“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.
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.