By Wildest career experience
It was one day, probably about 18 years ago. I was working in an agency that had a lot of retail clients. It must have been the era of the lookalike, because I remember at the time booking a lot of them to open stores, branches, envelopes, that sort of thing.
This particular Saturday, I was managing an event for a famous name supermarket. It was the height of the nation’s obsession with Harry Potter and who would be opening their new story, but the boy wizard himself – or, at least, a kid who looked a bit like him, who had a pair of round glasses, and wanted to boost his coffers. As if that weren't enough (steady on, folks!), he was to be accompanied by ‘Hagrid’, both booked by the look-alike agency.
So, off I trotted to our No 1 Important Client at the time. On my own, because no one else was stupid enough, or broke enough, to want to work a Saturday.
It was set to be a fairly standard day as far as my career at the time was concerned. Turn up, make sure the client was happy and knew what was going on, meet the talent, go over the plan with them, manage the crowd, and take some snaps ready for a Monday morning post-release.
Great.
Only, halfway there, I received an email (not even a call!) from the lookalike agency informing me that ‘Harry’s’ gran had died the night before and so Harry wouldn’t be attending. And before I asked, yeah, they’d tried to get a replacement, but no one was available, so tough titties, have a nice day, kind regards, etc.
Whaaaaaaaaat!
What was No. 1 Important Client going to say to that?
How would my boss react?
What was I going to do? If I didn’t fix this sharpish, somehow – God knows how, both were going to KILL ME. I know, I know, it wasn’t my fault. But as anyone who works in PR knows, when you’re the one managing the darn thing, EVERYTHING IS YOUR FAULT.
Of course, I got on the blower to the lookalike agency. Did they give a shit I was about to disappoint our biggest ever client and about 300 local kids? “Nah, fuck it. Yer on yer own, love” weren’t their exact words, but that was the upshot.
At least, when the biggest shit ever hits a huge, mother of a fan, it can’t get any worse. Or so I thought. But then, a bigger shit came hurtling past. Hagrid calls. He’s ill. He’s on his way down, but he’s having to stop every 10 minutes to chuck up, so he’s gonna be late. Like, seriously late.
Greeeeeeat.
So, Harry’s experienced a sudden family bereavement and Hagrid’s ‘ill’ (code for ‘hanging from the night before’), and in about 3 minutes, I’m arriving sans célébrités to open a brand new supermarket branch. On. My. Tossing. Own.
Smashing.
If there was a time I wished I’d have taken my other career option of becoming an NHS speech therapist, it was right then.
What the hell was I going to do? Then, a brainwave. Rather than completely disappoint the children who were practically wetting themselves in anticipation of seeing a random lad in a black clock and a scar painted on his forehead, I decided I’d organise a Harry Potter lookalike competition, giving a big group of them the opportunity to not meet, but be, Harry and have the chance to win some ‘great prizes’. I’d work out the prizes later, but figured a supermarket must have plenty to choose from. Also, what an amazing photo opp that would be – the place swarming with Harry wannabes.
I’m a fecking genius!
Through some frantic Googling, I found out there was a fancy dress shop one mile away from the supermarket. I darted in, grabbed and paid for 50 Harry Potter outfits (cleaning them out of stock) and, fancy dress costumes bundled in arms, braced myself for the ‘challenging conversation’ with the client.
“No," she said, resolutely. “We’re not doing a fancy dress competition.” What she decided to do instead was recruit her nephew, who “looked a bit like Harry Potter,” i.e., was male and under 15, dress him up in one of my Harry outfits, and push him around in a supermarket trolley “like he’s flying on a broomstick”.
WTF?
And that’s better than my have-the-place-swarming-with-Harrys idea, was it?
Apparently, yes, it was.
It wasn’t, but she was the client, so she gets to choose.
Needless to say, it was shite. By far, the shiteiest event I have ever had the displeasure of ‘managing’.
The lesson learned: always make sure you have a back-up Harry, just in case the first one’s gran dies. And make sure Hagrid stays sober the night before. Y’know - basic stuff.
Rant
For goodness’ sake – when are boards going to learn – GIVE YOUR SENIOR COMMS A SEAT AT THE TABLE. Why? Because if you don’t have anyone present during the making of important decisions who has comms experience, you’re gonna make some shitty decisions. Then, guess what happens...no, go on, guess...
That’s right.
It all turns to shit, and the board turns to the comms person expecting them to fix their fuck ups, which wouldn’t have happened if the comms person had a say in the first place.
As a freelance consultant specialising in crisis comms, I see this happen over and over again. And then, to top it all off, when the shit gets really real, i.e., reaches crisis point, one of two things happens:
Either
- The CEO goes on holiday for a fortnight to St Lucia.
Or (and this next one is the usual outcome if the crisis involves redundancies or funding issues)
- The CEO buys a swanky new Jag and is seen swanning around in it, pissing off staff and acting as a target-on-tyres for the press.
So, why aren’t comms people often given a seat at the table?
Because, for some reason which boggles my obviously tiny mind, comms people are seen as second-rate professionals who know...pretty much nowt. If they'd had any brains, they’d have gone into finance or law, right? Nooooooo.
Early on in my career, in my one and only in-house position as ‘marketing and PR co-ordinator', I was once introduced to a visitor by one of the senior folks in our company as ‘the telephonist’. I’m sorry, I beg your pardon. Who the fuck has telephonists in the 21st century? If it were 1951, I might let him off, but seriously!
The lesson: Comms are important. They make or break reputations, profits, and firms. This stuff matters to your present you and future you. You shouldn’t just be giving them a seat at the table; you should be puffing up their cushion, making sure they get the best and biggest tea mug, and wheeling in the biscuits. The posh ones.
Useful advice
My top piece of life advice is this, and I’m serious:
After you go to the loo and wash your hands, make sure you dry them THOROUGHLY. This is because if you don’t, there’ll always be someone wanting to shake your hand when you exit the lav. They’ll remember you for all the wrong reasons if your paws are wet or, just as bad, if you declare: “I can’t shake your hand – I’ve just been to the toilet!” I know, because this has happened to me more than once. I didn’t learn the first time. Idiot.
Other than that, I only have one other tip, and it’s specifically for women. And it’s controversial, so big breath:
Watch and learn from menfolk.
I said it was controversial, didn’t I?
But hear me out. What I mean is this: I’ve spent my life and career worrying that I’m a terrible mother for always working full time, and worrying that I’m a terrible PR because I’m a mother. I even once breastfed in a meeting. Yeah, I did.
Do you think my husband loses sleep because he's worried he’s a bad dad for having a full-time job? No, he fucking doesn’t. And I salute him. So, therefore, neither shall I.
I’m an awesome PR, and as good a mother as my son will ever have. And if he doesn’t agree, it’s probably because he was embarrassed being breastfed in front of strangers, or because I once cried in front of him, or because I refused to get him a McDonald's, or because I fed him too many McDonald’s, or something.
See, there I go again.
