7. Affable News

“First we listen.  Then we sleep.  Then we create.”

He wore a pearly-green silk shirt (top button unfastened) and Armani suit – standard kit for an Advertising Executive in his late thirties and at the height of his powers.  Yet his eyes were those of a boy.  Their youthful sparkle definitely contributed to the effect, but the main reason was that they were far too small and positioned way too close to his nose.  A name caption slid onto the bottom of the screen:

Winifred Balm, Creative Director, The Dormitory.

“Creativity isn’t something you can just turn on and off like a tap.  It cannot be controlled and we, as Creatives, must learn to be controlled by it.  It comes unannounced – like a thief in the night.”

His words were well chosen yet came out flattened as if he were reciting them for the hundredth time off a threadbare script.  He hooked his arm over the back of his chair and widened his knees a notch in a gesture of extreme self-worth.

“This one came quite easily actually.  The Bank is moving.  It is a dynamic force in a predominantly static sector.  Yet it knows where it came from and how it got from there to here.  And how it will get from here to where it’s going – the other ‘where’ – the one we’re interested in.  And the one the new corporate identity is about.   Let me show you two competitor’s logos”.

He held up a piece of foam board and angled it towards the camera.  The audience in the staff room leant in towards the telly to get a closer look.

“Good in their own ways.  Unique in their own ways.  But also identical in one key respect.  They’ve both got a lot of this.”

He pointed to the empty white space around each logo.

“They’re good as long as they last, but what’s all this space about.  They are fundamentally limited in so much as they occupy a given space and then end, leaving space that has to be filled by something else – something that isn’t necessarily part of the identity.  Thus we have an inevitable dilution of the brand.  We thought ‘isn’t it time for something better?’  So we slept on it.”

Martin felt it appropriate to release a short confirmatory hum at this moment to show that he was following – a sound that contributed to Valerie’s growing sense of isolation.

“These days if you’re not everywhere, you’re nowhere.  And the new identity reflects that.  We’ve designed the first logo that doesn’t end – ever.  Obvious really.”

His radio mike picked up a few homely shufflings as he bent down to pick a number of additional boards bearing artists impressions of the logo in action.

“Works across the range of media – brochures, bus sides, vans, petrol pumps, place mats, parking tickets, signage, helicopter pads, you name it.  You can use it anywhere as long as it doesn’t end.   Simple, beautiful, flexible.”

The camera zoomed in.  Rachel giggled.  Martin made another hum.  The creative arm re-hooked itself on the back of the chair and flapped its hand – the very same hand that had drawn the new logo – in casual dismissal of its obvious talent.

“It’s cool.”

The Creative’s vocabulary had obviously stopped growing at about the same time as his eyes.   The staff looked searchingly at each other for a moment to see if they’d missed something.

“What is?” whispered Rachel.

“The new logo,” said Martin.  “I like it.  It’s cool.”

“And how much did they spend on that?” said Valerie.  “Millions I bet.  It’s disgraceful…”

She was interrupted by the familiar voice of the much loved and trusted local telly presenter Bob Barrowback who Butternut had cunningly recruited to present the bank’s monthly Affable News video, on the grounds that it tricked staff into thinking they were watching something useful on a voluntary basis.  As Kenneth continually reminded Rupert, corporate video could have a strong influence on the week minded.

Affable News was a ‘magazine show’, the corporate video equivalent of a co-op sausage, full of various bits and pieces of dubious value, but all in all leaving you with a vaguely warm sense of satisfaction and well-being.  Providing you didn’t look too closely at the ingredients.

Bob, who was standing outside a farmyard for some reason, began to deliver his linking ‘piece-to-camera’:

“So there you have it.  Definitely distinctive”.  At this moment an inquisitive beaked face rose up above the wall behind the presenter and fixed its gaze on the camera.  Bob continued:

“But is it cool or - quite frankly – cobblers?  We asked some staff for their views.”  

He turned automatically towards a non-existent out-of-shot camera monitor to watch the feature.  The bird looked with him.  There was no monitor, just a ten foot deep reservoir of liquefied ostrich manure.  So, as the shot mixed to a series of genuine staff making genuine comments, they looked at that instead.

“I don’t know.  At first I thought – eh?  Then I thought Ummm.  Actually I quite like it.”

“No, it’s rubbish.  Definitely.  I could have done better myself.  No, definitely rubbish.”

“It is different, but there’s nothing wrong with that…”

 

Martin suddenly stiffened as a bucketful of arousal chemicals flushed through his lower body.  Debbie appeared on screen:

“It makes us all think a bit different.  Which isn’t a bad thing.  Yes, I think it’ll do well.”

“Hmm,” said Martin.

“What would she know,” said Valerie.

“Well, mixed views there then,” concluded Bob, clearly satisfied with this representative cross section of public opinion.   

“All staff will soon get a look at the new corporate identity when the corporate wardrobe is rolled out to branches as from the beginning of next month.  Now, the more observant of you might have noticed this fella.”

The bird eyed him suspiciously as he opened the gate and entered the yard, followed closely by the camera.  “Not perhaps what you’d expect to see on your average day out in the Yorkshire Dales.”

As he approached, the creature lowered its head like a silent hydraulic python until it attained roughly the height of Bob’s crotch where it hovered with gyroscopic precision. 

“Recent fears over the safety of beef has meant that many farmers have been forced to diversify into so-called power poultry – oh you sod!”

“Brilliant, he had that coming,” said Lynn, wondering what any of this had to do even remotely with modern banking.  “Silly old sod.”

“Easy boy, easy,” said a man wearing high green wellington boots who waded in to calm the bird.  “That’s it, he means thi no arm.”

“Thank you John.”  Bob struggled for a moment to regain his composure.  He wasn’t certain, but he thought he may have sprung a leak in the area of his groin.  He’d better complete the interview quickly before any deflation became apparent.

“Feisty things aren’t they.”

“I, tha don’t like streangers.”

Bob turned to the camera.  “We’ve come to Middletop Farm today to meet some rather unusual business customers, John and Agnus Thwaites … is that my wallet it’s got there?”

“I, dare say.”

“Do you think it might like to give it back?”

“Apan I, apan not.  Thal avta wait ‘n’ see.”

“Now Mr Thwaites, quite a change from cows and sheep eh?”

“I, thav brains on ‘em.”

“Honestly,” said Rachel.  “Come back Rod Hull all is forgiven.”

“That was an emu,” said Martin.

“Honestly, what’s the chuffing difference?”

“I’d say about ten thousand miles.”

“Eh?”

“Come in lass so’as thi can si thi,” said Mr Thwaites hauling his wife into shot by the end of the canvas sack tied round here waste.

“Now I understand that you’ve given them all names, is that right?”  Bob instinctively leant towards her as her head scarf twitched a barely audible response.

“I, that uns Clark.  The one that’s counting tha money.”  Bob’s wallet lay gaping on the yard floor, the bird daintily plucking out each note and laying them side by side in the muck.

“Don’t tha worry.  It’ll clean up apen,” said Mr Thwaites, now choosing to shield his wife from any further media attention.  “Thal after be mixin’ feed lass.  Off tha go.”

“Well let’s hope so,” said Bob feigning good humour.  He loved money and hated excrement.  This was his nightmare scenario but, like the consummate professional he was, he rose above it.  “Well, earlier on we visited the Thwaites’ branch in Back O Le Moor to get a taste of life in the Bank’s smallest and oldest rural outpost…”

The bank staff were arranged in ascending order in front of an antique counter, like three full time and two part time Russian dolls.  Their rosy cheeks and generally ruddy complexions evoked warming broths consumed in Windsor backed chairs on stone flags – possibly with one or more hounds present.  Martin was amazed that anybody working for the Bank could look that healthy.

“I wish I worked there,” said Valerie.  “I think it’s really good that they’re keeping it going.”

“What, for the sake of half a dozen yokels with sod all money – get real,” said Martin.

“Well they ought to let things be if you ask me.”

“Well don’t worry because they won’t.”

“What, let it stay open?”

“No, ask you.”

“Don’t let’s forget,” said Malcolm, approaching from the kitchen area with a tray of steaming mugs, “that a Bank is made up of people.  Customers want staff who they know, who are local, who they can identify with.  People don’t want to be served by robots and computers.”

“What, like cash points you mean?” said Martin. “Those things that eighty percent of the customer base are now happy to use on a regular basis according to the magazine.”

“Never take your eyes off that last twenty percent Martin, as my manager always used to say.  It’s that twenty percent that gives us the edge over the competition.”

“What’s the point of customers that actually cost you money,” said Martin.  “Let the competition have them.  Look, they’re all old gits carrying out high volume, low value transactions that it costs the Bank a fortune to service, with no foreseeable up-sell opportunities.  Give it another ten years and they’ll all be dead anyway.  So we need to start restructuring now to prepare ourselves for the future market.”

“Shut up Martin – we’re missing it,” said Valerie, supported by assorted objections from around the room.

“You certainly are…” mumbled Martin under his breath.

“Now, from here in the Bank’s traditional heartland we go across to Head Office to see how the future’s shaping up.  Jane.”

“Yes, that’s right Bob.”  Jane weaved towards the camera through an open plan office.

  

Martin noticed that, as usual, she seemed to be wearing nothing under her jacket.  Why did female presenters do that – or rather, not do that?  A non-presenting person would always wear something underneath wouldn’t it?   There was always that vaguely promising - but ultimately unrewarding - inverted triangle above the top button, well powdered to avoid reflective sweat parches.  But that wasn’t the only odd thing about presenters.  He’d met Jane and Bob on several occasions during his esteemed corporate video career and was always taken aback by how big they were.  It was as if they’d learnt to puff themselves up on-demand to compensate for the diminishing effect of the TV camera.  An effect which rendered any averagely proportioned human being a televisual non-event.

“You may remember in last month’s programme we featured the brand new Future Proof project.”  A numb-looking individual positioned on the edge of a desk eyed her with the grim acceptance of a snared antelope observing an approaching she-lion.  

“Well, now the team is fully up and running I’ve come to meet Executive Imagineer Anthony Woodhead to find out how they’re doing.  Anthony, hi.”

“Hi, good to meet you J.” 

“I’m sure a lot of people watching this will be wondering what an Imagineer actually does.  As you’re an executive one, perhaps you can explain.”

“Sure.”  He shuffled slightly to give his buttocks a better purchase on the desk edge. “You got your engineer who casts the iron and lays the rails.  They know how wide apart they have to go and how well supported to carry the kinda weight they need to.”

Valerie blinked around the room but nobody else looked as confused as she felt.

“But hey, we don’t want to be dropping iron all the way up some canyon if there’s no way out at the top right?  Or perhaps there’s a bunch of really cool new places that we might want to go to that no one’s thought about – and that’s where Imagineers come in.   I guess you’d say we focus technology to lever maximum business advantage.”

“So you’re from a public transport background?”

“No, the railroad thing was a figuration, right?  See, I kinda like to look at it this way.  In the beginning there was God – and he was cool.  So he creates lots of real cool stuff – light, water, land, men, women, snakes – and he says ‘that’s cool but I’ve kinda had enough.  You guys go and make something new outa this stuff.  It’s your show now’.  Bring on the Imagineers.  That’s what we do.”

“Is it me?” said Valerie.  “Where do they find these people?”

Martin didn’t reply.  He leaned closer to the TV and felt the flickering pixels scan and probe his pale features.  He didn’t know where they found brilliant people like this.  But he did know that the next time they came looking he’d be there.

“Can you sit back Martin, I can’t see.”

His time was coming.

“Sit back Martin love,” said Lynn. “Put your glasses on if you can’t see properly.”

The light licked, tasted, sampled.  He sat back.  They’d soon be back for more.  He knew that.

“… so we’re working towards a series of short to mid term deliverables based upon our initial analysis.”

Jane nodded vacantly as she mentally prepared her next question.

“And staff are going to see a lot more of you and your team.  Is that right?”

“That’s right.  Operational reality will be factored into our recommendations.  And we’re gonna get that by looking closely at the primary consumer interface.”

“That means branches, yes?”

“Sure, if that’s what you guys are calling them.”

“So you’ll be working closely with branch staff.”

“Close is right.  There ain’t gonna be nothing those guys do that we ain’t gonna know about.  Take a slash and we’ll be right there watching.”

A shiver ran down Valerie’s spine.  It sounded very claustrophobic.

“Sounds close,” said Jane.

“Sure thing.  There ain’t gonna be nothing that those guys do that we ain’t gonna get into.  Look real close at.  Spit in the street – guess who you’re gonna hit?”

“Thank you for speaking to us Anthony.  Now for a round up of some other things to look out for over the coming months, it’s time for our regular Watch This Space feature.”

Watch watch….watch watch watch….watch watch…watch watch this spaaaaaaaaaaaace.

“They’d better not come here,” said Rachel, who routinely spent protracted periods of time in the toilet to escape from the branch’s few remaining laterally thinking customers.

“No it’s a great opportunity,” said Debbie as she entered the staff room and sat down beside Martin.  Wonderfully.

“You’re right,” he said, punching the words through the bubble of ecstasy that he suddenly found himself floating in.  “Sounds like a great guy.  Just what we need.”

“He is, he really is,” said Debbie.  “A really nice guy too.”  Martin suddenly didn’t think so.  Why did women always insist on talking affectionately in his presence about men that weren’t him?   It’d be okay if some woman, somewhere, was saying something nice about him in the presence of some other jealous male individual.  But somehow he suspected that wasn’t happening.

“He’s actually a real luvie when you get to now him,” Debbie continued, transmitting on that woman-to-woman frequency intended to exclude and/or infuriate male receivers.  As such, the likes of Martin weren’t able to respond positively without casting doubts on their own sexual orientation, or provoking a response along the lines of ‘what the hell would you know you’re only a man.’

“Yes, seems like a nice guy,” he said.  He could almost see Debbie consciously over-riding her default ‘what the hell would you know you’re only a man’ response.

“Yes,” she said instead.  “You’d get on really well.”

Watch watch…watchwatchwatch…

“Group Resources are finalising plans for an exciting new training programme to help staff deal with the threat of the armed bank raid, giving them the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to actually take part in a real armed raid.”

Watch watch…watchwatchwatch…

Familiar drab images of closed-circuit people with cubist faces gave way to happy looking people in expensive sportsware, cavorting in the sunshine with their golf clubs, tennis rackets and, after suddenly developing strange white noses, on skis and snow boards.   

“And finally, ever feel like life’s passing you by?  That the pressures of work and family mean that you simply don’t have the time to do what you really love to do, to develop that talent, to hone those skills that could make your life truly satisfying and – who knows – even bring you fame and fortune?”

A coat tailed figure sensually massaged the keyboard of a piano made by somebody whose first name was Stein; a handsome chef put in a pyrotechnic performance with a bottle of strong spirit and a Bunsen burner while barking orders at his army of scurrying under-cooks…

“Are you a bottled up Beethoven?  Or a Pierre White waiting to happen?  Is there something you’ve always wanted to be?  Well you ARE now, thanks to Accelerated Resource Enhancement soon to be made available as part of the Bank’s ground breaking new back office computer system.  Yes, that’s right!  The Bank will soon be offering all staff the opportunity to make up for lost time and actually become good at something – overnight!”

this spaaaaaaace…….this spaaaaaaaace!

How nice, thought Valerie.  Perhaps this was the opportunity she’d been waiting for to develop her picnicking skills.  She’d been a closet picnicker for years, having picnics quietly to herself in her backyard.  She used to picnic quite openly before Tupperware lost its appeal with the great picnicking public and upstairs at Burger King took over as the favoured out-and-about meal venue.   She wasn’t too bothered.  Picnicking would have its day again – just as walking sticks had come back, albeit disguised as walking ‘poles’.

“You’ve worked with him before then?” Martin asked Debbie, still ruminating on her reaction to the sweet-talking American.

“Oh yes, we go back a long way.  We met in the States.”

The States.  They must have driven down tree-lined boulevards in a turquoise open top car with white tyres and a rock and roll sound track.  She’d have been wearing a yellow cardigan draped round her shoulders, him a black leather jacket.  They’d have parked at the drive in and cuddled under the stars as the camera rose above the trees to reveal the twinkling lights of the city beyond.  Police sirens, car horns, steaming manholes and neon.  They would have kissed and dreamt of an empty white timber house with polished wooden floors next to a lake. 

“Cool,” Martin said.  “Spent much time Stateside?”

“No, not at all.  Just a few visits to see friends.  I’m lucky if I get there once a year these days.”

“Yeh, know the feeling.”  He did, he knew what it felt like to want to go to the States.  But for him it would be the first time.  The world seemed to be divided into two kinds of people; those who had been to the States and those who hadn’t.  Just like his sixth form had been divided into those who had had sex and those who hadn’t, and possibly those who hadn’t but pretended they had.  Martin always seemed to be on the wrong side of such divides.

The video finished and he was called upon to execute the highly specialised task of removing the cassette and slotting it back into its cardboard case.

Debbie stood up and took up position in front of the mirror, pulling down her skirt a tad more self-consciously than usual.  Now that Martin got a good look at here she did look a bit different.  She was herself, but somehow more so.  Her heels seemed a little higher, her skirt a little shorter, her lips a little shinier.  While Martin studied her, the others prayed silently that she wasn’t going to make them play another game.  Luckily, as far as they could she didn’t seem to have a bell secreted about her person.

“Hello everybody.  I’ve got a bit of a surprise for you all.  But before we get onto that has anybody got any questions about the video?”

“Emu or Ostrich?” asked Rachel.

“Eh?”

“That bird at the beginning.  What was it?”

“Oh you mean Clark.  He’s an Ostrich.  Definitely.  A bit of a cutie actually.”  

Martin suddenly felt a lot better.  If her affections extended to flightless bipeds perhaps there was hope after all. 

“You’ve worked with him before then?” he asked her, daring her to say she’d met him in the States too. 

“In the early days, but I don’t have much to….”  She stopped herself short.  Had any of the others been watching her face as intently as Martin they too would have noticed a sudden influx of blood to her cheeks and neck.  Martin wasn’t sure how to read this.  Was there a kind of person who felt sexually inclined towards feathered creatures?  And was she one?  Or, even more dreadful, did she use to work on an Ostrich farm in Back O Le Moor?

“Okay, well if that’s all the questions done we’ll move on.  Now, I’m going to need a volunteer.”  It was the turn of everyone else to blush, this time with fear.  Valerie felt her sinuses suddenly clog with lead and her vision blur.  She felt like she was going to pass out or be sick.  Or both.  Any moment now she was going to get plunged into a roll play scenario that would turn her inside out and give Martin the opportunity to say something vicious.

Debbie swiveled on her heal as she scanned the trembling onlookers.  “Am I going to have to choose someone?”  Martin pointed his face at her and raised an eyebrow to signal his readiness.  Valerie summonsed just enough coordination to remove the tissue from her sleeve.  Not me, she prayed into it.  Please no.  It was like the Saturday night lottery draw in reverse.

“Valerie.  You’ll do.”

If there was a God, and he was indeed merciful, would he mind striking her down right now.  If it were a straight choice between endless teeth gnashing in the eternal fires of hell and organised role play she’d take the teeth gnashing, any day.

“Cheer up Valerie love.  It’s something nice.”

What? Had she got away with twenty lashes instead?  Or perhaps she was merely to be keel hauled or fastened in a sack with a serpent and cockerel and dropped into the deepest available ocean.  Anything but the role play.

“As I said, I’ve got a surprise for you all.  And that is that Mytholmroyd has been selected to be the first branch to wear the new uniform.  And you, Valerie, will be the first person to go to Head Office to be measured up and receive your new outfit.  Isn’t that nice?”

Debbie was suddenly gripped by a strange hysteria and put one hand to her mouth to scream behind, the other flapping uncontrollably as if she’d just swallowed a hot coal.  This was behavior Martin had seen before on the telly when a female contestant wins a holiday, a makeover or perhaps a husband.  A good proportion of the other women in the room cottoned on immediately and screamed and flapped too.  Valerie didn’t, busily coming to terms with her new-found freedom.  A trip to Leeds to be measured up and try on some new clothes which she wouldn’t have to pay for.  That sounded really quite acceptable.  Martin wouldn’t be there – would he?

“What, just me?”

“Yep, just you .  You’re very lucky, you’ll be the first.  Then everybody else will go.  I think they’re going to take a picture of you too for Branch Banter, so that’ll be nice too.”

Yes.  That would be nice.  She was good at wearing new clothes.  It looked like the Bank had finally come round to seeing her for what she was and building on her individual strengths and nuances instead of continually exposing her weaknesses.  What would be next?  Perhaps they’d take her up on the Business Picnic idea she’d dropped in the staff suggestion box.  Things were looking up.