Half Plus Seven (4 page)

• ‘A heads-up' –
  To make aware of, sometimes implying some kind of inside information. As in, ‘Pete, I want to give you a heads-up on the Workington account before we meet that slimy fucker Mathison.'
  
• ‘A sit-down' –
  A meeting, most likely stolen from Italian American Mafia language. As in, ‘We need a sit-down to run through the invoicing for the consumer division, Carol. Capiche?'
  
• ‘A touch-base' –
  Again a meeting, but quicker and less formal than a sit-down. As in, ‘Can we touch-base on the Cutler and Noble campaign? Time to get me up to speed, Jill.'
  
• ‘The skinny' –
  The most-up-to-date information. Appropriated from some bullshit American TV show mostly by the skirt in the office, but increasingly used by the sad, greying men in an attempt to seem with it. As in, ‘Yo guys, what's the skinny on the social media strategy?'
  
• ‘Radar' –
  People's in-head to-do lists. As in, ‘Get that feature off my fucking radar before I tie your hands and feet together, stick a pencil up your arse and force feed you ten million malnourished woodworm.'
  
• ‘Sprinkle our magic' –
  To add our creative touch to an otherwise mundane situation. Drugs and alcohol sometimes help. As in, ‘I think it's time we sprinkled our magic on this eye-wateringly dull creative. Does anyone have a 50 pound note?'
  
• ‘Cradle-to-grave strategy' –
  A plan to take as much money off the helpless bozos from the moment they first sit down in our office to the end of eternity. As in, ‘We need a cradle-to-grave strategy for this new cider. One that's so to-grave that in the event of a nuclear holocaust all that's left is cockroaches, herpes and this fucking money-making plan.'
  
• ‘Drill down' –
  To get to the heart of the matter, or sometimes the soles of the feet. As in, ‘Let's drill down to who this fake-titted fame-hungry whore really is. I mean, does she have like a disabled sibling or some other redeeming feature?'
  
• ‘Idea showers' –
  Gatherings of two people or more, where minds are dumped, random thoughts shouted out and big ideas talked through. Also a window into the frankly frightening minds of the other fucks you worked with. As in, ‘Right everyone, let's schedule in an idea shower for 10 a.m. on this new crisp. They're not fried, remember. Baked. Baked. Thoughts around that please. Jean, can you get some
  pain au chocolats
  in? We're gonna really go for it.'
  
• ‘Strategic staircases' –
  Plans which moved incrementally towards their conclusion. Often had the effect of making you want to throw aforementioned strategist down a very real and very hard staircase. As in, ‘It's time to lay down a strategic staircase for the Weyermakers, team. Like, now.'
  
• ‘Going forward' –
  In the future. One of the more annoying turns-of-phrase. As in, what would happen anyway if you just sat at your desk with your pants around your ankles playing ‘La Marseillaise' on a kazoo. As in, ‘What's our plan for the transport arm of the business, going forward?' (Go on, take it out and read the sentence again. It makes no fucking difference does it?)
  
• ‘Get our ducks in a row' –
  To systematically organise our ideas, or ensure everything was in place for success. As in, ‘We need to get our ducks in a row for this Arab sheikh before he gets on his camel and fucks off to the next loose-moralled agency.' No animals are harmed in the delivery of this phrase.
  
• ‘Stop the grass growing long' –
  To avoid having lights go out on inspirational moments by actually actioning things as opposed to just throwing a ball against the wall all day shouting out buzz words just loud enough to grab the attention of the new intern over in the events team. As in, ‘We've got to stop the grass growing long on the idea to get the CEO to adopt an autistic ethnic kid for the week.'
  
• ‘Low-hanging fruit' –
  An easy win, a no sweat solution. As in, ‘Let's snaffle up the low-hanging fruit for this new client to keep 'em sweet before getting knee deep into the real problem.'
  

Yep, we'd pretty regularly litter sentences with this shit. We probably should have struck up a deal with Linguaphone to induct and indoctrinate new starters. Untainted souls who could have escaped there and then and instead devoted their lives to charity work, health care or scrubbing toilets. Anything to make a tangible difference.

So now you've got the skinny on the bullshit we said, it's worth you knowing how we bullshitted. You know, the tricks of the trade. Now, I don't mean how to knock out some killer copy or how to write a snazzy headline or how to get the best table at The Ritz without reserving. What I'm talking about are cerebral sleights, the mental manipulation that every good message-pusher used to ensure it was their way or the highway.

There were six basic steps we used which could convince people into doing anything you so desired. The beauty was in their simplicity. They were as old as time. To pass the days we'd even bet each other we could soft-arm some sucker into doing something. Anything. When there was a round of drinks riding on it, it was amazing what some of us would do. Me especially. Right, okay.

1. Reciprocation –
   Now this was Old Testament stuff; an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Or a corporate golf day for a six month campaign. Backstage at a Madonna concert for a re-launch strategy. Front row for
   Les Mis
   for some global repositioning. A three-gin lunch for a double page spread. If we scratched their backs, they'd scratch ours right back. Even when their backs weren't itchy. It was beautiful. Go on, do something nice for the next person you see. I'd bet my last bean they'll do something nice back for you within the week. It's how they're wired.
   
2. Consistency
   –
   Got a gym membership? When was the last time you went? A while back, huh? I bet you plucked up all your courage to go. Talked yourself in and out and in of it a million times. Got on the same treadmill you had six months before. And got the fuck out of there before anyone realised how out of place you were. You didn't cancel your membership though, did you? Oh no. Because, if anyone asks, you're a member of the gym and you go as often as you can which isn't enough but you've had a busy few months and you'll always be a member as you're a consistent human being. Not boring enough to set your watch by, but certainly not erratic enough to appear unstable or untrustworthy. ‘Well, this idea worked last quarter two, Mr Henderson. You thought it was a great idea then…' We'd wheel out the same shit year after year to our committed consistent customers. To change their mind would admit some earlier error of judgement on their part. And no one likes to admit they were wrong. We rarely even had to assemble the box, let alone think outside it.
   
3. Social proof –
   How many times have you found yourself in a huge queue for a nightclub? Everyone dolled up to the nines, faces tight with anticipation at what beholds them beyond the 'roided up coke-buckets on the door. Shiny shoes tip-tapping the floor. Cigarettes being burnt down to the tip. Chit-chat-chattering. Nervous almost. Why the fuck are these people itching to get inside? Because there's a big queue, that's why. Because every other hedonist in town wants to get in there. So you do too. Because it must be good tonight. Because it's one-in one-out. What do these people know? I want to know too. Let me in for fuck's sake! You needn't have bothered. It's not Studio 54, it's called Rumours. And it's shit. We pulled this trick on the unsuspecting all the time. We'd organise lunches where hot leads would sit next to stool pigeons who'd tell them how their lives had been infinitely better since they started working with us. You know, how their business had grown, their shareholders were happy, their wives could come, that kind of thing. Once they had it from the horse's mouth, they were just dying to sign up. I mean, everyone else is doing it, right?
   
4. Liking –
   To be honest, this one even made me a little bit sick. We had a whole room full of monkeys whose job it was to socially profile our potential paymasters. We're talking anyone from FTSE 100s to leggy 6-stoners. We called it ‘Department Delve' or DD for short. No stone was left uncovered. They'd search microfilms at the library. Take a fine-tooth comb to Companies House records. Track down old college room-mates. Bribe ex-lovers. Sometimes we'd bring in Private Dicks if we needed to, but hell, I think they were more ethical than some of the nosey fucks who worked in DD. By the time one of the account team was ready for the first contact, we had more prep than The Hamptons in holiday season. We'd like their football team. Our grandmas were from the same town. We took two weeks in the same château. If they were Tom Ripley, we were Tom Ripley too. Basically, we became their kind of people. And who didn't want to work with their kind of people?
   
5. Authority –
   Everybody likes to have a friend in the know. Someone who had their fingernails under the phoney veneer of life and peeled it back for them every now and again to let them in on the big secret. Mostly so they could relay that information to their even more sheltered friends, thus becoming the Oracle of their own circle. And repeat. Until everybody knew what nobody had known and a new, even darker secret had to be constructed. We didn't just whisper those secrets. Without us there'd be no pursed lips. Clients lapped it up. The best bet was to take a newspaper to a meeting and casually flick through it. While on first impression this seemed rude, when the clown opposite cottoned onto what you were doing, they were entranced. ‘One of ours, another, oh, this one's placed by Shalter Wyverne, one of ours… see this story here, Mr Phillips? Dad of the Year, my hairy arse. Now if I tell you this, you've got to promise to keep it to yourself, trade secret, see… okay, I can trust
   you
   , I can tell… see this shitty Superpops celebrity? Well I know for a fact he's been fucking his make-up boy for the past six months. When I say boy, I mean boy, if you catch my drift? And this whole cover-up campaign where he's being pictured at every god-damned amusement park in the country with his, let's be honest with each other, butt-ugly kids, has been quite, quite beautiful.' They loved hearing shit like this. Share your authority with them. Make them authorities too. When they'd wound their jaw back up enough to spill it they were back for more. And as soon as they entered your peripheral vision, the clock started ticking. And what was time? Money, my friends; dirty, filthy, beautiful money.
   
6. Scarcity –
   No girl ever put out when you gave them your first Rolo. In the desirability stakes, less was most definitely more. And so it was in our world. We'd tell them we'd love to get them that Platinum Diner's Card, that holiday home, that better life they'd always dreamt of, but there were only so many hours in the day. So they'd just have to wait. Unless they wanted to speak to our accounts department who we were sure could help them out on a favourable rate for those minimal hours. Higher than usual of course, as they were so few and far between at present. But favourable all the same. They always asked to be transferred. Of course they did.
   

As I said before, it wasn't their fault, they were wired like it. The brain had these default settings it whirred to when someone like us wafted the mental equivalent of a tasty pie underneath it. It had to. There was too much else to think about. Super size, interest free, soy, skinny, decaf, support packages, gold rates. People needed a short-cut where they could get it. And we exploited the shit out of it.

This stuff depressed the hell out of me.

Chapter 5

‘Do you love me?'

Silence.

And then. The reply.

‘I'm in love with the idea of you.'

That had been if not the beginning of the end, then the end of the beginning. We'd got together in a whirlwind of youthful freedom, cheap alcohol and the flexibility of the timetable of a Bachelor of Arts degree. The first time away from home was, for both of us, a chance for reinvention, half-read novels and sexual exploration. I fucked more times in the first week we'd known each other than I had in my previous 18 years of existence. Sure, I'd come a lot, but generally at my own hand. Absent parents and satellite television gave the teenage boy if not the predilection per se, then certainly the opportunity to enjoy it with a bon viveur not granted to all. And don't get me wrong, I had fucked before, just never in the casual-yawning-oh-it's-just-another-fuck kind of way. The previous times when girls had been kind enough to let me stick it in them had been ingrained like Kennedy assassination moments.

The first time was memorable if for nothing other than it being the opening notch on the post. I'd started dating a girl in the year below me at school. The girls in my year wouldn't look at me once, let alone twice, so I set my sights on the nubile things of Year 10. Innocent, mysterious, and best of all ignorant to the fact I was a social retard. Well, at least until I opened my mouth. Which didn't seem to matter for Laura Stanton, who, when she wasn't shoplifting mascara, was actually a very sweet young girl. Or so I'd assumed. She was the only one who'd ever spoken back to me. About nothing in particular you know. How many fags we'd smoked that day. How many gigs we'd been to. How we'd watched loads of 18-rated films. And with my age advantage, I had a whole 12 months more to bullshit my way to some form of twisted teenage desirability. The girls in my year would never have believed me.

While Laura's parents sat in the lounge watching soap operas most weekday evenings, little did they know of the drama unfolding in the back room. We'd heavy-petted for months under the guise of my schooling their middle-born child on the whys and wherefores of GSCE German. When The Stantons, or Ralph and Val to me by then, finally did leave the house for the first time since their honeymoon for lasagne twice at the local Trattoria, the sexual encounter that took place in their two-up two-down wasn't pornographic, but awkward, embarrassing and over before we knew it. But the fact that it was over meant it had begun and the fact that it had begun meant that it had happened and I was off the mark and no longer a virgin and a man of the fucking world.