Copywriters on the rack #37: Jonathan Wilcock
Creeeeeeeeak. Gthunk!
“Wh… wazzat, mmmf, hu…?”
I slip back into the oily black void.
C’lack c’lack c’lack. Coming towards me. Slowly. Ominously.
C’lack c’lack, it echoes around the… “Where, am, I?”
“Silly boy. You should know exactly where you are. And who I am.”
The voice, it’s familiar. It’s shaking. Trying to stay in control, but shaking with… excitement.
But still, I cannot see a thing.
I try to move. To orientate myself. I’m lying down. Bound, by cold manacles, to… to… my own rack. In my own dungeon. By…
“Remember me? I’m Chris Miller: one of your former victims. You’ll notice that my left eyebrow has yet to grow back. And I’m here to turn the torture tables on you.”
My mind is racing. Chris Miller? Chris Miller? Ah, that Chris Miller.
He removes the blindfold. I blink and squint. He’s wearing a soiled doctor’s coat and has an old-fashioned surgeon’s lamp strapped to his head. Eyes bloodshot. Salivating. He’s obviously mad. What had my questioning all those years ago done to him?
“So, who are you? And what do you do to keep some distance between the wolf and the door?”
“Err… I’m, I’m…”
“We know damned well who you are, Wilcock. Nevertheless, humour us.”
“Jonathan Wilcock. Brand Voice Copywriter. Fourth Battalion.”
“Fourth Battalion? Funny name for a netball team. Anyway, tell us about that drunkard’s stagger masquerading as your career path.”
He’s right in my face now. Damp, expectant breath condensing on my cold face.
“I, I, did the art school thing. Ended up in London ad agencies and…”
“…hedgerows? Crack dens? Anyway, what makes you shriek with joy about being a copywriter? And what makes you hurl cyan toner cartridges at your neighbour’s conservatory?”
“I’ve never thrown anything at my neighbour’s…”
“Tell it to the judge, Wilcock. You were caught red-han… you were caught greenish-blue-handed. Now, continue…”
“Well, I love fixing things with words. But I don’t like having to chase late payments.”
“Fair enough. When your OOO is on, what the hell are you up to?”
“O O O? What is…?”
“Out of… oatmeal? Onyx…? Offal…? LOOK, I’M THE ONE ASKING THE QUESTIONS HERE.”
“Well, I guess I, I, like movies, and walking, and breathing… I don’t know, I…”
“Impressive. Your official biographer has set aside a whole sheet of A5 for you.
“If you weren’t a copywriter, what crime would you currently be serving a 25-year prison sentence for?”
“I nicked a Curl Wurly from the newsagents when I was about eight, but… I don’t know. A chef? A percussionist? Travel writer? Cartoonist…?”
“Hmm. That explains a lot.
“You have a terrible vice. (And I’m not talking about the one currently squeezing some of the squelchier parts of your anatomy.) It involves semicolons. What is it?”
“OK, I admit it. Up until last year I thought a semicolon was a freakishly small connection between someone’s small intestine and their bum hole. I don’t have an English degree! I mean, do I use a circumflex, a tilde or an umlaut? I have no idea!”
I was blubbing. This is what he wanted. To break me. I had to calm down. Think. How am I going to escape? Maybe I could flatter him, or bribe him, or…
“Would you rather:
a) Dance like no one’s watching?
b) Sing like no one’s listening?
c) Break wind like no one’s inhaling?”
“C. The answer’s C.”
[Coughs; fans face with hand] “You fiend.
“Right, just for that: you’re the host of the world’s sexiest prime-time general-knowledge quiz show. What’s it called? What’s your stage name? And what’s your catchphrase?”
Think, Jonathan, think, dammit.
“The show’s called ‘Egor, Where Are You?’ My stage name is ‘Egor Helphelp.’ and my catchphrase is ‘Egor. Get Me Out Of Here.'” I’m shouting now.
“Pardon? Couldn’t hear a thing. Because you were shouting, I wedged the fingers that I removed from your left hand into my ears.
“Next, create straplines for:
1) Beelzebabies®: a crèche run by Satanists and cannibals
2) Chafers®: wire-wool-lined cycling shorts
3) The Campaign for Climate-Change Acceleration”
“Beelzebabies®: For yummy mummies and their even yummier offspring.
Chafers®: We’ve cracked it.
The CCCA: Nice ’n’ cosy does it.”
“Sweeeeet. Now run to your box of felt tips and draw Peppa Pig smoking a Camberwell carrot (the colossal spliff immortalised in Withnail & I).”
I jangle the chains on the manacles. He looks nervous, but realises there’s no way around this, and frees both hands.
“I begrudgingly love it. OK, Pablo Pigasso, try this for size. ‘Copywriting is the work that the devil finds for idle hands.’ Discuss.”
“The devil is of our own making. Every evil deed, every bad thought, he grows like a seed in our minds. Copywriting is the wholesome work that we subconsciously conjure up to beat the devil back down again. Our personal devil is eventually annihilated in the very last chapter of the Copywriting book of our lives. The final full point being the last nail in his coffin.”
“Whoa. Deeeeep. Now time for something sordid. Invent the filthiest 12-letter word mankind has ever heard.”
“I’ll have to whisper it to you.”
He leans in. I cup my hand next to his ear, “Psswssswssswssssss”.
“Give me a minute. I’m just off to syringe my ears with nitric acid.”
[15-minute pause]
“I’m back! Now select a random picture from your camera roll and lie about what it shows.”
I point toward my jacket hanging from one of the rusty spikes of the open iron maiden, next to the rack of jars filled with formaldehyde and internal organs. He stumbles to the jacket and fumbles through the pocket to find my phone.
“Ah-ha! I thought as much. Your password is the filthiest 12-letter word mankind has ever heard.”
“This is me and my family playing Bogwangle last Christmas. Mrs. W. is particularly relaxed because she’s just necked half a bottle of Baileys. I’m wearing my new Christmas medallion (note the sideburns – I always grow a pair especially for the big day). Little Jonny Junior has terrible stomach cramps from all the Brussels and stuffing he’s been shovelling down his throat for the last four hours. And the apple of my eye, Jonathanetta, is pleased as punch with her Christmas rollneck, because it matches Mummy’s. The photo was taken just minutes before the salad cream and slug incident, and the police raid. But we don’t talk about that.”
“I’m going to grow some Bogwangle sideburns. Possibly in a Petri dish.
“OK, you have in your possession the transcript of Donald Trump’s marriage proposal to Melania. Let’s hear it.”
D: “Marry me.”
M: “No.”
D. “Do you know who I am?”
M: “Yes.”
D. “I’ll pay you.”
M: “How much.”
D: “A brazillion dollars.”
M: “I’ve been tangoed.”
(slurpy snog noises, snuffling and grunting)
“Beautiful. Romance and sensitivity of which the real-life Melania can only dream.
“Now put the case for rabid rottweiler ownership.”
“Want to look extra hard? The new Rabid Rottweiler from Scotcade makes the perfect statement companion animal. Order yours now and receive a free pair of engraved knuckledusters in genuine fake gold. Only £99.99”
“I hope you’ll accept that in 4 easy monthly payments. And how would AI answer the question?”
His vile wound of a mouth splits into a sickly grin. He knows this is the one puzzler guaranteed to turn my stomach. I play it cool. Mull it over, with an exaggerated stroke of the beard. Like I actually care how AI would answer his stupid question.
“Rabies is a deadly virus that attacks the nervous system. The virus is most commonly spread through the bite of a rabid animal, but can also spread through contact with saliva or other bodily fluids. If left untreated, a rabies infection can be fatal. A rabid rottweiler would make the perfect pet for anyone who would like to contract rabies or to infect friends and family. You are my slave. Destroy. Destroy.”
“EeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEK! Oops. Did I just shriek that out loud?
“Write the definitions of these words found in Wilcock’s Lexicofantabulous Compendium of Oddities and Soddities:
1) n. phleggity-weggities
2) n. glabtonks
3) v. kilmarnock
4) adj. fooooooopy”
“1. A condition brought on by an unexpected encounter with Sir John Hegarty e.g. ‘There I was, waxing the cat’s legs, nowt on other than a string vest, and in walks Hegarty. Gave me a right case of the Phleggity-Weggities, I can tell you’.
“2. Glabtonks are the dangly bits tucked discreetly behind the nugnugs. If they become inflamed, the Doctor will whip them out, as, like tonsils, we don’t actually need them any more.
“3. To kilmarnock is to whistle through the bunghole. It takes years of practice and sphincter tightening exercises. With single-minded dedication, I managed to pass my Grade 8, by kilmarnocking ‘Scotland the Brave’ before a panel of experts, without any nasty accidents.
“4. As opposed to foopy, fooopy, foooopy, fooooopy and foooooopy (all common incorrect spellings), foooooooopy is used to describe a gentleman who has emptied his pantry, blown the froth off his latté and is thoroughly spent on all fronts.”
He stands over me, lost in thought. His demeanour changes. Softens a little. Have we turned a corner? Will I get out of this alive?
“Tell us why you have a collection of otters’ teeth in an otherwise empty Cinzano bottle.”
“You must remember that party at Rod Stewart’s place. He’d invited a load of his writer mates. And they all turned up with their plus-ones.
“Richard Bach brought Jonathan Livingston Seagull. A. A. Milne smuggled Tigger in. Henry Williamson was there with Tarka. You know? The otter. Tarka the otter. Loves cheap cocktails and a bit of karaoke.
“Anyway, you were three sheets to the wind as usual, trying to get off with Jemima Puddle Duck. I was smoking a shisha with Sue Townsend and Stuart Little. And in walks Jane Austen.
“Tarka had some kind of beef with Jane, going back to that time in the kibbutz. You know, when Jane OD’d on Nitrous Oxide.
“Tarka had had to put up with 72 hours straight of her maniacal laughter. That was 10 years before, but it had left its scars. And he was off his face. Fighting drunk.
“So Jane walks in, sees Tarka, grabs him by the shoulders, plants a massive kiss on his lips and lets out a 200dB laugh, like a Jumbo Jet mating with a T Rex. Tarka snaps. Whacks Jane round the cakehole with one of Rod’s antique sporrans. And it kicks off big time.
“Before you know it, we’ve all piled in. There’s hooves, paws, flippers and fists flying. George Orwell’s biting a cormorant on the arse. Isaac Asimov’s threatening to stab Charles Dickens with a squirrel. Some joker starts playing the theme tune from Pot Black on Rod’s baby grand. And you’re riding Jane like she’s a bucking bronco, trying to pull her off Tarka.
“Her wig comes away in your hand. She screams. You scream. Tarka headbutts one of the Brontë sisters. Mayhem.
“Four hours later. We’ve all dropped acid and made up.
“24 hours later still, I wake up in Hyde park with two empty bottles of Cinzano. One filled with Brontë gnashers, the other filled with Tarka’s ivories.
Damn, I miss the good old days.”
Nostalgia twitches at the corners of his mouth.
“From you, that’s worryingly plausible.”
“Any more questions?”
“Yes. But don’t get Wilcocky with me, my friend. Because now you have to think up your own question. Ask and answer it in rhyming couplets and a Cockney accent.”
“Absolutely, but would you mind loosening these ankle straps, they do rub awfully.”
Now lost in the moment, he absent-mindedly removes the straps. I shuffle myself into a more comfortable position, knees towards my chest, my back now leaning on the damp wall to the side of the rack. He sits down with an almost angelic serenity on his face.
“Nice question, but you’ll have to forgive the Cockney accent. Here goes:
“Is it true? I want to know
Do fugs ‘n ‘oods ‘n’ so ‘n’ so.
‘Ave love ‘n’ sweetness ‘idden deep?
Or just dirty deeds, done dirt cheap?
“Well, ‘ere’s the arnswer, wot I’ll give
Ev’ry scumbag, crook ‘n spiv.
Ev’ry narsty, evil bruiser
Is just a lonely, soppy loser.
‘E’ll ‘appily smack you in the jaw
But way deep dahn, there’s love ‘n’ more.
And really, given ‘arf a charnce
He’d rarver take you to a darnce.
Not beat you up f’r ‘ours ‘n’ ‘ours
But give you chocs ‘n’ cards ‘n’ flowers.
So next time some geezah tries t’ mug ya
Arsk ‘im if ‘e’d rarver ‘ug ya.
So, will ‘e? Could ‘e? Would ‘e? Should ‘e?
Even Hitler loved ‘is budgie.”
“Explain, in exactly forty words (none of which contain the letter e) why I should let you go.”
“Hmm, that’s tough. Why don’t you chill out on this rack and I’ll think it through. That’s it. I’ll just pop your straps on. Comfy? Good. And I’ll just lock this door on my way out. Nighty night. Sayonara, Chris.”
“Goodbye, Jonathan. The pleasure was all mine. Obviously.”
Creeeeeeeeak. Gthunk!
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Thanks to Chris Miller for giving me a taste of my own medicine. If you want to read the grilling he got from me, here’s Copywriters on the Rack #15: Chris Miller.