Agent Squirrel: The Tyranny of Sameness from the ‘ Supremacy ofMarketing’
Squirrel quickly surveyed the scene. The hired muscle had fallen unconscious alongside the car at the rear of the hotel, having sustained a broken jaw and dislocated ankle and two, maybe three, broken ribs, one of which Squirrel hoped had punctured a vital organ or two. In front of him a tall and elegant, well dressed woman he had come to know as Star –was now pointing a gun at him. The place was empty, a few of those large green waste bins against the wall of the hotel and crates of empty bottles but otherwise a ‘dead space’ behind one building and in the shadow of others. Squirrel mused at the thought of architects designing places with such apt names.
Star held the weapon low and snug to her waist – that way anyone monitoring the poor quality CCTV cameras at the reception desk would have little reason to think anyone…let alone Squirrel was being held at gunpoint. From afar, or by way of a grainy screen it looked for all the world like two people having a chat - it was a fact that had not escaped Squirrel himself.
‘You have obviously done this sort of thing before…’ said Squirrel to his femme fatal ‘…hunting squirrels’,
‘No – you will be my first squirrel…now pick up the trooper and get him into the car!’ replied Star.
The hired muscle was out for the count alongside the car and would be pretty sore if he did come round and from where Squirrel was standing he looked ever so heavy…’look, Star…’ began Squirrel in a conciliatory tone, ’well thing is… I’m not really built for manual work…ask any one who knows me…and they will…’
‘soyez tranquille vous idiot’, Star now having reverted to her native langauge, a sure sign of stress from an agent alone in the field. Squirrel looked puzzled, not an uncommon feature of the average red squirrel it has to be said, those moments when they stop dead in their tracks and look puzzled – as if asking themselves: did I leave the light on under the stairs or have I paid the milkman this week?
‘No - never been there…been to Paris of course, the Bois de Boulogne…lovely trees’
An exasperated Star now raised her voice along with the gun: ‘shut up you idiot, no wonder the Institute disavowed you, you are a fool and you are wasting my time with this gibberish’.
Squirrel had rightly calculated that Star was not going to shoot him, her employers wanted him alive - for the moment anyhow, neither was she going to shoot and wound him as any gun shot would attract attention – even in a ‘dead space’, her only option was compliance via threat, Squirrel on the other hand just wanted to buy some time.
‘Well that’s where you’re wrong’, Squirrel started pointing a finger in the general direction of Star’s right shoulder, ‘ it’s the same with marketing communications: it’s all very well and good having something to say – like our tea is the best tea in the world, but it only works if you say it in a language that the audience or tribe understands…so the brand Builders Tea for instance – knows exactly the tribe who are going to buy it and accordingly uses a language that is shared by that tribe…’ Squirrel paused, he could see that Star was working out the options and he feared, given the look of incredulity on her face that shooting an endangered species was not after all off the list of possibilities!
He continued ‘…so my advice is that you should use a language that I am most likely to understand given my needs right now…saves a lot of wasted effort and if we were talking in commercial terms - cash too – otherwise you may as well be speaking a foreign language’.
‘Bravo’ she said,
‘There you go again!’ replied Squirrel.
She made a move to come closer to him, her body just tipping off the centre of balance and about to take a step forward when the rear door of the hotel began to open – a maid, from room service, was attempting to manoeuvre a large trolley out and had pushed the door with her back. Star quickly spun round to put her back towards the door in order to conceal the gun from the maid. Eventually the trolley and the maid made it through the door and as silence fell between the two agents the maid set about taking several black bags of waste to the bins. Star silently gestured with the barrel of the gun to Squirrel to move the prone body of the trooper- he reluctantly made a start on the task.
As he bent down to move the body he was aware of something falling towards him, actually it was a falling Star. He just managed to catch her before she hit the floor face down, her weapon was now missing, observed Squirrel. Standing now where just a few seconds ago Star had stood was the chambermaid with the 45 in her hand. At about five and a half feet tall and with strawberry blond curly shoulder length hair she was quite a different opponent. Then she spoke and Squirrel instantly knew he was in trouble…this girl had a Glaswegian accent!
‘Agent Squirrel?’ she asked.
‘Just Squirrel’ said Squirrel in a slightly depressed sort of way. Then he noticed the Mark Jacob shoes and Jasper Conran dress under the Mrs O tabard…this was no ordinary chambermaid!
‘Preacher sent me…it’s my first assignment…I’ve been watching your back…oh and thanks for the tip about which hand she had the gun in…watched it on the CCTV’ the chambermaid said in quick succession, ‘I’m Shirley…Shirley Knot’ holding out her hand to shake Squirrel’s but forgetting that she still had a loaded gun attached.
‘Surely not your real name?’ questioned Squirrel.
‘Aye ‘tis’, responded the less than amused Shirley. Squirrel had turned his attention to the fallen Star. He quickly removed one of her stockings to tie her hands, Shirley looked quite disgusted at the manoeuvre and the aplomb with which Squirrel had completed the task.
‘You’ve done that before haven’t you?’ she said accusingly
‘Might have’ said Squirrel.
‘Nice car, is it yours?’ she asked Squirrel, looking at the RS 4.
‘It is now’ he said ‘ I need to catch a flight to Washington, I’ll leave you to call the cleaners and removal people’. As he drove quickly away he glanced in the rear view mirror to see Shirley chatting on her mobile phone with two inert bodies at her ‘those shoes could be murderous’ feet – like some contemporary urban version of the classic Scottish hunting scene.
‘Hello Sir…Shirley Knot here…he’s headed for Washington’, she said.
‘Surely not!’ exclaimed Preacher.
Squirrel quickly surveyed the scene. The hired muscle had fallen unconscious alongside the car at the rear of the hotel, having sustained a broken jaw and dislocated ankle and two, maybe three, broken ribs, one of which Squirrel hoped had punctured a vital organ or two. In front of him a tall and elegant, well dressed woman he had come to know as Star –was now pointing a gun at him. The place was empty, a few of those large green waste bins against the wall of the hotel and crates of empty bottles but otherwise a ‘dead space’ behind one building and in the shadow of others. Squirrel mused at the thought of architects designing places with such apt names.
Star held the weapon low and snug to her waist – that way anyone monitoring the poor quality CCTV cameras at the reception desk would have little reason to think anyone…let alone Squirrel was being held at gunpoint. From afar, or by way of a grainy screen it looked for all the world like two people having a chat - it was a fact that had not escaped Squirrel himself.
‘You have obviously done this sort of thing before…’ said Squirrel to his femme fatal ‘…hunting squirrels’,
‘No – you will be my first squirrel…now pick up the trooper and get him into the car!’ replied Star.
The hired muscle was out for the count alongside the car and would be pretty sore if he did come round and from where Squirrel was standing he looked ever so heavy…’look, Star…’ began Squirrel in a conciliatory tone, ’well thing is… I’m not really built for manual work…ask any one who knows me…and they will…’
‘soyez tranquille vous idiot’, Star now having reverted to her native langauge, a sure sign of stress from an agent alone in the field. Squirrel looked puzzled, not an uncommon feature of the average red squirrel it has to be said, those moments when they stop dead in their tracks and look puzzled – as if asking themselves: did I leave the light on under the stairs or have I paid the milkman this week?
‘No - never been there…been to Paris of course, the Bois de Boulogne…lovely trees’
An exasperated Star now raised her voice along with the gun: ‘shut up you idiot, no wonder the Institute disavowed you, you are a fool and you are wasting my time with this gibberish’.
Squirrel had rightly calculated that Star was not going to shoot him, her employers wanted him alive - for the moment anyhow, neither was she going to shoot and wound him as any gun shot would attract attention – even in a ‘dead space’, her only option was compliance via threat, Squirrel on the other hand just wanted to buy some time.
‘Well that’s where you’re wrong’, Squirrel started pointing a finger in the general direction of Star’s right shoulder, ‘ it’s the same with marketing communications: it’s all very well and good having something to say – like our tea is the best tea in the world, but it only works if you say it in a language that the audience or tribe understands…so the brand Builders Tea for instance – knows exactly the tribe who are going to buy it and accordingly uses a language that is shared by that tribe…’ Squirrel paused, he could see that Star was working out the options and he feared, given the look of incredulity on her face that shooting an endangered species was not after all off the list of possibilities!
He continued ‘…so my advice is that you should use a language that I am most likely to understand given my needs right now…saves a lot of wasted effort and if we were talking in commercial terms - cash too – otherwise you may as well be speaking a foreign language’.
‘Bravo’ she said,
‘There you go again!’ replied Squirrel.
She made a move to come closer to him, her body just tipping off the centre of balance and about to take a step forward when the rear door of the hotel began to open – a maid, from room service, was attempting to manoeuvre a large trolley out and had pushed the door with her back. Star quickly spun round to put her back towards the door in order to conceal the gun from the maid. Eventually the trolley and the maid made it through the door and as silence fell between the two agents the maid set about taking several black bags of waste to the bins. Star silently gestured with the barrel of the gun to Squirrel to move the prone body of the trooper- he reluctantly made a start on the task.
As he bent down to move the body he was aware of something falling towards him, actually it was a falling Star. He just managed to catch her before she hit the floor face down, her weapon was now missing, observed Squirrel. Standing now where just a few seconds ago Star had stood was the chambermaid with the 45 in her hand. At about five and a half feet tall and with strawberry blond curly shoulder length hair she was quite a different opponent. Then she spoke and Squirrel instantly knew he was in trouble…this girl had a Glaswegian accent!
‘Agent Squirrel?’ she asked.
‘Just Squirrel’ said Squirrel in a slightly depressed sort of way. Then he noticed the Mark Jacob shoes and Jasper Conran dress under the Mrs O tabard…this was no ordinary chambermaid!
‘Preacher sent me…it’s my first assignment…I’ve been watching your back…oh and thanks for the tip about which hand she had the gun in…watched it on the CCTV’ the chambermaid said in quick succession, ‘I’m Shirley…Shirley Knot’ holding out her hand to shake Squirrel’s but forgetting that she still had a loaded gun attached.
‘Surely not your real name?’ questioned Squirrel.
‘Aye ‘tis’, responded the less than amused Shirley. Squirrel had turned his attention to the fallen Star. He quickly removed one of her stockings to tie her hands, Shirley looked quite disgusted at the manoeuvre and the aplomb with which Squirrel had completed the task.
‘You’ve done that before haven’t you?’ she said accusingly
‘Might have’ said Squirrel.
‘Nice car, is it yours?’ she asked Squirrel, looking at the RS 4.
‘It is now’ he said ‘ I need to catch a flight to Washington, I’ll leave you to call the cleaners and removal people’. As he drove quickly away he glanced in the rear view mirror to see Shirley chatting on her mobile phone with two inert bodies at her ‘those shoes could be murderous’ feet – like some contemporary urban version of the classic Scottish hunting scene.
‘Hello Sir…Shirley Knot here…he’s headed for Washington’, she said.
‘Surely not!’ exclaimed Preacher.
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