Chugg-off!

     Man:  "Five minutes of your time."

Woman:  "Don't bother."

     Man:  "I have fu*king bothered. What the fu*k are you going
               to do about it?"

Woman:  "I beg your pardon. Who do you work for?"

     Man:  "I'm not telling you, you fu*king stupid cow."

A scene from Shameless? Or dialogue from a gritty east end drama? Neither. The above is a verbatim record of an exchange I had with a non-branded chugger in the heart of Covent Garden last week. It's the second time I've encountered this vile, pathologically aggressive scouser and it was a carbon copy of the first.

Chuggers: Kagool-donning, clipboard-hugging, pedestrian-botherers, or people doing a worthy job in often difficult circumstances, depending on your point of view. They prefer the term F2F fundraisers (Face to Face), whereas I prefer the term 'tw*ts'. I'm one of the many who loathe them… with a passion.

They are intrusive - in your face - figuratively and very often literally. They leap in your path like deluded stalkers: in their world you are always happy to see them. They walk backwards while haranguing you, or skip crab-like as you continue to walk, and all the time they are delivering their piss-poor jokes, attempts at charm or whatever basic psychology they've been armed with by their masters.

They have no common sense. It's peeing down and I'm carrying lots of stuff plus an umbrella and the determination and sense of purpose betrayed by my gait would signal to a Bakewell tart that I need to get somewhere (not least out of the fecking rain) but the chugger-chumps see this as the perfect time to impede my progress with their buffoonery.

They employ dubious tactics when knocked-back. The anecdotes are legion, from the pathetic use of GCSE psychology to the downright wrong. "Do you know how many puppies will die now?" That from a dog charity chugger after a failed hijacking. Or "I bet you feel bad now" from a cancer charity chugger.

And their tactics are increasingly suspect. Chuggers 'working' for Shelter in Bristol recently boarded a commuter bus to 'work' the captive audience. This, understandably, resulted in many complaints from passengers, the bus company and the police, all of which resulted in Shelter having to make a very public apology on behalf of their 3rd party employees. If I had been on that bus they would have needed to run for shelter I can assure you. And can I just take a minute to say what a fabulous illustration of brand building and brand ambassadorship that was.

We all have the right to go about our business without being harassed. Some of them just do not take no for an answer, they follow you down the street in a totally befuddled belief that they are being ever so engaging. Villiers Street (which is adjacent to Charing Cross station and the conduit from Strand to Embankment tube) is like a magnet for them. It takes around three to four minutes to traverse the length of the street and yet last week I was accosted by no less than five chuggers within the time it took me to do so.

I, like many others, have developed strategies for dealing with them and these sit on a scale, which is in turn based on the levels of annoyance they cause and the obnoxiousness I encounter. Villiers Street is a good place to observe their tactics and the reactions they provoke. People crisscross the street in some strange dance of avoidance; they dart between pillars; pretend to be on the phone (not that that stops them) or find refuge in the shadow of PWC's entrance. Most ignore the chuggers' advances or if they do reply they are polite: "no thank you" and so on.

If asked for two minutes of my time I stop and then ask them for £5, explaining that my time is metered and they must pay for it like anyone else. Or I pretend to have a conversation with an invisible friend. But most of the time I say "don't bother". Much of the time I needn't say anything at all since I can be seen from space by dint of my hair and they now know me, so when they see me they step aside and I get to be Charlton Heston.

It's a totally disingenuous form of fundraising since many givers are ignorant of the commerce involved, namely that chuggers are paid workers, not volunteers. That the 1st year of their Direct Debit donation goes to the chugger agency and that the brands involved pay the agency a fee for every signature they secure. The BBC Newsnight investigative team discovered that in 2011 some 750,000 people gave their details and put their signatures on Direct Debit agreements, each one for an average donation of £90 per year. They also discovered that the average payment for each signature was £100 plus, the British Heart Foundation paid £136 per signature and Cancer Research UK £112, it also paid chugging agencies a whopping £3million that year.

No wonder they're so insistent given the moolah they're making, but the tide is turning. In Wolverhampton the council is to impose fines of up to £500 if chuggers are aggressive or hassle shoppers and complaints from shoppers and businesses in Islington have resulted in it being the first borough to start legal proceedings to ban them outright. Good.

The brands who employ these agents do so because they need repeat donations and they say that the monies these harpies accrue outweighs the cost to them. Presumably they think that the damage to their brand is worth it too as long as they get the money. It's hard to see it any other way. And Kate Swann allowed them to set up camp in WH Smith. Great idea. Spread the love. As if she didn’t have enough problems. I can say categorically that I will never, ever give money to any charity/brand employing these locusts.

The scouser chugger at the beginning of this post was un-bibbed or kagooled. It may have been under his civilian coat, or he may have removed it. The latter is the more sinister interpretation because as I said to the three policemen I bumped into shortly afterwards "I don't think I'm that special. I think it’s his MO." What I now know is that his behavior is actionable. In fact I have a very good understanding of the law in respect of chuggers. So they had better be careful, or they could find themselves contributing to my favorite charity...me.

Only Smarties have the answer...

That, more than a few of you will remember, was the tag line to the utterly brilliant ads which Robinson Lambie-Nairn created for Rowntree and the Smarties brand in the 80's. Today Smarties are 75 years old.


A couple of years ago, some spod who also didn't know his or her arse from their elbow changed the tube to a hexagon, citing stacking efficiencies as the main motivation.


Great. Whereas I used to ask for a tube of Smarties they now expect me to ask for a hexagon of the same. Never done it. Never going to either. In much the same way that I and thousands if not millions still ask for a Marathon and not Snickers.


How many kids have been taught to spell - probably their own names initially - by using the round alphabet tops? The hexagon move always seemed to me to be more about someone wanting to make their mark and if that's the case it was a rubbish one. A brand-diluting one. So you join Sherbert Fountain in making moves which totally destroy your heritage. Shame on you.


By way of celebration and for a limited period Smarties will appear in tubes once more. I smell a U-turn. Let's hope so, because only Smarties have the answer.


The orange ones are my favourite. What's yours? 

A spot of bother

Someone is in for the high jump. It's a racing certainty.

Last Saturday saw the introduction of a new 'jacket and tie' dress code for racegoers visiting the Premier enclosure at Ascot . Those deemed not to be appropriately attired were approached by officials, informed of their transgression and then branded, very visibly, with an orange sticky dot. This, they said, was a benevolent move to avoid their being repeatedly approached. Excellent! You pay £28 to escape the oiks in the main grandstand only to find yourself branded as one of the oiks in the posh bit. That's what I call a package: a day at the races, fashion advice, tangerine stigma and public humiliation - and all for just £28!

The choice of orange is an interesting one. Visible: yes. Unlikely to blend in with their outfit de jour: would have thought so. But surely, given that it's the Queen's gaff, the tenor of the place and the pen-portrait of the majority of the attendees, a red dot might have been more appropriate - much more in keeping with their socio-economic landscape.

But orange! Orange stickers are part of the vocabulary of ramshackle corner shops, pound stores, market stalls and those vaguely disturbing set-in-aspic petrol stations - the Ms Havishams' of the petroleum world - that one happens across on B roads. They might have gone the whole hog and overprinted them with the legend 'slight seconds' in pricing-gun bold. Or better still used black dots to identify the 'sartorially poxed'.

But it's ok though, because the Chief Executive of Ascot, Charles Barnett, has said that he's very, very sorry and it's cost him £28,000 to do so in the form of refunds for all 1,000 racegoers in the Premier enclosure on that day. That's the least of his worries.

It's all a bit of a mess since some years ago UK Horseracing decided that the sport needed to rebrand itself. It hired brand consultants and conducted research amongst the public and industry insiders. The findings were then presented as part of the launch of the resultant 'Racing for Change' strategy in 2009, to the many authorities, associations, course owners, jockeys and trainers who own and run the sport. The objectives were to convert "irregular" visitors to "regulars"; to broaden the appeal of racing; and to make it more affordable and entertaining. Ascot has managed only the latter.

Press and TV coverage has been widespread and non-stop ever since Saturday. So how many prospects unversed in the lore and etiquette of racing have been put off for fear of being branded 'not quite right'? How many are wondering if all racecourses are like Ascot ? How many of those branded on Saturday will never return? And how many have had their negative perceptions of racing made reality? Ascot - and by extension racing per se - has been branded a snobs paradise and an insensitive one at that, but then it does have previous: it banned fascinators only last week and divorcees were banned from the Premier enclosure until the mid-50's.

Dress codes, rituals, etiquette and traditions are part of the appeal of racing - indeed any sport, club or association. They offer a sense of otherness, ceremony, escape and belonging; albeit a temporary one. It's probable that none of those 'marked' on Saturday would have minded adhering to the new dress code had they known about it. But they didn't. And that's your fault, Ascot, not theirs. And it all seemed to be going relatively well with attendances up and so on. But now the horse has bolted and some would say that you've shown your true colours. You've marked your own card. 

It's a PR non-runner.

Brands maligned # 1. The telly.

Telly gets short shrift in some quarters. ‘Chewing gum for the eyes.' 'The cathode ray road to hell.' And so on.

I read with increased annoyance this weekend the self-aggrandising wittering of one Guardian journalist who after x years of banishing TV from his house had relented and bought a flat screen. His kids were ecstatic. Of course they were.

In my view, denying kids access to telly is tantermount to child abuse. Those who do it are not doing it for their kids’ sake; they do it for their own sakes. They imagine that they produce rounder and enriched children because of it when the reverse is true.

What they really do is disenfranchise their kids from the world they inhabit. Their kids are unable to partake in conversations - partake in playground chitty-chat about Dr. Who, Sherlock et al. They exist in a state of 'otherness' because of their parents' vaingloriousness. Their childrens' interests may not lie wholly within telly, but their understanding of the world they inhabit will be delayed and curtailed because they are denied access to it.

Telly is a great educator - passive or active. Rather like a physics lesson you had in 1973. You didn't think you were listening but somehow, somewhere, at a later date what you heard saves the day in some way.

Newspapers are littered with such stories. People are alive because someone saw something on Casualty. Or they saved their own life because of something they saw on CSI. Only today I read about a father who saved his son (10) who was waist-high in mud and sinking fast. He did so because they are in the habit of watching Bear Grylis together and it was something that dad saw and remembered that saved his son’s life.

I also have reason to thank telly. Some six years ago I was working with a client in my native Yorkshire. I'm a long-distance runner and my then daily route took me 7 miles away from base-camp through neighboring villages to the foot of a 1.4 winding mile-long road which led to a famous folly called Hoober Stand. At the base of it stood two cottages, one of which had a couple of huge and ferocious Alsatian guards dogs.

One morning, having reached their gate, they barked, snarled, frothed and butted the gate as usual. Only this time the gate sprung open and they both raced out and clamped their jaws around me - one on my right arm, the other on my left thigh.

They were trying to pull me onto the ground. I froze. I didn't know what to do, but I knew instinctively that if I let them drag me down I was a goner. I really, really thought that that was it. I was brown bread. It took every ounce of strength I had to remain upright. They ripped the arse out of my running shorts and shredded my vest.

And then, from nowhere, I remembered something I'd seen on telly. Part of a tourist safari group had become separated from their main group and found themselves surrounded by Lions. Their guide had told them to make as much noise as possible to scare them off. They did and they survived.

So I screamed. They let go and retreated slightly. I stopped and they resumed their attack. So I stood statue-like, saving my breath for the scream of my life. I screammmmmed and walked very, very, slowly for around 200 yards with them following, snarling and snapping until they stopped at the end of what I assume they considered to be their domain. I ran the remaining 7 miles back home and called the police. It went to court and the owner got his.

So never brand telly as a waste of time. It’s why I’m still here.

Knowing your arse from your elbow

Sometimes in brand-world people do stuff which, frankly, leaves you wondering if the lights are on? If they're the full shilling? Or if they've had their tea yet? Or, as they say ooop north, do they know their arse from their elbow?

Take Little Chef – a sprightly 54 year-old. Who hasn't made a pit stop at one of their outposts in their lifetime, or pulled into one of their highly convenient parking spaces so that you and your significant other, or Mater and Pater can have an orientation-based barney?

Bought in administration by RCapital in 2005, we now learn that they are to close 67 sites with 91 remaining. The reason for this sits with the owners: venture capitalists looking for a return, but seemingly without any real understanding of what they bought, or any real empathy with the product.

They first decide to change the iconic Little Chef logo, Charlie – obviously whilst under the collective dubious influences of the five-a-day hysteria and PC madness – to deliver a slimmed down version. So that he now resembles a chap who's been on the Dukan diet, but captured just before he lapses into a coma. It does happen. See today's Telegraph.

Many complained – 1500 to be exact. Some of which, doubtless, were serial complainants and others five-a-day zealots. But many, I'm sure, waving the flag of common sense and asking, why? The tawdry initiative was abandoned in 2005.

Pressure from newcomers and competitors – McDonald's, M&S and Costa et al – saw them hiring Heston Blumenthal to transform their offer following a Channel 4 documentary in which he was challenged to turn Little Chef around. Yep. You read that right. They hired the Chemistry Kid to provide his Periodic concoctions to fuel the travellers, truckers and nuclear families of the UK and beyond.

After much trumpeting (and far more trumping than any one ever did after eating there) it transpired that Heston's creations only made it into three – yes 3 – of their 158 sites. Yet his services will be retained while they jettison 600 people and their livelihoods. I think that someone's goose isn't quite cooked.

If you are competing against competitors you don't set out to emulate them by selling 'posh' when your business is and always has been about providing 'grub' and not 'cuisine' – that's why people go to Little Chef. Doh! If you have a point of difference that is seared into the nation's psyche (and what brand wouldn't like to be in that position?) you do not seek to strike it out. You develop it...if you have any sense.

Little Chef is a right of passage. A dip into childhood. A fuel stop. A place of remembrance. A friend. A certainty. A place full of stuff you like to eat...occasionally. You work on the differences to make them more enjoyable. And so – as so often is the case – the future lies in the past.

It's all been change for misguided change’s sake.

If I am driving to Yorkshire to see the family I often choose to take the A1 so that I can pull into one of those white and red detached berths of scoff-ness so I can indulge in stuff I wouldn’t cook for myself. Beans, fried toast, mushrooms and (if I want them) chips at 10am. What I don't want is Heston's fecking deep-freezed wombat wings, served in a Conran Petrie dish, with a garnish of a 5cm-long lettuce leaf.

It's a guilty pleasure like admitting that I like Dolly Parton, Billie Jo Spears and her Blanket on the Ground, or cheese and onion crisp sandwiches when no one is looking.

You chumps are throwing your brand and its heritage away. You're dismissing, diminishing and alienating 54 years worth of clientele. You are purveyors of the magnificent Olympic Breakfast. How apt in 2012! So get out there. The world is coming here and they all need one of the same. You don't need to transform. You need to improve.

Little Chef. Big Opportunity.

I can't stand the way you deliver

I recently spent time regaling postgraduates with stories of presentational horrors I’ve witnessed over the years and why they happen in the context of their own presentation skills.

Some people can present. Others can't. You can give advice regarding do's and don'ts but you can’t teach great communication and presentation skills, people either have them or they don’t. Indeed some get to present for a living and on hearing and seeing them do so you find yourself thinking how the hell did that happen?

Comedians are the ultimate presenters. They live or die, succeed or fail by virtue of their delivery. Their material coming from the mouths of others (other than an impersonator) wouldn't work, because their act is an amalgam of them, their delivery style and their words and silences. They all come together to form their brand of comedy.

From the freewheeling mercurial surrealism of Eddie Izzard, to the signature paean to the weather of Morecambe and Wise, to the bawdy bowdlerisation and belligerent, blistering alliteration of Les Dawson. Knickers! Knackers! Knockers! Personalities, attitudes and behaviours, sights and occasions, all hermetically sealed in words and the way those words are delivered. The Blackpool Comedy Carpet, by Why Not Associates and artist Graham Young, is a fantastic celebration and crystalisation of the above. Not to mention the craftsmanship, which is very impressive indeed.

The way information is presented will either enhance its understanding or diminish it and occasionally destroy it. Take Robert Peston, Business Correspondent at the BBC. He's a prime exponent of the latter. Confession: I can't stand the way he delivers. Can't bear to listen to him or even watch him. He irritates and annoys the hell out of me. His verbiage is on elastic, every word and invisible punctuation mark stretched and disjointed to such a degree that the thread of meaning is lost. It always sounds like he's winging-it. He may know his stuff, but he sure as hell can't present it. The err's and ahh's.......and gaps leaving you banging the crystal set wondering if it's finally croaked.

And it seems that I'm not alone in my incredulity  regarding his current status, since he has acquired his very own website, which is a forum dedeicated to discussing his shortcomings in the delivery stakes. As Father Jack would say, "How did that gobshite get on the television?" Fame indeed, but for all the wrong reasons, since many of those posting confess (like me) to turning him down whenever he's on the box, or off when he's on the radio. Not quite the effect you want one of your key news presenters to have on your viewing and listening audiences, is it?

How many times have you been on the receiving end of a presentation or been part of a team fielding a presentation and knowing that one or more of your number really shouldn't have any role greater than introducing members of the team or asking if they should be mother? 

The best ideas are doomed if delivered badly and, conversely and perversely, mediocre ones able to sail through under the auspices of a consummate presenter. And that's what your audience remembers, that's what they talk about well after the fact – your communication skills and the dynamics of the team.



We all know a bit about body language so don't imagine that the squirming in chairs; shared looks of terror as the duff one(s) mumbles and drifts; or the hurried and frequent interjections by others to undo the perceived damage that the duff ones are inflicting are going unnoticed. They are not. So don't let them do it. 
Always let the communicators communicate. Don't give anyone a reason to switch off.

I can't stand the way you deliver.

I recently spent time regaling postgraduates with stories of presentational horrors I’ve witnessed over the years and why they happen in the context of their own presentation skills. Some people can present. Others can't. You can give advice regarding dos and don’ts but you can’t teach great communication skills. People either have them or they don’t. Some get to present for a living and on hearing and seeing them do so you find yourself thinking 'how the feck did that happen'?

Comedians are the ultimate presenters. They live or die, succeed or fail by virtue of their delivery. Their material coming from the mouths of others (other than an impersonator) wouldn't work, because their act is an amalgam of them, their delivery style and their words and silences - all come together to form their brand of comedy. From the freewheeling mercurial surrealism of Eddie Izzard; to the signature paean to the weather of Morecombe and Wise; to the bawdy bowdlerisation and belligerent, blistering alliteration of Les Dawson. Knickers! Knackers! Knockers! Personalities, attitudes and behaviours, sights and occasions, all hermetically sealed in words and the way they are delivered. The Blackpool Comedy Carpet by Why Not Associates and artist Graham Young is a fantastic celebration and crystalisation of the above - not forgetting the craftsmanship involved, which is very impressive indeed.

The way information is presented will either enhance its understanding or diminish it and, occasionally, destroy it. Take Robert Peston, Business correspondent at the BBC. He's a prime exponent of the latter. 

Confession: I can't stand the way he delivers. Can't bear to listen to him or even watch him. He irritates and annoys the feck out of me. His verbiage is on elastic - every word and invisible punctuation mark stretched and disjointed to such a degree that the thread of meaning is lost. It always sounds like he's winging-it. He may know his stuff, but he sure as hell can't present it. The errs, ahh's          and gaps leaving you banging the crystal set wondering if it's finally croaked.

And it seems that I'm not alone in my incredulity regarding his current status, since he has acquired his very own website which is a forum dedeicated to discussing his shortcomings in the delivery stakes. As father Jack would say, "How did that gobshite get on the television?" Fame indeed, but for the wrong reasons, since many of those posting confess (like me) to turning him down whenever he's on the box, or off when he's on the radio. Not quite the effect you want one of your key news presenters to have on your viewing and listening audience, is it?

There's a lesson here for us whether you're a client or practitioner. How many times have you been on the receiving end of a presentation or been part of the fielding team knowing that one or more of your number really shouldn't have any role greater than introducing members of the team or asking if they 'should be mother'? 


The best ideas in the world are doomed if delivered badly and, conversely and perversely, mediocre ones able to sail through under the auspices of a consummate presenter. And that's what your audience remembers - that's what they talk about well after the fact - your communication skills and the dynamics of the team. We all know a bit about body language so don't imagine that the squirming in chairs; shared looks of terror as 'the duff one' mumbles and drifts; or the hurried and frequent interjections by others to undo the percieved damage that 'the duff ones' are inflicting are going unnoticed. They are not. So don't let them do it. Simples. Always let the communicators communicate. Don't give anyone a reason to switch off.

Never smile at a crocodile?

A brand new year has to start on the right note.

One of the best and most memorable ad campaigns of 2011 was Moneysupermarket.com. It was a bit mad and therefore fresh. It was funny and deliberately (initially) unpolished with a great strap line and V.O. It was a breath of fresh air in a highly saturated market.

The first ad looked like Uncle Ernie had been trying to follow the instructions for his 'new' Super 8 - the advent of digital being a trail yet to be endured. That was its strength and it was great because of it. It featured a bloke emerging from the surf on an inflatable crocodile. Loved it.

It was a real departure from the tedium of Far Eastern proverbs, lucky numbers and cultural nuances. (HSBC.) Or playground equipment and kitchen timing devices. (Barclays.) And, thankfully, the insipid and depressing 30-second rides on the 'death train' (complete with god-awful wailing) otherwise known as Lloyds' 'The Journey'.

Yesterday I read one of those end-of-year lists so beloved of the UK press as fillers. You know. Mad calls to 999 and the emergency services and so on. The top daftest call-out for the Coastguard Services last year, was in aid of a bloke who was drifting out to sea on an inflatable pair of teeth. And. Guess what? He was rescued by… a bloke on an inflatable crocodile. It is! It's true! Does life imitate advertising or is it the other way around?

No names were given but whoever he was he's Sooo Moneymarket!

They should find him and sign him up pronto.

Happy Brand New Year