The Real Dyl

Dear all brands and marketing teams.

Here is a money back guaranteed piece of free consumer insight: WE DON’T NEED ANOTHER LOYALTY CARD.  My wallet is currently bursting at the seams and sadly not with the half hand full of muesli that I have leftover from my December paycheque, but with cards of all shape, colour and genre.

How can I possibly get excited about another card that promises me a whopping one cent back on every rand I spend?  That’s right my friends, spend ONE THOUSAND RAND at Pick ‘n Pay and they will give you ten whole rand back… to spend at Pick ‘n Pay… on a muffin perhaps.  Yes, you are a Smart Shopper now.

There is only one way to make this work.  I submit the following scenario:

As I approach Pick ‘n Pay a gentle murmur will begin to brew from some women who appear to be a group of Swedish swimwear models, “murmur murmur… It’s him… murmur murmur… It’s really him… murmur… almost sufficiently endowed… murmur murmur… size isn’t really all that important to me… murmur murmur.”

As I cross the store threshold I am confidently greeted by the store security guard, “Mr. Ferguson, welcome back Sir” and with that a slow clap begins, breaking the deafening silence of anticipation.  The ruckus spreads from Lotto counter to deli where the deli staff halt mid chicken tetrazzini to come together (with the bakery staff) in a perfectly choreographed one minute rendition of Michael Flatley’s Lord of the Dance.

I must become the Lord of the Dance.

Fortunately my exceptional lack of talent is disguised by the exploding fire works against the back drop of ten thousand white doves in aisle 7 (toys and stationary).  As I crest the wave of Michael Flatley’s masterpiece I make my way to the tills flanked by flick flacking midgets and other suitable circus folk.  My basket of soda water, 4 soft rolls and small packet of Big Corn Bites is handed to me… by the Archangel Gabriel. As I reach the counter the cashier, Natalie Portman, gently but assertively whispers in my ear…

"Do you have a Pick 'n Pay Smart Shopper Loyalty Card, Mr. Ferguson...?"

*silence*

“YES! YES Natalie! I have a Smart Shopper card! I am so psyched to get one cent back on every rand I spend at Pick ‘n Pay, thank you Natalie! Thank you Pick ‘n Pay!”

Now, potentially I am asking too much of the retail sector, but is it really any more ludicrous than thinking another mother-phunking loyalty card will excite customers?  So here is your challenge, an imposed New Year resolution for marketing and brand people to use or ignore.  Please excite us this year, somehow, anyhow, please, I’m begging you.  Give us a real reason to be loyal.  I know you can do it.  Get Natalie Portman involved.

Here’s a clue, it’s not a loyalty card, or a flash mob.  It might start with something as simple as actually keeping the most basic of promises, for example putting at least the marked 40 grams of O’Grady’s into the packet.

Hugs,

Dyl

As it turns out many international tourists love Cape Town, can’t blame them really.  I know this because you will find most, if not all of them at the V&A Waterfront encouraging the Seagulls to become slightly more useless (and by “useless” I mean deadly and primed to do The Dark Lord’s bidding) than they already are.  Sven and his sunburnt cohorts seem to derive an endless pleasure from listlessly discarding various pieces of prime steak right off their plates into the mouths of these foul creatures, giving them a taste for mammal flesh I might add.  This is normally followed by the following comment “Diese Vögel nicht fressen unsere Seelen HA HA HAHA” which I suspect loosely translates into “Look at us, the benevolent kings and keepers of the winged HA HA HAHA”

But this is not the point I want to make today.  What I have noticed from some of our travelling friends is that while they enjoy countless hours playing with the pigeons, drinking in our spectacular views, wine and hospitality there is always one… Sven, who moans like a pudgy pimply back teenager about the speed of our Internet connection.

Well Sven, allow me to remind you that you are in fact in Africa, Dick Face.  You are lucky not to be eaten by a lion, now go put on a hat.

Anyway, enjoy your stay, please spend lots of Euros.
Hugs, Dyl

I fly fairly regularly. Not like the majestic swan that you have come to know and love, but rather of the more standard aeroplane variety.  It is a terrible pity that the miracle of human flight can be ruined by the most annoying human being to ever live, walk, eat and sleep in our past, present and foreseeable future.  For the sake of brevity we shall call her “Sue”.

Majestic indeed. Courtesy of www.mikemet.com

Here is my account of flight BA 6409 from Johannesburg to Cape Town, written on the back page of Rob Stokes’ eMarketing book… This has no relevance to my story whatsoever except for the fact that it’s all very David Ogilvy of me, no butterfly though, so there is a good chance that this may amount to nothing.  *sad face*

At the time of writing this Sue is sitting behind me in seat 6A, I am in 5C.  I remember thinking to myself how tremendously close I was to the Business Class section, just one row away.  I don’t know what goes on behind that curtain. We know they get their own newspaper and the finest plastic champagne flutes that 79 cents can buy.  But when those curtains close we have no idea. I dream it to be a magical world where crunk juice flows freely, a world far beyond chicken or veg, a world of boundless opportunity. Just like Port Elizabeth.

Anyway, Sue is very excited about Young Daniel (sitting in 6B) coming to visit her and her friends in Cape Town for the weekend.  How do I know this?  Well, she is saying as much. I would like you to imagine Janice from Friends getting lightly beaten with a wild fog horn toting tabby cat and you will get a general sense of what I’m hearing right now…

“Oh my Gawd DANIEeeL! I’m like so excited…” At this point in language you would expect anybody to make some sort of progress with their sentence structure or at the bare intellectual minimum to simply stop talking altogether. Not Sue. “I’m  so, juss like so, so juss SO, like so so like… um… so EXCITED! ”

BLEEDING HAMMER OF THOR SUE, CAN I BUY YOU A METAPHOR!?

“Oh my Gawd! This chocolate is, like, amazing. What is this chocolate, what is it?!”

Young Daniel confirms that he does not know the name of the aeroplane chocolate but identifies it as a Woolworths brand.  A very keen eye from our Young Daniel having spotted the great big Woolworths “W” on the packaging.  The children are our future.

“DANIEeeL, but what is it called?! What iiis it Daniel?! Tell meee… ” Shockingly Young Daniel still does not know. “How long is this flight, Gawwwd, it’s so long… I’m bored, what game are you playing Daniel?” as she motions to Young Daniel’s PSP, admittedly it does look awesome.

The flight from Joburg to Cape Town is approximately two hours and ten minutes.  At this point we had been in the air for about one hour and three minutes. This information is no longer important because she is in fact singing now, or at least what I think is an attempt at song.  She has also hijacked Young Daniel’s PSP and is imploring him for help all in mid falsetto.

“I want your loving and I want your revenge… How do you jump Danieeel, I AM pushing that button, I am, I am, caught in a bad romance. Rah, rah, ah, ah, ah roma, roma, ma Gaga, ooh, la, la”

Just as the blood from my ears was beginning to dry, the gate to hell itself opened. Out of the black abyss poured the most paralysing litany of the most deeply stupid commentary to ever befall the good unsuspecting citizens of the sky…

“Daniel I’m bored. I want chips. Why isn’t he jumping Daniel? I’m cold. What should we do tonight Daniel, Daniel, Daniel? Gawd I was drunk last night. I drank like a million bottles of vodka. I’m never going to drink again, aah let’s go have drinks tonight. Ja ja let’s go to Tiger. Rah, rah, ah, ah, ah Roma, roma, ma Gaga. What am I going to wear?  How much longer Danieeel? What was the chocolate called?…”

My friends…  flight 6409 changed me.  I have never before been afraid of flying.  The nightmares keep coming and the tears have become real.

*double sad face, with a lifelong twitch*

Something interesting has happened. April 2010 changed the face of marketing, I would go as far to say that it has revolutionised it. To illustrate my point I have drawn up a highly detailed and accurate SWOT analysis for what seems like every brand in South Africa, here we go:

Behold...

STRENGTHS - We are giving away an iPad.

WEAKNESSES - We are giving away an iPad.

OPPORTUNITIES - We are giving away an iPad.

THREATS – We are giving away an iPad.

Apple has successfully eradicated the need for any marketing insight whatsoever, thank you Apple for solving the problems of lazy marketers everywhere. Here are some real world examples:

Employee: “Our third quarter sales are down Sir, what should we do?”
The Boss: “Give away an iPad”

Employee: “Our product is inherently flawed and inferior to the competition’s, what should we do!?”
The Boss: “Give away an iPad”

Soldier: “Rebel forces are advancing on the western frontier Captain, what should we do!!?”
Captain: “Give away an iPad”

Nurse: “The testicular haemorrhaging is getting worse Doctor!”
Doctor: “iPad stat, give it away!”
Nurse: “The testicle?”
Doctor: “No you fool, the iPad!”

Steven Tyler: “MY FACE IS MELTING!!!”
The rest of Aerosmith: “GIVE AWAY AN iPAD!”

Stick with the iPad solution for as long as you can friends, ride this wave all the way to world peace. I wonder if there is an app for that yet? I’d pay $1.99 for world peace. God, I wish I had an iPad.

I have important information for you.  It’s not often that I make ridiculously bold claims and today should be no different:  All parking paypoint machines are secretly owned by an underground consortium of car guards… and they’re coming for you.

Is that scepticism I detect in your voice…?

Well, the next time you find yourself at the V&A Waterfront dodging tourists and the man eating seagulls, pay for your R 12 parking with a R 100 note and see what happens.  Even though you already know, I will tell you.  The deafening cacophony of R1, R2 and R5 coins of your change descend upon you like an eternal hell fire of rapid gun shot.  As your heart breaks and the ear drums of small children burst, the daily wage of a Camps Bay car guard is now in your possession. That’s right my friends, your “I’m sorry I have no change” excuse that has long been the anthem of every non-pay parking lot and street side has just been obliterated in one fell swoop.  A rather brilliant piece of strategy, where car guards are not present, they do have allies.

Mr. President?

I feel I need not present any further evidence for my case because you know as well as I do that this is the behaviour of every parking paypoint in South Africa. I will leave you with these thoughts - what else do they control? Just how far do these puppet strings extend? Do they have gum ball machines as well? Cigarette machines? Are they building a Machine Army?  Or worse still are the Machines building a Car Guard Army? I’m scared.

Dear Simba the Lion,

Far be it from me to question the King, but I must bring something of grave importance to your attention Sire.  I am a humble man, a man that takes a simple delight in simple things.  One such delight takes the shape of the odd snack on your kingdom’s finest potato chip O’Gradys®. I am very happy to pay the handsome premium for this pleasure, money that no doubt fills the Royal coffers to the brim each passing year of Your Majesty’s reign.

But alas, this day I have been saddened and dare I say it, shocked to my very core.

Immediately upon parting with my 3 pieces of silver at my local merchant I knew something was amiss, an imbalance in our universe.  I rushed Sire, I rushed to find out what I knew in my heart to be true but was too afraid to admit. FRAUD Sire, “Fraud at the hands of His Majesty?!”  I thought, “Surely not.”.

Indeed the scale revealed it, my fear,  22 grams in a packet clearly marked 40 grams.

I wept.

22 grams Sire! For shame.  This is not the Kingdom your father had in mind when that monkey held you up on that rock.  This is not the Kingdom we fought for…

My iPhone completes me.

Yesterday I forgot my phone at home while going to pick up some lunch. Now, I estimate that the average time it takes for a Nando’s Cheese Burger Meal to be prepared is an acceptable 10 minutes.

So… you want me to just sit there without a phone and do nothing? Do nothing!? What if people I ignore in real life are uploading Facebook pictures of their pets or better yet, of their children eating porridge?  What if I miss out on an inspirational quote of pseudo wisdom? What if I miss a Tweet about what somebody else is having for lunch… 10 minutes without a smart phone? Surely I can handle this… Here goes…

Minute 1: re-read the menu, as if I ever intended ordering anything other than my usual, especially anything with pineapple.

Minute 2: Go to the toilet. Realise that I do not need the toilet but wash my hands for good measure. Return only to find my seat that has been stolen (in broad day light) by an overweight middle aged man. The lucky bastard has a Crackberry.

Minute 3: Finally some action. I notice the semi-attractive woman that has just walked in and appropriately name her Candi in my mind, that’s right with an “i”. Because it’s a pretty name that could also be the name of stripper, that’s why.

Minute 4: Reach with absent mind into my pocket for my phone so that I can Tweet and text about my first 3 minutes. Of course disappointment ensues along with a mild form of embarrassment, after all I knew I was sans iPhone all along.   Not to worry, Crackberry is so involved with his phone to notice the slip up and Candi is still ordering. Bullet dodged, Keanu style.

Minute 5: The pineapple seems to be getting bigger on the menu. Odd. It seemed quite proportionate just 4 minutes ago.

Minute 6: Crackberry manages to tear himself away from his “scintillating” BBM chat with his mom for just enough time to look up at me with what can only be described as a glare… As if I was the one that just BBM’d him to tell him he was a mistake… Aggression is in his eyes, I will have to keep a vigilant watch on him for the remainder of my time here, lest he ambush me.

Minute 7: Candi is also getting restless, her condescending thoughts are deafening, “look at him just sitting there doing nothing. He must be poor, only poor people don’t have smart phones, I don’t like poor people, I think I’ll knee him in the groin on my way out”

Minute 8: Maybe if I cancel the cheese I can shave a minute of the time, but that would require me to relinquish my groin defensive position and leave myself fully exposed on my way to the counter.

Minute 9: …

Minute 10: That fat balding Crackberry addict and his slutty temptress are in cahoots with the pineapple! I must get out of here! I didn’t want a cheese burger this badly, not like this.

I am fortunate enough to work at a company that has more than it’s fair share of very attractive women.  Now before all you feminists go pulling your arm pit hair out, of course I think all women are attractive and beautiful, inside and out – glad we cleared that up.  However the subject of this post is the more traditional outer beauty.

I bring this up because the walk that our ladies must take from the office to the parking lot requires them to cross a taxi filled road.  What these taxis bring (other than the general and complete panic to all involved on South African roads ) I have noticed is an ever increasing amount of suggestive remarks directed at these girls.  Now, it could just be my Model C school upbringing but, I find that a spluttered, sans front teeth“*whistle* Aww baby *whistle* kst ksst” out of a taxi window simply not good enough to win the heart of any fair maiden.

This is not just a taxi exclusive problem, it seems to transcend all cultures.  There is no way that an attractive girl can walk past a group of say… jocks sipping on their post gym anabolic steroid enriched protein shakes (strawberry cream flavour) without even a slight under the breath “Naas tuts”, at the very least.

Call me old fashioned but we really must examine this logic further.  Said buffoons truly believe there is some sort of merit in their attempt at ‘valour’, why else would they do it? These people really exist and it would appear that they are breeding, er-go these comments actually work… at least on the odd occasion! This should terrify you.

I can’t quite visualise myself walking around town yelling “Hey baby *whistle* wanna chop ana pomp tonight?” Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a chomp as much as the next guy, I think I might just stick with flowers.

I have a score to settle. For the sake of my self esteem I won’t go into any great detail but it involves getting handed a beating of several minutes in last year’s Two Oceans Half Marathon… BY A GIRL! – for shame!

And so training begins. Watching an athlete on his first run of the year is a very special and very rare occasion. The ‘First Run’ has been likened to a pug relentlessly charging at your unsuspecting groin. Or Toby, the fat kid in grade 3, making his way, with as much haste as a fat grade 3 kid can muster, to the annual bake sale. As all supreme athletes know, it takes music at full blast to hide the deep wheezing that comes from no exercise and eating your ever-increasing body weight in different types of pork over the festive season. Pork, after all, is what makes Christmas, Christmas. However, the first lengthy run gives rise to an old enemy, emerging from the darkness and most intimate of places… Chafe – we will do battle again!

For those of you who missed the boat on entries for The Two Oceans Half Marathon, the guys at Cape Town Tourism are giving a ticket away, check it out here.  Just 15 training weeks left, training programmes for all your needs can be found on the Runner’s World website.

We did it! We made it through 2010 and not a single stadium collapsed on any unsuspecting tourists nor did a group of crazed religious fanatics fly a plane into us. Please join me in a collective “WHOOOO HOOOOO!!”.  We did however have to force feed ourselves premium priced, mildly carbonated American piss at every match… – “We don’t drink American piss, Dave.”

It has been the year that the whole world has embraced South Africa, even Lady Gaga (although she will never admit it) sported what can only be described as a distinctly South African dress – seriously roll her in some Jimmy’s and I will show you a Pretoria paradise.

Most importantly of all let’s not forget the moment that touched us all very deeply on our studio, the goal of the World Cup:

Siphiwe, ngiyabonga kakhulu mfowethu! 2010 was a great year to be South African.

On a personal note, this will be my last post for the year, thank you for reading.  I will be back in January where you will no doubt find me yelling some choice profanity about six or seven helpings of gammon/turkey/chicken/beef/pudding/roast potatoes at a Treadmill in Virgin Active.  I hope that you all have great festive season and eat, drink and do lots of silly things, but remember to always do it with your stomach in, chest out.

See you in 2011.