London Marketing Conference 2015 – So Awkward

Did you miss me? Yeah, I know you did.

Sorry it’s been so long since my last blog post, you poor simpletons need constant reassurance, and I get that now.

So yeah, sorry ok?

I’m just back in Dublin after a three week trip across the globe, giving keynote speeches at conferences that you’ll never be invited to. It went well, people really seemed to learn a lot from me, and it was soooo obvious that they really enjoyed my, like, sense of humour and random, unsolicited fashion tips.

So without further to-do, here’s what happened at one of them.

2015 Digital Content Summit – London

So, one of the biggest morkeshing conferences in the world kicked off in London (I lived there for a summer once!), but unfortunately I didn’t make the opening day.
Why did I miss the opening day? Well, let’s just say I don’t do mornings too well, and decided on-the-fly to just not bother.
I could still Tweet, so all was not lost, and having booked a later flight, and missed many phonecalls from the event organisers, I arrived to rapturous applause, envy and reverence.

Having waded my way through the various bearded “experts” wandering aimlessly around the conference reception, avoiding their creepy glares and inane conversation starters, I bumped into the CEO of my former employers, CultureBrain MergeShock.

“This could get awkward”, I mumbled audibly, making sure he heard, but it was too late to avoid a chat.

No, you can’t have my business card.

You’ll no doubt have read My Story, and being no stranger to office flings yourself, you’ll empathise. As I’ve already mentioned, it was like totally his fault that the company got sued so many times, and my case didn’t even make it all the way to court, so why the need for hostilities?

There were no hostilities, and he like totally still fancies me. I guess the wife didn’t take him back after all. I noticed his shirt (no tie) was fully buttoned up when we first like bumped into each other, but within two hours the top button was open – a sure sign he’s into me. Trust me. We chatted about how much fun the old job was, and how stupid his (now ex) wife is. “ha ha ha” he lulled, his eyes glazing over at the prospect of even maybe possibly getting into my pants again.

Kill me now” I mumbled. Again, audibly.

So over lunch – a tiny bowl of low-tide leftovers – we agreed to meet up after the conference, but certain events transpired that made this impossible. He probably had two buttons open by that stage anyway, but my loss is some other poor girl’s nightmare. A hairy, gropey much-too-recently-pubescent nightmare.

The London Morkeshing Conference was taking place at the British Museum, near like all the cool places Bob Dylan and stuff used to hang out in.

I once met Joanna Lumley in a restaurant in Paris. Her coat (I didn’t catch the label) would have been PERFECT for my suit-pant/leather-waistcoat combo, but when I pointed it out to her she didn’t even answer me. What a bitch!

So back to the conference, and one particular segment had some novice talking about how to “engage” with your audience on the social media things. As if I needed help! Anyway, my audience don’t want to engage, they want it pointed out to them in no uncertain terms where they’re going wrong and how I can help them to be better at most things. What I sell is advice, not some shitty product or “disruptive online collaboration lazy focking login” nonsense. So, when the idiot’s slot was up, the floor was opened up to questions from the audience. Naturally, it was my time to shine.

I waited until two questions had already been asked by audience members, as is usual in the business of literally outperforming everyone else at everything. The guy handling the mic seemed pleased I’d put my hand up too, as he came straight over and handed me the mic. He also smiled and said “there you go” when handing it over – what a total slut!!

So my question went like;

When you’re like on the social media, and someone asks some bullshit question that you like LITERALLY couldn’t be focked answering, is it better to ignore them entirely, or tell them to shut their stupid faces up? I’ve tried both, but never bother to A/B test properly – have you any ACTUAL data to back up one method over the other?

The room went silent, bar the faint drone of a thousand minds simultaneously overloading with like, insane amounts of insight, knowledge and other stuff like that.

The girl tried to answer (I can’t remember her name for legal reasons), but such was the depth and weight of the issue at hand, she offered to chat about it later on in the afternoon so as not to take up valuable schedule time. OH MY GOD, I thought to myself, EVEN SHE FANCIES ME!

So we met up at the last break of the day, the one where the creeps make their last ditch efforts to secure friends lest they whittle away another lonely evening in their shitty hotel room.

What are you up to later?
Nothing.
Same here.

The conversation started out ok, with me telling her all about how I’ve climbed SOOO many ladders in various disciplines, and how I’d totally help her out if she was struggling with any aspect of internet stuff, or her own style (she needed help). She remained quiet throughout, presumably a side-effect of being totally out of her depth, but once we got to the ACTUAL question I like asked her, she got all like sassy up in my grill.

I don’t think you’ve really understood the point of interacting with your customers online“, she claimed, struggling to remain composed as the room’s eyes turned to our emerging battle of social theory and psychology.

Excuse me?“, I retorted, placing one hand on my hip in classic power-pose domination (I just dropped the coffee I was holding, fuck it – not my house). “I have, like over 4000 Twitter followers, don’t you focking DARE tell me I don’t know what social medias are for!

I wasn’t suggesting that (she focking was), I just think maybe you need to look at social interactions from the point of view of your customer“.

I lost my shit completely. Does she even know what my customers are like? Imagine some prehistoric troglodyte suddenly wakes up, fully conscious and self-aware right in the middle of Brown Thomas on Grafton Street in early January. Who’s going to help the poor little thing? Would the little trog rather discuss her options like some baby, or cut straight to the focking chase and get out of her bearskin and into something current and sexy that flatters (ie. hides) her protruding skull features and prominent everything-elses?

Unfortunately, that’s not exactly what I said (or did) to her at the time. With all eyes on our rather serious discussion, a cup and saucer which had been on the table between us somehow found its way into her stupid glasses, cutting her (only a tiny cut) above her left eye. The blood poured all over her faux-cotton frump-jumper, despite it only being a little cut. Pathetic. I didn’t care at the time, and nor do I care at this moment.

I’m not allowed go into any more detail until the investigation reaches its conclusion. I’m due back in London in September to discuss this issue further with the event organisers (who seemed a lot like police). Let’s just say, that bitch won’t be questioning my methods any further, with or without a restraining order.

And I unfollowed her.

With one victory already in the bag, I decided to leave the conference for the day and wander around the British Museum for a bit. It was nice, a little warm, but there’s loads of trinkets from like poorer places around the world. I asked some tourists whether we could buy any of the things (like this one deathmask that was hilarious), but they just nodded and took a photo of me – I’m not sure what was going on there to be honest, but I’m used to it!

I then decided to give my BFF Rosslyn a call on my Samsung Galaxy S6 (32gb) to see if she was in the area. I knew she was still on secondment from whatever bullshit company she worked for near the IFSC, and they had offices near Euston Station. Within three rings, she picked up – all my mates pick up like really quickly when I call them. We agreed to meet at the fountain outside the museum, so there I waited, for what seemed like a total half hour. When Rosslyn finally arrived, I glared menacingly. She knew she’d done wrong and apologised, but it was fine, I don’t like to dwell on such small things.

We hailed a taxi like paupers, and off we went on our adventures. We found a little pub with a garden, and decided to sit in the sun and sip some cocktails while the ugly masses went about their fundamentally irrelevant business around us. It was nice, but all Rosslyn seemed interested in talking about was the future and stuff. I was like “HELLO??? I’m visiting YOU and all you can do is talk about how shitty your life is? Either entertain me or I’m getting the fock outta here!“.

The bitch got up and left. I never really liked her anyway, with her pikey hair and her “look at me I’m Zooey Deschanel’s mother” summer dresses. Pathetic.

As I’d been dramatically removed from the marketing event by the conference organisers (why were they wearing police outfits?), I didn’t really feel like drawing even more attention to myself by (successfully) arguing my way back in.

Hi, I’m totally unique, ok?

After all, there’s only so much attention each person can give, and I’d already taken enough. So, I went to the first bar I could find, sat near the hipster-beer taps and whipped out my Intel Core i7 MacBook Air like a pro and started like “blogging” and stuff on social medias etc. Two hours passed, like the focking camel I am, before nature called, and only then did I realise I’d had nearly four pints of bespoke brew and was pretty much legless! I managed to find the wee-wee regardless, and sat back down to finish my fourth and final pint before….you won’t believe this….in walks my former boss and CEO of CultureBrain MergeShock (let’s call him Peter).

Peter strolls over and grabs a stool beside me, without even saying hi – as if it was like a prearranged focking date! Only then did I realise that it sort of was a prearranged thing, but certainly not a date, and certainly not a genuine prearrangement from my point of view. Don’t people take hints any more?

Anyway, I decided to let him buy me dinner as he literally went mental when I said I had to leave. I went for three servings of garlic mushrooms just to keep him at arm’s length – he could tell I was drunk, and this very same scenario is how things went tits-up for his stupid company in the first place. Oh yeah, and his marriage.

Despite my better judgement, three more pints of “Super Frothy Animal” found its way down my gullet. I was already feeling hungover by the time “Peter” made his first obvious move, by opening a sentence with “You know, I often wonder….“.

I cut him off immediately. “I know what your often wonder, you filthy bastard! Don’t even think about it!

But no – that’s not what he often wondered (although naturally, he thought about that too – I mean, look at me!). It turns out that he regrets the out of court settlement, and feels we could have come to a more amicable agreement. He then went on to disclose his latest media venture – StorySoFull.com. Essentially, their job was to find new stories online, contact the original source and bribe/blackmail them into twisting the story to a more favourable slant for his investors. Genius, I thought! Could this be my next step into the world of media-manipulation?

It’s a given that I’ve already mastered social media, why not try to master other people’s social media too? It’s not like I don’t have the talent or brains or other stuff.

So here we are – back in Dublin, awaiting confirmation of an interview with the freshly-funded StorySoFull.com. Their backers include media moguls, tinpot dictators, shadowy former home secretaries and ministers of defence etc, so the work is bound to be plentiful and morally watertight, not to mention financially rewarding.

I might even tell Daddy he can cancel the monthly direct debit, but I’m torn on that one – it is his duty to look after those he creates. I never asked to be born, and I certainly didn’t ask to be born with the weight of superior intellect, to-die-for bone structure, the metabolism of a ferret on the crackpipe, nor the social skills of J.H. Christ incarnate.

No, he must continue to pay.

Thanks for reading guys, this helps me almost as much as it has helps you! Don’t forget to check out my Social Media Strategies to get you like, likes and stuff, or whatever your boss thinks you should be getting.

Isn’t Social Media fantastically unquantifiable?

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>