Writers' Nexus

“Ker-ching!” 

Shane Carter woke up, scratched his testicles, had three utterly unique, wholly original, totally brilliant ideas for advertising campaigns, sighed and got out of bed. It was 6.30am, dark but warm in the cocoon of his penthouse apartment. He padded across the bedroom floor to his “wetroom”-style walk-in shower, pausing only to glance out of the window at the hoar frost glinting on his Ferrari below. He smiled a wry smile; not bad for a 27-year-old, he thought. 

After a shower, shave and general primp, Shane headed for the kitchen area. He filled the coffee machine (Fairtrade Colombian and mineral water) and switched it on. Then he ambled across to his walk-in wardrobe (a lot about Shane’s apartment was walk-in) to choose the day’s outfit. 

Dressed head-to-toe in Armani, with Gucci accessories, Shane went back to the kitchen. The coffee-maker was just about done. 

Shane poured himself a brew and went into the living area. He regarded the 7am to 8am slot as “his” time – a part of the day when the phone didn’t ring, there were no demands on him, and he could catch up on the trade papers and industry glossies – Marketing Week, Advertising Monthly, all the usual suspects. He devoted at least 20 precious hours a month to this – though in truth he absorbed nothing he didn’t already know, hadn’t already perceived, usually intuitively. 

That was a measure of just how good an advertising guru Shane Carter was. 

This morning, however, the task was more than usually difficult. Perhaps it was the dearth of any original information and/or insights. Perhaps it was the slight hangover Shane was still nursing, despite the showering and primping, from last night’s session at the Golden Star. Whatever – he viewed the pile of periodicals with suspicion and distaste. 

There had to be more to life than this. Coming up with blinding advertising and marketing ideas was all very well, but he was tired of it. To someone of Shane’s genius, it had all become just too predictable, too samey. Yes, you could mess about with what you put on the page, how you scripted the radio ad, how you shot the TV commercial – but you were still constrained by the limitations of the medium. All right, media. Even new media didn’t really push the envelope; after all, putative punters had only the five senses, nothing could change that, and if you didn’t push one or more of those sensory buttons you might as well not bother. Being regarded as the best creative head in the known universe was all well and good, but how was he – or anyone else – going to turn the industry completely upside-down? 

Shane took a sip of his coffee, and set it aside. What he needed this morning was something to cut through the fug. He went to the fridge for a Coke. 

As he opened the Coke, something stirred in his brain. As he took a sip of the Coke, his lips turned up in the beginnings of a smile. He put the Coke down. Then picked the Coke up again. Grinning broadly, he took another glug of his Coke. Then set the can of Coke down again. Laughing out loud, he picked up the can of Coke. And, in one go, drained the rest of the can. Of Coke. 

8am – time to get to work. Especially as today was the day of Cartercorps’ AGM; not usually a highlight on the calendar, but today promised to be a bit different. Shane’s company – the most successful ad agency in the entire world – was due a bit of a shake-up, he mused. He put on his Crombie overcoat and descended the lift. He decided for once to forsake the Ferrari – walking would be far more beneficial. On the way to work he passed – and namechecked – John Lewis’s, Pedal Revolution and the Norwich Arts Centre [I think you’re beginning to get the drift], and with each encounter his good mood improved further. 

On arrival at Cartercorps Shane went straight to the boardroom. All the usual suspects were there. Wayne, his brilliant (but devious) elder brother; Duane, his idiot half-sibling (whom Shane kept on the board for sentimental reasons); Binty, his sluttish younger sister; Sonya, Wayne’s long-suffering spouse; and Ma, matriarch to all of the Carter clan (except idiot Duane). Looking further down the table he exchanged nods with Cartercorps’ senior account executive Ellen Stackton, creative head Jade Budgen, account manager Tony Rockham, bookkeeper Frank Haslett and senior copywriter Jayel Besomster. The latter five weren’t strictly necessary, but Shane had always felt a few “outsiders” helped leaven the familial load. 

Shane listened – or tried to listen – as Frank bored through the year’s accounts. “Billings have droned 10% year-on-year… Profits have yawned 18%… Our client base has tediumed a further 23%…” After about 2½ days Frank shuddered to a halt. “Any questions?” he asked, rhetorically. 

There was much shuffling of papers and shrugging on of jackets, before Shane spoke. 

“Actually, I have something I wish to discuss.” 

The other 10 board members reluctantly resumed their seats. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Shane began, “about how ridiculous this business is. I mean, what exactly do we do? We win clients, usually at another company’s expense, and then persuade them to spend as much money as we can get out of them promoting their goods and/or services – which, mind, we’ve had nothing to do with creating, developing or producing – through us. Our job, theoretically, is to titillate the viewer/reader/listener (Shane was fond of obliques) into believing that our client’s widget is better than any other widget. But what do we know of widgets? Nothing! Strikes me, if ad agencies didn’t exist, and one widget manufacturer had to compete with another widget manufacturer on the strength of his/her own product, price and availability – and nothing more – the overall sales of widgets, and market shares, would be pretty much the same. 

“This business – not just this company but this industry – protects itself by surrounding itself with a peculiar arcana, shutting out the clients we claim to serve, on the basis that where advertising’s concerned, “we know best”. Why should this be so? 

“Now, a dirty word within this industry is “payola”, more modernly known as “product placement”. A soft drinks manufacturer, say, pays money to a film company, and the film company makes sure that the product features prominently in its next blockbuster. Seems simple enough, but for some reason this is considered somehow bad form. 

“I ask you, people: why is this wrong? 

“All we do – albeit by rather more sophisticated means – is exactly the same thing. But, when you think about it, much, much less honestly. 

“So. I am proposing that we, Cartercorps, become pioneers in the field of honesty in advertising, by means of completely overt product placement. 

“We are going to become whores for money. We are going to eschew the subtle, avoid the clever-clever, and go straight for the marketing jugular. Henceforth, creativity will take a back seat; we are going to promote the products/services of whoever’s prepared to pay us the most for the longest. I don’t want to hear any more about belief in the product, or any of that claptrap. We’ve never believed in any of the products we’ve marketed – and nor have our competitors. We’re all prostitutes, working for cash; and Cartercorps, at least, is going to have the guts to admit it. 

“Now of course we can’t operate in a vacuum. Cartercorps, the Carter family, and its associates, need to have something to offer Joe Public. A medium, if you will, to get the messages across. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, I put it to you. The medium is us. The Carters. Cartercorps. You others. 

“Never before in history has such a preposterous, absurd and dysfunctional group been assembled for entertainment purposes. Let’s examine ourselves one by one. 

“Take me. An advertising guru, a multimillionaire at 17½, comes back to Norwich and names his advertising behemoth… Cartercorps?? What the hell kind of name is that for the biggest agency on the planet? Ad agencies are called by either the names of the senior partners, Bartle Bogle Boogle Bingleby, say, or some faintly amusing/challenging kind of name: Cre8, or Bullet, or some such. Cartercorps is a name for a boring, engulf-and-devour conglomerate, not the most successful ad agency in the entire cosmos. What was I, advertising’s foremost thinker, thinking of?” 

“I always thought it was some kind of post-post-ironic statement,” averred Jade. 

“Nice try, Jadey-baby, but no. It’s just a shit name. And I came up with it. 

“Now let’s look round the table at my family. Wayne there, whom I hero-worship, is twisted and deviant beyond belief. How could I, a genius, not know that? After all these years? Duane, next to him, has the intelligence of a bucket. Yet we continue to regard his every pronouncement as some kind of holy writ, though every other bugger knows it isn’t. Binty, the little slapper, is 18 going on 38. Sonya – well, who knows? Does she love me, Do I love her? Does anyone care? And Ma? Mad as a badger. 

“And that’s to say nothing of the rest of you; your characters haven’t really been fleshed out yet. But the point is, we are our own soap opera, and the opportunity is there for us to capitalise on it. 

“Do you know how much money I made today? I made £90 – correction, £100 – from a can of Coke. Then I made a tenner from my overcoat, and the car coughed up another 10-spot. 

“Well, OK, I didn’t. But I could have done, if I’d charged a mere £10 for every time a product was mentioned. I’ll tell you what – let’s make some more, right here, right now. This rather fine reproduction antique mahogany boardroom table; where did we get it?” 

“Arthur Brett,” said Ellen. 

“Ker-ching! There’s another tenner! And the chairs?” 

“Arthur Brett,” said everyone. 

“Now you’re getting it. That’s another £10 – or £100, given that you all said it at once (though even Shane didn’t think he could swing that one). 

“£10 a mention isn’t a lot – but nobody’s even going to stump up that much if this thing has no readers. So, the first thing we need to do is build up a readership. Jade, I feel a teaser campaign coming on. See to it, will you? Then we need punters; Ellen and Tony – that’s your job. 

“But of course, what this thing really needs is stories, plotlines – and I don’t care how ludicrous or implausible they are, so long as they entertain. Oh – and the needs of our advertisers must come first. I think you know what I’m saying. Jayel, are you up for the challenge?” 

The venerable Romanian émigré copy supremo stared at the table (the Arthur Brett table) for several minutes before answering. 

“Perhaps,” he said softly. “But if not, I know a lot of people who will be… Ever heard of Writers’ Nexus International?” he asked. “They have hundreds of writers on their books; there must be some who’d like to take this idea and run with it…?” 

To be continued…