The agency tries TV ads with a comedian. The reality of comedy is the problem.
SCENE; Sickeningly well groomed person in relentless suit looking benign, too close to camera under normal health regulations.
Person; (Well modulated and entirely unconvincingly) Are there too many scum in your industry? …..(one second pause) Perhaps not enough? We can help with all your scum-based needs.
(Pans to garish yellow sign with word “Scumfinders” and phone number in appalling red high impact text held by decaying chicken of no obvious parentage).
Person; Just ask for Buckley and say the dead chicken sent you. (Toxic smile)
(Still photo of Buckley with text reading Buckley- list of gigs and dates- end cut).
Al had to ask.
“Going up market?”
“Yeah. Promos have to be bloody nearly in straitjackets to get noticed these days.”
The Person, Cuthbert Worth, (he preferred to be called Buckley) lost the suit and returned to his less oppressive jeans as Al assessed the job.
“Ten second spot……when d’you want this on air?”
“When can I afford?”
“About three in the morning, in small fonts on the test pattern, after an asteroid strike,” said his manager, Cindy, almost joking.
“See, this is why I’m a comedian. I can’t afford to be anything else.”
“Nah, we can do better than that,” said Al. Single 10 second spots can be slotted in pretty easily. How about the semi-non-commercial stations, still not cheap but better audience for your stuff?”
“You mean people that actually watch television?”
“Will I cry?” asked Cindy.
“You might wince a bit. You might also not find yourself stuck between hairsprays and rev-head raves.”
The plug was for Buckley’s upcoming shows, the TV idea being to get his face visible. This particular plug was also airing as a radio shot and a newspaper ad. The phone number had a series of pre-recorded gags in place of an answering service. Bill wandered in looking for Al.
“I thought all you comedians were supposed to be maudlin, moody, depressing bastards?” he asked, as Cindy and Buckley waltzed around the improvised studio, singing “Wonderful, Wonderful Television” to the tune of Copenhagen.
“Oh, we are. Sometimes we get together and howl at the banks. That’s when we’re not inventing new diseases.”
“Or making a mockery of the process of evolution,” added Cindy.
“Or dodging posses from the National Trust when they hear our jokes.”
“I’ve often wondered about that. George Burns was a comedian that was older than his jokes.”
“Thus proving the existence of an afterlife.”
“Speaking of afterlives, Al, do we have a ten second spot we can use anywhere? Sally’s spot is actually 10 seconds under, somehow, I have no idea why, usually we get this right. We’ve already booked the spot, though, so we’re……” Bill broke off as the dancing resumed, this time a polka.
Al nodded to the two neo-Cossacks. They paused.
“Uh, yeah…..”
The dancing resumed.
“We’ll send you a samovar with real bits of Uncle Vanya still in it,” said Cindy as they danced out the door into the reception area. Carla, Joe, and some models clapped along as they exited into the elevator.
“They even managed to avoid asking about our rates,” said Al, admiringly.
“That’s professionalism,” agreed Bill.
SCENE; Al’s office with unduly genteel individual. Al and Bill seated staring at man in tweed suit seated opposite.
Genteel Thing; (as though to unusually slow infants) “We simply require a local merchandiser to attend to distribution of our garments. Of course one hopes to appeal to the higher class of retail client. One feels that one might stray into some insalubrious demographic were one to omit mention of the exclusive nature of one’s stock. In London and New York we deal only with the haute couture market. Of course in Australia we don’t expect that.”
Bill (smiling, using exaggeratedly well-pronounced voice) Of course not.
Al (smiling) We do have to be realistic. Perhaps we might manage some discreet enquiries with the top end, Bill?
Bill (still smiling, etc., with theatrical purr) Oh, I think we can arrange that.
Scene; Mutual smiles and tasteful nods as Genteel Thing exits. Pan to disbelieving look on Carla’s face as Thing departs.
Carla; What was that?
Al; (benevolently) That, frightfully well dressed stalker of the sales, was our Christmas present.
Bill; (back to normal) Have you ever wondered why the British Empire fell?
Al; It was pushed?
Scene, a week later, same as first.
Genteel Thing; This is awfully good. One can’t thank you enough. Now…..the contract, signed, and your cheque, and our thanks, again.
Bill; (out-genteeling him) One endeavors to give satisfaction.
Al; Quite.
Mutual esteem shakes the Earth as Genteel Thing leaves. Carla smiles as though her youngest child has just slain its very first phone salesman with its dear little axe.
Bill; Do you think Direct Dingo Markets will like him?
Al; For that sort of money I’m sure they will. Not everyone pays a hundred thousand, under contract, sight unseen, for an introduction to a stall holder, you know.
Carla; How much did we get of that?
Bill; Eighty five. Fred wants to pay off his Jaguar. Anyway, he’ll like Paddington Markets. So much ambience.
Carla; Fred does sell upmarket, though, to big names. Isn’t there a risk that our little pet Pom might make a profit?
Bill; None. Actually, in theory, Fred’s a really good contact, and he can deliver on distribution of anything to anyone. He can flog that stuff in seconds. It’s just that Fred’s got the most bloodthirsty two-way commission in the Southern Hemisphere. He gets paid to sell and paid to buy. He also does everything at rock bottom cost to himself. He’s certainly got the contacts, the sort that charge you to look at their shops. They all know him. Most of them buy from him, because he can get things nobody else can even afford to mention. He doesn’t pay a cent more than he has to for his stock, though. Anyone selling to him has to be able to survive his margins.
His customers let him do all their buying for them, for that reason. They just go and see him at his stall, he shows them the stock, they arrange to buy the stuff there, he delivers, and they on-sell. He’s a sort of backdoor wholesale vampire. The stall’s just a front, for tax purposes. None of his suppliers ever tries to sell in Sydney, they just leave it to him, it works, and they pay him for it, and it saves them a lot of time and money. He looks good, too, particularly on paper. Those quotes he gave us were worth a Pulitzer for anyone else, but he can actually do it. The rates he sells his merchandise at are so good nobody can argue with him, so his clients buy everything largely on his advice.
Al; Then they mark everything up?
Bill; Oh yeah, can’t have all those sweatshop people dying for nothing.
Al: That may not be the impression we gave this guy, you know.
Bill: (clearly devastated) Dear, dear. How simply terrible! Quick, let us make haste and catch the poor fellow before his faith in humanity is shaken!
Al: Does the World Health Organization know about you?
Bill: (grinning) Not yet, but they will.
Scene; Al, watching the news at his apartment.
Newsreader; There was some disturbance at Paddington’s usually sedate markets this afternoon. An English businessman was taken to hospital after suffering a heart attack while apparently trying to tear down a stall. (Al looks concerned). Stallholder Fred Ironmonger, who called the ambulance, told reporters that the man was a contract client of his who seemed somewhat confused when he arrived for a meeting. Mr. Ironmonger said that in view of the man’s obviously unstable nature it was unlikely that the contract could proceed, but that under the circumstances he would not seek damages. (Al grins)
Bill; (on phone, to Al after article) Of course in Australia we don’t expect that.
Al; We certainly don’t.