SELLING OUT

Oh, it doesn’t take much, does it? No matter how firmly held the beliefs and principles, it really doesn’t take much to cause you to wobble and fudge when the chips are down and the arm is being gently twisted. Scratch, as they say, the surface of any “bleeding heart” liberal, and you’ll find the fascist within.

I used to think that I was better than that. I used to believe that I would be capable of digging in my heels and saying  a resounding “No!” if the question was ever asked  of me. I used to be 100% (and absolutely no more – but that’s a rant for another day) certain that if the stormtroopers came a pounding on my door to take away my (obviously metaphorical) brother or my sister, then I would stand firmly by their side and resist any injustice because of what I believed was truly the “right” thing to do…

Principles.

Firmly held beliefs.

Absolutes.

There’s no room for a wobble. These things may not be fudged. We believe what we believe and we must be resolute in our defence of those beliefs because they are what make us who we are.

And then there’s a phone call…

“Can I do a favour…?”

And suddenly I’m sucked into working for the betterment of a whole world that I have steadfastly refused to support despite so many pressures over the last few years. One tiny phone call on behalf of a member of my extended and far distant family and I’m sucked into what I would otherwise refer to as a whole world of pain if that really wasn’t to over-egg the McMuffin.

For good or ill, in the far distant corners of this fair land of ours, live a few members of what you might be surprised to learn are known as blood relatives of my humble mashed potatoey self. They are even known to admit to the fact that they are related to me every once in a while, despite my best efforts to be the antisocial git that you have come to know and loathe through these dark passages.

One of the younger ones works for a fast food company of international reputation and I don’t really have a problem with that. It is, after all, work, and they do seem to look after her and nurture her career, and in this day and age that really is no bad thing. I mean, yes, you can rant and rail against corporate globalisation, after all I know I have, and you would, like I have, no doubt be making many fair and valid points, but the bottom line is that they are an employer and I am related, by whatever cosmic accidents have made it so, to one of their loyal employees.

The problem is that I’m really not a huge fan of theirs, and, over the years, I have not been backwards in coming forwards to say so. Personally, I choose not to eat there myself and am as resolute as it is possible to be about this, even though people have been known to sit near me eating their happy little lunches and allowing the tempting aromas to drift in my direction and specifically nosewards.

Sometimes it really does smell so good, but I’ll also tell you now that, whilst on an individual meal level these aromas can seem slightly tempting, on a larger outlet scale, the wafting stench of the fat and grease can still make me feel slightly nauseous and bring on an almost instant gag reflex.

You see…? Hard wired…

I’ve read the Naomi Klein book. I’ve read “Fast Food Nation”. I like to think that I know what’s going on and, despite years of just refusing to eat there, despite the endless arguments with colleagues who are also parents insisting that “You have to eat there if you’ve got kids…” (No… You don’t!), and, despite the fact that the occasional business meeting seems to inevitably happen in the nearest outlet to an industrial estate, I have resisted as best I can. After all, there’s not really much you can do when your boss plonks a hot bag of food down in front of you and says “I’ve bought you lunch” other than meekly eat it all up with as much in the way of thanks as you can muster, but as a general rule of thumb, this is not my preferred choice as to where I would personally choose to get my meals.

Yet it only took one telephone call asking for a favour from a member of my family who works there, and I found that I was working – however obliquely - for “da man”.

And it was “da clown man” at dat…

Shudder…

Now I feel unclean, but let me try to explain.

Qualifications are being studied for that require a certain amount of marketing skill, but not everyone studying marketing necessarily has much in the way of design skills. They do, however, sometimes know someone who does and who might be able to suggest a few pointers in that direction and show them how such things might be achieved, and also, perhaps, make some more general observations about alternative ways of thinking about the same problem and how different sectors of the perceived customer base might perceive certain information that you wish to share with them.

This is how I found myself arranging a certain amount of McMarketing text material and various McPhotos into a vague example of a basic layout on a recent Monday evening in October, just as an example of how these things might be done. Just a couple of hours shifting text and logos and photographs around on a screen to try a few different ways of showing the same basic information couldn’t do any real harm, could it? In my defence, I tried very hard not to read the content too closely, and I did refuse to proof-read and correct the content (just my little act of rebellion), and I’m still crossing my fingers and hoping against all hope that “da man” won’t be able to profit from anything I might have suggested (although, who am I trying to kid…?), and now I really, really fancy…

A salad.

Maybe that will help me to cleanse my soul.