Ye gods. I almost choke on my caramel macchiato as I read on mediaguardian.co.uk that ITV’s marketing head, David Pemsel, has flounced out after being asked to report to a certain Director of Television. Fincham’s head must be getting so big it’s no wonder he seems incapable of lifting his mobile to his right ear to return my fucking phone calls.
It’s been the mother of all turnarounds for Peter. I remember him ringing me from a biking holiday in some godforsaken corner of Europe shortly after the Queengate affair, weeping like a schoolgirl over the shafting that The Bishop had administered (with evident Jesuit relish), and swearing blind to me that he was done with “the liars, tarts and arseholes who run this filthy business”. And yet here he is, just three years later, spraying further largesse over the delectable Christine, commissioning more of Lambert’s cynical poop and cosying up to The Grocer and The Postman.
Now I’m not exactly renowned for my love of our Marketing brethren, but it’s hard not to feel sorry for Pemsel. For starters he has a surname that might better serve as a brand name for pile cream. And he’s been pushing water up hill for years in trying to develop a coherent brand identity for ITV, when really we all know the only logo that’s fit for purpose is a picture of Simon Cowell smashing an immaculately waxed fist into the face of your typical C2DE viewer while Ant and Deck pick their pocket from behind.
It’s true that ITV’s saccharine and frankly powder puff marketing efforts haven’t exactly been wowing the Promax juries of late, but handing over the sweetie jar to Fincham is the equivalent of letting the Taleban take over Top Shop. Because commissioners (and producers for that matter) are really the LAST PEOPLE ON EARTH to look to for a remotely objective assessment of a programme’s merits! You'd be far better off asking Paul the Octopus which shows to give the 100 TVR treatment and which to bury deep, like rotting fish heads, in the multi-channel listings where their stench will hardly register.
Besides, most programme makers interest in marketing boils down to a single, neanderthal question… can I have a poster? A poster that preferably adopts the Ronseal approach to creativity by limiting itself to revealing the programme’s title (in six foot high letters), the time and date of transmission (three foot high), the broadcasting network (one foot high) and a head shot of any recognisable talent (in whatever tiny space is left). It’s very much the Australian approach to advertising - It’s a pie! It’s got meat in it! Buy one!
Still, now I’m about to join the ranks as a humble producer and no longer have the power to veto a marketing brainwave with a quizzical arch of a single eyebrow, perhaps I ought to be celebrating this slight rebalancing of the relationship between those who make the programmes and those who merely promote them. Anything that knocks those jumped up little twats, in their cargo pants and K-Swiss sneakers, down a peg or two, is surely to be celebrated.
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