Dave Trott’s Blog

 

I worked at BMP in the early days.

As creative director, John Webster got the only copy of Campaign.

On Thursdays, I’d wait until he’d finished reading it, then go and borrow it.

I always knew if another very famous creative director was in Campaign that week.

Because, if he was, it was in John’s waste-paper bin.

We never spoke about it, but I think John used to get angry that they’d written about this other guy instead of him.

The other guy was good.

But John was at least as good, if not better.

At BMP, we all knew that.

But not everyone outside BMP knew it.

Because John never made any effort to put himself about.

He didn’t think he should have to.

He thought his work should do all the talking for him.

But the problem is, not everyone, knows what good work is.

The people who write on Campaign are journalists, not ad people.

And even ad people don’t all agree on what good advertising is.

Certainly all clients don’t agree on it.

Nor do all creatives, account men or planners.

So how are journalists supposed to know?

They do what everyone else does, they look in Campaign.

If you’re in there you must be good, if you’re not, you’re not.

John thought he should be in there.

But he didn’t want to do what it took.

Calling up journalists, writing articles, lecturing.

John thought that should happen just as a result of him being better.

But it didn’t.

The other guy made the effort, so it did happen for him.

He began writing articles and meeting journalists.

He was a funny, witty guy, really good company at lunch or drinks.

And the more they wrote about him the more his reputation grew.

And the more his reputation grew the more they wrote about him.

The difference between this guy and John was that this guy was a brilliant salesman.

John was a brilliant, brilliant writer.

But he never sold himself.

Why should he have to?

In the early 1900’s, Henry Royce was building great cars in his garage.

He was selling about one a fortnight.

They were very good cars and he couldn’t work out why he wasn’t selling more.

Then he met Charles Rolls, who was a salesman.

After they teamed up, they changed the name to Rolls Royce.

Royce was still building the same cars.

But now they began selling at one a week.

Then one a day.

Then ten a day.

Pretty soon Rolls Royce had built a reputation as the best cars in the world.

And everyone, everywhere wanted one.

The difference wasn’t the cars.

The difference was Charles Rolls.

He was a salesman.

Of course, in time John Webster grew famous and successful.

If you’re great, that’ll happen eventually.

But it could, and should, have happened a lot sooner.

And anyway, what about the rest of us who aren’t as good as John?

I see youngsters who meekly come into an interview.

They put their book down and sit there quietly.

And they let the book do all the work.

Great if your book is stunningly different to everyone else’s.

But what if it isn’t?

Imagine you’re seeing two portfolios of roughly the same standard.

One from someone dull, and one from someone fun and interesting.

Who do you think you’ll hire?

Obviously your portfolio has to be as good as you can make it.

But why stop there?

Is there any other way you can give yourself an unfair advantage?

Is there any other way you can convince people that you’re really exciting, interesting, and creative?

The portfolio sells itself or it doesn’t.

But that’s like saying a product sells itself or it doesn’t.

If that was true we wouldn’t need advertising.

You see your portfolio is the product you’re selling.

But you are the brand you’re selling.

In a situation of parity products, brand is often the deciding factor.

 

That’s what we do isn’t it?

Jack Charlton was Bobby Charlton’s big brother.

Bobby Charlton is considered one of the best English footballers of all time.

When Pele put together his team of all-time greats, Bobby Charlton and Bobby Moore were the only Englishmen on it.

Even foreign waiters who didn’t speak English could all say one phrase. “Bob-bee Charl-ton”

Usually said smiling and nodding, with the thumb up.

He was a sportsman and a gentleman.

An advocate of fair play and a credit to the game.

His big brother Jack wasn’t like that.

‘Big’ Jack Charlton was a pragmatist.

At Leeds, he pretty much invented the professional foul.

The penalty-kick was designed to stop defenders fouling opposing players in front of goal.

Everyone avoided giving away a penalty.

It was bad sportsmanship

But Jack Charlton thought it made sense.

If they looked certain to score bring them down.

Kick ‘em, grab their shirt, the ref might not see and you might get away with it.

Even if they got a penalty, they might not score from the spot.

It made sense, it was pragmatic.

Jack Charlton knew he wasn’t as good as his little brother Bobby.

He couldn’t depend on his ability.

So he had to use his brains.

And his shoulders, his elbows, and his knees, backing into forwards as they jump.

Whatever it takes.

Whenever Leeds would play Manchester United, Big Jack used to get a phone call from their mum before every game.

She’d say, “Hey you, leave our kid alone. Don’t go kicking lumps out of him again, alright.”

Up against his brother Jack, even one of the best players in the world, Bobby Charlton, needed his mum to defend him.

Jack Charlton knew he was the under dog.

That meant he had to use anything and everything to stand any chance at all.

When he became manager of Middlesborough he taught his players to think like under dogs.

We’re not as good as the rest, so use anything and everything to beat them.

It was said that his players would “run through walls” for him.

Middlesborough was a feared team when Big Jack was in charge.

When it became vacant, he applied for the job of England manager.

The FA didn’t even reply to his letter.

He wasn’t their sort of chap.

Too rough, too crude, questionable methods.

They gave the job to someone much nicer, a gentleman.

And England didn’t even qualify.

But Ireland weren’t so sniffy.

They got Jack Charlton to manage their team.

And Big Jack brought his brand of thinking to the job.

Ireland usually didn’t make it to the World Cup.

The country was too small, too few players to choose from.

But Big Jack did what he always did.

He questioned conventional wisdom.

He didn’t take anything on trust.

He started from scratch and re-read the rules.

He found you didn’t actually have to be born in a country to play for that country.

You just had to have one grandparent from that country.

Suddenly a light bulb went on in Jack’s head.

Pretty much everyone in England has an Irish granny.

That meant he now had virtually every English player to choose from as well as every Irish one.

So Big Jack put his team together.

That year Ireland qualified for the world cup.

And more than that, they beat Italy, one of the best teams in the world.

England fans had to sit at home and watch it on the telly.

Because, thanks to the FA, England didn’t even qualify.

Jack Charlton didn’t accept whatver brief he was given.

He knew he couldn’t afford to be complacent.

So he behaved like the under-dog.

He got creative.

He questioned the brief.

How often do you find yourself in that situation?

You’re given a bad brief, and told not question it.

The planners have asked all the questions.

The account men know all the answers.

The client doesn’t want any input thanks.

Think of Big Jack.

Don’t moan about it.

Find a way to change it.

Jack Charlton was in the England team that won the World Cup in 1966.

He said to the manager Alf Ramsey, “I’m not one of the best players in the country, how come you picked me?”

Alf Ramsey said, “Because you don’t trust Bobby Moore.”

Bobby Moore was one of the best players in the world, and Jack Charlton didn’t trust him.

So he covered his every move in case he did something stupid and lost the ball.

Jack Charlton played on a great World Cup team.

And he built and managed a great World Cup team.

Three lessons about creativity from Big Jack.

Don’t trust anyone to do your thinking for you.

Don’t accept that the brief can’t be changed.

Always believe you’re the underdog.

 

Just like anything else, giving presents is an exercise in creativity.

Anna and Simone are two very talented art directors at our agency.

Recently they got married.

Anna is a tomboy and beats all the guys at darts, table football, spoof, drinking, you name it.

Simone is from London, but fiercely proud of his Italian roots.

We got them several serious presents, but for me the best ones were the creative ones.

Mark is the designer who runs our studio.

He made them a commemorative plate.

The sort of thing you see in the back of The Sunday Times supplement.

It looked exactly like the famous Prince Charles & Princess Di plate.

Except Mark had transposed the heads.

So that Anna was the groom and Simone was the bride.

Then around the outside, in ornate gold lettering, it said “We know who wears the trousers”.

I’ve got a feeling this will end up on the wall of their new home.

And in years to come they’ll be explaining it to their grandchildren.

Meanwhile I’d bought something several months back that I thought was perfect for the new bride.

It was “The Mafia Cook Book”.

This is written by an ex-hit man who also did the cooking for The Mob in New York.

He explains the occasion on which a particular meal should be served.

Then follows it with a detailed recipe.

So on one occasion, he might start, “Me and Joey the Nose were going down to Philly to do a hit.

Now in this situation you don’t want nothing too heavy, nothing that’ll slow you down.

So I’m thinking, start with a Mozarella and Avacado salad.

Now, with a dish like this you gotta use the best olive oil, so….”

And then he gives you the detailed recipe for the meal.

Or, on another occasion, he might start, “This one time Big Sal was due to go upstate and do a two year bit for jury tampering.

Now Sal can be a jumpy guy, so I’m not taking any risks with his last meal on the outside.

I’m staying traditional with Veal Parmigiana.

Now here the breadcrumbs are important, so you start by toasting….“

And he gives you the detailed recipe for the meal.

This is a very funny book, but also useful.

Think of the prison cooking scene in Goodfellas, where he decribes how you should always slice the garlic with a razor blade.

If you get a little creative with presents you can get much more value than just by spending money.

Every year on my wife’s birthday, and our anniversary, I send flowers to her office.

But I always send them to the wrong address.

Either the office next door, or the one across the road.

This means that the receptionist very kindly has to carry them round to the correct office and the women all discuss it as she does.

“Ooh. aren’t they lovely.”

“I wish someone would send me flowers like that.”

“Aren’t you a lucky girl.”

“Can I have your husband when you’re finished with him.”

And of course, the value of the flowers is doubled.

Because, for a woman, it isn’t really just the flowers she wants.

She wants the approval of other women.

So once you know that’s the real value of the flowers, then the brief changes. It becomes more about the delivery than just the flowers.

Of course I could just bring the flowers home.

But where would be the value in that?

No one else would see them and tell my wife what a lucky girl she is.

 

Like everything else, the most creative part is getting the brief right.

I was listening to Dame Ellen MacArthur on Desert Island Discs.

She became the youngest person, ever.

To sail single-handedly.

Nonstop.

Around the world.

The interviewer asked her who were her inspirations.

She said, “My grandmother was very influential.”

The interviewer asked why.

Ellen MacArthur said, “She always wanted to go to university, and in fact she won a scholarship to pay for her to go.

But her father, my great-grandfather, wouldn’t allow her to go.

They were a poor family, and he said she needed to get a job to bring money into the household.

So she did, but later she made sure her three daughters went to university.

And she was so fascinated with learning that every day, when I was young, she used to come to my school and sit in the canteen with me and my friends.

Then, when she was old and retired, and at the end of her life, she went back to university to get a degree.

And she finally graduated three months before she died.”

So there’s a clue to where Ellen MacArthur got the determination that made her sail a ship, that should have been crewed by a dozen men, for 71 days.

Alone.

Thousands of miles from anywhere.

The nearest land 7 miles straight down.

The waves twice as high as the average house.

Sleeping a few minutes at a time, always on deck.

The interviewer asked her about her first boat.

How did she get it?

She said it was a little, tiny dinghy and she saved up for it.

“We didn’t get any pocket money when we were little.

So, anything we wanted, we either had to make it or save up for it.

I used to save the change from my school-dinner money every day.”

The interviewer asked her to elaborate.

She said, “Every day I’d eat beans, mashed-potato, and gravy.

Beans cost four pence, mashed potato cost four pence, gravy was free.

So I’d have the beans and mash swimming in gravy, almost like soup.

Everyone thought I was crazy. But I’d go home and stack the change up next to my savings tin.

When the change reached £1, I’d put it in my savings tin.

Then I’d fill in one of the little squares on a sheet of graph paper I had on the wall.

When I had 100 little squares filled in I’d take the money to the building society.”

The interviewer asked her how much her first boat cost.

She said, “£535″.

And you get another clue to the level of determination she considered normal.

The interviewer then asked what life had been like at home.

She said she’d been very happy at home, if slightly unconventional.

The interviewer asked her for an example.

She said, “Well, I only had a very small bedroom.

There really wasn’t room in it for the bed plus everything else I was making and storing.

So when my parents went out one day, I took the bed apart and put it in the barn.

I figured, if I asked them, they were likely to object.

But if I did it while they were out it would be a fait accompli.

And from then on, I just slept on the floor in a sleeping bag, and had lots more room for everything I wanted to do in my bedroom.”

You get another clue to the sort of determination that could make her climb to the top of a mast six stories high.

On her own in the middle of the ocean.

With the ship speeding along at forty miles an hour in the pitch dark.

And fix a broken block-and-tackle in sub-zero temperature.

You see, none of what she did was reasonable behaviour.

Not saving £500 from her lunch money.

Not throwing her bed out of her bedroom.

Not sailing single-handedly, non-stop, around the world.

Not for a 19 year old.

Not for a woman.

What I loved about listening to her was that she didn’t let other people’s ideas of what was reasonable dictate her behaviour.

She looked at the problem.

Worked out what she thought was the best way of proceeding.

Then, if it made sense to her, she went ahead and did it.

Whatever anyone else said.

She didn’t let other people’s version of what was reasonable stop her.

She came to her own conclusion.

How many of us do that?

How many of us question what we’re told and come to our own conclusions?

Don’t we usually just do what we’re told?

Reasonable people don’t do what she did.

Not the big things, not even the little things.

Because reasonable people just want to fit in.

So they don’t question what other people tell them.

But then reasonable people don’t do much.