In the United Kingdom of Competition, Subtle is for Sissies

In advertising in the UK, they let it all hang out. Like the vaalies on a Ballito beach in December. Everything is out there. The view can be shocking at times, but you’re spoilt for choice with something entertaining to see. There are few advertising campaigns I’ve seen here with suggestive or subliminal competitive wordplay. Few gentle nudges, nifty allusions or discreet suggestions. Here the advertising is in-your-face…our brand-is-better-than-yours, stick-that-in-your-pie-hole obvious.

In South Africa, we’re accustomed to advertisements that shrewdly reference a particular competitive advantage. Campaigns can’t reveal a rival brand’s name. As a result, everyone tries to outdo everyone else by being clever. And cool. And by mastering the art of being subtle. It’s bloody hard work. No wonder they’re all paid so much. Silver-tongued ad execs sporting the industry-ubiquitous uniform of Polo and Paul Smith, with the right touch of faded Diesel jeanpant and artfully constructed chaotic hair, spend a lot of time (and their client’s retainer) developing strategies intended to grow market share and build brand equity. In offices adorned with expensive African art amidst the gurgling sounds of a gleaming coffee machine and/or koi pond, creative teams will spend hours on a brief – revert after revert striving for perfection. No matter though how intelligent, witty or ‘on-brand’ their campaigns may be, they can never say by name that their client is cheaper, better, faster or bigger than a rival brand’s product. In the UK, they can. And they do. And I love it. For a subtlety simpleton like me, it’s bliss.

On the radio every day this week, I have heard an advert by Microsoft’s Outlook about how Google Mail scans your personal messages in order to serve you specific advertisements based on the contents of your emails. Outlook positions itself as more private than Gmail. Outlook says it straight… “We do not scan your personal emails. Gmail does. We are private. Gmail is not.” Refreshingly to-the-point and effective. The same with supermarket advertisements. Acado says they’re cheaper than Tesco. Tesco promises to give you a refund if they’re not cheaper than Sainsbury’s or Morrisons on the same items. Asda promises to beat the lot of them. They all try and outdo each other and it’s a complete dog-show of competitive price wrangling – but it’s awesome. Why? Because we, the consumer, are at the focus of it all. We’re the prize at the end of the race. There’s something refreshing about this state of transparency. They all want my money. And they’re not ashamed to say it or fight over it. The playing field is level, so the lot of them can bash each other to bits in efforts to try and secure my purchase. And at the close of play, after all of the TV ads have been flighted and the catalogue pages printed, I can make the ultimate choice by voting with my wallet. Oh the power of it all.

I don’t do subtle very well. I’m too stupid. I’m also lazy. So to be told that I’m getting the best deal and it really is the best deal, what a win. Easier than being told that my supermarket is “Good for Life” or “The Difference” or is “Inspired by Me”. Quite frankly I don’t give a baboon’s blue bottom. All I want to know is that I’m getting the best products at the best price. I’m the easiest consumer to market to. I will shop where it’s convenient. I like shiny things and big signs. I will buy anything that’s half price. Usually in multiples of quantities I never need. I like rewards, vouchers, discounts and free stuff. Don’t give me complicated innuendo or fine print. I don’t have time and I’m too tired to try and figure out any witty repartee. I will always opt for simple and straight up.

Britain may purport to be the bastion of all things educational and cultural, but when it comes to advertising, their contribution is like Walker Texas Ranger – crops up everywhere, is as subtle as a jackhammer and is usually engaged in some kind of confrontational headlock with a competing party. I find it all most delightful. But then I would, wouldn’t I? I’m about as discreet as a heart attack.

According to Tesco "Every little helps." It sure bloody does.

The One About the Poo in the Soft Play

I visit the garden centre in my neighbourhood because it offers a soft play facility. A soft play is basically an indoor enclosure where your kids can run rampant while you snatch some time to contemplate a cup of tea. There are rules. This is Britain. Of course there are rules. No shoes are allowed. Socks are mandatory. Children are supposed to be supervised at all times. You pay per hour. No food or drink allowed. No screaming. No pushing or shoving. Just calm and orderly play. Well that’s the theory anyway.

On this particular visit, my daughter was in the soft play while I sat chatting with mums from my son’s school. We were enjoying a good natter when an almightily commotion erupted from inside the soft play. Screams and shrieks and pandemonium. Mothers elbowing to get out, trying to shepherd kids scattering in different directions. It was chaos. My first thought was that a child had been seriously injured. There had to be proper carnage to warrant that level of noise. My next thought was that it could be my daughter. I bolted from our table with my heart in my throat expecting to see my little girl with a protruding bone from her arm. Or worse. Another child’s broken arm as a result of being clobbered by her. What I found was nothing of the kind. There she was happily playing in the corner of the ball pond, hidden behind the slide – without a scratch. Completely oblivious to all the chaos - which is very unlike her as she’s usually thick in the midst of it. The soft play was desolate. Not another child in sight. She hadn’t seen me, so I left her exactly where she was. As one does. Making my way back to our table, I asked a woman lurking nearby what all the fuss had been about. Wide-eyed and choking with indignation she replied, “Some child defecated on the floor. There’s faeces all over the place. Can you believe it!” She pointed to a blue mat with a small smear of brown smudged across the surface. “And what’s worse,” she continued, “another child trod in it. And then another child puked all over the place.” She was mortified. Disapproval and disgust etched all over her face.


I looked around at clusters of unsettled mothers flapping like hens. Their children straining like dogs on leads to get back inside. I had a panicked thought that perhaps my child had whipped off her nappy and proceeded to do her business on that bright blue mat. It wouldn’t surprise me. She does hide in the cupboard with the rubbish bin. She drinks bath water. She wears her potty on her head. Before I could make a move back inside to check, wide-eyed lady informed me that the child who’d perpetrated the "offensive" deed had been removed from the premises. Poor little blighter I thought. The child who’d stood in the mess was noshing on a doughnut to help ease the shock. Milking the attention for all it was worth, I guessed. The socks he was wearing when he’d stepped in the business had been disposed of. Staff proffering Ribena and paper towels were attending to the vomitter. A cleaning lady dressed in one of those suits that reminds me of bee keepers trudged past us towards the soft play. She also had gloves. A mask. A bottle with disinfectant and an industrial roll of blue paper towel. 


Before she got to the entrance though, disapproving wide-eyed woman to my left mumbled, “I hope everyone gets a refund. No child can possibly play in there after that. I would never let my child near there. Think of all those germs.” As if on cue, my little girl chose this moment to pop her blonde head out of the ball pond, step daintily over the poo on the blue mat, circumvent the puke, and push the door open. “Hello mummy,” she said as she lifted her arms up. Wide-eyed lady’s eyes got wider as I picked up my child and gave her a kiss. I bid a fake farewell and walked away. But I could feel those massive eyes boring holes into my back as I took each step back to our table where I reported to the girls that the commotion was just a spot of poo. No cause for alarm. None whatsoever. We promptly ordered another round of tea.

On the way home in the car, I ran through all the things I wish I’d said to wide-eyed woman. “All that fuss you made for a little poo and some puke. Seriously lady, I let my kids eat sweets off the floor. I have caught their vomit in my bare hands. When my son was a potty-training toddler he climbed up a set of drawers to poo on our kitchen counter. He was so proud of his work he called me to show me. Delighted and overjoyed by his accomplishment. My husband took pictures of it on his phone and messaged it to our friends. My son also did his business on the side of the road on the way home from school while his nanny stood guard because she knew he’d never make it home to the toilet. I’ve changed endless poo nappies and puke-sodden sheets. I’ve wiped and cleaned and disinfected. Every mother has. It’s part of having children. It’s a part of life. Get over yourself. And shame on you for supporting that a child be vilified as a result of having a toilet accident. Who are you to judge anyway? Have you seen the size of your eyes? You must have. Can’t miss them. Take those gigantic judgy eyes and go and play in the traffic and I hope you stand in the biggest pile of dog shite. Then I hope you puke. All over your prissy white shoes.”

That’s all I’d have said. That about covers it. Subject closed. On poo and puke. Probably not for long though. I do have two young children after all. Poo and puke are as constant in my life as the sun and the moon. I’ll keep my normal eyes open for that lady. Till next time big eyes…

The scene of chaos.

To my Daughter on her Second Birthday

Dearest Gabriella

01/11/11 - The fact that this day two years ago marks the day you were born is a double layer cake of emotion for me. It’s a weird dichotomy that even I (self-confessed Madame Motormouth) struggle to describe. On the one hand it feels like just yesterday I looked into your little face for the first time and you held my gaze with your trademark quizzical frown as if to say “Yes it’s me. I am here. I am your daughter. Get a grip now Mother…let’s get on with it shall we.’ That look was exactly what I needed. I can still remember so much of that day. All the edges are still clear, time hasn’t blurred any lines. It’s all still there. Every part of the experience of the day we welcomed you into the world. On the other hand however, you have become such an integral part of our lives. You're so woven into the fabric of our thoughts and memories that to record your time with us as only two years seems wrong somehow. It’s not profound enough. It’s too brief and seems too trivial to mark the impact you’ve had on all of us.

I have watched as you have tackled each milestone of your development with such grace and purpose. Focused but with a gentle and relaxed attitude that means even when you struggle, you don’t let it get you down. You persistently and cheerfully keep trucking along. It’s almost as though you recognise already that failure is part of the journey. And you’re ok with that. Granted, you will still throw yourself on the floor in mock hysteria at the news that you will not be getting the scone you’ve asked for five minutes before bedtime, but this is less to do with how you deal with life’s blows and more, I believe, with your penchant for performance. Within five minutes you’re back to your cheerful self. Crisis averted. Happiness restored. You will persevere to get it right. Whether you’re fitting blocks on top of each other or hanging up your coat. You don’t give up. This could later perhaps be construed as stubborn, however to me it’s a sign of strength that I hope to help you nurture in the right way. This strength runs in your family Gabriella. Your great-grandmothers, grandmothers, aunts… these incredible women that you either sadly didn't ever meet, or those who you share life with now – are (or were) blessed with extraordinary strength of character. Embrace this legacy with pride. It is your birthright.

Your lightness of spirit has been a source of wonder for me. I think this is because I am for the most part, a grumpy cow. I have to dig deep to be cheerful. My default setting is to be rather negative. I’m a glass shattered kind of girl. But you’re genuinely and consistently happy. And this is a marvel for me. You’re happy even when you should be miserable. I’ll never forget when I took you for a round of vaccinations at the clinic and I brought your brother along. With his big blue eyes he took in every part of the process of how I had to hold you down for the nurse to administer those injections. How you scrunched up your face and bawled with the shock, pain and indignity of it all. It was when he began to weep uncontrollably that your cries stopped. You followed him with your eyes and offered him a brave smile. Trying to communicate before your words were ready, before you could speak. To make an effort to comfort him and let him know you were ok. When we left that nurse’s room you carried on smiling, the picture of cooing calm while I led your sobbing brother out into the waiting room. One mum even believed that it was he who’d had the vaccinations. He was that distraught over the whole experience of witnessing your pain, our sensitive little Ollie. In the car while he cried some more and I tried to soothe him, you maintained your eye contact and offered him your gummy smile as a gift. He accepted it. Seeing that you were your usual non-fussed little self helped him to come to terms with the whole scary episode. Being happy is your default setting. You choose it. At the right moment, every moment. I am so in awe of this gift.

You love with all of who you are. And this too is a gift. You’re tactile and affectionate. Your Dad is the apple of your eye. You are your Father’s little girl, no doubt about it. He wept with joy at your birth. On that day and today and forever he is so incredibly proud of you. Since you were a tiny baby, you have rested your head on his chest and there you will remain perfectly still and content in the cocoon of protection within his arms. With me, you snuggle into that nook just below my ear, underneath my hair. This is your place. When you need comfort. When you’re just saying hello. You lavish both your father and I with equal attention and affection. But your true adoration you reserve for your brother Oliver. He is your protector. He is your confidante. Your playmate. Your partner in crime. He is your world. You follow him everywhere. Copy his every move. Nothing he does will deter you from trailing in his wake. You love him unconditionally and the bond you share is remarkable. We have discovered you both fast asleep in each other’s arms on your bottom bunk. I have witnessed you gently pat his arm when he is upset, whispering, “It’s ok Ollie. It will be ok Ollie.” You shower him with spontaneous hugs, kisses and (mostly) unrequited affection. You sing to him. You tell him stories about the moon. You laugh together. You cry together. You love no else in quite the same way. Your faith in him helps him to feel more confident in himself. You have taught him just as much as he you. My hope is that this bond remains as strong as it is now in years to come.

So to my little girl who walks on her tippy toes, dances in the wind and looks for the moon and stars at every opportunity – happy birthday to you sweetheart. Stay just the way you are. Never give up when the going is tough, choose happiness everyday and love with all of your little being. And life will continue to remain the source of joy and delight it is for you at this very moment. And you will be rich in life Gabriella - beyond all measure or imagining.

With all my love….and in due course with many toasts of birthday champagne cheer that you have already developed a taste for.

Your grumpy baggage of a Mother…who is so very proud of you. x

Gabriella - our crazy beautiful little girl.