The Toppled Bollard: radical direct marketing in practice

You should be receiving a plate of Spotted Dick through the post

As I began to feel the pull of retirement (it happens to us all, so stop sniggering please) I decided that each week I would make the effort to take one of the readers of my occasional meanderings s out for a meal.  I used to do this sort of thing as a regular occurrence, but my doctor warned against too much excitement in my old age.

But then I realised that I would  not only reach retirement long before I had met even 10% of those I wish to entertain – I would also be shuffling off this mortal thingy (as the bard said) before I got to everyone, even if I lived to a ripe old age.

So on the basis that I can’t get to everyone thought I would send you the meal to enjoy in the comfort of your own home.

Unfortunately (and I really am very sorry to report this) Securicor today declined the chance to deliver to you the Beef au Rutland, Spotted Dick and a couple of glasses of rather interesting Chilean Chardonnay which I had chosen.

I’m devastated. I really am.  And I have been thinking all day of what I can do to make this up to you.   So I’ve decided the only thing to be done is to send you a brief summary of my rather entertaining sales patter on these occasions.  In this way you can select your own treat at your desk, and munch and drink at will while being enthralled by my words of wisdom and occasional wit.  So here we go…

“In the ten years,” (I say) “my company has written well over half a million words spread out over sales letters, brochures, emails, and blogs.  You may wonder why.”   (Inevitably a glazed look settles over my guests at this point.  Don’t worry – it gets better.)

“There are,” I announce with due ceremony, “eighteen possible reasons.”

Now I must I admit I have lost a couple of clients at this point as they suddenly remember urgent appointments in Uzbekistan.  However I quickly add, “but I shall restrict myself to one,” and that seems to calm them down.  So here it is.

“People use these forms of communication because they make money out of them.”  This is a good one I always feel.  Straight, to the point.  It gets a nod.  Sip the Chilean white.

However some people object at this point, saying that it hasn’t worked for them.  And I hit them with the coup de grâce.  “In our group of companies,” I say, trying not to look smug, “we have a publishing house, and each week we send out a range of emails.   We analyse the results and we know they work.  Additionally I write a few blogs a day for the company (the numbers are not included in the half million) and I check the audience figures for these regularly.  People read the material, and then contact us.

“Indeed,” I add a little later, leaning back imperiously over a rather eccentric cup of Columbian coffee, “there are no secrets.  I’m really happy to take a look at your product, web site, email or a leaflet you’ve produced, and give you some thoughts on how our techniques could be adapted by you.  If you think what I suggest is a load of tosh, you can ignore it – there’s no charge so there is nothing to lose.”

So there you are.  The free lunch exists after all.  I’m just so sorry that you weren’t able to share it with me.

Tony Attwood

PS: If you would like us to review any leaflet you want to put in a shared mailing just send it to me.  Or if you prefer, give me a call.   This really is a free service, but you don’t have to take my word for it.  Oh actually, yes you do.   Email Tony@hamilton-house.com

This week, I went to lunch with a sales director who had a vision.  “We are a company that breaks the rules,” she told me.  “We don’t research markets – we create them.  Exceeding customer expectations comes in our stride.  When there’s a new campaign needed we clear the decks, and start afresh.   It never matters what the rule book says, if we can run it up the flagpole we’ll see who salutes it.”

I must admit I wasn’t quite clear as to what all that meant, but it did sound inspirational.  As she paused to consider the Skull and Magpie patent menu scribbled on a blackboard by our resident publican and Elvis impersonator Bert Starbuck, I saw an opportunity and launched into my sales patter re direct mail, blogs and emails.

I explained the concept – we could set up a web site, add a blog, and start writing a daily news service based around her oompany.   We could then also email the text to her email list of existing and potential customers.  We could move over to conversational selling, rather than SHOUTING ABOUT THE DISCOUNTS THIS WEEK.

“So what’s new then?” she said.  She was sharp, I had to admit that.

“Nothing,” I agreed.  “And everything.  We have huge amounts of data on how the text you use affects the blogs, emails, and direct mail you send out.  It is important to use this knowledge – and to use every medium, and to experiment all the time.  Never ever say, ‘its not right for us’.

“But if you could come up with a totally new approach to direct marketing it would be really interesting.  I love to see anyone break the rules and really make it all work.”

“So what are the rules?” she asked.

“Talk to your customers in a conversational style.  Write to them at least once a week.  If you can find enough to say, write to them each day – but in that case, make sure they opt in to the service.  Become the source of information and news in your industry.”

“And is this what everyone does?”  She ordered steak and kidney pie.  A risky choice; I admired her style.  “Does everyone follow the rules?”

“No.  In fact most firms don’t which is what gives those that do the great opportunity.  Most direct marketing is quite poor, most firms don’t have blogs, most firms don’t email their current customers every week.   They follow the rules of five years ago.  So if you can turn everything up and down again, that’s great.  I will learn some more.”

“So you want me to do a promotion in my own style, and you suspect I will fail because you know everything!” she said.  “What sort of salesman are you Tony?”

I was flummoxed, bemused, shocked, amazed.  I didn’t think that was what I was saying at all.  I protested that experimentation was essential, and although it would sometimes fail, it was only through experimentation that I had learned about the need to write in a conversational way.  It was the only way I had learned how to use emails and blogs.  I experiment all the time, I protested.  That is how I am able to help my clients get their advertising response rates up.

I looked at her again.   She was eating the pie!  I sipped the wine, specially imported from the Toppled Bollard. And waited.

Suddenly she left.

That’ll teach her to argue with me.

Tony Attwood

PS:    If you are happy with how your marketing is going, that’s fine.  If you want to know how to make blogs, emails and direct mail work in the new financial environment, without running up flagpoles to see who salutes, and without spending a fortune, give me a call on 01536 399 013.  You won’t have to visit the Skull and Magpie.  Or eat the pie.  There’s more stuff on the How To guides section at www.hamilton-house.com – click on the link on the left.

Why mentioning Bob Dylan is the best way to sell double glazing

This week I was taken out for a most jolly lunch at the Snake and Wolfhound (a rather enticing local pub with a singularly varied menu that has opened just next to the Toppled Bollard) by a  journalist working on a series of articles on how to sell.

I told her selling was simple. I always look to the master when such issues arise.   I quickly followed this with an order for a second helping of cheesecake à la Dracula with double cream – something of a favourite in these parts, trusting that neither my guest nor my personal trainer at the gym would notice.

Instantly she picked me up on this word of wisdom. “The master?” she repeated.

Nodding politely while taking a bite of Dracula and a sip of Rutland Red (which is harder than it looks, let me assure you) I gave her the full benefit of my wisdom.

“When selling we all follow the standard rules: let the customer do the talking, nod at salient points, sympathise with past problems, acknowledge that it is a tough world out there, and then when the moment is right offer a solution.  Keep it simple, tell it straight, close the sale.”

To my horror she was writing it down.  Against my better judgement I ploughed on.

“But we all know it doesn’t always work.  You need a fall-back position, and so when in doubt I try to find something that I might have in common with my potential customer.  Any reference to north London is helpful (I was born and brought up there) as is Algeria (lectured there), teaching (done it), book writing (done that too), football (season ticket), and radio (avid listener).  Pick any of those,” I explained, “and a bond can be set up which can lead to a sale.”

“But what if you have nothing in common with the customer?” she demanded.  “Supposing your client is interested in hockey, watches Coronation Street, comes from Belfast, was educated in Bannockburn, and works for a multi-national?”

“That is when I call on the master, for it is at that moment that I ask what the customer’s opinion is of Bob Dylan.  Everyone has an opinion on Bob Dylan.  Some think he’s dead, some think his voice has gone, some think “Not Dark Yet” was the greatest pop song of all time, some saw his last tour, some remember “Times they are a changing”, some know about the Oscar, some share the views of Andrew Motion.  You always get a response.”   I smiled.  A bite of cheesecake was called for, and I obliged.

She closed her notebook.  “Brilliant!” she said and left the restaurant.

So there we have it.  By this time next year you won’t be able to pick up the phone without a double glazing salesman asking your opinion on “Bringing it all back home” or a hairdresser commenting on the subtle bass line in “Blonde on Blonde.”  The options are endless.  And it will all be thanks to me.

Tony Attwood

PS:  For a limited period only you can discuss direct mail without any reference to the works of Bob Dylan by calling 01536 399 000.   On the other hand if you have a few hours to spare and would like to discuss the nuances of “What was it you wanted?” you can call me direct on 01536 399 013.

Last week I took a woman out to lunch.

She represented a firm with a major education marketing budget and I was hopeful of persuading her to move a significant amount of marketing into direct mail and email.  Unfortunately despite changing venues from the local pub to the more illustrious Corby Hilton the meeting did not go exactly according to plan.

“So what is it that makes your mailing lists so special?” demanded my guest no sooner had I settled down to review the expansive wine list.  Up to that moment I had been rather looking forward to sampling one or two lesser known but singularly spectacular vintages of which the Hilton is justifiably proud.

For some reason (which I can now no longer recall) I decided at that moment that the change of lunch venue demanded a somewhat unorthodox selling approach.  “I see our lists,” I said, “along the lines of a Joni Mitchell song.”

My guest looked surprisingly unimpressed.  “Joni who?” she asked.

This was not the response I had anticipated.  But it was too late to turn back.   “She’s a Canadian folk singer,” I explained.  “The ‘All Music Guide’ calls her the most important and influential female recording artist of the 20^th century.”

“Never heard of her,” my guest stated emphatically.

I pressed on.  “Her ability to take the simple structure of pop and write lyrics and melodies which tell a whole story in just eight lines is legendary.  Every word is equal to a chapter from a fine novel.   I see our mailing services like this.  We take something obvious and simple like a list of primary schools or a secondary school shared mailing, and provide those extra twists and nuances which transpose the obvious into the sublime.  When you listen to a Joni Mitchell song you know you will get something extra but you never know what it will be.  The same is true with a Hamilton House mailing.”

“So you are telling me,” said my guest, nonchalantly ordering a glass of sparkling water and leaving the wine list languishing, “that to understand what makes your services different I should listen to the records of a female Canadian folk singer whom I’ve never heard of and who has (apparently) got nothing to do with direct marketing.”

Put like that, I knew I was struggling.  I remained silent.  “Tony,” she said, “You’re surreal.”

And I have to admit I felt like a bending clock,

Tony Attwood

PS: Although I do admit to a certain penchant for Salvador Dali et al, I can reassure you that many members of my sales team are by and large quite sane.  Call 01536 399 000 to prove it.  Call 01536 399 013 to debate bizarre Spaniards with long moustaches.  Or come to that, Canadian folk singers.

One of the great things about direct marketing, according to our mentor Billy “The Dog” McGraw, Elvis impersonator and landlord of the Toppled Bollard is that it changes all the time.  For this reason, those people who just stick with old methodologies slip behind, while those who keep up with the pace are able to forge ahead and overtake old rivals.

“Just as soon as you get the hang of it,” he announced at this weeks lecture to the assembled multitude, gathered in the Cesc Fabregas bar at the Bollard, “some smart Alec, clever Dick, or intelligent Ian comes along with a new ploy.

“The trick is to know which ploy works, and which one doesn’t.  But what you cannot do is just do what you did before.”

There was a hush in the bar, save for the jingling of glass in the washing machine.  This was what the audience had come to hear: the news of the future, the way forward, the key to making the business grow.

“Direct mail is down about 50% on this time last year,” Billy announced, and a hundred pens on a hundred notepads wrote the words down.

“Conversely email marketing is up by about 400%.”  The scratching of quill on parchment continued.

“This suggests that email is getting horribly overloaded – but when we look at this scenario more closely what we find is that all the overload in email is going into the old generic lists – the ones that just go to the general company address, with “Attention Marketing Director” in the subject line.”

(Scribble scribble)

Suddenly Billy raised his voice.  “So what does that tell us?”

There was a long pause which paramedics removed more elderly members of the ensemble who were suffering from shock.

“It tells us that this is another issue in which what happened two years ago is no longer a guide to what happens now.

“Copy and design that worked two years ago won’t work now.  The way in which people bought two years ago is different from now.  The media that worked two years ago doesn’t work now.

“It has all changed!!!”

He banged his glass on the table and several young ladies rushed forward to replenish his supplies.  There were calls from the floor of, “Tell us what to do,” and Billy the Dog surveyed the scene.

Eventually he said, “Here’s the ups and downs.

“First, direct mail written in the new conversational style works, because there is less of it around, so it gets more attention.  The old “announcement” style in which you just tell the reader what you have got, is utterly and totally dead.

“Second email to general addresses is getting less and less effective because there is so much of it, and most of it is written badly.  There is a secondary rule here – if the medium is dirt cheap then the writing is bad because the users don’t employ professional writers, so the chances of getting people interested through that medium go down because there is too much of it.  So everyone stops reading that type of email.

“Third, email to specific individuals does work if the email is directed to them, without any attempt to bulk mail everyone with the same information.  You have to use email in a way that directs the right information to the right people.  Otherwise they will unsubscribe from your list or just block you and not read.

“Fourth, there are new opportunities all the time.  The one that really seems to work brilliantly is the blog.  There’s evidence that companies that run regular blogs get twice as much work as those that don’t – just through the effectiveness of the blog.  Even my words are now recorded on a blog!

“There are more things I could say, but that surely is enough for now!”

The crowd agreed and there was wild celebrating.  The future, everyone was certain, was brighter than it had been ten minutes ago, and nobody noticed that Billy had once more upped the price of drinks in the Cesc Fabregas Bar.

—–

Want to know more about blogs, emailing and direct mail?  Call Hamilton House on 01536 399 000 or email Tony@hamilton-house.com   I am sorry to say Billy does not reply to individual emails.  There’s more about our work at www.hamilton-house.com

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Billy the Dog lashes out on the lack of understanding of the blog as a selling tool.

At a recent lecture in the famous Toppled Bollard public house, Corby, Billy the Dog McGraw, keyholder to the saloon bar and head of the vodka division of the Russian Horticultural Association , bemoaned the fact that so many firms are utterly refusing to embrace the technology of the blog.

“I was commissioned by Hamilton House to undertake some research into the blogsphere, two years ago,” announced Billy before the appreciative applause had wound down, and with only one foot on the stage.

“I have to admit I started with a limited awareness of what blogging was all about, and started by reading a few blogs to get the feel.  Some were useless, but some inspired me.  And in a few cases I thought that what the writer was doing was so good I started telling my pals from other parts to read them.  In other words, I was doing the advertisers’ work for them!

“So I got the hang of it all, and then my chums at Hamilton House set me up a blog, and off I went.  And here I must point out that there was no mention of our beloved sponsors anywhere on the blog, because I wanted to prove I could do it from scratch rather than have anyone say to me that I was just using the Hamilton House name.”

There were murmurs of applause and nods of appreciation.  Billy, we all know, was not one to cheat.  Unless it was his round.

“I chose a subject I could write about – my football team.  One can argue that football has a lot of followers, what with it being a popular sport, and it is not a business – but I will come to the business application shortly.  What was against me however was the fact that this is a hugely crowded market with thousands of blogs covering the same territory.

“Day one came and I found I had one reader. Me.  On day two there were five readers – me and the four guys in the office.

“But over time I began to get the hang of it, and through finding the right way to work we now have approaching a quarter of a million readers a month.”

There were gasps from all around, but Billy brushed them aside.

“Not a quarter of a million hits, I should add,” he added, “but approaching a quarter of a million individual readers.”   There were more gasps and drinks were ordered.

“Once we had got to 100,000 readers a month and were starting to sell product from the blog, Hamilton House began to offer blog writing services.  Many were curious, but few were able to take the plunge.  Some said that only they could write their own blogs because only they knew their business – so they didn’t need our help – but then they never did get going.  Others said ‘its not really right for us.’

“But I battled on, and the customers came along. My team and I now write for several firms selling to schools, a printing company, a company that sells office equipment, and so on.

Billy then went on to give an example of the technique he uses.  “I will give you an example of the technique,” he said.  “I was asked to sell steel cabinets for use in the office – so I said in the blog – ‘What cabinet would you like to be stuck in, if you had to be stuck in a cabinet all night?   In answer to this question,’ (I continued in the blog), ‘there were many comments about it depending with whom one was stuck, but I let this go, looking for suggestions relating to the cabinets and their contents.  Eventually I chose the winner: Suzie in accounts.  She said she would opt for the cabinet containing the industrial sized jars of Nescafe.   “One sniff of those,” she announced, “and I would have so much adrenaline running through my body I would be able to kick the door down”!’

“The blog ended with a comment to the effecte that the cabinets could be found on page 248 of the catalogue, and the giant Nescafe jars on page 38.

“Now not only did people buy – some of them thought the story amusing, and sent it on to others, who would not normally read the blog.  The readership went up.  Sales went up.

“In another case a publisher asked me to explain to his customers the meaning of various technical terms like ‘bleed’ in the world of printing.   I related this to Shylock’s speech on the subject of being pricked with pins in the Merchant of Venice, proving once and for all that Shakespeare’s play was in fact a secret message to future generations on the issue of how he wanted his plays printed.  Within half an hour the publisher was receiving messages congratulating him on the quality of his advertising, and either promising or booking in work.”

There were cheers and a waving of pint glasses in the audience as Billy concluded his speech.

And all it leaves me to say is that if you would like to see what a blog look likes, well, look no further, because you are looking at one.

If you want to see more, here’s a couple of contrasting pieces… but if you want an explanation, or help, call Tony on 01536 399 000

The Hamilton House blog which remains fairly serious and straightforward  www.blog.hamilton-house.com

The original blog that Billy set up  is still running, and expanding.  www.blog.emiratesstadium.info

The Schools Blog – which contains nothing but advertisements we send out for our clients, but which still gets 30,000 readers a month, who find it through searching for key words.  www.blog.schools.co.uk

The Admin Blog – how it is possible to use a story as a blog.  This extract is part way through an adventure that lasted a year, and drew a huge audience.  After we finished the story we had calls and emails asking for it to start again, and one from a person who wanted to dramatise part of the story as a leaving present for a colleague.  http://www.blog.admin.org.uk/?m=200807

Believe me, blogs is good!

In a speech at the Toppled Bollard in the public house’s famous landlord Billy the Dog McGuire was asked if he could say exactly what it was that the best advertisements contained.

In reply he made his now-famous statement, “Practically everything and somethings twice.”

Although this statement has since gone down into the legends of direct marketing and is quoted in all reputable marketing volumes, it is a little misleading.

Or to put it another way, it is totally misleading.

There is always a great desire to throw everything into a piece of direct mail or email marketing, saying that one can do this, that or anything else.   The notion that when one has 100 products for sale one should focus on only one of them, is alien to many firms.

The same is true with the landing page.  The idea that a landing page should contain information about just one product seems curious.  “But they might want to know about….” says the client, anxious to ensure that every possible opportunity is given to sell something.

But it doesn’t work like that.

We have landing pages so that we can direct readers to the page specifically about the product being advertised.  Tell them about two products or more in the advert, and things start to fall apart.  The same is true with the landing page.

As for telling people things twice, this too is wrong.  Treat the potential customer with a bit of respect.  Show the customer that you value his or her judgement.  Don’t force things down the customer’s throat.  Let the customer have a bit of space.  And don’t, please don’t repeat yourself.

I’ll say that again: don’t repeat yourself.

Unless you are going in for some post-modernist irony.

Thus in this regard, our great guru Billy the Dog actually spoke a load of old twaddle, and it was my honour and pleasure to point this out to him, when we met up this week in the public bar of the Bollard.

As always, the great man took my complaints in good spirits, and the fist that made contact with my nose was, I am more than willing to accept, a bit of fun joshing and light hearted banter that one might get in one of the more famous drinking dens in the Kingdom.

Besides the ambulance arrived quickly, and Billy was a gentleman in allowing them to park within a mile and a half of the Bollard.

Billy made it clear that he would welcome me back to the Bollard whenever I felt so inclined, and that my paying for a round upon arrival would close the matter once and for all, and you can’t say fairer than that.

If you would like to debate with me where I went wrong on this issue, or indeed if you would like to discuss any other matter of direct marketing, please do give me a call.  I am almost recovered and do have moments of lucidity.

01536 399 000 normally works.

Tony Attwood

There’s more about direct marketing in general on www.hamilton-house.com If you would like to know more about Billy, click on About at the top of the screen.

More from the lectures of Billy the Dog McGraw, at the Toppled Bollard, Corby

One of my earliest experiences which taught me that common sense in direct marketing is bunkum came with a client about 25 years ago – long before the days of digital, before the days of the ball point pen, in fact back in the days when Liverpool could win the football league.

In those dim and distant past times we used to advise customers to do a test mailshot of maybe between 300 and 1000 random addresses (the exact number depends on the response rate one expects).  Then if the results were as they wished, they should send out the rest of the mailing as fast as possible, pausing only to avoid public holidays, and a chance to visit the Toppled Bollard (wild cheers from the floor and gallery).

It was during this time that I had a client who was selling books to schools.  He did the mailing and got a response rate of 4% with his leaflet, which was very good indeed.  We were happy, he was happy, the Royal Mail were happy, and my dear wife Betise was happy because I had just bought her a new dish cloth (cries of shame from the assembled throng).

The client went away and returned 10 days later with the leaflets to do a full mailing.  He had done 1000 primary schools in the UK chosen at random, and wanted to go on and do the remaining 23,000.

The mailing items went straight to our warehouses, and the job was processed.  I thought no more of it, and saved my nervous energies for thinking of my new Elvis Lookalike costume that I was planning to wear at the gig and the “Sheep in the Duckpond” on saturday night.  

(Cries of “give us a song you old pancake” from the floor.)

You can imagine my surprise when, two weeks later, the same customer called me and demanded to know why his leaflets had not gone out.  I checked the schedule (in those days it was written in chalk on a blackboard) and confirmed that all was hunky-dory, and other names of David Bowie songs.

The client however was adamant.  He had had no replies so it could not have gone out.  After all, what else could be the reason for the test mailing?I checked and asked him if he had given us exactly the same leaflets to send out, and he said yes.

So there was much too-ing and fro-ing, and nothing was resolved, and so, on the basis that no one has a brain as big as mine (well, local people use the word “head” instead of “brain” but they mean well), I decided to take the horn by the bull and go and investigate myself.I got out the file for the current job, and for the original test job, and looked at the schedule, the dates, checked to see that no princesses had died that day, and looked again.And the answer was staring me straight in my blue suede shoes.  

The customer had not sent out the same leaflet as before.  He had originally sent out a single colour flyer.  The second time he had sent out a full colour version.

When we challenged him on the topic he still maintained that it was the same.  Only better.  ”The leaflet is the same,” he protested, “except that it is in colour.  Everyone knows that colour works better.  It is common sense.”

Sad in the heart I took him to one side and said, no it is not true that colour always works better.  It is all a matter of the psychology of perception – the way the brain sees the page and how the mind reacts.   It is quite common for colour not to work as well as mono in direct mail shots.  

In fact there is a whole section on this on the Theory of Direct Mail site, www.theory.bz  (Wild cheers from the audience in the Toppled Bollard).  

Go to the articles and look at the alphabetical list.

——————————

Billy the Dog McGraw, expert on direct marketing and Elvis impersonator, speaks regularly at the Toppled Bollard, Corby, home of the direct marketing intelligentsia in the East Midlands.  

Regretably Billy is helping Her Majesty’s officers with some small matter of vote rigging in the House of Commons, and so can’t take personal calls, but if you venture to 01536 399 000 and ask for Tony, then I might be able to help a little.If you want to know more, there’s lots onwww.hamilton-house.com 

Each week Billy “The Dog” McGraw delivers a lecture on direct marketing at the one of the pubs in the Toppled Bollard chain.  Here’s the text of part of his latest extrapolation…

Last week I was surprised to hear a ludicrous attack on our beloved direct mail industry by an ill-informed so-called “comedian” delivering a diatribe on the BBC’s “Now Show”.

Like many before him he sacrificed story accuracy for a cheap laugh, in this case confusing the notion of “direct mail” with “door to door” deliveries.  It was ever thus, as I was only saying to my dear old pal Algenon Fitzgibbon Beater, just last week.

Direct Mail as we all know involves the sending of an advertising item through the postal system to someone who might (or might not) be interested in the product advertised.

Door to door means walking from house to house, slipping a leaflet through each door.  The door-to-door items are not addressed to individuals, and generally advertise (at least in my village) the Chinese takeaway that was closed down by the mental health agency the week before.  (On the grounds that you had to be daft to eat there in the first place).

As part of the latest deal between the Trade Onion and the The Very Royal Mail the Onion agreed to drop the statute of limitations which meant that each house could only receive three items of door to door mail a week.  Now there is no limit.  As a result Corby District and City Council have put extra bin collections on.

The notion (as proposed by the rather eccentric Now Show) that the amount of addressed door to door mail could be limited is frankly bizarre and eccentric, and reminds me of the time when I was wind surfing down the Eiger with the Duchess of Rutland getting closer by the second, but that’s an how’s your father too far.

The fact is that there is no restriction on direct mail delivery in our Fair and United Kingdom, and the fact is that response rates are rising gastronomically owing to a decline in the amount of direct mail being sent out each day is proof that the pudding is in the eating.

When I called my old drinking chum, Sir Hardly Anyone, chairman of the board of directors of the BBC I told him of this alarming gaff on one of his channels, I expressed surprise that he had let it through.

“I do check all programmes personally,” Sir Hardly assured me, “exactly as the Daily Mail has demanded, and I did go and check.  But I am sad to say that Wikipedia makes the same error and has a catatonically silly page on the point.  I have of course written in and told them what for, and suggested they go to Channel Five.  But what can I do?  It’s the licence fee….”  (At this point Sir Hardly was removed and put to bed by his butler.

So there we have it – door to door and direct marketing are not the same but both Wikipedia and the BBC think they are. 

If someone would care to buy me a drink I shall be delighted to continue speaking for another hour or two.  Ah yes, a pint of gin if you’d be so kind…

 (At this point Billy disappeared into the assembled throng, and was not seen again).

Hamilton House does direct mail.  We supply mailing lists, and envelopes, we print, we make suggestions about copy, we write copy, we make the tea, we speak on the phone, and we go and get Billy The Dog back from the pub after each speech.  Call 01536 399 000 to find out more about what we do or visit www.hamilton-house.com which is a Billy Free Zone.

Sunday 16^th January 1910

The bill of fare at the Manor Ground is, I would contend, unique. For this is a part of the Empire where fashion dominates, and to arrive wearing anything but the latest style is to risk ridicule and social isolation for months to come.

To begin somewhere near the start, one must be seen initially in the right emporium drinking the right drink at precisely the right moment. My choice, as one of London’s young bachelors and therefore lacking the homely comforts of a good lady offering home cooking, is to eat eel pie opposite the Deceived Duchess. After that I partake of a restorative pint of the hostelry’s exquisite mild ale before venturing into the ground for the jolly japes of other early arrivals.

Once inside the Manor Ground the real festival of the day begins as we skin our eyes in an endeavour to keep up with the latest fashions and current trends.

This week the Blueberry-Fawcett Flat Cap is top-of-the-league in headwear, and the dandy who sports it is certain to be admired by the man on the terrace behind. True, the Military Whitelace is preferred by those of a certain age who desire more than anything to regale their fellow supporters with tales of 1903 when the club won its first eight games on the trot. But this is not a hat for the younger man.

In the stand one spies the ladies, caressed by elderly caressers, most of whom are unrelated to their womenfolk and (it is rumoured) may be from the aristocracy or beyond. We may say no more.

Glasses are the order of the day, although rarely worn by referee and players, even when needed. As for socks – socks this year are worn inside out. A red stripe denotes the height of fashion and a certain rakishness. Matching gloves are not seen south of the Trent.

The players in Woolwich tend to a brusque coarseness, a disrespect of manners and a general inability to kick a ball more than three paces. Most are Scots.

Shorts are worn low, knees high, the waist is waspish. Elbows touch ribs and eyes, sleeves billow. The mouth is open, the tongue hangs out.

Shirts are art nouveau, and the hat of the goalkeeper should swirl and swoop around the head aided by a lavish brim swathed in flora and plumage.

As for the directors – the fashion is for feathers, flowers and fruit. Those attempting to take a seat in the grandstand without such garb are doomed to be a laughing stock for weeks to come.

In the Woolwich team, Rippon cannot hit a barn door (at least according to the man next to me), Lewis does not know the concept of “ball” (that according the man next to me’s mate) and Compton’s passing can only be explained by the fact that he is colour blind (according to the man next to the mate of the man next to me).

The game concluded with Woolwich Arsenal 3 goals, Watford nil, and Woolwich progress to the second round of the FA Cup for the first time in a year.

“Gatekeeper”

Wednesday 19^th January

“You must love it here,” said Mr Holloway without looking up.

“I try and live up to the high standards of journalism established over the years and enshrined in our constitution, reminding our loyal readership of their duty to the King…”

“Shut up,” he said. I did. “Sarcasm is my department,” he added. I did not disagree.

He picked a box from behind his desk and slammed it down in front of me. “Know what this is?”

“Paper, sir, recognise it anywhere, used in much of the Empire for…”

He looked at me. I stopped talking, but left my mouth open for effect, suggesting that I was going to add comments about pens, ink, pencils, rubbers, the difficulties of communicating with India and my specific experiences in the south of Africa soon to be renamed South Africa.

We play this game, Mr Holloway and I. It is a ritual. As is the fact that editors always interview mere mortals with themselves sitting down, leaving the poor scribbler standing.

I put on a look which I thought was one that showed me to be ready to face the complaints of the established readership (although it was unknown even for me to generate a box full).  It was also my look for not revealing that I had had a few too many last night.

Mr Holloway, his glasses slipping to the end of his overlong nose, picked up the first letter, coughed, and adjusted his specs up the said feature fractionally. He looked me in the eye before indicating the pile on the desk. “A selection from the past three weeks,” he said, and started reading from the top copy.

“Sir, ‘Gatekeeper’ clearly knows a thing or two about football in London, but I am sure you will agree he is not knowledgeable about the Association game in the rest of the country, and since most professional football is played outside the capital city it seems pointless to keep him writing about a sport of which he geographically knows so little and on which he has such biased views.

“His deviation into his personal opinion about the local public houses, the commentary of supporters who have imbibed too much prior to the game, and his view of their hats, the dress code of the club manager and popular songs sung in a public house after a game, is to say the least irrelevant, and ultimately demeaning to a publication that I have been purchasing for over ten years…”

He looked up. “Biased,” he said, and turned to the next.

“Sir, when ‘Gatekeeper’ has nothing to write about, surely it is better for him to write nothing, rather than to regale us with tales of what he did on the streets of London the night before…  While ‘Won’t you come home Bill Bailey’ is undoubtedly a jolly tune, I am not sure it warrants four paragraphs, when the central theme is supposedly what happened in the football match between Tottenham Hotspur and Liverpool.”

He looked up again. “This is a newspaper which carries sport, and not your own personal social diary,” said the boss. He picked up a third. “Sir, ‘Gatekeeper’ may have had a good time playing in his band at a public house on the night before the last home match for Fulham, but do we really need to read about it in your august daily journal? His views on ladies attending matches and his comments on the seating arrangements in the directors’ box are irrelevant, and his talk of hearing pins drop is surely erroneous. As for his commentaries on the fish pie, I can only conclude that the writer has criminal tendencies and, as such, should be reported to the police rather than given space in your publication. In terms of the notion that the inside left of Manchester United is a German spy, I can assure you his name is Smith and not Schmidt…”

“I’m sorry sir,” I said. “I had the idea…”

“Do you think it is possible,” he said, “for me to conclude without you interrupting me?”

I said nothing. The boss grunted, but chose not to pick up another letter. We indulged in a period of silence during which his glasses travelled one quarter of an inch further towards the floor.

“Would you like me to write back to these people and apologise?” I said at last.

“I would like you to get so drunk one night that when one of your musical fellows lights a cigarette near you the alcohol in your body ignites and you explode on the spot, leaving me with no problem other than the need to attend your funeral without doing a jig. The last man covering football in London on a regular basis retired because he couldn’t stand the strain. You could do the decent thing…”

Mr Holloway was staring into space as he spoke, and I wondered if he had gone to a land where Mr Wells’ Martians stalked the streets before the common cold killed them off. But, against all odds, he once again gathered himself together. “You think you are so bleedin’ smart don’t you, son?” he said.

I stayed silent for a moment, but when I was sure he was going to say no more, I said, “No, sir, in the face of that box of complaints I feel rather stupid.”

“In the name of the Almighty,” he continued, picking up the box, bringing it down hard on the table and then pushing it towards me, while his voice simultaneously rose an octave and he tried to turn the resultant sounds into a shout, “those were the only complaints! This is a box of letters from readers so demented that they are saying that they agree with you, think you are  humorous, witty and amusing, wish to argue with you about what the best popular songs are, dispute whether the whole of Newcastle United should be deported as aliens, and (in five cases) are proposing marriage.” I must have opened my eyes wide because he then told me to stop looking like a monkey, even if I wanted to parade like one.

“Let me remind you, you deviant little urchin who – some of these correspondents seem to mistakenly believe – has learned to write. Let me remind you, the Chronicle is a newspaper. In fact, this is THE newspaper of the working man. And you are hired as a writer on… what are you hired as a writer on?”

“Football, sir”

“Oh yes, the subject of which I am editor. And because I am editor I know that football has nothing whatsoever in any form to do with telling people how to spend their evenings and what flowers they should be wearing, nor the price of a pint in the public houses around Tottenham, Chelsea and Fulham. Nor even how far from civilisation Woolwich is. Or Clapton. You have managed to be insolent not just to me, but to the whole ruddy readership.

“And the mere fact that you get more letters than the rest of this journal put together while writing stupid childish gibberish, which I only let through because I had my eyes closed after a difficult night what with my daughter being ill at the moment, and we sometimes have a blank space because an advertiser pulls out at the last moment, does not make you clever.”

“No, sir,” I said.

“No, sir,” he mimicked, “which in the strange and bizarre world you infest means ‘I’m going to do this again,’ so let me tell you something….” He paused and at last told me to sit down.

“Listen, listen once, tell me you have understood – and for once mean it – and then go and do as I say. I have a job for you. Can you do it?”

“Does it involve my knowing something about Greek mythology?” I asked, and then seeing his face wished I hadn’t.

“You know what I did with that piece you wrote in which you suggested there are more anarchists in London than people who vote Unionist?”

I told him I didn’t.

“I took it to the fifth floor and showed it to the old man, exactly as I have taken your previous pieces on ‘social reporting’ along with a collection of the letters that we have received about your work in the past month.

“I told the chairman of this journal that part of the reason for our rise in circulation last year was that we had added a little background ‘flavour’ and a little local colour to the sports stories, as we had a writer who liked to write about such things. I said your writing was helpful because it was often something we could hold for a number of days without it going out of time, and then slip in when an advertiser slipped out. And I said that we had some letters from readers who liked your work.

“And then I passed over your little piece on how much GK Chesterton had to drink when writing The Man Who Was Thursday, plus your work comparing the boots worn by supporters at Spurs and Chelsea and how it related to the chances of each team of being thrown out of the League for being too boring, and your chat up lines with the local ladies, and what music you were playing at the White Hart with your band this week.

“And you know what he said to me – our chairman? He said, ‘At this moment we need a big story – a story that we break, a story that keeps us ahead of the opposition.’ He said, ‘if this clown of yours can land us such a story, let him write it however he likes. But if we do spies any more we need a new angle, a bigger picture’.”

There was another long silence. “I’ll tell you how we are going to do this.”

I gave a grunt which could be interpreted (by those who know my grunts) as “this could be interesting, so please do go ahead and reveal unto me exactly what it is that you know,” or not, as the case might be.

“You wouldn’t know a bigger story if it hit you on the chin, so I’ll give you one and watch you fall over.”

Since I am the man whose English teacher said, “What this street urchin does to the English language should be a criminal offence,” none of this was new. Mr Holloway was giving me an assignment.

“Now the distasteful bit,” he continued. “I am instructed to give you a pay rise of half a crown a week as of today. I fought against it, of course, but I got outvoted. You are going to Woolwich – your favourite resort – and you are going to cover two meetings there as well as the game on Saturday. There’s a shareholders’ meeting before the game and an open public meeting after the game – and you will attend both. If you can bring in a couple of German spies while you are at it, so much the better. Is that sufficiently slow and clear for your simple brain?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, not sure how to take this. “But…”

“Yes?”

“Woolwich, sir?”

“Woolwich Arsenal.”

“But there’s no underground out there.”

“There’s no underground to Tottenham.”

“Hardly the same, sir. Woolwich is in…”

“Kent, yes I did geography at school. And here’s something else you can do for me. Lay off the public house bit. We are not a paper that supports drunkenness. Come back with proof that half the people in Woolwich are working for the Kaiser, and write up the game under Dick’s name and in his style. The report of the meeting and anything else you dig up is you. Understood?”

“Sir, why am I writing Dick’s column?”

“Because, dear boy, he read your column, took your advice and played with the Monkey Parade, and his wife has kicked him out, and he isn’t at work, and she doesn’t know or care where he is. He’s probably spent last week’s wages and I, fool that I am, am trying to save his job and his life and his marriage. And that is one very good reason why you do not celebrate getting drunk. The other is that we are taking a neutral line on the proposed licensing laws – we encourage a restriction on the time the pubs are open because drink is a social evil, but a lot of our readers enjoy a drink so we are against any restriction on their pleasure. Is that clear?”

I told him it was, by and large, as far as my brain could handle such complex information, clear. He accepted that and looked down at his notes. “Got a report of talking dogs in Birmingham. You know anything about that?” I considered the matter and told him that, upon reflection, I didn’t.

Annie, who brews interchangeable cocoa and coffee in the basement canteen, saw me upon my arrival in her domain and made the usual flutter of the eyes saying, “You get the empty?” which she always says to anyone called into the boss’s office. The more I try to tell her I am a success, the more she puts the damper on and suggests I am losing my job. I grabbed her and gave her a kiss which took the room into uproar. I was onto the staircase just as the international news editor came down to see what the noise was about.

If you would like to know more about Tony Attwood’s new novel, from which this is an extract, please visit www.woolwicharsenal.co.uk