Getting on my goat
I recently planted an exotic Chilean shrub in my garden. It grows to about 2m in height and develops enormous spines that, in its natural habitat, often impale short-sighted mountain goats and turn them into an excellent compost. I call him Spike. My cat-loving neighbours have called the RSPCA.
Spike is my all time advertising hero (Charles Saatchi runs him a close second, but he’s less frost resistant). Whenever I sit down to write an advert I think about what Spike would do if he were in my position. Obviously Spike wouldn’t do anything. He’s a plant. Why the hell would he be writing an advert? At best he makes an adequate coat rack.
It’s at this point I usually leave my desk and head to the only window that actually opens in our office and breathe in the cool, methane-based fumes of Manchester. I then return to my desk and remember why I was thinking about a plant that recently gave Mr Tiddles a rather nasty, but completely deserved, flesh wound.
In essence Spike does what every good advert should. First of all he attracts attention to himself with a wonderful display of flowers and pungent aromas – think of this as the design and strapline of the advert. Our myopic mountain goat1 is hypnotised into finding out more and, without thinking, plunges headlong into the foliage.
Before the bovine innocent knows what has happened it has a large spear through its guts and a surprised look on its beardy little face. This is the convincing body text that gets right to the heart of the reader’s needs. Finally, the goat gives a sad little bleat and realises that it can’t get away and it might as well die and become compost. This is the call to action and making the sale. I’m not sure where the compost comes into it.
What I’m saying here is that advertising business is just like nature – red in tooth and claw. And full of vegetables. You’re always looking to attract and kill as many goats as possible with your work. You’re a killer or you’re nothing in this jungle of consumerism.
Sadly many adverts are not a powerful and dangerous as Spike at all, but limp petunias that couldn’t even attract a starving slug with a petunia fetish. A few are like the South African Stink Orchid – pretty on the surface but smellier than a postman’s socks when you get close to them. NatWest’s friendly banking adverts are in a special category of their own that involves a manure heap, a large can of kerosene and a well struck match.
I realise this all sounds very macho, but we have to make up for the fact that most of the people in our business are weedy looking guys (and girls) in Iron Maiden T-shirts who spend their evenings playing World of Warcraft, Let’s face it you’re unlikely to hire Kevin the Kissing Copywriter to strip at your hen party. Writing copy is the closest I come to having any chance in a fight whatsoever.
It’s only fair that I leave the last word to Spike. But Spike can’t speak. He’s a plant. Did I mention that?
1This article also applies to sheep, caribou and mouflons. Anything you might find halfway up a Chiliean mountain.
