Murphy's Marketing Morals - Part 7

1st September 2008

So there we were watching football.

Snore. Yes, I know. You wouldn't have thought I'd be a football aficionado would you? Or someone’s football bitch.

Well, I'm neither. But this particular viewing experience beats the Sports Bar in Haymarket, as we are in a bar all right. But. In a bar. In Italy. Balmy evening. The lovely Gerry is in his element but he knows I'm bored stiff and it’s only five minutes in....so that’s big brownie points for me. Much guilt for him. And it’s worth a new handbag at the very least. And I've got my eye on the new Jimmy Choo. That Tamara Mellon might go through men like a dose of salts but she makes a lovely bag.

If you know what I mean.

So this football lark.

Fiorentina versus Juventus. Serie A. Opening game of the season.

No, I don't like football as a rule. I'm more of a Formula One type, me. Better entertainment. Less visible sweat. Enough said.
But these football guys have got much. Much. Better thighs. And normal sized necks. So it’s deathly but a few glasses of wine and a pizza and I'm persuadable. Not forgetting old Tamara and my new bag obviously.

If the right team wins I’ll get the shoes, too.

Anyway, to the marketing point of the story. For there surely is one.

Suddenly (without sounding all Frederick Forsyth) in the middle of a play, natch, up pops a bottle of Becks. On the pitch. Next to the player who's got the ball. Eh??

What's that all about? It’ll be in full kit and playing next.

This is Sky Sport, Italy. The only other ads are on the advertising hoarding on the perimeter of the pitch. And frankly they look a bit amateur.
And yet there's a bottle of beer smack, bang, in the midst of the action.

And next an ad for Donna Loka Scarpe e Borse.....Shoes and Bags if you're not up on the lingo. Eh? I get the link with beer. Drink beer, watch football, shout at the telly. But shoes and bags. Tenuous to say the least.

Now Italy’s not what you'd call sophisticated in marketing terms, let's face it. Earlier, we were assailed by a Fiat 500, old shape with a tannoy on top. And the bloke shouting into it extolling the virtues of kitchen
gas! The very thing for heating food, apparently. Well, I never. Who'd have thought it.

But still. There are marketing standards and footballing beer bottles do not meet them.

And yet how does that even happen at all here? The marketing industry in Italy is very regulated. Stringently so. Except where semi-clad women
are concerned. Boobs ok. Financial services not.

No really.

For example, as a lawyer or a similar service provider you can't advertise in or on public media. You have to rely on reputation. Word of mouth. Or a tiny little plaque outside your residence. So your only custom is from the eagle eyed.
But get your boobs out for anything from the obvious. Calendars and cars. To the frankly odd. Dog food and bleach. And that's ok. Only in a Catholic country, eh? I'm fully paid up, so I can say that.

Equally, there is little or no dm here. Especially in the South. Unless you are the Church. Apparently, even God needs a bit of a push now and again.

But even God can't get a Catholic lawyer, or any other denomination, a look in on Sky Sports but Becks beer can not only advertise but play, too! Extraordinary, eh?

And not really in the spirit of the beautiful game is it, let's face it?
Players get roundly harried if they go clubbing before a game. And fall pissed out of Chinawhites. Page three lovely on each arm. Actually, maybe that's where the shoes and bags come in, come to think of it. The
page three lovelies. When clothed and fully accessorised obviously.

But does it make Becks beer more synonymous with football? Does it show that Becks respects football? And those who play it? And importantly their fans? The potential punters for the very beer they are flogging.
Popping up at a crucial moment and interrupting viewing pleasure?

Hmm. No.

And does it even work? Do punters leap up to buy a bottle when they see it flashed across a crucial four four two?

I think not. Not one bloke got up while I was watching.

I'm not being sexist, I'm the only girl here. Well me and Tamara.

So, the marketing moral.

Choose your medium and your placement within it with care.

I.e. Not during the actual game on the pitch. When I'm trying to watch the thighs. Sorry. The play. But in the ad breaks. Or on the hoardings. Or....long shot this.......on the shirts. Otherwise your sponsorship
smacks a bit more like disrespect. Like you are mocking the game. More like contempt for the very serious job the players are trying to do. Get the small white ball in the other side’s big net thingy.

So Mr Becks. Put your bottle on the shirts next time. Or is that a Euro too far?

Posted by River, 1st September 2008

Night train to Hydra

2nd September 2008

So there I was on one of the idyllic Greek islands. Hydra for your information. South Saronic Gulf. Lots of Venetian influence. Tiny cobbled alleyways. Clattering donkeys. Blue-shuttered white houses. Honestly, it’s gorgeous. At night, strings of lights hang between café awnings in the small port and you get bad attacks of boat envy as squillion-euro motoryachts come into berth. Uniformed crew and chrome polished in places the sun don’t shine.

Couldn’t live like that I tell myself. Husband just pointed out it’s slave labour. All that elbow grease and humble pie, paid for in nada wages. Husband is walking up and down the quay having a maybe-in-my-next-incarnation-I-can-come-back-as-a-Greek-oil-magnate moment. He’s got the moobs and the tan, though don’t tell him I told you. And he’s quite liking the Missoni-clad, bejewelled, be-boobed, canary blonde, champagne glass in hand, up on the poop deck. I tell him it’s bad for your skin, all that sun and sea air. Puts years on you. So even if you can be tendered off the yacht to shop til you drop you won’t look good, no matter what designer label you’ve got inside your very tight jeans. One, you’ve got a Greek bottom. Two, you’ve got crocodile skin, on your face not just your handbag. Three, you’re married to the man paying slave labour wages to the crew and your bad conscience will show on your face, eventually, believe me. Karmic justice….you can’t be stinking mean and filthy beautiful.

What am I doing? If I’m not deflecting yacht-envy, I’m lost in thoughts about some boho (yes, I did say boho not bobo) Greek island existence. I find myself staring at white linen, mid-calf, yes, yes mid-calf, dresses that probably started existence as bedsheets. I can see myself flip-flopping along the quayside, earrings jingle-jangling and, the worst is to come, ankle bracelet aquiver. Could even finish it off with a tongue piercing. Donkey ride the 450 steps up the mountain to the authentic – read ropey electrics – white windmill and voila, or daxi as we say in Greek, I fit like a native. Sadly, I can’t afford the yacht, didn’t need to tell you that really, even sadder still not even the donkey ride. State of the euro. Donkey ride that is. Miserable exchange rate or not I can’t even begin to afford the motoryacht... and I’m not stinking mean or filthy beautiful either. Though mass plastic surgery and a personality change could help here. Until then I’m stuck with me. Or Lemonhead as my children now refer to me. Because here’s another fantasy that’s reared its obsessive little head. Used to have long, Titian red hair. Four years of tortuous growing. Gone on a whim. Short blonde crop. My hairdresser said Aries was cusping Scorpio so I had no choice. The desire to make a life change and become Agyness Deyn was just too overwhelming. Well, alright her mother then. Hull, the town of my growing-up, not age, is sadly all Agyness and I have in common. Anyway, back to life aspirations.

Here dear reader is where magazines finally come into it. Indeed into their own. After all, I’m editorial director of River so I have to justify my existence don’t I? As Pascal Mercier writes (page 42 Night Train to Lisbon, the phenomenal international bestselling novel. No, you’re not going to get a book review though it is a bloody good existential read): “Given that we can live only a small part of what there is in us, what happens with the rest?”

Had I been able to purchase a copy of Greek Island Idyll (doesn’t exist but should), I could have whiled away my holiday reading about many fantasy lives in Greece rather than lusting after shapeless old bedsheets and body piercings. My husband could have indulged in yacht-porn – mine-is-bigger-than-yours images of big boats I mean, of course. Had I been able to buy the latest issue of Vogue on my Greek idyll, I could have looked at Agy on the catwalk and imagined being her without actually having to have the chop. Similarly, take River’s splendid Harrods magazine. I could have poured over the gorgeous August issue and dreamed of strutting my stuff in Naeem Khan's stunning brocade evening dress aloft the Harrod’s rooftop. In my dreams! In my dreams indeed, for that dear reader is the power and the point of magazines. They’re our dreams, our fantasy lives, they allow us to indulge all our schizophrenic selves. Some say they are a luxury, credit crunch nipping. I say they’re a necessity. They keep us entertained and ultimately sane.

Blog biog: Jane Wynn. Age: none of your business. Ravishingly intelligent (self-deluded). Very talented - axiomatic as is Editorial director River.

Posted by River, 2nd September 2008

Of VPs, VPLs...and veracity in magazines

11th September 2008

Hello…

lemonhead here…well for the moment that is...my hair I mean. Keep up. As I explained in my last blog, I had the chop. Titian waist-length to blonde crop. I was thinking Agyness Deyn. Apparently in reality the effect is more cadaverous than even the 5ft 11in, size 8, catwalk bombshell.

Let me explain.

There I was panting down Bond Street in my trainers and Ghost black dress. Not a look I’d recommend but practical when you are walking the five miles from home to the office. No the credit crunch has not severed my relationship with the London black cab community...just wanted some exercise and the opportunity to commune with my good friend (she who must be obeyed because she was put on this earth to be so….Nicola Murphy, River’s chief exec of course.) She who should be on the ticket. US presidential that is….ballsy woman, very successful business person, great mother, hunter, new business for River that is, no bear skins on her sofa yet though, and fellow director.

Anyway back to Bond Street – yes please. There I was trying to look calm and cool having hacked apace across Hyde Park and Park Lane discussing such strategic matters as, is there life after 40...clearly neither of us can tell you that yet, is navy the new black, obviously if you’re Alexander McQueen A/W08, will the so-called recession affect our brilliant business, should we admire Sarah Palin, John McCain’s new VP and hockey-Mum or revile her (likes big guns and some argue has painfully put her pregnant 17-year-old daughter in the spotlight but, on the other hand, is impressively anti-establishment and a warm family person) when I was accosted by a mild-looking female pedestrian. She stopped me in my tracks as she put her arm on mine. “My God!” she exclaimed…you’re stunningly beautiful and obviously highly successful and intelligent…No. “My God!”…don’t you look just like…Audrey Hepburn post a bleach…..No. “My God!” surely you’re related to... Agyness Deyn…your hair and youthful complexion…No. “My God, don’t you look exactly like… Paula Yates.” Yes. I did say cadaverous did I not. Sadly, because I really liked Paula Yates, it’s a reference that is often made. Sadly, because she’s dead and what a waste of such an energetic and vibrant life. In my embarrassment I flushed and muttered indecipherably. Only later did I think of various witty responses that I should have made: “Yes, same habits but sadly not the same profile.” Boobs I’m referring to. I have none. “Yes, my good friend here has just dusted the earth off her spade. No that’s not mascara under her eyes…just a spattering of grave mud.” “**** *** *** ***** Take your hand off my arm and don’t touch me, I’m severely autistic and suffer from Tourette’s syndrome.”

But I’m not a quick thinker when it comes to the spoken word. Watching the Republican National Convention made me think how verbally dextrous politicians are. Maybe it’s years of self-editing. Maybe the bite of huge ambition makes word-hypocrisy worthwhile. There were a series of eminent republicans hailing Sarah Palin as a great co-runner. They themselves having been rejected because being men they could not pull the disaffected Hillary devotees. They could have been nuns in the confessional...not a flicker of disingenuity, dishonesty or downright lying. Here was the woman who may be a future president of the United States (McCain has had health problems after all) and rather than shouting, It should have been me, there they were prostrate, begging her to step on them on their way up.

Her suitability was being questioned by the media. Call herself a good mother. How could she commit herself to the presidential election fray and neglect her young family and maternal duties. Why was her 17-year-old pregnant daughter Bristol having the baby and getting married...surely only because Sarah is Pro Life. Obviously she couldn't be a credible VP candidate. Only six months ago she asked what was a VP? VP not VPL...And so it went on. I'm not a republican but I am secretly impressed. I like powerful women and I don't think abortion is a feminist issue. I admire anyone who can stand in front of a convention and the world and talk credibly and powerfully and be true to themselves. That's why I like magazines.

They are not about on-the-spot verbosity. The editorial word is considered and crafted. Customer magazine or newsstand the words are true to themself because every successful magazine has its own very particular tone of voice and every magazine has its very own editorial mission. I recently heard some eminent, in his lunchtime that is, newspaper travel writer inveighing against British Airways inflight magazine, High Life. BA were on air explaining why they rated their magazine. It researched very well with customers, communicated various BA messages properly and was appreciated as a damn good read. What tosh, said the very important newspaper travel writer. Everyone knows inflight magazines are a load of marketing rubbish. They're all about the carrier and corporate nonsense and you only read them because you're bored out of your seat and you've got multiple joint ache, even in your ear lobes. Not true said the BA exec. Some of the country’s most eminent journalists write in them, your colleagues, mate, and our customers are actually quite discerning and intelligent people who only do things they want to do, particularly when they fly and have some free and valuable time on their hands. Oh no, intoned the very, very important travel writer, never forget that the only true journalism, by definition, is the articles that someone somewhere wants to prevent being published. Methinks this very very important travel writer has not looked around him and seen that here in the 21st century communication and words take many forms.

Good writing is true because it engages the reader and immerses them in a carefully crafted journey. It doesn't have to be two thousand erudite and impenetrable words on the ins and outs of conspiracy theory and the latest political wheelings and dealings. That of course has its place. Consumers, our beloved magazine readers, are not stupid. They understand the nature of verbal communication whether it be a TV ad, a web blog, a Wikipedia entry...or a beautifully written article in a magazine. If they like it they read it, and engage emotionally and are delighted. If they think it’s tosh they don't. Fair deal I say.

Blog biog: Jane Wynn. Age: none of your business. Ravishingly intelligent (self-deluded). Very talented - axiomatic as is Editorial director River.

Posted by River, 11th September 2008

Angelica's back...

10th September 2008

...and trying to lose weight - visit her blog here 

Posted by River, 10th September 2008

Murphy's Martketing Morals - Part 8

12th September 2008

Oh my bloody God.

Stuart Rose. Stuart Rose. So good they named it. Sorry him. Twice.

Ahem. Stuie Rose. As I like to call him, now we’re acquainted, is after my salient marketing advice.

Okay, get up off the floor...where's your dignity. Rolling about on the ground with your mouth hanging open is not a good look. Unless you’re a dog.

It’s simply not a laughing matter. This is a serious gig for me okay?
It proves I’ve arrived.

One of the UK’s top retailers is looking to moi for thought-provoking titbits of marketing knowledge. Oo er get me, eh?

And you lot on the world wide web get my little gems for free.

No, not those biscuit sweets with icing sugar tops...they're iced gems...no, no, my thought gems...you get to read my blogs. For free.

So back to Stuie. To be accurate, I don't know for a fact that the twelve minutes an M&S person spent on the new River website was actually him okay. This tracking lark is fab.

But, really. Who else could it be?

He is the only one who doesn't actually have anything to do all day, right? The only person at M&S without portfolio ie with minutes enough spare, to read my blog.

Look my Grandma Rhoda had the sight. So I know it was him.

You’re sceptical. I can feel it.

But there's other evidence okay?
And after all, actions speak louder than words.

You’ll remember that in an earlier blog (whadaya mean you don't read them all?), I berated Stuie for his food porn ads (18th August). Old Dervla (and by the way what kind of a name is that?) Kirwan getting all breathy over the spuds.

Well. It seems note has been taken, and Dervla is out.
And the new voice of M&S Food is...um...David Jason. Ta da!

Now I admit it’s a leftfield choice...more field in Thamesmead than field in Richmond, admittedly...than I would have perhaps advocated.
Okay. I think it’s an interesting. Slightly off the wall. (Agency speak for bloody awful. What were you thinking?) choice. Because really. What does it say about the brand?

As an M&S customer I'm confused. How does David Jason in tweed marry up with supermodels Erin O’Connor and Lily Cole?

Traditional food values meet trendy fashion basics? Hmm. Mismatch.

Now don't get me wrong I loved Only Fools and Horses. I only caught the reruns obviously. Being so young. Ahem. And I love Frost. Don't you just adore a man in a hat? Er no...


And that's my problem actually. He’s lovable Old David isn't he? But he's not exactly aspirational. Or even, well, modern, is he? So I'm afraid I don't get it.

What was the ad agency thinking?

In Frost he plays a sad single who consumes microwave meals. Hardly M&S territory.

Are they going for the everyman stance perhaps?

Or the old lady vote?
Oooh I like that David Jason me...

See, my mum loves him. Him and Parky. And Bruce Forsyth. But she's seventy-nine. I rest my case.

So thank you Stuart for heeding my advice on your ads. I'm beyond flattered. Really I am.

But please, next time, can you run the choice of replacement past me before you sign them? Not my mum.

Blog biog: Nicola Murphy. 44. Ravishingly beautiful (short sighted). Very clever – MBA/PHD in marketing (likes the sound of own voice)). Founding partner in River.

Posted by River, 12th September 2008

Murphy's Marketing Morals Part 9

29th September 2008

Absence does apparently.

Make the heart grow fonder, I mean.

Look, I apologise.

There I’ve said it.

I’ve been neglecting you of late.

I realise it’s hard for you. One minute incisive marketing thought and cutting wit at the touch of a mouse. And then. Silence.

The cat’s got him.

The mouse, cat, analogy puts me in mind of my rodent problem. My cleaner, Straight Talking Gill thinks I've got a rat in my gallery. Not that I'm a lousy housewife or anything! Look. I like spiders, okay.

But truth be told the kids’ Christmas stockings are still up there. In the gallery I mean. And okay there may be a half-opened selection box or twelve among the discarded wrapping paper.
And M'Lord.....I present the evidence. A giant red Chupa Chup lolly.
Gnawed. All round the stick end. Through the paper and everything.
But I'm onto it. Satan cat is now a Freeman, er cat, of Gallery City.
And the mouse-rat thing’s days are numbered. Trust me.

Anyway. Back to the point.
I was apologising for leaving you advice less. For two whole weeks.

I'm truly sorry blog fans.

You’ve missed me, I know.

Thousands of you ....look I've always been a popular girl. Quiet at the back! Not that sort of popular.

Okay, okay, truthfully....there were actually dozens of people who contacted me in distress.....

Alright..... seventeen of you missed my acerbic wit.....my Mum, my Aunty Nora, both my children, my ex-husband. Sorry, that one’s wrong, he can't read. The Lovely Gerry. Okay, so I make him read it, but it still
counts...., and various long-suffering friends and a few hangers on, have all emailed to find out why I’ve not blogged recently.

Truth is, I’ve been too depressed by Freaky Friday, disastrous Thursday and not much better Monday to
Wednesday and, as a consequence, I’ve missed a couple of weeks. The urge to share just didn't take me.

It’s been a life-changing experience for me all this crunching credit.
At least, so far as money is concerned. Or spending it anyway.

Really. In fact, I’ve decided I’m coming out of funds. I'm clipping my hedges and my oeics have squeaked their last.

No, really.

Money-wise, I'm now in shoe boxes. Under the bed.
It’s not done much for my interior design regime truth be told, but at least my money is safe. Dusty. But safe. See. I told you I like spiders.


Until the children work out where the cash is of course, at which point I’ll be boracic.

But since the fruits of my previous über consumerism still need occasional maintenance, I still have to visit retail emporiums. In this case, a posh watch from the poshest shop in London.

So there I was in the Fine Jewellery and Luxury Watch Room in Harrods last week. Ooh, get me!

And I was amazed. At just how much cash was being flashed. Well, black Amex cards anyway. And there was a cacophony of Russian being spoken.
One bloke even had a bodyguard to hold his mobile phone. Too heavy for an oligarch to manage obviously.

So, the marketing moral? People are still spending if the brand suits their lifestyle, so stick to what you know. Well it’s horses for courses.
Bit of an animal theme going on today isn't there?! What I mean is that when times are hard only us mortals tighten our belts. Topshop, Sainsbury’s and M&S beware. But posh shops are still raking it in. Because really rich bods earn more interest on their gazillions a year
than we could hope to earn in a lifetime. They've still got plenty of money. Ergo they still shop.

So fear not the credit crunch if you are a luxury brand, I say. In fact, rejoice in the fact that Joe Public isn't clogging up your posh aisles with his cheap coat from Uniqlo. And lowering the tone with shoes that aren't quite Paul Smith. Or ruining the über-rich ambience with a frankly common demeanour!

So Selfridges, Liberty, et al keep up the good work and fill your coffers with all the wonga from rich aristocrats from the UK and exotic far-flung shores.
For me? It’s still the highlight of my week to visit Harrods and wander about the hallowed halls dreaming of bags and frocks and shoes and jewellery and cake. Even if I can only now afford the cake.

Blog biog: Nicola Murphy. 44. Ravishingly beautiful (short sighted). Very clever – MBA/PHD in marketing (likes the sound of own voice)). Founding partner in River.

Posted by River, 29th September 2008