Thursday, 3 December 2009

Why I became a marketing man

Many people have asked me, 'Dave - why did you get into marketing? A guy like you could have done anything.'

It's an obvious questions to ask because I'm something of a genius in my field. But why would I choose a profession like marketing? Why not law, or politics, or medicine, or professional sport - all of which I was told I could have achieved. (It was me telling me that - that's how confident I was. And I wouldn't have been that confident without good reason, would I?)

Well, the truth is that I always wanted to be a marketeer because of our old next door neighbour, Barry Boner (pronounced Bonner). Barry was a marketing professional.

I can trace my marketing awakening to a specific moment.

One day, when I was 8, my father left us. Over a normal Sunday lunch (roast beef, obviously) he told my mother and I that he was running away with the postman's wife. (Ironic, isn't it!)

(It was fine - no drama. My mother just cleared the lunch things away, put the radio on (really loud, actually!) and began peeling potatoes for dinner. She must have been planning on having people over or something because she just stood there peeling potatoes for hours! She was literally up to her knees in peelings by the time she went up to bed with a bottle of gin and a hot water bottle.)

So, between my father getting up from the lunch table and walking out of the house, I followed him around. I didn't really say anything. I just followed him around, hoping that he might give me a hug, or ruffle my hair, or acknowledge me in any shape or form at all.

Well, I didn't need to hope - because my Dad gave me a big pat on the back as he walked down the stairs and out of the house. I say a pat, it was more a big, loving shove - sort of helping me out of the way. He was great like that, my Dad.

Anyway, I stood at the front door and watched as my father walked out of our front gate, turned left and strode away with his brown suitcase and a framed picture of Winston Churchill. He didn't wave, or turn around, or break his stride, or look back, or show any sign of wavering. (He was brilliant like that, my Dad - very decisive.)

After a spell of standing there in the doorway (just a couple of hours or so, nothing more) Barry Boner (pronounced Bonner) pulled up in his Jaguar XJS. He got out, staggering slightly, and opened the passenger door for a blonde girl with thigh-length white boots and pink mini-skirt.

As they walked to Barry's front door, giggling and grabbing each other, I realised they were just coming back from a Saturday night out. As he walked past, Barry looked at me and said, 'Why so down, Davey son? Here, this'll cheer you up - give me half an hour and you can have a go on her.'

The girl gasped with mock outrage and whacked his arm. The door slammed behind them and two minutes later, I could hear Babs or Fizz or Pauline making a noise like a police siren in heavy fog.

Something in my immature mind changed that day. Something made me want to be a marketing man. I've never been able to place my finger on what, but that's when my marketing career truly began.

I'll share more about my life, ideals and vision for a better Britain in future posts. And they'll be fucking dynamite.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

2 comments:

  1. As we say in my country: Estas muy cabron!

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  2. Well, Abraham Deleon, I have no idea what that means. I only speak English, and I never feel truly in control of that, so whatever you said I'll have to assume was a compliment. It's much appreciated.

    Of course, if it wasn't a compliment, then up your crevice with a coconut.

    Thanks for stopping by!

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