the look and exclusivity of the designer brand, and everything the brand promises by way of esteem, status and prestige. The advertising must therefore concentrate on reinforcing the abstract emotions which make the wearer feel special, and focus much less on the actual price.
“Sometimes with a product, however, both utility and emotion are involved, and this is a joy for the advertising man, especially if the product is very good. Mercedes cars, for example, representing both engineering excelle
nce and designer prestige all in one. But your fast food and snacks are a little unusual. Yes, they taste good and people want them. But people don’t need them. In fact they can kill them.”
As Miller drew breath, Crombie glared at him and the audience shuffled in surprise and displeasure.
“The fact is that all your food and drinks contain a lot of salt, sugar and fat. And the result is people like this, shown on the screen: obese people who are now forming a rapidly rising proportion of the world’s population. Cardiovascular disease, stomach and colorectal cancers, raised blood pressure, strokes and diabetes are the result. Your products may be tasty, hard to resist and difficult to eat in moderation, but in these respects they are not unlike cigarettes. And, let’s face it, it might not be long before your packaging might have to carry photographs of clogged arteries or cancerous growths. Governments will crack down. Now, I reckon you already know about this, but live in hope that the dreaded day of legislation or repulsive packaging warnings doesn’t arrive. But you know it most likely will. So my campaign is aimed at damage limitation.”
Miller then paused to survey the scene. The Easy-Peasy men sat silent and poker-faced. Miller’s agency colleagues were open-mouthed and visibly shocked.
“Er… by the way,” Crombie then said, in a flustered voice, “this isn’t the agency’s recommended approach. It’s just Miller’s flyer. We’ll ditch this now, of course.”
But, stroking his chin thoughtfully, the Easy-Peasy boss said, “No, carry on. Let’s hear it.”
Crombie sighed. Perhaps, he thought, after a very long relationship with the agency, Easy-Peasy would be glad to find a cast-iron reason to dump them and go off with another suitor. They were happy to see the agency hang itself. But, reluctantly, he gestured towards Miller to continue.
“Now,” Miller continued, “there’s no doubt that your customers love to indulge in your products and love the low prices and convenience they offer too, but there remains that nagging doubt about health and all the publicity surrounding it. But how can they console themselves, or argue against the apparent mountain of facts?
“Now… my limited research budget shows that about nine per cent of doctors occasionally eat your ready meals. And when they do, sixty-three per cent of that nine per cent choose Easy-Peasy. That’s more than twice as many who choose your competitor, the market’s second brand. I have no doubt this will be the case in all the markets where you currently have dominance.”
Miller then revealed his next slide. It simply featured the Easy-Peasy logo with a new slogan. “So there you have it,” Miller said, “Easy-Peasy, the doctor’s favourite ready-meals and snacks.”
The room was in an uneasy silence as Miller then took his seat. Crombie was flushed with rage, and the Easy-Peasy staff sat with hunched shoulders and tightly clasped hands. Miller was straight-faced, but felt inwardly pleased that his work had succeeded in failing.
Then the tension was broken.
“Brilliant!” beamed the Easy-Peasy Chief Executive. “Abso-fucking-lutely brilliant. You’ve got the account.”
The agency men were stunned, and after pregnant moments of silence, Crombie finally blurted out, “Great… fabulous… superb work, Jamie. Er—”
“Okay, let’s talk money,” the Easy-Peasy Chief Executive interjected. “The fee – how much?”
“Fine,” Crombie replied as he turned to the creative teams and Miller. “Thanks, everyone. If you could leave us now, we’ll get some refreshments and continue our discussion.” He then pressed a button and Jenny Wilson, Crombie’s fulsome secretary, walked in, pushing a trolley laden with tea, coffee and Easy-Peasy snacks.
Miller was flabbergasted. How could he insult a client’s product range so much and produce a slogan so crass and then be congratulated for it? He had once imagined pitching for a Japanese electronics company and putting forward the slogan, ‘From those wonderful people who brought you Pearl Harbour’ – but at least that was a slightly funny idea.
But what could he do? He got up quickly and headed towards Jenny Wilson as she leaned over the trolley – and then pinched her bottom hard. Shocked, she jumped and turned to face him.
“Mmm… nice tits,” Miller said.
FIVE
At the Pearl River Hotel, Bill King squeezed the last of his sweaty clothes into the ever-accommodating Norman, and zipped him up. After checking out, he headed towards the rail station for the short trip to Hong Kong and the airport. He was due to take the short flight to Taiwan at noon to meet with his company’s shipping agent. He was booked for one night at the meagre one-star Touyan hotel in Taipei, and was then scheduled to fly home.
Taiwan, formerly known as Formosa, is an island with many beautiful locations. Taipei City is not one of them. To King’s mind it was a crowded, scooter-infested dump, and it was always with a particularly heavy heart that he and Norman trudged through arrivals at Chiang Kai Shek airport.
The train squeaked to a halt on Hong Kong Island and King stepped off and trudged towards the airport connection platform. Then he stopped. Tony Wei’s words were still ringing in his head. “I’m a fucking sheep,” he mumbled to Norman. “I tend the worms. And you’re a fucking worm-tending sheep’s bag.”
He did not board the airport train, but instead climbed the escalator and walked into the busy street. It was warm, humid and noisy as ever in Hong Kong, though still paradise compared to Guangzhou, or Taipei come to that. And Hong Kong was one of the few places in the Far East that King thought he could bear to live. It looked clean and the shops were bright and packed with every luxury brand the world had to offer. Western faces were commonplace and a ‘big nose’ drew no special attention. The streets were marked with familiar English, as well as Mandarin signage; and, comfortingly familiar, the cars even drove on the left side of the road.
King had learned on his first trip to Shanghai that crossing a road safely there, depended on an ability to exhibit blind faith in humanity, a skill which he had never mastered. He had been with Tony Wei when he first tried to cross what seemed like a ten-lane-wide road, at an intersect junction in the Pudong District. A sea of cars, trucks, bicycles and pedestrians were moving in all directions and, in such apparent disorder, that King was nervous and very hesitant.
“Bill, don’t stop. Don’t look. Just walk, head front,” Tony told him firmly. “Everything based on anticipation,” he explained. “Everyone anticipate everyone. Anticipate speed, anticipate direction. Go slow or go fast, but no-one stop. That is China way. You stop and no-one anticipate that. You be hit. So just walk.”
King learned that this was typical of many things in Taiwan and China: apparent total chaos, but somehow it worked. He walked for another thirty minutes that day in Hong Kong, until he reached the Victoria Harbour waterside. He lit a cigarette and gazed across the short stretch of sea to Kowloon. There staring back at him was the luxurious five-star Majestic Hotel. Then he threw the cigarette butt into the water and said, “Right, Norman, we’re going to the Majestic. You can be a wolf’s bag – just for today.”
Within minutes they were on the Star Ferry heading for Kowloon. There, they disembarked and took the short walk to the Majestic, where a smartly uniformed bell-boy immediately opened the huge glazed entrance door and offered to take Norman.
“No, he’s fine,” King said, and then followed the boy through the cavernous and blissfully cool hotel hall to reception.
“Good day,” he said at the marble counter, “my name is King. Do you have a room for tonight?”
“Yes Sir, Mr King,” the bright smiling girl replied. “I’m afraid we have no standard rooms left, but we have an executive room.”
“Is the executive room the best room?” King enquired.
“No Sir,” she answered. “We have suites on floor twelve. Very special.”
King slapped his Brassolve corporate credit card onto the counter and said, “That’ll do n
icely.”
With registration done, a chirpy young man appeared like magic and offered to show King to his suite. “Sir, please can I take your bag?” he asked.
Norman was pushed in his direction, and then whisked towards the lift with his wheels spinning silently on the perfectly smooth marble floor. He looked every inch a wolf’s bag.
The room was magnificent: embellished throughout with rich silks, exquisite furnishings and Asian art. The bathroom was huge, and clad throughout in Italian marble. There was a gargantuan sunken bathtub and a shower cubicle large enough for half a football team. But best of all was the view: there was a floor-to-ceiling window along the full width of the suite, with a sensational view across Victoria Harbour, and beyond to the sky-scraping buildings of Hong Kong Island.
A knock on the door then brought a vase of fresh flowers, a large bowl of chilled fruit, and an ice bucket with a bottle of fine champagne. King thanked the bearer of the gifts, poured himself a sparkling glass, turned a chair to the window, and sat down.
“Well, Norman,” he said, “I think I might have just blown my job. But I’ve decided we must try to make some serious money, so we might as well find out now what the rich life is like. Not bad so far I reckon. And they do the laundry here with a two-hour express turn-round, so we’ll get your smelly stuffing freshened up as well, old mate.”
As usual, Norman said nothing, but King was sure he was pleased.
The hotel had much to offer: every imaginable facility was available. But King just sat in his chair and stared out of his window. He rang room service for a bottle of Scotch and ordered a large ‘Seafood Ice Mountain’, but stayed in his window seat as he sipped the fast-delivered whisky and picked at the dish of delicious crustacean delicacies, all arranged on the surface of an eighteen-inch cone of shredded ice.