Thanks to everyone who’s been in touch. Here’s our first guest contributor to Diaries of Media. If anyone else has a similar story to tell, send them in.
A long long time ago in 2006, after racism had finally been eradicated from society, I attended a ‘kick-off’ meeting for the launch of a new chewing gum campaign. Proper bucket-list shit. The brief contained the usual blather – “here’s why this chewing gum is incredible, here’s how much money you’ve got to make ads telling people this chewing gum in incredible”, and so on.
The meeting took place at an advertising agency in an eye-wateringly expensive, not very creative part of London. The agency had a reputation for being very white, very male and very traditional. To avoid any graphic sexual misery, I wouldn’t want to speculate where they typically put their fingers, but ‘on the pulse’ was clearly near the bottom of the list.
The most senior client leading the meeting (marketing director/chewing gum chief) absolutely fucking HATED the company I was working for at the time – he’d fired us while in his previous job. This created what’s known as ‘a bit of an atmosphere’ between us, and not the Russ Abbot kind.
Around 20 people from various advertising, media, PR and digital agencies gradually shuffled into the windowless meeting room, most of them wearing an expression which suggested they weren’t entirely sure they were in the right place or career.
A grim tactical seating game unfolded, like a cross between chess and musical chairs, except with enough chairs and no music. Slippery looking account handlers, almost certainly called Rupert or Pandora, jockeyed for position next to the senior client (who, lest we forget, ABSOLUTELY FUCKING HATED the agency I worked for), while offering up displays of toadying that would be the envy of Toad of Toad Hall, while tucking in to some toad-in-the-hole.
The marketing director lapped it up, and with a swish of his hand, beckoned a Rupert to start the meeting. Rupert (textbook rugby shirt/chinos/deck shoes/luxurious proto-mullet combo) picked up a piece of paper, stood up, and strode to the front of the room, confidence exuding from every pore.
He cleared his throat, composed himself, and finally realising his life’s dream, bellowed out a script for a chewing gum TV ad – in a thick, entirely unnecessary Jamaican accent that would make Jim Davidson blush.
At this point, it’s worth mentioning that Rupert was very white and very posh, just in case the rugby shirt/chinos/deck shoes/mullet ensemble didn’t clue you in. Like the classic Faith No More song, the accent came from out of nowhere. The script was for a 60 second ad, but Rupert’s racist rendition made it feel a hell of a lot longer, in much the same way that time seems to slow down during a serious car accident.
With silence levels comfortably at ‘stunned’, the marketing director/candy captain gestured at Rupert to read another TV script. Everyone else in the room shot panicked glances at each other. Which accent would he attempt now? Was this a weird prank? A psychological condition? A cry for help?
We braced for impact.
The opportunity for Rupert’s redemption was spurned, as he doubled down on the same Davidson-esque accent for script two. To be fair to him, you couldn’t fault his commitment, although his judgement was another matter.
After an even longer silence, the marketing director/confectionery commandant asked the question we were all dreading.
“So…what does everyone think?”
Most people suddenly found their shoes to be incredibly interesting and worthy of their undivided attention. Someone eventually piped up with the politician’s favourite ‘answer a question with a question’ technique, and asked about the status of the scripts. This was a kick-off meeting after all, so presumably this was a very early and woefully misguided idea, with plenty of opportunities to ‘course-correct’? Perhaps towards something a bit less racist?
“They’re approved”.
So…the person who hated the company I worked for had already signed his name next to a racially offensive advertising campaign, and made it my agency’s job to spend millions of pounds to broadcast it on TV.
Months rolled on. Many meetings happened. Despite everyone else’s strong misgivings, it quickly became apparent that the Jamaican-ness of the campaign was incredibly important to Rupert and his gang, despite having absolutely fuck-all to do with chewing gum.
In one of these meetings, another agency was explaining their sampling campaign. They wanted to hire students and out of work actors to stand on soap boxes, declaring a ‘chewing gum revolution’, while giving out free chewing gum samples at train stations and the like. Yes, there are companies that specialise in this sort of caper.
I was sitting next to the creative director from Team Rupert. The very source of the Caribbean controversy. The idea was his brainchild, and as such, was probably an orphan.
“Can they do the accent?”, he yelled at no-one in particular.
A very polite and measured chap from the sampling agency explained this would be a problem for two good reasons:
- Hiring students/out of work actors who can do accurate Jamaican accents, or preferably Jamaican actors, would cost more and take more time to find. This was a fair and logical point, sure to appeal to the more practically-minded people in the room.
- Given some of the locations they were going to be working in, such as outside Brixton tube station, the students/actors were very likely to be assaulted for taking the piss. This point was more of an appeal to basic human decency.
Team Rupert’s creative director was crestfallen. “That’s a shame. It’s just such a funny accent.”
When I consulted my notes the day after the meeting, “it’s just such a funny accent” turned out to be the only thing I’d written down.
Eventually the campaign launched, and to the surprise of no-one other than Team Rupert and the marketing director/gum guru, the complaints started to flood in. After the first wave (choice quote from one Jamaican viewer of the ad: ‘they’re portraying us as objects to be laughed at’), the accent-obsessed creative director was interviewed by a trade magazine about Gumgate, and said ‘I would never have set out to upset anybody. I have good friends who are non-white’.
When has the old faithful ‘I can’t be a racist, I’ve got some black friends’ gambit ever failed?
Oh.
The complaints continued to pile up, with the ad variously described as ‘patronising’, ‘demeaning’ and ‘having the potential to cause serious offence’. It was reaching the point that the campaign was looking likely to get banned, which would mean millions of pounds had been wasted. With the ban-hammer looming, I received a desperate call from Rupert, which went something along these lines.
RUPERT: “We’re trying to find examples of other high-profile advertising campaigns featuring African or Caribbean characters (because apparently there’s no difference, dear reader), which weren’t banned. To help our case, can you tell us how much they spent on media?”
ME: “What campaigns have you got in mind?”
RUPERT: “Lilt?”
ME: “OK…I mean there’s a reason they’ve used Caribbean characters, because of the flavours of the product, as opposed to mint chewing gum, but we can look into it. What else?”
RUPERT: “Kia-Ora?”
ME: “The one with the cartoon crows?”
RUPERT: “That’s the one.”
ME: “Right. I really don’t think a 20 year-old squash ad featuring cartoon crows will help to prove you’re not racist. Any others?”
RUPERT: “Well…we were thinking of Um Bongo.”
ME: “CLICK. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrr.”
The Um Bongo Defence was unsuccessful.
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