The Walls Come Crumbling Down

A long long time ago in 2013, companies pitching advert ideas to potential advertising clients in the hope of winning their business had reached their apex of theatrics. Designers, actors, caterers, musicians, celebrities and Christ knows who were brought in to try and “land the idea”. Sometimes this worked and multi-million pound accounts changed hands, raising the individuals responsible up to illustrious status (financially and egotistically). Sometimes it didn’t. This meeting was an example of the latter.

I had been asked to attend a creative pitch for Kingsmill bread, purely in a consultative capacity and as a neutral in a competitive tender process. 3 separate agencies had pitched a variety of advert ideas and this 4^th was to be the last. This meeting was make or break. It was not their first attempt. Their first go was a hideous attempt to get the room singing along to famous songs with the lyrics altered to be about bread. “Muffin Compares 2 U” was easily the pick of the bunch. “Bagel over Troubled Water” was a low point and  “Always Look on the Bread Side of Life” didn’t rhyme either. For some reason “Crust for life” and “Bread-ringer for love” didn’t come up. Ever the professional, I kept my opinions behind a poker face and aside from pointing out that we’d need Prince’s approval rather than that of “the bald Irish girl who hadn’t had a hit in a while” and suggesting Toastbusters, kept my head down all meeting. Anyway, the idea couldn’t be done which was lucky because it was shit and the clients were correctly disappointed and a bit angry but for some strange reason offered its authors another crack at it a week later.

That week the MD of the creative agency called me most days to try and get an angle on how to play the next meeting. It was clear he saw this as a risk everything, go big or go home, shoot from the hip, turnaround jump shot, Hail Mary string of cliché that basically meant they’d fucked up the first meeting. His plan was to bring in actual creatives. Now to those of you unfamiliar with the industry, creatives were the people who actually wrote the adverts. Most people who work in creative agencies don’t write adverts they simply sell the advert concepts to clients and are the polished, expensively educated, legitimate face of the organisation whose two reasons for living were to buff client’s egos and above all…..protect the proposed advert from any erosion of the creative’s initial vision or God forbid, from being rejected.  Creatives on the other hand were deified geniuses who worked in pairs and seemed to only have first names. They sat in offices surrounded by space hoppers, signed sporting memorabilia that they’d drunkenly bought at charity auctions and awards from the 80s. They wore Converse All-Stars, skinny jeans, took smart casual as two separate instructions (think Avril Lavigne or Green Day) and had haircuts (sometimes plural) they were too old for. They supported obscure football teams to highlight their individuality and named their children names that people don’t use any more or flowers that aren’t names. They were rarely allowed in front of clients at all let alone new clients but due to a combination of the Hail Mary status and the fact that “Roll with it” would have won if it had been pitched right, meant the rule book was firmly out the window.

Creative agencies always brought too many people to a meeting so the room was full to bursting. There were 5 people from Kingsmill including the Head of Marketing (top dog), Head of Procurement (top dog of another department, no interest in advertising, didn’t like other dogs), Kingsmill brand manager (top dog in a slightly smaller pack), Head of Research (sniffer dog) and a teenage girl on work experience (shy puppy). Then there was me and 45 or so people from the creative agency including the unmistakeable creatives who’d made a huge effort to not dress for the occasion. One of them was carrying a waist high, long trumpet the type of which would seem at home in any film set in a castle, possibly with a crested flag hanging below it and to be used to precede some kind of announcement. The trumpet you have in your head right now is probably correct. One of either Dave or Kev (can’t remember their real names but they only had one each) placed it in the corner and successfully (up to a point) drew attention away from it by making some comment about the picture of his two kids (clad in Bracknell United and Orkney Island Rovers away kits) on his desk top.

After about half an hour of hand-shakes, biscuits, plugging and unplugging of cables and painful small talk about how great bread is we were ready to go. Apparently, toast is the best thing about bread. Someone actually said that to five people who work for a bread company. Anyway – such high level displays of empathy would never be reached again in this meeting. 

So the big idea was centred around an hilarious character, a Spanish Conquistador. Me neither I had to look it up but the image Google offered was familiar.  A 16^th century soldier, metal hat, musket, sword, possibly with a waist high trumpet. Anyway, he would come running into a room where there was some food that wasn’t Kingsmill bread in it, blow the trumpet and say  “EEEEZE THEEZE THE KING’S MEALLL?” Fucking funny I think you’ll agree. Because if you get the mild racism right it sounds a bit like Kingsmill. I can’t remember what happened in the ad after he said that. He probably then got out a sandwich. Or maybe toast because that’s the best thing about bread.

Now to say the room fell flat was to exaggerate silence. Momentum was being lost and I was the only person enjoying the meeting. In the spirit of Hail Mary, Kev (or Dave I forget) stood up and without saying a word, clumsily but dramatically manoeuvred through the crowd, picked up the trumpet and left the room.

The suspense was terrible – I hoped it would last.

The door banged open. In strode Kev. “EEEEZE THEEZE THE KING’S MEALLL?” he bellowed before raising the trumpet, puffing out his cheeks and …..making no sound at all.

There was no time to notice that the trumpet should probably be played before the mild racism because the red faced Kev had already left the room probably cursing himself for having not worked on his 16^th century trumpet chops prior to the meeting.

The suspense was terrible – it did last

The door banged open. In strode Kev. A new Kev. Hail Mary Kev. “EEEEZE THEEZE THE KING’S MEALLL?” he bellowed before raising the trumpet – now at a proper 90 degree, trumpet angle rather than the previous oboe effort. This had the unfortunate consequence of placing the business end of the sonic shot-gun in work experience’s face. With a momentary glance at Beryl and Rhododendron for inspiration, he unleashed hell.

I can’t describe the noise, mainly because it was drowned out by work experience’s scream suffice to say it was loud and a horrible bass frequency that literally ruffled its victim’s hair. The retaliatory scream on the other hand was eight or nine octaves higher. Screams in meetings are rare at best but this was a proper, fear of death, reflex, blood curdling, Janet Leigh in Psycho, scream.

Lesser men would have left this deafening, sonic tennis rally at 15 all but not Kev. Not Hail Mary Kev. Clearly running on adrenalin rather than reasoned judgment he took aim again. Work experience was having none of it. She grabbed the barrel on the inhale and with a swift wax on wax off, got her self out of harm’s way. This had the unfortunate consequence of placing the business end of the sonic shot-gun in top dog’s face. Top dogs don’t scream. “Don’t fucking blow that again” he barked.

By now I was definitely the only person enjoying the meeting and I was fucking loving it but was in danger of losing my poker face. Fortunately the two fog horns, scream and threats had been sufficient for people outside the room to feel the need to check we were ok so ever the professional, I took the opportunity to calm the masses outside and laugh in secret.

After shorter pleasantries and thanks than was customary, 45 people and a trumpet left the room.

“What…(10 second pause)…the fuck…(10 second pause)…was that?” asked top dog.

An hour later my phone rang, it was the MD.

“How do you think it went?”