by Richard Hull
“As to the second half of Spencer’s plan, I agree. I am content to see him put forward the proposition, and I am sure that he will only succeed in getting my more modest ideas accepted. But you must promise, Spencer, not to push your own more than the others.”
Seeing that he was about to get his own way, Spencer became all amiability. He was all, he said, for selling whatever he could, and he really did not mind which.
“Sell him all three if I can,” he added laughingly.
Chapter Eleven
Of course it was preposterous. But it was exactly like Spencer. He would try to be funny and there was no knowing what unsuitable occasion he would not take as an opening for his alleged wit, or what quite serious event he would not regard as comic.
As a matter of fact I am almost convinced that there is no room in advertising for humour. There have, I know, been advertisements which have made us laugh, but how many of them have had any selling value? Very few, I think, despite occasional brilliant examples. Perhaps even, if the truth were known, some of those which have made us laugh most have had very little solid results. You see, advertising, to be useful, must be continuous; the message must be drummed into the minds of the public until they react automatically, and a joke, when you know it too well, begins to pall; and once you have annoyed a reader, your whole appeal is more than lost. While if the joke never amuses–––!
But I am straying away to the question of actual copy. What Spencer was doing was to treat the whole subject flippantly. Besides, there were so many fundamentally wrong conceptions in his ideas. To produce three campaigns founded on different bases was in itself absurd. To talk about tossing up as to which should be adopted was ridiculous. Such matters should be approached with the utmost seriousness.
But even worse was the idea that the client should choose. Spencer was always encouraging clients to think that they had some say in the matter, with the result that they were encouraged to talk about all kinds of things about which they knew nothing, and all clients cling to the fallacy that because they know how something is manufactured, they are therefore likely to be able to give advice about how it should be advertised. The right thing to do is for the client to state the size of his appropriation; that is to say how much money he is prepared to spend, and leave everything else to us.
Could I get Spencer to see that? Well, in a sense, yes. He was prepared to agree that it was the ideal, but it was quite impossible to induce him even to try to persuade the client to consent. He persisted in the theory that the final word must rest with the advertiser, not with us, and that even if they were wrong in some of their ideas, they had to be humoured. Otherwise, he said, they would simply leave us. Accordingly, he took everything, choice of papers, Thomas’s drawings, even my copy, and submitted it to the criticism of somebody who knew nothing whatever about the science of advertising, simply because that somebody was going to pay. Of course every suggestion made to us was merely troublesome and detrimental, and the final results were worse. Then, with a complete absence of logic, both the advertisers and Spencer would complain because those results were unsatisfactory.
So far as Tonescu was concerned, we had not yet got on to the question of copy, but it was abundantly clear that the colleague, to whom I was so unfortunately yoked, was going to go on in the same way. He was going to submit all the schemes to Tonescu at once and see which he liked, simply from being too lazy to face the issue as to which was really best. My own belief is that in his heart of hearts he knew I was right and so he firmly refused to listen to my arguments because he would have no reply. However, there it was. He insisted on infringing on the duties of Barraclough’s department and borrowing his rate cards, so as to work out a campaign in Punch and the Bystander and so on, to cost two thousand. He made Barraclough check it and he made Miss Wyndham type out estimates galore. The amount of stationery used was prodigious.
I believe that he secretly wanted me immediately to write copy and produce art work for all three, only that it was obviously impossible to turn out work at the rate he wanted to go, and, moreover, he knew perfectly well that I should refuse to do anything so foolish.
What, however, really shocked me, was that he went to work behind my back. Full of his self-satisfied idea that he would get on better without me, he made an appointment with Tonescu without telling me that he intended to do so, and even went off to keep it without telling me. He even tried to keep Barraclough in the dark.
Not a word did he say to either of us until he came into the office, grinning all over his silly red face and giggling inanely. He insisted on getting us both together, apparently thinking that he was about to enjoy a spectacular triumph.
“I’ve done it,” he chortled. “I think it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard of.”
“Done what?” I asked, a little irritably. All this crowing about something unknown was tiresome.
“I have sold Tonescu this.” He pushed across an estimate duly signed by Tonescu, “And this—and this–––” he went on, throwing sheet after sheet on the table. “In fact, I have got him to agree to the whole of the three campaigns.” He began to laugh again.
“I cannot see anything humorous,” I put in, in an attempt to quieten the noise.
“What! To sell a man three separate campaigns because we could not agree which of the three was best. I think it’s damned funny.”
“You'll laugh the other side of your face when the campaigns fail because of their inherent contradictions.”
“Why should they? There is no need to make them contradictory. Part of one of them may be wasted, perhaps, but that will be the worst which can happen. Perhaps it would be as well not to ‘key’ your copy too clearly, in case Tonescu should see that one paper is not pulling its full weight.”
There I was prepared to agree with him. I never am very fond of ‘keying’—of attaching a coupon or a request to write to a particular address, so that it can be seen what paper was the source of the enquiry or the order.
“You will have to look pretty slippy in getting the stuff ready for Tonescu to approve,” Spencer went on.
“Considering the rush there will be, is that formality necessary?”
Both of us knew quite well that we were on the verge of our old argument as to the extent of the criticism permissible for a client. We might very well have started on it, although both Spencer and I were really very well aware that it was in reality futile, since my reason and Spencer’s obstinacy would never budge, but, before we could do so, Barraclough cut in.
“You didn’t happen to talk about finance, did you?”
Spencer wriggled a little uneasily. Considering how much Barraclough had insisted on testing Tonescu’s financial soundness, he must have known that he had no right to go as far as he had without the point being satisfactorily settled—of course I was sure there would be no trouble, but still, he ought to have considered Barraclough’s susceptibilities.
As it was, he tried to bluff it out.
“Oh, no. I left that for you to deal with.”
“I see. It will look so well if I go and raise questions now. First you get him confidingly to sign all these estimates, obligingly leaving to us many details, including the actual dates, to a very broad extent–––”
“Well, I wasn’t sure when Nicholas would be ready. Nor of the dates when some of these things go to press.”
“Quite. But after Tonescu has done just what we ask in every way, then you leave me to go round and tell him we are not quite sure of his financial standing or integrity. It hardly makes it easier.”
“Oh, you'll get round that,” was Spencer’s airy comment.
“As a matter of fact,” went on Barraclough drily, “I have.”
“Eh?”
“Yes. I anticipated the action you were likely to take and I went round and saw Tonescu yesterday. I must admit I did not get all the financial guarantees I should have liked, but I got what I could. With careful watching I think we may take th
e risk.”
“Of all the damned impertinence!” Spencer rapped out. “You might have queered my pitch completely.”
“I had to take that risk; you apparently did not consider it.”
I thought it was wise to part them by making a slight change in the conversation.
“Hadn’t we better get down to the practical problems confronting us? This whole thing, since it was taken out of my hands, seems to have been approached in so irregular a manner that I hardly know where I am. All I know is that I am responsible for producing a great deal of work.”
At that Spencer banged the table with his fist.
“Can’t either of you say a civil word? Is this all the thanks I get for selling ten thousand pounds of advertising?”
“Considering that I introduced this account. And half the campaign you have sold is mine.”
“As a matter of fact”—I disliked the way Barraclough was always starting his sentences with ‘as a matter of fact’. He was deliberately implying that he alone stuck to facts—“I practically sold him the campaign myself yesterday. I took along the carbon copies and told him what you were going to propose. We had quite a long talk and I explained the advantages of all of it, and told him you would bring the actual papers for him to sign when you came. I had to pretend I knew the time you were going to see him, but otherwise it just went off quite naturally. So you see, I am not quite sure you did all the selling, although, no doubt, you put it very well.”
“By the way,” he added after a short pause, “Tonescu must have fully understood my hint that it was better not to mention my visit to you. I am beginning to think that Tonescu is an even shrewder man than I thought.”
Spencer for once had nothing to say. His face was such a study in mortification that I could not restrain my laughter. Of course that annoyed him and so he turned nasty, but even he could think of no really adequate retort.
“Laugh, Punchinello,” was all he could think of.
“Thank you, I will. This time it really does strike me as funny. All the same, there is no need to call me names.”
“Talking of names, what are we going to call this stuff?” I suppose Barraclough thought it wise to try to start a fresh topic.
“I told you,” I said. “‘Krystal Klear’.”
“Doesn’t give you the idea of cars,” objected Spencer. “Why not ‘Glasspo’, following on the name of ‘Gospo’. You start from something well known and established as a sound thing.”
“And are mixed up with it for ever after. Besides, the Gospo people might object.”
“I don’t think it would actually contravene the regulations about Trade Names.”
Barraclough would think of that sort of argument.
“I had some other ideas,” I went on. “‘Clerevue’, for instance, or ‘Nevercloud’, or ‘Alclear’. Perhaps ‘Everclere’ would be best. Or ‘No-Haze’.
“Rotten,” reflected Spencer, comprehensively, and unnecessarily rudely. “None of them suggest glass, to begin with. I suggest ‘Clear Glass’—spelt however you like.”
“Personally I should prefer ‘see-clear’, or something like that.” This was Barraclough’s suggestion and actually I thought it the worst of the lot; but at this moment Spencer thought it necessary to try to be funny. He jumped up and pretended to imitate a Punch and Judy show.
“Here we are again,” he shouted; “the great knockabout comedians. Every subject reduced to the impossible triangle.” And with that he started making the noise made by Punch when he beats Judy.
It was almost a minute before he saw that neither of us were amused. Even then he was not abashed.
“Well, what do you two cheerful people suggest? This time we can’t adopt all three. So I suppose we shall have to toss up.”
“Really,” I protested.
“Tossing up for three is very complicated. We ought to keep a dice, since that’s got six sides, or one of those crown and anchor things, and apportion them in pairs to us. With the crown representing Nicholas—at least in his own view—or doesn’t that dice go that way?”
“We are discussing,” I broke in, “the proper name for this product.”
“And I was pointing out the difficulty of reaching a decision,” Spencer replied, quite undeterred by the snub. “Last time we really left it to Tonescu. Supposing we ring him up?”
Before either of us could stop him he had picked up the receiver and told Miss Wyndham to get Tonescu and put him through to my room where we all were.
I hardly thought that Spencer’s way of breaking the subject to Tonescu was tactful.
“We have been discussing the name of your crystals. I just wondered if you had any ideas. What? Oh, you registered that, did you? How do you spell it? Si? Oh, in Rumania. Yes, I see. No, we shouldn’t be bound by that. Quite. Still, it might do.”
(Hardly a good way to put it, I thought, but one could do nothing except let Spencer finish his telephone conversation.)
“Yes, I see your point. Yes, a lucky coincidence. Thank you very much. Good-bye.”
He put the receiver down and turned to us.
“Curious, that,” he said. “They gave it a name in Rumania after the place where it was made. Galatz-si. I gather they registered it in some way. Tonescu agrees that we are not bound to use it, but there it is.”
“The Galatz rather suggests glass,” I was quick enough to notice. “And it ends ‘see’,” added Barraclough.
“Spelt ‘si’. I suppose that is some Rumanian word or termination.”
As to that, neither of us had any idea at all, but at any rate, out of pure weariness of trying to think of something else, I consented to adopt it. There are objections, but it has point and there is a reason for using it, which is an advantage. But how very much better several of my suggestions would have been.
Chapter Twelve
However, there was no time to spare to argue about it any further. I had done my best, and as my suggestions had not been entirely adopted, I could not be blamed if anything did go wrong. But for once I had very little fear of that. It was such a marvellous product that no amount of muddling by Spencer or Barraclough could prevent me from establishing it on the market as a triumphant success.
But it never does to take too short-sighted a view. This was going to be a triumph. People would talk about it and about its advertising. It was a great opportunity to show other advertisers how good the work of NeO-aD was.
I pointed that out to Barraclough and added that we could fairly say that we had designed the whole thing from its inception. But of course Barraclough must needs try to crab my efforts.
“Except the choice of which campaign. And its name. And its price—which involves really its sales policy. And its financing. All of which Tonescu did.”
“How absurd you are. Why, Tonescu admits himself that he knows nothing of how to sell things in this country.”
“Nevertheless he seems to have made up our minds for us.”
I gave it up. The whole attitude was so inevitably designed to repress productive work. A little encouragement is absolutely essential to me if I am to work properly, and both my colleagues take the greatest care never to give me a kind word of any sort. It is so unnecessary. It is not as if I were a conceited man.
At any rate I saw that I must devote my whole attention to the question of copy, but no sooner had I settled down and begun to jot down a few suggestions for headlines, than I was interrupted. I had just written “And now—the ever clear windscreen” and crossed it out (I was afraid that Spencer might remember its recent use for Henriques), when Miss Wyndham came in to say that the Practitioner had rung up, clamouring for Flukil’s copy. That fellow Flukil was a perfect curse! Of course I told Miss Wyndham that the Practitioner being a recent extension of Flukil’s activities—it was only the second insertion—the same copy would have to be repeated unless she could find something suitable that we had used previously in the Chemist and Druggist.
“Oh, but really, Mr.
Latimer. I couldn’t possibly do that. Not really.”
Silly, chattering female! I asked what it was that she couldn’t do ‘really’.
“I couldn’t take the responsibility of deciding which to put in.”
“Well, go and ask Mr. Barraclough, then.”
I turned back to the question of Galatz-si. I should have trouble with Barraclough later, I knew. He would be sure to complain that the choice of Flukil’s copy was not his business, but that would only give me an opportunity to point out how enormous a proportion of the work of the agency on Galatz-si had been done by me. I had found the client; I had helped to decide the plan of campaign, the name, everything except the finance and the actual typing of the estimates and getting them signed—in short I had carried them through all their problems, but when it came to my side of the work—much the longest and hardest, as well as being the portion that involved all the brains—I should get no help from either of them. I must admit that I should not ask for it, not because I should not be glad of any assistance, but simply because they were incapable of giving it.
However, there was no time to waste in considering my difficulties. Once more I began to put down headlines. “Rain, rain, go to Spain–––” was the first. An idea, perhaps, but not strictly relevant. “Perfect visibility” was another line of approach. Then, with a memory of a well-known slogan about tawny port, I added—“With sunshine in our hearts and windscreen glasses”. Somehow or other I was not really satisfied with any of them. They were not perfect, and I was never satisfied with less.
On the whole I decided that the copy must be more explanatory, must tell the ‘reason why’ story, must carry conviction more quickly. Ideas began to float in my mind; I closed my eyes to let them come more readily; in another moment I was sure that some really hundred-per-cent satisfactory thought would arrive. It was on the verge of taking shape—the perfect phrase was just about to be born—when suddenly the door opened and Spencer walked in.
