Staying Alive. Matt Beaumont

      I should be, shouldn’t I? Advertising is one of the more stressful businesses. At least, that’s what everyone in advertising would have you believe. Maybe it is if you have to make knife-edge decisions about the fate of multi-million-pound marketing budgets, but I don’t do that…I lurk around freezer displays with a digital camera.

      It wasn’t always so. There was a time when I lived on an adrenal diet of tension. It lasted for about six months. I was an account supervisor in the fast lane, whizzing past blue and white signs pointing me in the direction of Rapid Promotion and Big Corner Office. It couldn’t last. After its initial rubberburning burst of speed, my career stalled. I’m languishing on the hard shoulder now, watching younger models scoot by in a blur of alloy wheels. I’m only thirty-one and they’re not that much younger, but life spans in adland are measured in months, not years. Strangely, while this state of affairs depresses me, it doesn’t stress me out.

      ‘No,’ I tell Stump, ‘I’m not stressed. Generally.’

      ‘Testicular cancer is the commonest form of the disease in young men, you know,’ he says, leaning back in his chair and ignoring me sinking in mine. ‘Having said that, it’s almost certainly not cancer. One big testicular clinic saw over two thousand lumps in a year. Less than a hundred of them were cancers. Incredible, eh? There are testicular clinics. Fancy that. Outposts of the NHS that examine nothing but balls.’ He’s rambling and I’m not feeling comforted.

      ‘If it isn’t cancer, what is it?’ I ask.

      ‘Could be any number of things,’ he replies vaguely.

      I need some help here. ‘Like?’

      Seems he needs help too because he leans over to a pile of books on the floor and examines the titles. After a moment he pulls one from the middle, a big, dusty softback that looks as if it hasn’t had its spine bent in years. ‘Wonderful book, this. Excellent pictures,’ he says, flicking through the pages. He stops, peers at the print for a moment, then reads, ‘“Testicular swellings commonly misdiagnosed as tumours”…Blah, blah…“Seminal granuloma, chronic epididymo-orchitis, haematocele” and so on and so forth…See? Any number of things.’

      All of which are not only unpronounceable but also pull off the difficult feat of sounding more terrifying than cancer.

      ‘I’m going to refer you to Saint Matthew’s,’ he says.

      ‘The cancer bit of Saint Matthew’s?’ I whisper.

      ‘Heavens, no. They’d try to have me struck off for wasting their time. You’ll see a general surgeon. Maybe a urologist.’

      What’s a urologist? He’s not going to tell me and I’m not about to ask.

      ‘You’ll get an appointment within the next couple of weeks—try and keep it. And cut out the cigarettes. Ridiculous habit.’ To emphasise the point he launches into a fresh fit of coughing.

      ‘I don’t smoke,’ I remind him.

      ‘Well, better not start,’ he says through the hacks.

      I scrape my chair back—I think we’re done. ‘You really shouldn’t worry unduly,’ he says as I stand up. He manages to sound annoyed rather than soothing, as if what he’d really like to say is Pull yourself together, man.

      I look at my watch: nine thirty-five. Sorry, doctor, but I should worry. Niall Haye is big on two things—store checks and punctuality—and I’m very late.

      11.03 a.m.

      Niall Haye is big on three things: store checks, punctuality and contact reports. When I arrived at my desk and checked my e-mail there were seven from Haye. Seven times he demanded to know the whereabouts of a contact report. Fair enough. It is a week overdue. I’m typing it now.

       [email protected]

      to: [email protected]

      [email protected] [email protected] [email protected]

      cc: [email protected]

      [email protected]

      re: Contact Report No. 37

Brand Group Meeting:	23 October
Venue:	Blower Mann/DBA
Present for client:	Gerhard Breitmar, Sally Gilhooley, Betina Tofting
Present for agency:	Niall Haye, Murray Colin

      Despite having a potentially malignant growth on one of his testicles, plucky Murray Colin took the client through the results of his store checks. There were general oohs and aahs of appreciation and it was unanimously agreed that there is no one better at shooting in tricky supermarket lighting conditions.

      Niall Haye presented draft 27 of the ChocoChillout script. There was much discussion about whether the voiceover should read ‘a sensuously silky taste adventure’ or ‘a silkily sensuous adventure in taste’. After failing to reach a consensus, the group agreed to put the matter to research so that a bunch of housewives in Solihull can make the decision.

      (Action: NH)

      Niall Haye presented the launch media plan. The chart (consisting of the usual Xs in boxes) was generally well received. Sally Gilhooley requested that the Xs in the central column be moved two columns to the left. Betina Tofting agreed, and further suggested that the X immediately below the X at the top right be moved to the box below. Gerhard Breitmar endorsed these proposals and added a request for the Xs in the extreme left-hand column to appear in red rather than blue. Murray Colin slept peacefully.

      (Action: nobody—on the basis that in two days’ time no one would remember what anyone else had said and that, besides, all the Xs could be put in a very big hat, shaken vigorously about and tipped in a heap on the floor, where they would make the same amount of bloody sense.)

      Before the meeting broke up Niall Haye invited Gerhard Breitmar to climb onto the table, lower his trousers, kneel on all fours and have his strapping Hunnish behind peppered with kisses by the account team.

      Murray Colin

      Account Supervisor

      I click send…But only after I’ve completely rewritten it to make it as dull and harmless as every other contact report I’ve ever written. My hand goes into my trouser pocket and touches the lump. Thankfully, an incoming e-mail takes my mind off it.

       [email protected]

      to: [email protected]

      cc:

      re: love your contact reports…

      …reading them always makes me thank my sweet lord jesus I wasn’t at the meeting. question: is a betina tofting a self-assembly dining table from ikea? another question: fancy buying me and vin bonfire beers tonight?

      Taken at face value it reads like the e-mail of a friend. I know better. Brett Topowlski is a copywriter. Vince Douglas is his art director. Together they are a creative team. I, on the other hand, am a suit. Creative teams do not buddy up with suits. We’re like the Bloods and the Crips. This is because, while it’s a creative’s job to come up with ideas that are out there, it’s a suit’s function to water them down until they’re as bland as every other ad on the box. ChocoChillout is the perfect case in point. Draft one was well out there and barely on the legal side of the Obscene Publications Act. Draft twenty-seven is wallpaper—and not even patterned, not even as interesting as, say, a magnolia-painted woodchip. Suits 1, Creatives 0.

      No, Brett, Vince and I could never be true friends. They only want me for my access to expense-account beer. However, it doesn’t stop me being drawn