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    Ad Mad
    Ad Mad
    Ad Mad
    Ebook171 pages2 hours

    Ad Mad

    By Kevin Somerville

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Ad Mad is a collection of humorous stories from the crazy world of advertising.
    You always thought that those stories about the crazy things that went on in advertising were a bit exaggerated. You’re about to learn that they are tame in comparison to the hilarious things that really happened.
    During the golden years of advertising things were a lot crazier than what they are today. This fun book covers some of the craziest things that happened in the Mad Ad world.
    Written by Kevin Somerville, a multi-award winning creative director, this book is different to most of the other books written about the advertising industry. Usually executives or copywriters write books on advertising. In this case it is an art director. It is in the area of art direction that things go horribly wrong, creating some hilarious situations in this very entertaining book.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherKevin Somerville
    Release dateNov 11, 2013
    ISBN9781311403797
    Ad Mad
    Author

    Kevin Somerville

    Born in Johannesburg in 1946 I have spent my entire life in Johannesburg where I went to art school in 1964.As a result I have been in the visual side of the advertising and design business for decades.All the awards that I have won for creativity have been based on the visual side of things. That is why writing for me has been a totally new adventure. An adventure that I really enjoyed.For the last twenty years I have run my own design and advertising company. The company specialises in making my clients stand out from their competitors through creative innovation. As a result my clients have been with me for decades..

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      Book preview

      Ad Mad - Kevin Somerville

      INTRODUCTION

      Ad mad is a hilarious journey through the golden years of advertising and design.

      The book is a cake-mix full of the strange and wonderful stories that have occurred during the last 40 years in the design and advertising industry in South Africa.

      The recipe for this book is: Start with the wonderfully colourful and whacky people that usually inhabit the industry. Add enormous amounts of change in technology along with a pinch of crazy. Then mix in sweeping social change in South Africa, and then bake for 40 years.

      DEDICATION

      This book is dedicated to my wife Alison and my children Candice and Stephen.

      ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

      This book would never have happened if it were not for the constant encouragement from my friend Gordon Stuart. It was his idea for me to write this book covering the crazy years.

      To all the wonderful and colourful characters that have been a part of this journey down the years. I thank you for wonderful experiences that you have all given me. I also thank you for all the laughs and tears that we have shared.

      If it weren't for my wife's enthusiasm and encouragement I would not have persisted in this journey. Thank you.

      A special thanks to Gordon Stuart, Alison Gitelson and Trevor Romain for their input and support.

      CONTENTS

      Introduction

      Dedication

      Acknowledgements

      PART ONE: THE EARLY YEARS

      Chapter 1: Creative people are loopy

      Chapter 2: The freak shows win the day

      Chapter 3: Leg up

      Chapter 4: At war with the peasants

      Chapter 5: Inside out

      Chapter 6: Daddy Daddy

      Chapter 7: A determined damsel

      Chapter 8: Titillation

      Chapter 9: Squint nipples

      Chapter 10: It was motivation

      Chapter 11: Big brother

      Chapter 12: A cable car named desire

      Chapter 13: Arresting photography

      Chapter 14: Frozen desire

      Chapter 15: The way out

      Chapter 16: What did you say your name was?

      Chapter 17: Cattycomb

      Chapter 18: Honey

      PART TWO: THE COMPANY

      Chapter 19: An odd appointment

      Chapter 20: Upstaged

      Chapter 21: Motivation station

      Chapter 22: Presumption is the mother of all cock-ups

      Chapter 23: Plane crazy

      Chapter 24: Fungus face

      Chapter 25: A lesson in communication

      Chapter 26: A near thing

      Chapter 27: A misplaced storm

      Chapter 28: Pneumatic presentation

      Chapter 29: Blood in the lift

      Chapter 30: From here, I can see the Eiffel Tower

      PART THREE: THE AGENCY

      Chapter 31: Flavour of the month

      Chapter 32: A scratching sound

      Chapter 33: The Fairy Queen

      Chapter 34: A Strange World

      Chapter 35: Plane chaos

      Chapter 36: Booby prize

      Chapter 37: 4X4

      Chapter 38: Mr Sugarman

      Chapter 39: So where’s the rhythm?

      Chapter 40: That’s going to hurt

      Chapter 41: Rolling thunder

      Chapter 42: Singing in the rain

      Chapter 43: Going away present

      PART FOUR: BACK TO THE AGENCY

      Chapter 44: Getting stoned

      Chapter 45: Perception is reality

      Chapter 46: The creativity of the ordinary man

      Chapter 47: The presumption thing again

      Chapter 48: Under the covers

      PART FIVE: THE GENDER ISSUE

      Chapter 49: Jump suit

      Chapter 50: You smell nice

      Chapter 51: A bite on the bum is worth two on the hand

      Chapter 52: Flashing tights

      PART SIX: MODELS

      Chapter 53: Model cock-up

      Chapter 54: Enter miss Full-of-herself

      Chapter 55: Losing it

      PART SEVEN: MADNESS

      Chapter 56: Are they really mad?

      The End

      EPILOGUE

      PART ONE: THE EARLY YEARS

      Chapter 1: Creative people are loopy

      I had only just joined this particular company a few days beforehand.

      I found it difficult to understand why I had been seated right next to the uber-boss at the Christmas party, as the executive staff felt the creative staff to be loopy, or mentally unstable at best. It was obviously someone’s idea of a bit of fun. Let’s see what the new boy does when confronted with the uber-boss.

      The party was held in a large function room in the President Hotel, which at the time was one of the top hotels in town. The room was draped with all that glitters and sparkles in greens and reds for Christmas. Glitter was spread liberally around and decorations hung from the ceiling.

      Streamers were thrown, crackers were pulled, and all was wonderfully festive. Champagne corks popped while people got tiddly and put on silly hats.

      The tables had been laid out in a large square with uber-boss in the middle of one of the sides and yours truly seated next to him.

      I sat very uncomfortably and stared straight ahead as I was dreading trying to make small talk with the uber-boss. We sat next to each other without talking to each other and watched the festivities. I didn’t make eye contact, just in case he might feel that he needed to strike up a conversation with the peasants as a kind of duty.

      Everything went well — I even got the correct knives to correspond to the various courses — I think.

      As luck would have it, I was handed a liqueur glass with some yellow liquid in it.

      When one is handed a liqueur glass one presumes that the liquid in it is liqueur. A big mistake. This liquid was made by the devil himself.

      I know this because it tried to kill me.

      Right there in the middle of the Christmas party it tried to do me in.

      After taking the tiniest of sips my lungs simply ceased to function.

      Wham, just like that they downed tools and went on strike.

      My breathing stopped. I tried my damnedest to suck some air into my unresponsive lungs. Nothing doing.

      I tried again and again.

      Nothing.

      Nothing.

      Nothing.

      At this stage, no one had noticed anything untoward.

      It was particularly important to keep the crisis from the boss. I could do without any incidents to tarnish my career at this new company.

      Of course, it would be this moment that the uber-boss decided to bestow his attention on one of the lower life forms in the agency — the creative creature sitting next to him. Me.

      What is your name? He asked.

      Knowing that I could not speak I tried to ignore the question and kept my focus forward pretending that I hadn’t heard him. I tapped my fingers on the table and hummed to myself.

      What is your name? He asked again, louder this time.

      I looked back at him with blind panic showing clearly in my startled watering eyes.

      My mouth moved but nothing came out. The only things I could offer him were some strange mouth movements and the noise of my lips slapping together. This was accompanied by spasmodic jerks of my stomach muscles as I tried to inhale. This must have looked as if I was going to throw up on his lap.

      I saw a thought bubble pop out of his head that read: I know creative people are loony, however this one takes the cake. He doesn’t even know his own name and there is something in his eyes that says that he’s clearly disturbed.

      He picked up his steak knife and held it tightly. I don’t think he was contemplating using it for eating as much as self-defense or a pre-emptive strike.

      One could see in his eyes all the confirmation he ever needed about creative people. They were all psychos and this one is the mother of them all.

      Who the hell had hired this nut?

      I tried to look away from his now intense and incredulous gaze and pretended to fiddle with my shoelace. I could feel his eyes on my back.

      I told myself not to panic. Simply relax and all will be well — but more than a minute had ticked by and I was about to run out of oxygen.

      The thought crossed my mind. I was going to die in the middle of a party with people getting drunk and fondling each other and having fun. How inconsiderate of me.

      Have you ever wondered where you might die?

      This was no longer a question for me.

      I had my answer as to where and when.

      I would be known as: The guy that died in the middle of the Christmas party.

      They may even put it on my tombstone.

      I could see Party pooper beautifully carved on my tombstone.

      Or perhaps: Couldn’t he have chosen a better time?

      Or even: Timing was never his forte.

      Now I was totally out of air and the fight or flight thing kicked in. I decided to use the last few seconds of my miserable life to run to the gents. Perhaps I could make it to a tap and have some water to break the spell that the evil liquid had laid on me.

      I leapt out of my seat and took the first step of my run as only a person who is about to pass from this mortal coil can do — like a rocket. In my extreme haste my foot hooked the leg of the chair next to mine. I went sprawling flat on my face. As I hit the carpet my diaphragm relented. It felt that it already had enough fun by humiliating me and ruining my career prospects.

      My breath returned.

      I lay there gasping in huge gulps of air as if I’d run the 100 meters at the Olympics. From the uber-boss’ point of view, it must have looked as if I had left the chef-cooked meal and was now trying to suck the hotel carpet into my face. I just lay there for ages taking in gasp after gasp, sucking in carpet dust, dust mites and glorious oxygen.

      I couldn’t care how silly this all looked. I was alive! I was alive!

      Everything that the uber-boss had learned about creative people was now confirmed and underlined in bold.

      Thinking back on it I couldn’t have blamed him.

      Chapter 2: The freak shows win the day

      The world views creative people as some kind of social and intellectual freak show. Unless you behaved and dressed like a loony, they didn’t think you were particularly creative. As a result, prospective new clients were usually given a guided tour of the loony’s in the creative department. If any creative staff were caught doing anything particularly bizarre it would not only be good entertainment for the clients. It would also reassure them that their account was in the hands of the best loonies in town.

      During my first day with the new company there was a bit of a disagreement between the MD of the company and basically everyone else — particularly the creative staff. It all revolved around the naming of a game ranch. The creative staff wanted to give it one name and MD had his own idea — which was crappy, but he thought it was wonderful. We needed to show him the error of his ways.

      The creative staff had decided to undermine the MD. In order to do so, we made hundreds of copies of our proposed logo and pasted so many of them on the floor of the creative department that it formed a carpet. If the client was shown around the creative department, he couldn’t possibly miss our superior name and consequently be bowled over by it.

      We were expecting the new client to be brought to the upper floor where the creative department was located and be shown around for the usual client entertainment. Unfortunately, the MD must have been tipped off to our plan and consequently didn’t bring the client up to our floor.

      This needed some drastic rethinking. You can’t keep creative people from being creative.

      The MD had taken the client straight into his office in order to sell him his own idea and not to be exposed to our superior idea. He had gone through the usual steps of making the client feel comfortable and settling him down in order to show the client his own idea. He felt that he had outmaneuvered us and smiled to himself as he gloated about it.

      However his superior attitude was to be short lived. The room that they were in became darker and darker. Rather than a cloud passing in front of the sun that caused the gloom it

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