BREXILE: A nasty outbreak of Brand Voice

 

Now that I've officially Brexiled myself, my visits to England this summer have been as a tourist. I've noticed on occasions that I feel like a stranger in the country of my birth.

Not for the reasons that the black balaclava lot and their ilk would have you believe, but something else. It's a nasty outbreak of Brand Voice, encountered on airlines, ferries, in shops, packaging, pubs and hotels. And the particular variant that made me wonder "are they talking to me, a (long) grown-up woman with a qualification or two and a reasonably high-powered career behind me?" is this: CBeebie-ese.

The problem with CBeebie-ese is that's it's developed centrally (and I expect with a load of "help" from AI) but doesn't necessarily match the context in which it's used.

I was staying in a beautiful country inn, part of the Chef & Brewer group. They're part of Greene King. Most of the pubs and inns under the Chef & Brewer name are traditional places, in historic buildings and rural surroundings. The one I stayed in was a place we'd go for an extremely posh lunch when I was a child. 

Staying there made me wonder if I'm still a child.

The once-elegant surroundings are riddled with CBeebie-ese.

Take the menu above - "Picky Bits." I can only think of noses, snot and spots, none of which are at all appetising.  To be honest, "Nibbles" isn't any better. Much as I love hamsters, I'm not a rodent of any kind. 

Then there's this. "Pop(ping) to reception" sounds like quite a hazardous occupation. Maybe the instruction should be to "carefully plod", just to be on the safe side?

Well, it is Chef & Brewer, I suppose. But in this case, it's a direct quote from cooks, rather than chefs. Big Cook Little Cook, as seen on - you've guessed it - CBeebies.

This one has less of the chirpy tonality and sounds a bit more ominous. Was I staying in a hostel for severely disturbed youths? Not sure that the colourful flowers exactly go with the message.

Still, maybe it could be worse. At another pub, I saw a notice where the Brand Voice was that of an unhinged teacher at the end of their tether:

Less CBeebies, and more Grange Hill (or its 21st century equivalent).

 
 

Fizz Buzz Pop!

This rebranding design for Mirinda is gob-smackingly good, in my view. Often global (as this is) means bland and lowest common denominator, but this pop-art pageant of funtime fruitiness hits the highest common factor in the unashamedly day-glo world of soda pop.

It's been a while since I've been in the market, I know (the price of a sweet tooth is catching up with me and I have to watch it). And, according to the marketing press, this new global platform ("Smile Please") is aimed at GenZ (sic) and their anemoia (nostalgia for a time you've never known) for the 80s, 90s and early 2000s before Smartphones took over everyone's lives. 

And yet, this speaks to me too. Even though I am as old as Mirinda itself:

Fizzy drinks have a proustian madeleine effect on me. The first one I remember drinking was this:

On the beach, from a glass bottle, with a straw. And, a couple of years later came Fanta. Another glass bottle, another straw. This time in a marvellous cafe in College Town (Sandhurst) with sausages and crinkle-cut chips. A treat indeed.

 

A childhood in 1960s and 70s England meant a rainbow-load of fizzy pop. The milkman used to deliver Corona, then there was Tizer and R. White's. I was quite fond of the cream soda - I can remember the taste like yesterday, but still don't know what on earth it was meant to taste like, apart from sweet. 

It's a wonder I have any of my own teeth left.

Holidays brought further fizzy delights. In Canada, root beer and Welch's Grape Soda. And the very sophisticated Canada Dry which my parents would drink with Canadian Whiskey. 

Mirinda, I expect, was something I came across on holiday at some point. It was launched in Spain, but bought up by PepsiCo and marketed worldwide, under various names, hence the focus in the re-design on visual rather than text elements.

The name Mirinda comes from Esperanto originally. But I think the rebrand has done something very clever.

Just as our 21st century Esperanto is Emojis, these design elements are surely the international visual language of fizzy pop.

 

 

BREXILE: Never Turn Back

 

Unlike this sleepy swing, things are moving pretty damn quickly with the Brexile plans. Quicker than I would have liked, ideally - I have accepted an offer on my house. The last few nights have been as good as sleepless, wondering What On Earth Have I Done? 

This is going to hurt. A lot.

I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I wrote the following back in Feb 2021, mid-pandemic. It’s without doubt the most personal thing I’ve ever posted on this blog. A few months later, in June 2021, I spent a quarantine summer in the house, alone. That’s when I took the photos. It brought me closer to the place once more - and made those ties even more difficult to sever. 

But the longer I leave it, the more formidable that cloud becomes.

----------

NEVER TURN BACK

 

‘It’s a forever home,’ said the taxi driver in a twinkling Sarf London accent as he pulled into the drive. I looked at my mother’s house – like one of those social media memes where children’s drawings are brought to life – and nodded. We’d talked all the way from the airport, me about my ageing mother, he about his plans to retire in Spain. He was the sort – a Dave, or Phil, or Kev – that I’d been to school with, and had spent my twenties and thirties trying to escape. And now here we were, he ready finally to flee the Home Counties nest, seeking adventure, and me returning to my roots.

 

My parents always told me that I chose the house. I’ve never been quite sure if that was one of those semi-truths that parents explain to indulge their offspring that eventually take on mythical status in the grown offspring’s mind. I do have a very, very vague recollection of dogs, dogs in the quiet cul-de-sac of shiny new houses. I was obsessed with dogs as a small child. Maybe I chose the dogginess, not the house.

 

The house is (give or take) the same age as me. Twenty-seven detached houses were built in the grounds of a grand house that was repurposed as an Old Folks’ Home, as such places were called in the 1960s. The houses all bore the same style but varied in the brick colour – reddy-pink, yellow, or white stucco, like the layers of an Angel Cake. Some more generously sized, others smaller. All with a miniscule (to 21^st century eyes) single garage, the doors painted in cheerful Matchbox toy colours. Ours was a summer sky blue, next door’s a British Racing Green.

 

We moved in in the spring, as the horse chestnuts on either side of the hill were in bloom. My bedroom was at the back of the house, overlooking a garden with lavender, snapdragons, roses and apple-trees. And oak woods at the back. 

 

Together we’ve climbed hills and trees, 

Learned of love and A-B-Cs, 

Skinned our hearts and skinned our knees 

Goodbye, my friend … but no, not yet.

 

I could walk to school from the house, to Scottish dancing, and ice cream with tinned fruit salad if we were lucky, prunes and custard if we weren’t. Netball games and making cross-stitch tray-cloths. Poetry (of a certain kind) also featured on the curriculum and two poems stayed in my mind – in fact, I probably did what I’d now call a mental mash-up of the two. Hardly surprising as they were both on the same theme, and probably written around the same time:

 

I remember, I remember

The house where I was born,

The little window where the sun

Came peeping in at morn;

 

… and

 

… It made the Paradise complete:

My early home was this.

 

But a paradise is never stable. As I grew, I accumulated thoughts and ideas that didn’t fit in that “bower of bliss”. It became a prison in my mind. I didn’t want to have friends round as I was ashamed of my father’s posh voice and my mother’s fur coat. The garden became a chore, the bedroom – now decorated in turquoise, olive green and orange – somewhere I hid furtively to write pretentious poetry and cut pictures of dubious rockers out of the NME. We drank tin party barrels from Watneys in the woods, made bombs, and experimented with smoking sunflower leaves.

 

I couldn’t wait to leave.

 

In my twenties, I bought my own flat – decorated with one or two bits and bobs from the old place that I considered ironic in their slight tackiness, but otherwise all furnishings were new. My parents would talk about me coming home for Sunday lunch, but I saw it otherwise. Going to Camberley was a duty, a rather arduous one at the time, which inevitably involved drinking sherry on top of a hangover at some ungodly hour. Home: unwittingly, I drifted into being someone that didn’t really have a home. I lived in hotels, slept on aeroplanes, kipped round at friends’ places at weekends and disappeared off to weekend cottages with gangs of chums, in a Richard Curtis film sort of way. I was one of those devil-may-care Anywhere people. Wannabe global elite. Probably quite obnoxious.

 

In March 1996, I jumped the great ship Britannia as she sailed towards the island of Cool. My one-way ticket cut through the Heathrow fog like a landing light. Terminal 1 echoed with finality – no going back? London still slept but my mind already marched to the beat of the Teutonic clock. My heart followed more than willingly, long lost in the mists of a fairy tale. My mother, in some of her more dramatic moments later, called this an abandonment. I didn’t see it that way. I was European. I could come and go as I pleased. It was only later that I realised that this wasn’t about me. It was about my father, by that time already ill. 

 

The last years of the 20^th century were probably the furthest I’ve been, emotionally, away from my early home. The new Millennium marked my slow return. A birth and a death in unbearably quick succession. Taking my infant son back to my family home for the funeral meant the aviation genes in his blood would be stimulated, and he’d grow up knowing this place too.

 

It was a rediscovery, each time we flew across to the UK. The swing in the garden, painted dark green by my late father, the oak woods waiting for us, along with the toys in the toy box, the Puffin books, the sherry in the cocktail cabinet of the Ladderax, and my mother’s fur coat which Marius could dress up in and pretend he was going to snowy Narnia. I’d toppled off the career ladder (was I pushed, or did I jump?) and didn’t really give a toss. I now had Somewhere – two Somewheres – two Places for Us to accumulate not just stuff but memories, opinions, friends, hobbies and responsibilities, all in a glorious binocular muddle.

 

When one Somewhere became too much, I’d know the other was waiting for me and jump in the car.

 

Before she died, my mother asked what I’d do with the house. I was honest and said I didn’t have a clue – there were more pressing matters on my mind, like how long she had left, and whether she was in pain. 

 

‘Perhaps you’ll live here,’ she said, hopeful as ever.

 

The pandemic has put its killjoy foot firmly down on my double life and my flitting across the channel. The neighbours sent jolly pictures of bunting for the VE Day Anniversary Street Party last year, and recently crocuses from the wooded area up the hill. My brother checks on things, rather half-heartedly. This friend or that one makes helpful suggestions. You could rent it out. It’s a good time to sell. People are moving out of London. You could turn it into a writing retreat (I know, I know – they mean well).

 

In my sleeping and waking thoughts, the house lurches around from being the most cumbersome, resource-leeching and ridiculous of white elephants, to being some sort of paradisical life-force source, to being a magnificent mythological cabinet of curiosities, to being a domestic disaster waiting to happen.

 

In German, there’s a verb abnabeln – translated as “to cut oneself loose”, literally, to cut the umbilical cord. I know this is what I will have to do one day. But currently I cannot begin to countenance it. The pandemic is a frustration, but also an excuse. We all like to wallow in the comfort of helplessness. 

 

When I do summon up the wherewithal to say goodbye to the old place – at least in its bricks and mortar form, I hope I can heed the words of aviatrix and adventurer Beryl Markham: 

 

I have learned that if you must leave a place that you have lived in and loved and where all your yesteryears are buried deep, leave it any way except a slow way, leave it the fastest way you can. Never turn back and never believe that an hour you remember is a better hour because it is dead. Passed years seem safe ones, vanquished ones, while the future lives in a cloud, formidable from a distance.

 

It’s going to take every ounce of courage I have not to turn back and take one last look at my early home. 

 

Wish me luck!

 

P.S: July 2025

… The cloud clears as you enter it. I have learned this, but like everyone, I have learned it late.

----------

Heads or tails?

 

I got the sad news yesterday that the headmaster of my first school passed away recently - although he did achieve the grand old age of 96. There’s a Facebook group for ex-pupils of the school and I spent some time browsing old black and white school photos. These were taken on a summer lawn, in front of the rhododendrons, many moons ago. 

The photos were usually arranged so that there was a group of taller, wholesome-looking girls standing in front of the prize cups and trophies. A combination of being small for my age and slightly precocious as far as learning went meant I was never destined to stand behind the cups. I’m somewhere off to the side - in one photo with a badly concealed snigger. I was prone to giggles about absurd and puerile things in those days. Still am.

When I reached secondary school, the teachers were probably relieved I didn’t seem quite as oddball as my brother, who was rumoured to "drink ink and play his trumpet in the toilet.” I was never the out-and-out rebel, bad girl or geek, but I did have a slight dusting of eccentricity and subversiveness. 

Bookish and useless at most sports, I never really wanted to be like David (or Davida) Watts, in the words of The Kinks’ song (performed here by The Jam). When I got to the Sixth Form, almost everyone was made a Prefect. I was one of the few that wasn’t. That changed when I passed the Cambridge Entrance exams, though. I think the head of sixth form even invited me for a glass of sherry in his office. But I shrugged off the smarminess for what it was, played the game and wore my Prefect badge with apparent pride. Although I was more likely to have my nose in something like Colin Wilson’s The Outsider than be patrolling the corridors during Prefect Duty.

I did manage to collect a couple of “Head” titles during my career. I was “Acting Head of Market Research” during our boss’s maternity leave, then later “Head of Planning” at Saatchi Frankfurt. But along with this, I can remember at least one telling-off from a (female) boss about my dress sense. I sat there wearing a long yellow-gold jacket, leggings and pointy black shoes with gold embroidery, like some sort of gender-fluid member of Showaddywaddy. If I’d been tarty or scruffy, it would have been easier to deal with. All the boss could come up with was that the outfit didn’t convey “corporate gravitas” or some such. Again, I shrugged and smiled. Weren’t we an ad agency? Not bloody McKinsey?

But there were plenty of colleagues who did tow the line. Stick to the agenda. They were safe pairs of hands who’d probably stood behind the cups in the school photo. I note that a lot of the women I worked with in the past are now OBEs and Dames. Of course, there were the out-and-out rebels, too - and they were celebrated accordingly.

But I was always a "neither-nor" case. A bit of a chameleon, fitted in when it suited me. Had my independent thoughts but often kept them to myself. 

I found this blog post about “Head Girl Syndrome” a few years ago. It’s a little dated now and has a rather bitter tinge - and something of that "either-or" binary. But a lot of it resonated with me. A Head Girl is “a good all-rounder - pretty, popular, sociable and well-behaved.” The description has never fitted me particularly well. The long yellow-gold jacket was better. The author points out how the Head Girl type is favoured by committees, peer review processes, voting and anything that favours consensus. And how “modern society is run by Head Girls, of both sexes, hence there is no place for the creative genius.”

There is a place for the creative genius, of course, but it’s not at the top of a government or commercial organisation. 

Since 2013, when that article was written, we’ve seen yet more dumbing-down and risk aversion in politics and commerce as these are further driven by frameworks, processes, ideologies and dogma. There's a distinct lack of emphasis on independent thought. And it’s pretty obvious that the advent of AI will advance all this normalising and homogenising further despite a lot of noise about neurodiversity. Head Girl CVs are a very attractive catch for AI.

This is a brilliant article by James Marriott of The Times (sorry about the paywall) in which he bemoans the “normie-doom spiral”. In essence:

21st century Britain is beset by mediocrities who rise to the top not by doing anything right but by not doing anything wrong.

Now, I’m certainly not dumping all ex-Head Girls and Boys in with this. I’ve come to terms with my own lack of Head-Girlness. Nor do I hold myself up as a some sort of wronged and unrecognised creative genius. 

I certainly haven’t got all the money that David/a Watts has got - but I’m not a “dull and simple” lass, either.

I’m the Tail Girl. Wagging most of the time, doing the stuff I like, rather than being a nodding dog. 

But I have a sting tucked away, too.

RETROWURST: Playmobil April 2007

 

In April 2007, I wrote about the colourful, happy world of Playmobil. Pirates, cowboys, builders ... a world that revolved around people, not bricks as Lego used to. Twelve years ago, with the burgeoning Playmobil film industry on YouTube, and the opening of fun parks, the world seemed to be Playmobil’s oyster ...

-------------------------------------------------------

It is time that I let you into a few secrets of a race of little people who are steadily taking over the world. It is estimated that are over 2 billion of these little characters in the world today – that is more than the Chinese! The little people are 7.5cm tall and even the baddies have a cute little smile: Playmobil!

 

Playmobil is the main brand of the company Geobra Brandstätter GmbH & Co. KG, who are based in Zirndorf, which lies in Frankenland, the northern part of Bavaria. The company has been going since 1876 and originally produced toys made from wood and metal. The current owner, Horst Brandstätter, the grandson of the founder, introduced plastic toys to the range in the 1950s. These were typically larger toys such as hula-hoops or pedal tractors.

 

All was going pretty well for Brandstätter in the halcyon days of the 1960s – the baby boom had reached its peak so there were plenty of eager customers for his toys and the economic miracle meant that most German parents were relatively happy to open their wallets to indulge their offspring.

 

However, the oil crisis of the early 70s meant that reliance on large unit size plastic toys would be dangerous for the company. Brandstätter had to find some way of using less and less solid plastic for his toys. A couple of years before, an inventor by the name of Hans Beck, who had trained as a cabinet maker, pitched a range of model aeroplanes to Brandstätter. Brandstätter was impressed with the designs and asked Beck to develop a range of toy figures.

 

Beck did not summon a crew of child psychologists and educationalists, as far as we know, but designed the figures based on common sense. The size of the figures, 7.5cm, is just right for a child’s hand. The face was based on a child’s drawing: a large head, smiling mouth and no nose. The figures could move their head, hands, the arms separately and the legs together. The first series launched were knights, Indians and builders, the latter complete with crate of beer! (Difficult to imagine in the world of Bob and Wendy!).

 

Since 1975, Playmobil has been sold worldwide with series as far apart as Romans and Fairytale Castle joining the staple collections. Playmobil “worlds” include just about everything but there is nothing too overtly military or aggressive from recent history. In addition, certain ranges seem to go down better in some countries than others – Cowboys and Indians is not a big seller in the USA.

 

Playmobil is one of Germany’s success stories. Despite rising material growth and general stagnation in the toy market, where even Lego has had serious problems, Playmobil had sales of some €380m in 2006, a 5% increase on 2005.

 

Horst Brandstätter, now 73, still heads the company. He appears to be somewhat eccentric, publicity-shy and stingy, rather like a German Ingvar Kamprad. Stories go around about Brandstätter that he picks up golf tees on his golf trips in exotic locations, in disbelief that anyone could be so wasteful as to discard such a thing. He himself relates the story that, as boy, his Granny gave him a coin to buy an ice-cream with. Young Horst did so but then bitterly regretted not having his coin anymore and vowed there and then never to buy an ice-cream again, a promise that he kept for a couple of decades!

 

Although Brandstätter is still a strong presence and appears not to want to let go, he did appoint a marketing expert, Andrea Schauer to run the company, considering his sons not to be up to the job! Frau Schauer has been in this role since 2000. The marketing of Playmobil is very clever: although no educationalists are used in its development, parents do believe that it is educationally sound, somehow, and are quite happy to shell out €158 for something like the Knights Castle. Any parent of a small child is probably well aware of the reaction of the average 6-year-old to the Playmobil Catalogue: “I want that, that, that, that and that…oh, and that!”, while happily running up a bill for 000s of Euros. Predictably, the little pieces get hoovered up regularly so replacements must be bought and there are additional and top-up packs available for €5-15 Euros for birthday presents and the like. Individual figures are also available which are well within the reach of small children’s pocket money. And at Christmas you can even buy a Playmobil Advent Calendar with little figures inside.

 

The 56-strong development team does not work with child psychologists but still seem to get it right most of the time. I think that the secret of Playmobil lies within children’s imagination: enough of a “world” is presented as a stage but children are then free to devise their own adventures and mix Vikings with Pirates and Policemen, if they feel so inclined. Unlike Lego, which is more about the building and less about the ensuing adventures, Playmobil has an appeal to boys and girls because of its human element. The key element is a human figure, not a brick. And it is a safe, friendly world at the end of the day where even the fiercest pirate has a cute smile under his stubbly beard.

 

The core market of 3–8-year-olds is declining in Europe so Playmobil must seek new ways to continue their success. Theme parks is one area that they are already in, and they are looking to the potential of the Asian markets: China, India and Japan.

 

Playmobil also has an assured place outside of the core target market as a cult brand. Everyone in Germany under 40 has grown up with Playmobil and one can see that in the popular culture. A German comedian famously produced the life of Franz Beckenbauer with Playmobil and there is even a yearly “Playmo Convention” where Playmobil freaks display and discuss their customised Playmobil scenes, such as a re-enactment of the entire American Civil War.

 

And there is a growing body of Playmobil film-producers. YouTube is littered with them. One film promises “a brave Playmobile fights against the chess pieces with the hymn of FC Barcelona.” You can also see Playmobil versions of “Pirates of the Caribbean” or even “Casablanca”.

 

As a final thought, I leave you with YMCA, Playmobil-style:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3skx_oqKzOc

-------------------------------------------------------

In the intervening twelve years, I haven’t thought that much about Playmobil. Our sets are packed away, awaiting grandchildren or sale. During Covid, I remember Fasching taking place via YouTube and Playmobil characters - and although the film clip I linked back in 2007 doesn’t work any more, there’s plenty to replace it. This creator of great world literature as reenacted by Playmobil is a particular favourite of mine. 

Playmobil’s all-time best-selling figure (a rather unlikely one for non-Germans) hit the headlines a few years ago - and rather than the DIY Village People that featured in my 2007 link, you can now get the real thing (or close to it). 

But maybe my adult-at-a-distance viewpoint wasn’t telling me the whole story. I made a trip to our local stationer/toy shop yesterday and the picture was less rosy. The windows were full of huge, fading boxes of Playmobil at reduced prices. Inside the shop, it wasn’t much better. Almost everything was reduced. Gone were the pirates, Romans and Vikings. The Playmobil sets on offer seemed rather drab and insipid. A pastelly dolls house. A watered-down Game of Thrones wannabe fantasy world. A few random horsey and mermaidy bits and pieces.

All is not well in the state of Playmobil. Horst Brandstätter died in 2015, and I get the impression that the brand has lost its way and simply not kept up. Despite the YouTube film activity, the official feature film was a flop. Sales have declined from €736m in 2021/22 to €571m in 2022/23 down to €490m in 2023/4. 

It makes me sad, but the fact is that a brand can’t live on nostalgia and jokey special edition sets for adults alone. The main problem is the impact that digitalisation has had on childhood and play. Playmobil used to be for children up to 10, but these days the 7/8 year-olds are already lost. Add to that worries about plastics and sustainability and it makes you wonder if Playmobil is doomed.

But ... look at Lego and maybe look at Barbie. Is there hope?

There are signs that things can turn round. A new positioning was announced in January this year. I’m not convinced by what I’ve read (“The future is now” - strengthening brand relevance - reach new target groups - drive globalisation) but let’s see. A new line called Sky Trails will be launched. Looks like an aerial Hot Wheels to me, but maybe ...

I hope Playmobil can turn things round. But I suspect what is needed is for a hoard of playful, ruthless, fun-bent, devil-may-care pirates and Vikings to leap onto the dull old ship, shine it up again, set a completely new course and watch the gold bullion roll in.

RETROWURST: Schreibwaren August 2006

 

Goodness me, how this piece on the mysteries of the German stationery shop and the strange rituals of school start takes me back. Back to another world where children born in the last century were only just starting school. They’re now winning Olympic golds and most likely running multi-billion AI companies, too.

-----------------------------------------

 

We are in the middle of the school summer holidays here in Germany. Rather cleverly, to avoid traffic jams, the different German Länder stagger the beginning of the six-week period, with some holidays starting as early as 26^th June and others starting as late as 3^rd August.

 

Despite the fact that we’re in the midst of the school holidays here in Hessen, the retailers are already filling their shop windows and shelves with the Schulanfang (School start) range. I thought I would take the opportunity to introduce you to one particular species of German retailer, the Schreibwarenladen, or stationer, and some of the main brands in the back-to-school market.

 

Before I embark on this, it has to be said as a foreword, that starting school in Germany is a very ernsthaft business. In the UK, introduction to school is gradual, with various pre-school possibilities and then a reception year, while in Germany, children move from the non-compulsory Kindergarten, where no “learning” in the sense of the 3R’s takes place, to the Grundschule, where it’s serious learning and teaching, albeit just for half a day. Children start school in Germany later than in the UK, at six or seven; so, for example, this year’s intake is children born between July 1999 and end of June 2000. In order to get a child accepted for school earlier, the child (and parents) has to go through a series of quite rigorous tests and interviews with teachers, school directors, pediatricians and the like to make sure that the little darling will be able to weather the tough time to come.

 

While getting all the bits and pieces together for starting school may focus more on uniform in the UK, German parents don’t have that to worry about. Enough mistakes have been made with children in uniform in the past here. So, in Germany, the bulk of the getting-ready-for-school purchases are made at the Schreibwarenladen.

 

The first day at school is celebrated traditionally in Germany by the poor child staggering into the playground clutching a thing which, rather unfortunately, resembles an upside-down clown’s or dunce’s hat. This is a Schultute and it is filled with pencils, small toys and a few sweets. In some cases, the Schultute is almost as big as the child itself, especially those children who are little younger, although, having been through the rigourous school acceptance tests, carrying an upside-down dunce’s hat brimming over with goodies while trying to maintain some sense of decorum probably does not present too much of a challenge. Needless to say, the Schultute is one item that is very prominent in the Schreibwarenladen’s window display and choosing the right pattern and size a matter of great concern as the Schultutewill feature with the child in all the inevitable photographs and may even be handed down through the generations.

 

So, onto the Schreibwarenladen. In Germany, there are no jolly own brands like Tesco or W.H.Smiths doing school requisites so it is over to the local independent dealer. In every German village, however small, there will be a shop selling stationery. This shop may also sell newspapers and magazines or toys. It will certainly also sell lottery tickets and perhaps a few sweets. The lady (as usually is) who runs the shop is likely to be a highly respected member of the community who takes a pride in her intimate knowledge of paper clips and staples, ring binders and pencil sharpeners with almost that air of being party to a great learning of mysteries that we observe in the Apothekerin. Her store is likely to have a rather old-fashioned air to UK sensibilities: the kind of place where you actually have to ask for things rather than just grabbing them self-service from the shelf.

 

Before we look at the main brands dominating this emporium, I would like to give a brief introduction to two other branded players in the starting school market. Now, up to two years prior to their children starting school, the Übermuttis (my best go at Yummy Mummy in German - not bad, I think!) will already be discussing whether little Florian or little Björna has got a Ranzen yet and which brand and pattern will it be and are they also getting the complete range of matching accessories? You may wonder what all the fuss is about a satchel, but satchels in Germany have become a science since Scout (https://www.scout-schulranzen.de) created the market for ergonomically designed school rucksacks back in 1975. These health & safety-conscious-inside and kitsch-child-appeal-gone-mad-outside Ränzen replaced the old leather school satchel overnight in Germany and the company has stretched the brand to include the accessories (purses, pencil cases, gym bags) to go with the basic school Ranzen, to bike helmets, to games, to discovery toys, to duvet covers and even to Müsli bars. Have a look at the website: this really is a child brand that manages to combine super design and quality with fun and child-appeal by the bucketful.

 

While talking about Scout, it is only fair to mention their main rival, the number 2 in the market with 25 years’ experience, www.mcneill.de . McNeill have not yet diversified as much as Scout, but they are also a high-quality supplier of Ränzen. In buying your child his or her school backpack, the salesperson will probably start by advising which of the two main brands is ergonomically more suitable for your child and how he or she walks before you get onto the really important stuff of whether it’s pirates or planets on the design. Incidentally, the designs on these bags bear absolutely no relationship to whichever TV programs, films or games are in with primary school children at the moment. You won’t find any Power Rangers, Barbie or Through the Hedge here, or any nasty commercial arrangements with Disney or Dreamworks, just rather Technicolor depictions of universal childhood interests.

 

It is when we consider what has to go into the Ranzen that the Schreibwarenladen and its brands come into their own. Parents of every Schulanfänger are provided with a rather alarmingly long and detailed list of drawing pads, pencils, paintbrushes of particular sizes, exercise books, covers for exercise books in specified colours, folders in specified colours and materials, crayons and modeling clay with a request that “high quality brands” be purchased “for the benefit of your child.” This is, of course, a conspiracy between the teachers and the Schreibwarenladen lady to make sure you don’t go buying that cheapo stuff at Aldi and Lidl. Of course, said brands do sometimes make a celebrity appearance at the discounters but, frankly, by the time you’ve battled your way through the ranks of the Übermuttis-on-a-budget at 8 am just to find that they haven’t got the colour that was specified any more, you might as well have saved the petrol money and got the whole lot at the well-mannered and old-fashioned Schreibwarenladen.

 

There is a plethora of high-quality stationery brands in Germany, some of which are also well-known in the UK. Looking at the brands as a whole, judging from their websites, most of them pride themselves on their long history, their “Made in Germany” quality and the number of quality awards, seals and insignia they have won. In the websites, you enter another world of worthy philosophies, elegant historic engravings and endorsements from the highest authorities. It brings quite a lump to one’s throat to think that this worthy presence is Marketing, too!

 

www.brunnen.de is a good place to start. A family firm for generations and proud of it, the brand Brunnen has been around now for over 100 years and covers all manner of school and office requisites. At just one year younger, but another centenarian, www.herlitz.de is also well-known outside Germany. Herlitz is also in the Ranzen market.

 

Experts in colour, with a core range of paints, felt pens and crayons, www.pelikan.de have 128 years of experience in their field. Another name that is well-known outside Germany for their pencils is www.staedtler.de, the big granddaddy of the pencil world with 170 years in business.

 

If you go by the philosophy that “a bad workman always blames his tools”, German school children really have no excuse to perform so badly in comparison to their peers in other countries. One can only conclude that the system must be at fault, rather than the materials.

-----------------------------------------

Another world, indeed. The children starting school in the next few weeks were born in 2017/18 - younger than TikTok for goodness’ sake! McNeill has indeed sold out with McNeill x Disney.

But, but, but ... I took at look at Scout. Robots, kittens, dinosaurs and ponies still there. And one tie-in ... for the Bundesliga. 

Reassuring, somehow. And our local Scheibwaren shop still doing a roaring trade.

Hung up

 

When I started this blog, I didn’t have an iPhone. It was iPod that brought me into Apple, followed by a MacBook and only then, the capitulation. 

I started using social media on a laptop, and as far as I'm concerned,  Facebook can stay there. I’ve never had the app on my phone, and it’s been a good decision. Ditto never joining Twitter. Although I’ll admit to having the Instagram app in my pocket. 

Have I missed out? Possibly. My biggest question is whether, had I leapt onto TikTok in the early days, might I have made something more of my children’s books? But somehow, I doubt it. I have a secretive nature (the clue's in the name) and I am now rather thankful that if I’m rising anywhere, it’s into obscurity.

The topic of mobile phones, social media and the potential damage they’re doing to people’s mental well-being, particularly the young, is hard to avoid these days. The sense of nostalgia for a world they never knew is strong amongst young people, as expressed in this article by Freya India. (Although I remember being obsessed with the 1950s and before in my teens, so maybe it’s part of growing up.)

There’s an interesting study out this week from More in Common  . The topline conclusion is that the Brits are more hung-up on their smartphones and more in favour of restrictions than people in France, Germany or the US. Here are just a couple of charts:

44% of Brits go for an hour or less without looking at their phone, compared to only 25% of Germans. That’s a major difference and one I can well imagine from my UK trips. 

Lots of questions, obviously.

Is it push or pull? It’s certainly more difficult to get by in the UK without a smartphone than in Germany, even with something as simple as paying for car parking. 

What are people checking their phone for? The weather? Messages from colleagues? News? Football scores? Or how many likes they’ve clocked up in the last 10 minutes?

Regulation and implementing restrictions is a huge area, and one where all parties - with conflicting interests - have to find common ground and work together. Government, social media platforms, telecoms companies, academics and health professionals ...

One thing the More in Common report does point out, which makes a lot of sense, is that all technology is not equal. This isn’t about technophobia, and of course smartphones have many beneficial functions. 

Surely it’s not too much of a challenge to make a helpful, useful phone for young people? With the functional stuff but less of the potentially dysfunctional? 

Mixed up, muddled up, shook up world

 

I had a lucky childhood.

I grew up believing I could do anything or be anything I wanted. If I set my mind to it hard enough.

At the age of 3 or so (above) I was convinced I was a dog.

I wasn’t at all concerned about whether I was a male dog or a female dog - it seemed irrelevant. I didn’t have any dolls - just a pack of furry toys. Many of them were dogs.

My hair was cut short and I tended to wear my brother’s hand-me-downs. It was a question of practicality. I did have a blue party dress with a sticking-out skirt, which I hated wearing. Not because it was a dress, but because it was itchy.

The boys’ clothes continued into my teens. I grew my hair a bit longer in the 70s, but so did my brother and most of the boys I knew. I do remember us getting muddled up by an elderly relative, who’d thought “the boy was the older one.” He was in purple cords, I was in a Ben Sherman shirt and jeans. We thought it was funny, a bit subversive. 

If you look at photos of groups of young people in the late 60s, 70s and 80s, the boys and girls look pretty similar. From Woodstock to the New Romantics. I dug out what I think must be a book to accompany an exhibition, entitled 14:24 British Youth Culture. It was published in 1986.

You can see the effect in these photos of punks and skinheads by Nick Knight.

But something started happening just after my son was born, in 2000. When he was small, our house was a sea of yellow, blue and red plastic. I bought his clothes from flea markets.

But I did start noticing that the brand new toddlers’ clothes in H&M were sectioned off  into “boys” and “girls”. For  “Mummy’s little man” and “Daddy’s princess."

And Lego had started producing rather “girly” toys.

And our neighbours/fellow primary school parents would have parties where men and women sat in different rooms. Or even “women/men only” parties. This latter phenomenon I initially (rather snobbishly) put down to class or maybe educational level. Or possibly even an age thing, although this seemed unlikely as it didn’t seem to reflect any kind of progress.

And that “Women are from Venus, Men are from Mars” book started a whole industry of pop-gender-psychology. Excerpts from 1950s publications coursed around the internet, demonstrating how dreadful life was for women in the 20th century. I found these somewhat suspect - my mum had two degrees and was better academically qualified than my dad.

Ten years ago, we had the whole full-blown pink glitter pony stuff spilling from the kindergarten into adult life.  

And then came the whole #MeToo thing, the victim/oppression/patriarchy stuff and the omnipresent adjective “toxic.” 

I wondered why on earth I’d want to join a “women only” group from my college, that I’d deliberately chosen because it was mixed. And whether segregation really is progress. 

This data, published recently in the Financial Times, didn’t really surprise me.

But some of the extreme reactions I saw on LinkedIn certainly did. A lot of screeching about how this is evidence that all young men are unredeemable sexist and racist bastards.

Still, I can look forward with optimism. I hear there’s a brilliant new invention called “gender-neutral clothing” for children.

Whatever will they think of next?

Penny for your thoughts?

 

I’ve been writing an article for one of my clients about Christmas advertising. Because it’s for an international audience, most of the focus is on ads from the UK and other English-speaking markets. In Germany, Christmas advertising is a thing, but not such a colossal humongous thing (literally, in the case of this year’s John Lewis ad) as it is in the UK. 

You can see what I mean if you scroll down this article about German supermarkets’ Christmassy commercials. Apart from Edeka’s slightly weird meaty mumblings, there’s nothing really unexpected and many of the ads are a little lacklustre and conventional. 

There’s cuteness, kids,  magic and animals with Lidl and REWE. Some “get the tissues” from Co-op. And a bit of fun and nostalgia from Aldi with grown-ups behaving like big kids.

But that’s me with my London ad person hat on (also looking a bit lacklustre these days, to be honest). Time and time again, we hear that the ads that do well at Christmas are those that do all the cuteness, tears, smiles, entertainment and general warm fuzziness. And do it well.

So what the heck were Penny thinking? Over 3 minutes, entitled “The Kids” with the message “It’s our future, please listen to us.” Four youngsters, discontented, sad and angry about the grown-ups in their immediate family, or society in general. A girl forced into ballet when she’d rather dance freestyle. A little chap who can’t bear his mum’s social media obsession. A young lad upset by all the “six-pack” bodies he sees on his phone. A junior environmentalist striding around the house switching lights and appliances off.  

Then a montage of sulky glum faces, school protests, “Fridays for Future”-style activism clichés accompanied by a children’s choir rendition of a song from P!nk (I think).

Maybe it seemed like a good idea when the agency made this back in the Spring or Summer. But at this time of year, and given the news of the last few weeks, it feels completely tone deaf. As I said last year, no-one wants to be reminded of misery, hate and division. Especially not now. 

A long time ago, when I worked on P&G, I’d often have to steer the clients away from anything that felt like finger-pointing. I’d remind them that new mums often felt inadequate and hopeless enough without ads suggesting that if they didn’t use the new-improved super-ultra-Pampers (or whatever), they were a crap mother. Especially if they couldn’t afford better than Aldi.

That attitude from advertisers and their agencies is sneaking back into commercials, and this is a prime example. Finger-pointing, parent-shaming (if you like) manipulative stuff to make people feel lousy about themselves. Backed up by some sort of agency bullshit that they’ve “got out there” (where is “there”, anyway?) and listened to “real” children’s wishes. Well, I have my own experience of that.

I quoted an article from Richard Huntington in my last post and this was one of the stand-out sentences for me:

Everyone is trying in their own way to be a good person living a good life.

In the end, it shouldn’t be more complicated than that.

RETROWURST: Hipp July 2005

 

Working on a brand that’s particularly relevant to your stage in life is usually a joy. When my son was a baby, I worked on Pampers at Saatchi, then on HiPP at TBWA. And this month, here are my musings on the subject of HiPP from July 2005.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

The subject of this month’s Extrawurst is the world’s biggest processor of organic food products. Or is it a leading baby food brand? Or is it the grandson of a Bavarian pastry chef? Claus Hipp and his brand Hipp is all of these. Herr Hipp was recently awarded the Stern/McKinsey StartUp prize for life achievement in the marketing of Organic products. This month, I’m going to take a look at the secrets behind his success.

 

Claus Hipp is a familiar figure in German advertising. He regularly appears in print and TV advertising- an elderly man dressed in traditional dark-green Bavarian jacket and hat, striding across beautiful rolling fields, rather like Heidi’s grandfather or a more ideologically sound Bernard Matthews. He always ends his TV spots with a line that translates roughly to “and I’m proud to give my name to it.” In addition to his commercial responsibilities, Herr Hipp is also something of an artist and oboe player in a Munich orchestra. The man seems to exude balance and harmony in all things; a distinct contrast to the usual image of the stressed, power and profit-obsessed, cultural philistine businessman.

 

Hipp is a family business that has remained in the family for over 100 years. The story goes that Claus Hipp’s grandfather, Joseph, who was a pastry-chef with a Konditorei in the little Bavarian town of Pfaffenhofen, produced a rusk flour mixed with milk to help his wife with their twin babies, who she was having problems breast-feeding. The babies thrived, as did five subsequent offspring and Hipp’s first “formula” became in demand. One of those five offspring, Georg, took over the business in 1932 and founded his own firm in Pfaffenhofen. Georg Hipp developed the business and introduced the concepts of organic farming and baby food based on vegetables in glass jars in 1956 and 1957 respectively. The current generation of Hipps- Claus and two brothers- took over in 1967 and over the last nearly 40 years have continued the development of organic farming and processing.

 

Hipp today is the world’s biggest processor of organic raw materials. Annual sales are €240m, 1000 workers are employed and 1m jars of baby food are produced each day. Hipp has 207 products, from Fennel tea (from 1 week) to young carrots (from 4 months) to a toddler meal of Spätzle mit Karotten und Rinderrahmgeschnetzlte (South German noodles with carrots and beef strips in cream sauce) through to a relatively new line of Müslis aimed at adults.

 

Hipp products are sold at a considerable premium to other baby foods. On the rational level, most people will cite the organic and quality elements. Baby food is a clear case where the end consumer is not the purchaser and, even more so than for dogs and cats (even fussy little ones!), parents need a brand where they can really put their trust. But there is also a strong emotional element to this price premium. It is well known that many adults (primarily young women who are not yet mothers) also buy Hipp for their own consumption in Germany. Part of this is a certain cult element but part of it is the same emotional magnet that draws so many parents into the brand.

 

It’s often said that buying into a brand involves buying into a world that that brand creates. The world of Hipp is very clear. It’s a rural idyll of green countryside, happy cows and chickens and fresh fruit and vegetables ripened under a benevolent sun, tended with loving care by the benevolent grandfatherly Herr Hipp himself. It’s a world of innocence and happiness, symbolized by the child-like, sunny logo with its paint box colours of pink, turquoise, orange and violet and its heart dotting the “i”. It probably wouldn’t be going too far to say that Hipp takes us back into a forgotten world of innocence - the original Garden of Eden. For a young mother in a Berlin apartment stuck indoors with a colicky baby on a rainy January day, one can see the appeal.

 

Of course, a lot of brands create equally seductive worlds and images but in the case of Hipp, this isn’t a dream world. It really exists. I have been to Pfaffenhofen which is approached via rolling green fields and fruit orchards, interspersed with little villages with coloured houses and onion-domed churches. In Pfaffenhofen itself you can still enjoy delicious cakes in the original Hipp Konditorei. The Hipp headquarters itself is more like a chalet for a skiing holiday than an office. There are wooden beams everywhere, crucifixes on the walls of the conference rooms and water from the Hipp spring to drink.

 

It is this integrity and consistency of brand and reality that is the key to Hipp’s success. In many ways, although the brand is now over 100 years old, it has more of a feel to it of more modern brands such as Body Shop or, more recently, Innocent Drinks. The brand itself (or at least the first product) arose from a real personal need. The company has grown and developed but never moved away from its roots, either physical or philosophical. It is a company with transparency and integrity and a clear point of view or philosophy above and beyond the product- the belief in “the best from nature; the best for nature.”

 

In addition, there is a lead figure that represents the company and its philosophy in the person of Claus Hipp. While Corporate Social Responsibility may be the latest bandwagon for many large companies these days, this was always there for Hipp as a normal and natural part of the company’s belief system. And while we are talking about belief, one cannot avoid the strong spiritual element in the Hipp philosophy, particularly when one thinks about all those crucifixes in Pfaffenhofen. The Hipp family, with Claus Hipp as no exception, is strongly Catholic and the company is run on un-ashamedly Christian principles. 

 

While it may not be everyone’s cup of organic red berry juice with spring water, Hipp as a company has a clear stance and clear principles. All of these elements add up to a brand ethos that cannot be copied. This, combined with a strong product range in terms of quality and breadth, make for a unique and sustainable brand.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

The little chap in the photo is about to turn 23 and has a proper job servicing and repairing aircraft. And what about HiPP? Well, really very little has changed. Stefan has taken over from father Claus as main spokesman and they’ve launched nappies. (I suppose the associations are slightly less yukky than Pampers introducing baby food.)

The organic credentials have stood the brand in good stead, although they have been accused of slight over-enthusiasm with their talk of “climate-positive.”

It’s also interesting to see how an openly Christian company fares these days - and the international website does make some rather pompous-sounding remarks about “the moral decay of society” which may not go down well in some quarters.

Do today’s young parents want to see the authentic sick-cloth-no-sleep-screeching-baby world that some brands like to use in their advertising? Or the reassuring green fields, apple orchards, avuncular Stefan and smiley tots of HiPP? That remains to be seen.