The Penguins Progress:

A Mashup for Managers

by

Stephen Brown

In Loving Memory

Isobel Brown (1919-2008)

CONTENTS
Animal Crackers: A Formal Foreword for Respectable Readers Part I: Adarctica Calling Chapter 1: Where the Wild Brands Are Chapter 2: The Pied Penguin Chapter 3: Ciao Bella Part II: BrandLand Ho! Chapter 4: The Axe Man Cometh Chapter 5: Making Wishes, Keeping Promises Chapter 6: Brandback Mountain Part III: Sure of a Big Surprise Chapter 7: Farewell to Farms Chapter 8: Bury My Brand at Wounded Tree Chapter 9: Honey Still for Three? Part IV: Ill Take Madhattan Chapter 10: The Sound of One Paw Clapping Chapter 11: Old McDonald had a Brand Chapter 12: Beau Jest Part V: Just Deserts Chapter 13: Mista Kipling, He Dead

Chapter 14: Youre Never Alone With a Brand Chapter 15: No Rest Home for the Wicked Part VI: Penguin at the Gates of Dawn Chapter 16: Cincinnati Smackdown Chapter 17: I Heart Darkness Chapter 18: Tony, Tony, Burning Bright Part VII: Brands Can Only Get Better Chapter 19: Keep it Simples, Stupid Chapter 20: All Your Brands are Belong to Us Chapter 21: Perfectly Good Fakes Part VIII: The Emperor Penguins New Clothes Chapter 22: Let Us Now Praise Famous Brands Chapter 23: Who Was That Masked Mascot? Chapter 24: Love the Skin Youre In The Little Penguin That Could: Authors Afterword on Mashups and More Appendix: The Great Chain of Branding

Animal Crackers
A Formal Foreword for Respectable Readers

One morning I shot an elephant in my pyjamas. How he got in my pyjamas, I dont know. Groucho Marx

On 19 May 2010, the mascots for Londons 2012 Olympics were unveiled to a chorus of disapproval. Media comments ranged from the comparatively restrained partially blinded Tellytubbies, through the mildly pornographic two giant mutated phalluses to the positively unpleasant looks like someone spat on the ground and draped a Union Jack over it. A postmodern Walter Raleigh, presumably. No doubt the doubters will come round to the derided duo in due course. We may learn to love Mandeville and Wenlock and wonder why on earth anyone would want to describe them as insipid extras from some Pixar spin-off, never mind terrifying penis monsters.1 Twenty years hence, we may even look back on their unveiling as a landmark moment in 21st century marketing, on a par with Marlboro Mans debut in 1954. I guess well just have to wait and see. Theres one thing I do know for certain, however. Mascots move merchandise like nobodys business. Whether it be Hello Kitty or Joe Camel or Flat Eric or the Duracell bunny or the Aflac duck or the Dulux sheepdog or the Andrex puppy or the corpulent M&Ms candies or the totemic Jolly Green Giant or the sainted Ronald McDonald, mascots are a crucial component of the marketing mix. They are synonymous with the products and services they sell. They are the embodiment of the brand. A good mascot is worth its weight in gold. A great mascot, like Tony the Tiger, Churchill the Bulldog or the Michelin Man, is almost as priceless as MasterCard.2 There is of course a very good reason why mascots move merchandise. Were anthropomanes, one and all. Anthropomorphism, the act of endowing animals with human characteristics, is a universal trait. It is ancient and ineradicable. From the cave paintings of Neolithic man, through the gods and goddesses of Ancient Greece, via the beast fables of Aesop, Apuleius, Andersen and Adams, to the cartoon capers of Mickey and Minnie, Tom and Jerry and the heroically indefatigable Bugs Bunny, humankind has never been hesitant to anthropomorphise. The totem poles of native Americans, the signs of the Chinese zodiac, the constellations in the heavens, and the animal names adopted by grunting sports teams (Leeds Rhinos, Chicago Bears, Sydney Swans), are testament to the pervasiveness of anthropomorphism, as are our haircuts (pony-, pig- and duck-tails), dance steps

(foxtrot, bunny hop, tarantella), cartoon strips (Peanuts, Far Side, Fred Basset), computer games (EyePet, SimAnimal, Angry Birds), graphic novels (Maus, Fables, Ninja Turtles), companion animals (we treat pets as people) and the kitsch collections of ceramics that clutter our dwellings (formations of flying ducks, for example). Needless to say, the prevalence and persistence of personification has generated considerable academic discussion.3 For some, it is a developmental trait, associated with childhood in particular. Jean Piaget notes the tendency among children to consider things as living and conscious, a tendency that diminishes with age and all-but disappears at adolescence. For others, it is a form of wish fulfilment inasmuch as humankind makes sense of strange and alien surroundings by assuming that the human and non-human worlds are congruent. Hence our tendency to see faces in the clouds, men on the moon, horses in the surf and portraits of Jesus in pepperoni pizzas. Yet others of an evolutionary psychology persuasion contend that its nothing less than a primordial mammalian urge. It helps us identify potential predators, which are often hard to spot in their natural settings. We see rocks as bears and mistake trees for tigers, because it is in our best interest to do so. Getting it wrong makes us feel foolish. Getting it right means survival.4 Regardless of the reasons for humanitys anthropomorphic inclination, its ubiquity is not in doubt. If anything, anthropomorphism has proliferated in recent years. Widespread concern over animal rights and endangered species, coupled with recent advances in cognitive ethology that is, attempts to assess creatures mental states have given rise to a whole new appreciation of animal intelligence, emotions, consciousness, welfare.5 Whats more, as humankind is increasingly divorced from the natural world through urbanism and industrialisation and computerised intermediation, wild animals loom ever larger in the collective unconscious.6 Even natural scientists, who are exhorted to resist anything that smacks of anthropomorphism, find that this is much easier said than done. Whether it be Charles Darwins analyses of animal emotions or Richard Dawkins so-called selfish gene or the demonstrable fact that the more attractive the animal the more likely it is to be studied by naturalists, scientists simply cant help themselves when it comes to cute critters.7 This is nowhere better illustrated than in wildly popular television programmes like Springwatch, Meerkat Manor and Walk on the Wild Side, which are not so much red in tooth and claw as irredeemably rose-tinted and Disneyfied. Of all the domains in which anthropomorphism is rampant, it is arguably most rampant in business and management. The language of businesspeople is replete with 800lb gorillas, apes in the corner office, getting ducks in a row, big hairy audacious goals, cash cows, fat cats, dead dogs, fail whales and weasel words beyond number.8 Its gurus peddle parables about purple cows, black swans, dancing elephants, orbiting hairballs, long tails, animal spirits, hive minds, hidden hands, cheese moving mice, storytelling squirrels and so forth. Its concepts and theories are predicated on personification, everything from product life cycles and marketing myopia to brand DNA and store personality.9 Business organisations, furthermore, are routinely regarded as organisms, with brains, hearts, lungs, limbs and the like, in a kind of managerial equivalent of Lovelocks Gaia hypothesis, which considers our earth to be a living, breathing, self-

regulating entity.10 Indeed, the very idea of the corporation rests on the 1862 ruling that a company is a person with all the legal rights of a human being, plus the not inconsequential benefits of immortality.11 Viewed in this context, advertising mascots are but a small component of the anthropophilia that pervades business and management, albeit a venerable and highly visible one. It is no accident that the creation of the first brand characters, such as the Quaker who adorns every packet of Quaker Oats to this very day, coincided with the piecemeal passage of the company acts.12 It is also no accident that fifty years after Leo Burnett, the legendary American adman, came up with a host of unforgettable marketing critters including Tony the Tiger, Charlie the Tuna and Morris the Cat, anthropomorphised branding is still going strong. The merest glance across the contemporary advertising landscape reveals that personification is everywhere apparent. Guinness, we are repeatedly and reliably informed, is alive inside. Kinder chocolate bars shout Buy Me, Buy Me to oddly unperturbed passers-by. A smile is put on the face of the venerable Pepsi logo to make it more personable than before. The Michelin Man is reinvented as a pumped-up superhero, his days as a bon vivant conveniently forgotten. Yakults range of probiotic yogurts is chock full of friendly bacteria, much to the relief of consumers, who no doubt wonder whatll happen when the bacteria turn nasty. Meanwhile, Knorrs low-sodium side dishes are sold with the aid of Salty, a tearful salt cellar whos been unceremoniously cast onto the condiment scrapheap.13 This is a book about brand mascots, both tearful and terrifying. Or, to be more precise, it is a book about branding that uses mascots to get its message across. There are lots of books about brands and branding. But many of them lack pizzaz. They tend to be written in an impersonal manner that is offputting for many readers. Undergraduate students especially. Branding is an incredibly exciting subject, yet this excitement is sometimes lost in translation. My aim with The Penguins Progress is to replace lifelessness with liveliness. I hope to bring branding to life by bringing brand mascots together and placing them in peril. As such, this novel is part of the business storytelling tradition, which includes such well-known classics as The Goal, Squirrel Inc, The Way of the Rat, Peacock in a Land of Penguins, Who Moved My Cheese?, Who Moved My Blackberry? and Never Mind the Sizzle, Wheres the Sausage? It is also in keeping with the Animal Farm tradition, insofar as it features a secondary world, akin to Narnia or Oz or even Pandora, where anthropomorphised creatures frolic, flirt, forage, flourish and fight for the right to party. Im not for a moment suggesting that The Penguins Progress is on a par with, say, Watership Down, Winnie-the-Pooh, Wind in the Willows, Call of the Wild or Alice in Wonderland, much less White Fang, Black Beauty, Brer Rabbit, Beatrix Potter and the imperishable Babar. However, I do think it bears at least some resemblance to Shrek, albeit a Shrek with advertising characters like Tony the Tiger and Churchill the Bulldog instead of fairytale characters such as the Gingerbread Man and Three Little Pigs. Its ultimate aim, moreover, is to educate as well as entertain. Its a work, much as I hate the neologism, of edutainment for marketers, managers and would-be marketing managers. Its Dreamworks meets didactics, after a fashion.

As a storyteller, Im hesitant to list the lessons that this book contains. Hopefully, theyll become apparent as the novel unfolds.14 Im conscious, however, that managers are busy people with a fondness for facts, facts and more facts, not to say a take-away or two. Just for you, then, the following key aspects of brands and branding are raised in the yarn thats about to begin: The Difference That Makes a Difference. In a world of identikit products and services, all of which are functionally equivalent, standing out from the crowd is more necessary than ever. The late great Theodore Levitt calls this meaningful distinction. By meaningful distinction he means more than differentiation for differentiations sake you zig, I zag but differentiation that is meaningful to the ultimate consumer. Todays consumers dont need more of the same. They dont need more of anything, frankly. They can be persuaded to want things that are different, though. The Customer is Always Right Wing. Persuasion is the key word here. Consumers, in the mass, are inherently conservative (raving fans, especially so). The history of innovation is a litany of negativity, of antipathy, of out-and-out obstinacy. Despite all the recent talk of co-creation, prosumers, hive minds and what have you, consumers tend to rely on the devil they know. They have to be convinced, cajoled, persuaded, pestered to turn to the devil they dont. Products and services do not sell themselves. To Thy Own Brand Be True. The corollary of consumer conservatism is that consistency is crucial. The best loved brands, by and large, have been around for a very long time. They have been true to themselves and kept their customer promises. Corporate time and customer time run at different speeds, however. Managers feel the need to make changes, shake things up and refresh the brand, long before customers feel that way. Its not that change is best avoided but that precipitate change can backfire. The art of brand management is striking a balance between more haste and less speed. The Next Big Thing Thing. Action-minded by inclination, managers natural tendency is to make more and more haste. Worse, they are prone to the next big thing thing. They watch their competitors like a hawk and, if one makes a move (new feature, new offer, new product, new platform, new whatever), it is matched forthwith, for fear of being left behind. Emulation is the hobgoblin of differentiation, though. Jumping on the brandwagon means that everyone is in the same vehicle and heading in the same direction. All the way to Clone City.15 The Fifth P is a Q. This follow-the-leader flaw is not confined to practices. It is also true of principles. The theories, concepts and ideas that are flogged to death on the conference circuit are no less dangerous than competitors fighting brands. The product life cycle has been the death of many products. Marketing myopia is shortsighted. The 4Ps may be omnipresent but they are not omnipotent. The fifth P, like the fifth element, is quintessence. Brand longevity is predicated on occupying a unique niche and, better yet, becoming the embodiment, the epitome, the exemplification of that niche. The go-to brand, in short. Less is Sore. The problem with go-to status is that everyone wants more more more when less less less is called for. Brand managers are understandably inclined to make hay while the sun shines. They increase output, they extend the range, they

make the products more readily available, they endeavour to meet customers burgeoning demands because the customer is always right, right? No manager in their right mind will forgo a sale or leave money on the table. However, nothing kills brands quicker than ubiquity. Painful as it is to pass up on a sale, the brand may benefit in the long term. Reduced availability increases desire, maintains mystique and diminishes customer defection.16 Mascots are Not Just for Christmas. Another thing that diminishes customer defection is the brand mascot. Mascots are often dismissed as gimmicky and childish, especially by those with hi-falutin ideas about the rigorous pursuit of marketing science. And theres some truth is these perceptions. But its important to appreciate that gimmicks are part and parcel of marketing pretty important parts and parcels for the very simple reason that gimmicks work. Gratuitous gimmicks like competitions, free gifts, special offers and so forth are one way in which brands can retain their integrity/identity/positioning while ringing the changes and making things happen. Childishness, likewise, is not to be sneezed at, since brand preferences are often established in childhood and in todays increasingly infantilised, nostalgia-prone world, targeting the child within is no bad thing. Oh yeah, theres one other issue. Just as threats can be opportunities and opportunities threats, so too weaknesses can be strengths and vice versa. But dont take my word for it. Heres Bellas Stephen Brown June, 2010
Notes and References 1.These quotes are taken from Catherine Bennett, The pitiful Olympic mascots sum up this sorry affair, The Observer, 23 May, 2010, p. 31. For a marketing industry perspective on the Mandeville and Wenlock debacle, see Matt Williams, How does adland view 2012 mascots?, Campaign, 4 June, 2010, p. 4. 2. The old-timers among you may recall that Access cards, which were absorbed into the MasterCard family in 1996, were once advertised as a flexible friend. The card itself was anthropomorphised in the ads, as was the dismayed sign, Money. 3. I dont want to get bogged down in terminological matters, as academics like me are inclined to do. Suffice it to say that there are lots of words pertaining to humankinds anthropo-propensity. Strictly speaking, anthropomorphism means endowing animals with human characteristics or attributes (consider Bambi, Thumper, Dumbo, Donald Duck). Zoomorphism is the opposite. It means attributing animal characteristics to humans (Tiger Woods, Crocodile Dundee, Richard the Lionheart). Personification refers to giving human characteristics to inanimate things or ideas (the fog in Eliots Prufrock, Stephen Kings psychopathic automobile, Christine, Thomas the Tank Engine). Animism is the belief that natural objects have souls or possess some spiritual import (volcanic eruptions as the wrath of the gods, for instance). Other commonly used terms include totemism, reification, pathetic fallacy and anthropocentrism, though I treat them all pretty loosely herein.

4. Several additional explanations have been put forward. See Stewart Guthries seminal study of anthropomorphism, Faces in the Clouds (OUP, Oxford, 1993). Incidentally, the Piaget quote in this paragraph is borrowed from Guthrie (p. 215). 5. Jonathan Leake and Georgia Warren, Smarter than you think, The Sunday Times, 17 January, 2010, p. 14. 6. John Berger, Why Look at Animals (Penguin, London, 2009). Another useful overview can be found in the first chapter of Lorraine Daston and Gregg Mitman, Thinking With Animals: New Perspectives on Anthropomorphism (Columbia University Press, New York, 2005). 7. According to Morgan Trimble, a conservation scientist at the University of Pretoria, Scientists are people too. And many of them want to work with the big and furry stuff. The quote is from David Adam and Celia Cole, If you want to survive, dont be uglybe cute, The Observer, 23 May, 2010, p. 19. On scientific antipathy to anthropomorphism, the key statement is John S. Kennedy, The New Anthropomorphism (CUP, Cambridge, 1992). 8. See, for example, Richard Conniff, The Ape in the Corner Office (Marshall Cavendish, London, 2008) and Tony Thorne, Shoot the Puppy: A Survival Guide to the Curious Jargon of Modern Life (Penguin, London, 2007). 9. My old friend Susan Fournier has written the classic article on this subject: Consumers and their brands: developing relationship theory in consumer research, Journal of Consumer Research, 24 (3), 1998, pp. 343-373. 10. Gareth Morgan, Images of Organization, updated edition (Sage, London, 2006). 11. John Micklethwait and Adrian Wooldridge, The Company: A Short History of a Revolutionary Idea (Phoenix, London, 2005). 12. The contemporaneous passage of copyright and trademark legislation were of course the crucial developments here. The companies acts, nevertheless, created conditions conducive to such commercial developments. 13. The hugely successful Salty spots are confined to Canada at present. But as Knorr is a Unilever brand, the character may well go global in due course. 14. This book, BTW, makes no claim to zoological accuracy. Its full of animal errors. Penguins do not foregather in unruly crowds of divergent species. A Kalahari meerkat wouldnt last five minutes in the frozen wastes of Antarctica. Lions, rhinos and giraffes are not found in equatorial rainforests. Naturally, its not completely inaccurate either. Isabelline penguins are put upon by others. Penguins have been kitted out in bespoke body suits. The gay penguins Silo and Roy do indeed reside in Central Park Zoo. A nasty African ibis really does prey on innocent penguins. Meerkats are quite closely related to mongooses, do in fact eat their young and their tunnelling abilities, by all accounts, are second to none. 15. Needless to say, nowhere is the copy-cat character of corporate life better illustrated than in the recent fad for storytelling! Whereas slogans are pass and mission statements old hat, stories are on the up and up. The only problem of course is that most brand narratives are crafted by PR departments rather than storytellers proper. They are bland at best and boring at worst. They fail to appreciate that conflict, struggle and triumph over seemingly impossible odds are central to creating engaging narratives. A story without conflict is not only anodyne, insipid, soporific and so forth, but contrary to a brands best interest. Telling tedious tales tells consumers that the company lacks imagination, pays lip service to creativity and is a fad follower not a market leader.

16. This truism only pertains to speciality goods and services. Its less relevant to everyday convenience goods, though not completely unknown (when there are shortages of bread, bottled water, etc.). The equivalent issue in the latter categories is commodification, where brand differences are considered inconsequential and theyre all pretty much of a muchness (petrol, salt, sugar and so on).

The Penguins Progress

No Trademarks Were Harmed in the Writing of This Novel

Part I

Adarctica Calling

Chapter One

Where the Wild Brands Are

Does my tail look trim in this? Bella rolled her eyes and sighed. Fond as she was of Paris Humboldt, her oldest friend and as pretty a penguin as you could possibly meet, the girls selfregard was off the scale. She made Tony the Tiger look shy and retiring. Seriously, what do you think? Am I way cool, hot to trot, or simply irresistible? Puckishly, Bella refused to pander to her egotistical pal. Hmmm, she said, struggling to keep her face straight, Im not sure pink suits you, Paris. Pastels put years on penguins with your colouring. Pounds too. The tease worked. Paris flounced back to her vanity mirror, a polished sheet of ice that flattered to deceive, and craned anxiously over her shoulder. She twisted and turned, bending this way and that, trying to catch a glimpse of her pert posterior. She neednt have bothered. Although penguins arent renowned for their svelte figures, Paris Humboldt was an alluring exception to the rule. Some cynics in the colony contended that the airhead heiress had more shekels than sense, that she squandered her trust fund on fashionable fripperies, that she indulged in all sorts of reckless cosmetic surgery blubosuction, beakaplasty, flipper-filler and suchlike instead of building herself up for harsh winters ahead. But Paris Humboldt didnt give a fig for gossiping gentoos, much less the scandalised murmurings of embittered emperors, reactionary rockhoppers or meanspirited magellanics. She had more important things on her mind. Fashion, for one. Pelican pink is so this season, Paris pouted, scrutinising her shimmering reflection. She smoothed the lines of her slinky wetsuit. Its a Silo & Roy, you know. Exasperated, Bella Adlie shook her head. Where was it going to end? The fashion for wetsuits was getting out of hand. Not only were they completely unnecessary, but the prices being charged for designer label wetsuits simply beggared belief. The fad started innocently enough, when a rough rubber outfit was thrown together for a featherless Jackass penguin in a Californian aquarium. It was then picked up by animal fashionistas in Madhattan. Silo and Roy, the world famous gay chinstraps in Central Park Zoo, seized on the idea and turned it into a money-spinning line of multi-coloured outerwear. Penguins the world over were flipping out over their slim-fit, figure-hugging, one-piece costumes, which the camp couturiers cannily accessorised with scarves, gloves, berets, moonboots and of course their signature sweat pants, a joint venture with Versace. The S&R logo, a cute cracked eggshell containing a rare fairy penguin, was almost as well known as

Armanis stylised eagle, Hermes horse-drawn carriage or Juicy Coutures highland terriers. Their new season wetsuits were to die for, darling. And Paris Humboldt owned the only one in the southern hemisphere. The heiress sashayed in front of the ice mirror, admiring her outfit. Supremely confident in her impeccable taste, she twirled, whirled, smiled, simpered, kicked up a heel, wiggled her tail feathers and shimmied along the pebble-strewn beach towards a conveniently reflective rock pool. Adarctica was exquisite at this time of year. The sea was calm, the sky was blue, the wind was light, the temperature hovered around freezing, which was tantamount to tropical, and the feeding grounds were swollen with fresh krill, crunchy crustaceans, shoals of plump icefish and abundant Big Macs discarded by tubby tourists on passing passenger vessels. Mmmmm. Mmmmm. Im lovin it, Bella mumbled, truffling through the sodden packaging of an abandoned Happy Meal. She adored McDonalds. Her ambition was to meet Ronald McDonald, the brand mascots brand mascot, and share a McFlurry with the great man. Ronalds outdone himself again. You should try some of this, Paris. Its delish. Youll be grateful for it when the weather turns nasty. That stuff goes straight on the hips, Paris warned, wiggling her manicured flipper in a cautionary manner. With your genes, you should be more careful. She said it without thinking, as she so often did. Her narcissistic personality didnt lend itself to sensitivity, let alone sensitivity to lesser breeds. But Pariss illconsidered comment was cutting for all that. As a distant descendant of the P-P-PPenguin chocolate bar dynasty, Bella Adlie was not averse to a nourishing nibble. Or several. Consequently, she was a bit roomy at the rear. Bella, in truth, wouldnt be wearing Silo & Roy anytime soon. Not unless they produced a line of penguin control pants. Im sorry, Bella, Paris stuttered, realising from her companions forlorn expression that shed overstepped the mark. IIforgot Not a problem, Bella replied lightly. Hefty hips are the least of my problems. A tear sprang to Pariss eye. A sob stuck in her crop. For all her selfabsorption, the heiress was well aware of her lucky start in life. The only daughter of Hiram Humboldt, the IT guru whod made a fortune selling sat-navs to salmon, iPods to dolphins, Auto-Tune to humpbacks and RFID tags for emperor penguin chicks, Paris was a privileged a penguin as there could possibly be. An egomaniac, some said; a spoiled rich kid, others contended; an odious fashion victim who was corrupting Adarcticas impressionable young, yet others complained. But Bella knew better. She had known Paris since they were newly hatched on the same day, in the same communal nest and could vouch for the generosity of spirit that was hidden beneath her often vapid exterior. How many other blue-bloods would consort with an isabelline penguin, the mangy mottled outcasts of the species? Paris never pecked at her like the rest. Paris never spat in her face or called her a dirty smelly half-breed. Paris never refused to visit Bellas parents nest in the isabelline ghetto at the far end of the beach. Paris never made disparaging comments about Bellas pigmentation problem, or her lack of suitors come breeding season or

asked, sniggering, if she was related to a leopard seal. On the contrary, she pressed Bella to take pride in her colouring, her gene pool, her uniqueness. She urged her to flaunt her piebald appearance, to believe that beautiful blotchy brown was much, much better than black, black and more black. Brown was the new black, in fact. Except that pink was now in. Cerise was chichi. Day-glo flamingo was wayto-go on the ice-floe. Darling. Cognisant of what sentimental blubbering could do to the complexion, Paris wiped her eyes, clapped her flippers and put the negative vibe behind her. Okay. Okay. Watch my walk and tell me what you think. Be honest, Bella. Resplendent in her bright pink wetsuit, Paris sauntered to the end of the catwalk, a melting sliver of pack ice that protruded into the bay. The unstable ice tongue bobbed up and down as the heiress promenaded, preened and paused every so often to fling open her outfit for the fantasy A-listers in the front row and the admiring ranks of imaginary photographers at the end of the runway. What do you reckon? she called, posing provocatively, flipper on hip. Bella was shocked at the sight of her emaciated companion. The wetsuit not only put pounds on Paris but it disguised the dietary regime shed obviously been pursuing. Clearly, shed abandoned the time-honoured South Pole diet eat early, eat often for the temporary trendy South Beach diet, starve now, fast later. What on earth was she thinking of? Paris, Paris, Bella commanded, Come here immediately. Ive got something for you. Oh goodie. A gift? Tiffany, I trust. Paris bounced up the crumbling ice spur, scampered across the pebble-spattered beach and lurched to a halt beside her best friend, bar none. Here, Bella said, flicking open the Happy Meal container. Get this down your gullet. She cast aside the plastic collectibles and gathered up a beak-full of frozen French Fries. They looked delicious. But Paris declined. No can do. Gastric band. Casting next week. What, youre moulting already? This is getting beyond a joke, Paris. Youre coming with me to the food court. Right now. Were going to Krispy Krills, followed by Kentucky Fried Crustacean, followed by the International House of Fishcakes. I wont take no for an answer. Not casting as in casting my tail feathers, you silly sausage! Casting as in Im up for a part. Bella ignored the sausage remark. She did, admittedly, look a little like a lightly cooked chipolata a jumbo Cumberland, if truth be told but this was no time for sensitivity. I hope its not one of those steamy South Pole-dancing parts. Penguin porn degrades our species, surely you know that. Paris exploded with laughter. Her raucous squawk echoed across the balmy bay, where elephant seal pups frolicked, sperm whales surfaced with a snort and flying fish skimmed close to the surface, like hedge-hopping rainbows. Dont be a silly billy, Bella. Theyre making another Madagascar movie. The animals return to Central Park during Fashion Week. Im screen-testing for Skippers supermodel love interest. Hence the hard graft on my sassy catwalk shimmy.

And the drastic gastric band. Well, you know how it is in showbiz. Bella knew very well. She knew that Pariss affluent pop was a major investor in Dreamworks. She knew that humboldt penguins were notorious for their nepotism. She knew that the part was hers, even without the runway routine and designer label wetsuit. She knew that Paris would soon be part of the plastic collectables package aptly, the nay-sayers might say a malleable model for soft toys and action figurines, a spokespenguin for musky fragrances and carbonated beverages. She knew better than to pour cold water on her close friends hopes and dreams. Do you want me to come with you? I hear its very dangerous in Madhattan. Penguinapping is commonplace, apparently. No, Bella. Ill be fine. Whatever you say. Filling up, Paris hugged her mottled companion. It wont take long. Ill be back before you can say crested rockhopper. Im unlikely to get the part anyway. Im not properly trained like zoo-bred types. Theyve been performing since incubation, if not before. Paris doth protest too much, Bella mused, as anyone would. The roles already in the bag. Can I have a photo to remember you by? Oh yes! the fashion victim yelped, wiggling her tail feathers with glee. She reached into her luxury wetsuit, pulled out a super-slim Samsung camera and handed it to her bosom buddy. I always carry one, just in case, she said with an apologetic smirk. So which Zoolander pose do you prefer? Bluefin? Thats the tuna, right? Le Tigre, maybe? Um, leopard seal? Hows about Ferrari? Dont tell me. A prancing sea horse? They all looked the same to Bella. Her face was a frozen mask. But then most penguins were in the southern hemisphere. Tell you what, the soon-to-be superstar said. Why not take a shot of me on the catwalk? The lights better out there. Before Bella could open her beak to say anything, never mind thisll do fine, the Humboldt heiress was hurrying toward the hazardous runway. She flounced along the fragile ice spur, flicking out her feet in a perfect imitation of the supermodel strut all rolled hips and raised knees and clippity-cloppity gait then came to an abrupt halt at the end. She turned to her companion on shore, curled her delicate flippers in Le Tigre and snarled as best she could. Grrr. Grrrrr. Grrrr, Bella shouted back, snapping away like the late great Irving Pennguin. Grrrrrrrr, growled a gigantic leopard seal, as it roared out of the blue-green briny with suppertime in mind. The ravenous creature grabbed Paris Humboldt from behind, tossed her up into the air, as was the polar predators wont, then dragged her broken body beneath the gently rolling swell. Panic stricken, Bella sprinted down the ominously cracking catwalk, oblivious to the threat. She got to the end and surveyed the scene, hoping against hope that

Paris had escaped the vicious creatures clutches. A rapidly spreading crimson plume curled just below the surface. There was no sign of life. A dismembered limb, bitten and bloody, bobbed against the disintegrating walkway. Tearful, Bella took a closer look. It was Pariss pink wetsuit, her designer pride and joy, her to-diefor Silo & Roy. To die for, indeed. Aghast, she fished the outfit out. Sodden. Ripped. Bloodstained. Bella wept.

Chapter Two

The Pied Penguin

The Humboldts lived on the far side of the colony, in the lee of the LG glacier, overlooking picturesque Burberry Bay. It wasnt the kind of place that made isabellines welcome, especially isabelline adlies from the wrong side of the rocks. But Bella felt obliged to break the bad news to Pariss parents. What else could she do? It was her duty. Bella knew that she wouldnt be thanked for her actions. Blamed, more likely. Reported to the penguin police force, perhaps. No parent, nevertheless, deserved to be left wondering about the fate of a missing child, even an alleged airhead heiress like Paris. With a heavy heart, Bella picked up her best friends blood-soaked wetsuit. She threw the abomination over her flipper and, overcome with grief, stumbled toward the shoreline. Waddling waywardly along the treacherous ice tongue, she picked her way across the rock-covered beach and edged past the basking, belching, bellowing elephant seals, weeping all the while. Distraught, she clambered up the ice steps, cut into the deeply crevassed glacier, and emerged huffing and puffing, onto its snow-strewn top. The air was sharper up on Sony Playstation Plateau, where the other half lived and isabellines rarely ventured. The sun was stronger, the views were spectacular, the polar sky was immeasurably immense. She could see all the way to the Wii Sea and the Intel Ocean beyond. BrandLand was truly beautiful. Stifling a sob, Bella trudged along the glacier lip, pausing only to watch a group of juvenile gentoos hurl themselves into a steep crevasse which plunged all the way to X-box Bay. Picking up speed as they descended, the high-spirited youngsters shot out into the flat-calm cove below, like stones across a millpond. Unimpressed by the adolescents madness, Bella turned inland toward the Rolex Oyster Rookery. She clambered to the top of a heavily rutted ridge, where she paused to catch her breath. In more ways than one. A vast shallow hollow lay before her. It was filled with a multitude of penguins, penguins of every imaginable breed, species and stripe. There were knots of kings, clusters of chinstraps, bands of blackfoots, masses of mean lean macaronis and even a detachment of emperors, looking disdainfully at the rabble around them. Oddly, the agglomeration was completely silent. Gentoos, as everyone knows, are as garrulous as they come and rockhoppers are never less than noisy. But the great gathering on the glacier was reverential, hushed, expectant. A colossal screen flickered into life at the far end of the bird-filled basin. Bella could just see a crowd of Linux technicians all spitting images of Tux, the companys impertinent penguin mascot frantically fingering their keyboards, frantically fiddling with USBs and frantically testing webcam connections. A microphone screeched. Flippers flew to ears across the assembly, with a disconcerting slapping sound reminiscent of rifles being shouldered. More disconcerting still was the instantly recognisable voice being broadcast to the

multitudes. It was Pingu! Pingu was back among his people, yammering away in that weird adliesperanto which no one quite understood. A round of applause rolled up from the audience, as the big screens flashed the necessary subtitles. Bella ignored the crackpot celebritys irresponsible rant it was the usual right wing nonsense about breeding and purity and bloodlines and ethological cleansing while steering a course through the tightly packed penguins. As the long way round would have taken forever, she had no alternative. Her presence was not appreciated, though. Mutterings of invective followed her through the crowd. Dirty isabellineStinking half-breed...Your kind isnt welcomeYou shouldnt be here, bitch. Several emperors pecked at her as she passed. A few snooty royals turned to attack, some bristled their feathers, others pinched their beaks pretending that a petrel had pooped nearby. Although she was well used to hostility, having experienced anti-Isabelline discrimination since she was knee high to a skua, there was a world of difference between low-level antagonism and full-frontal flipper attack. When a scowling macaroni lashed out at her and a nasty jackass adopted an aggressive kung-fu panda stance, Bella decided that discretion was the better part of Velcro. Hesitantly, she slipped into Pariss pink wetsuit, which was a far from perfect fit but covered the biggest of her brown blotches. Her rate of progress improved immediately. Numerous fashion lovers stepped aside, nodding their approval. Nice outfit. Lookin good. S&R, isnt it? The cracked egg logo cut a swath through the throng. Until the crowd closed up, as the star took to the stage. Jean-Marie Le Penguin was a big, bloated, blubbery macaroni, who looked as though hed dined long and lustily on the finest fresh crustaceans and supersucculent stir-fried squid. His crest, a gigantic orange confection akin to a cockatoos, had obviously been crimped and coloured and backcombed for the occasion. It was magnificent. If only the same could be said for the dead-eyed demagogues hate-filled speech, which spewed invective on every living creature except pure-bred penguins. Curiously, he saved his most cruel comments for humankind, who were no-good, double-dealing, lying, cheating layabouts. They couldnt be trusted. Not now. Not never. Devils in disguise. With the rapt crowd in the crook of his flipper, Le Penguin introduced the next speaker. The big screens flickered and fuzzed and fizzled and finally settled on the fearsome features of an enormous Alaskan malamute. This, Le Penguin announced to his stunned audience, is Dr Dogeatdog. Hes a senior bite president at McHusky, the kill-or-be-killed management consultants. His company was commissioned by ACME Inc to assess the performance of its animal brand portfolio. Bella found it difficult to concentrate on the canine consultants introductory remarks. She was transfixed by its appearance: the unnaturally white fangs, the carefully clipped pelt, the sapphire-studded collar, the unmistakable air of impeccable breeding and the overwhelming sense that, husky or not, Dr Dogeatdog had never pulled a sled in its life. As the image segued from pedigree presenter to his PawPoint presentation, Bella began to appreciate the seriousness of the situation. Adarctica was melting at an unprecedented rate. BrandLand, the world supported by humankinds prodigious advertising spend the world that gave the world such

luminaries as the Jolly Green Giant, Charlie the Tuna, Cadburys drumming gorilla and the Pillsbury Doughboy was in the throes of an ecological catastrophe. The bubble of blarney, blether, bluster, and bullshit that had sustained BrandLand for decades was deflating rapidly. Worldwide advertising revenue was falling precipitously, on account of the drastic economic recession, the worst in living memory. Worse, what little spend there was was being redirected into on-line, clickthrough pop-ups or word-of-mouth marketing campaigns rather than brand character building like before. The dream world of advertising was in danger of collapsing into the real world of humankind, with disastrous consequences for all brand animals. BrandLand was doomed to extinction unless advertising spend and advertising species were brought into better balance. An audible gasp of shock and horror rose from the audience and hung in the frozen air like the calm before the ice-storm. This was quickly flowed by an earshattering penguin outburst. Emperors exploded in anger. Gentoos gabbled hysterically in a great garbled polyglot. Rockhoppers made rude remarks about advertising types. Humboldts harrumphed how-dare-they. The kings kept their own council, preferring conspiratorial nods and winks and sideways glances, plus raised flippers placed by the side of the beak. Whatever happened, theyd be okay. It took several minutes and an imperious plea from Le Penguin before the penguins settled down, with much ruffling of feathers and shuffling of feet. Worse was to come from the canine, however. Six weeks ago, Dogeatdog reported, the Advertising Character Management Executive invited McHusky to examine the animal icon situation and make appropriate recommendations. Extensive empirical research reveals that humankind is suffering from flipper fatigue. The penguin brand is overexposed, overstretched, oversold. Over, in other words. There are more penguin mascots nowadays than there are teddy bears, and thats saying something. Your stunning success with Happy Feet, your Oscar-winning performance in March of the Penguins and your show stealing antics in the Madagascar franchise, have unwittingly undermined penguins brand equity. If theres one thing marketing teaches us, its that wild popularity is a precursor to extreme antipathy. The bottom line is that theres been a backlash against your breed. Penguins are out of fashion. Penguins have saturated the market. Penguins have jumped the shark. The uproar was indescribable. Snowballs were hurled at the screen in disgust. Shouts of ACME, my arse echoed around the ice basin. A spontaneous chant of protest commenced at one end of the crowd and was swiftly picked up by the remainder. ACME. ACME. ACME. Out. Out. Out. ACME. ACME. ACME. Out. Out. Out. Screeches of feedback, engineered by Le Penguins Linux-trained technicians, and repeated at ever-louder volumes, eventually brought the hostile crowd under control. Dr Dogeatdog continued his video-link exposition, unperturbed by the distant disturbance. After careful consideration and a strategic analysis of the situation, ACMEs chief executive, the legendary Mr Kipling, has concluded that a cull is called for. A 10% cull, to be precise. The penguin population cant be sustained at its present level, not until the hype bubble is restored to rude health. A period of temporary retrenchment is necessary if the brand is to flourish in the long

term. Indeed, if advertising spend continues to decline at its present rate, even more extreme measures may prove necessary. Your leaders have already been appraised of the situation. They know what needs to be done. The decision is yours. Good day to you all. The big screen went blank, only to be replaced by a cinemascope-sized image of Jean-Marie Le Penguin, his raddled face set in serious mien. Fellow penguins, he began, his voice a low-throated rumble, the last few years have been good for us. Weve enjoyed spectacular success. Weve cornered the mascot market. Weve been associated with more merchandise than any animal brand bar Hello Kitty and Mickey Mouse. Weve eclipsed teddy bears as the worlds favourite soft toy. Weve turned Club Penguin into childrens social networking website of choice. But weve grown fat and lazy and greedy and self-indulgent. We play extreme sports rather than perfect our fishing skills. We pay ransoms to leopard seals instead of outsmarting them like before. We wear coats and scarves and wetsuits to keep warm, when we should be braving the chill like our forebears. Weve got to face facts. Weve got to get back to basics. Weve got to recognise that Mr Kipling is right. Weve got to accept that ACMEs ruling is a good thing, a blessing in disguise. No penguin pain, no penguin gain. Momentarily cowed by the demagogues balefful glare his bright-red bloodshot eyes were almost demonic with ruthless determination the crowd muttered and cursed and argued among themselves. Le Penguin raised a gnarled flipper to silence his unhappy campers. He explained that hed entered into discussions with each breeds elders. He reported that the emperors, as the orders most overexposed species, had generously volunteered to take the hit on behalf of everyone. He announced that his own macaronis, by far the most populous penguin species, if the least high profile, were also prepared to sacrifice themselves on behalf of more photogenic breeds like adlies, chinstraps and gentoos. However, after sounding out the elders and weighing up the offers, their representatives had unanimously decided that every penguin species should contribute to the cull. The multitude fell silent once more, as startling images of BrandLands marketing turmoil appeared on the big screen: the Jolly Green Giant stumbling around barren fields crying No, No, No; a Lion bar being devoured in cold blood by Geoffrey, the Toys R Us giraffe; an ageing Fiat Panda trying to escape the clutches of a ravenous Jaguar S-Type, and failingwith gruesome brand consequences. Brothers and sisters, Le Penguin croaked, there is a simple solution to our unwelcome dilemma. Ever the showman, he paused for effect. We are required to reduce our number by 10%, agreed? Ten percent of the penguin population is isabelline, agreed? Isabellines are a blight on all of our breeds, agreed? I suggest we round up the isabellines. I recommend we extinguish the carriers of mutant mottled genes. I believe we can kill two troublesome birds with one carefully aimed stone. Agreed? Yessssss! The crowd roared its approval. It was a done deal. There were no dissenting voices. Why would there be?

Chapter Three

Ciao Bella

Bellas first thought was for her parents. As prominent members of the Isabelline community, they were at the forefront of the campaign for pigmented penguins rights. Far from being ashamed of their taint, theyd taken pride in their otherness, their difference, their marvellously mottled appearance. And theyd paid a heavy price for it. Persecuted by right wing roughnecks, Isaac and Nina Adlie had been driven to the edge of the colony, where they lived in a cramped cleft in the cliffs. Although the fissure was little more than a ghetto for gentoos, rockhoppers, humboldts and blue fairies or anyone who bore the blotch of the beast it afforded a degree of protection from predatory skuas and sheathbills, as well as prejudiced perpetrators of penguin hate crime. The rookery nook, however, could not protect isabellines from phalanxes of angry penguins with massacre in mind. On the contrary, it was a death trap. She had to warn them. She had to get home before Le Penguins purge commenced. Pariss parents would have to wait, since the prevention of death took precedence over passing on news of her friends unfortunate fate. There was no time to waste. The hostile crowd was already dispersing, with murder in mind. They had determined looks on their faces and duty-calls swaggers in their step. A column of flint-eyed emperors stomped out of the glacial bowl toward the flight of ice steps that zigzagged to the beach. Bella was falling behind. Her parents were dead meat. She had to do something, anything. There was only one thing for it. Pushing and shoving her way past clusters of chattering chinstraps, Bella darted to the top of the crevasse shed spotted earlier. It may have been a plaything for juvenile gentoos an extreme sport chute but it was the only way she could get to her parents before the baying mob of macaronis and their blackfoot backups. Bella stared into the chasm, breathing heavily. She didnt like heights at the best of times and dropping from a very great height at very high speed was her very worst nightmare, worse even than the Ibis of the Adpocalypse, the terrifying penguin legend that her mad Uncle Isadore told her as a child and gave her sleepless nights ever since. Praying that Pariss pink prophylactic was as protective as shed claimed, Bella jumped feet first into the void. She bounced from wall to wall as her speed picked up. The superslick surface, polished by the plump rumps and tufted tailfeathers of innumerable hurtling youngsters, was almost entirely frictionless. If not quite the Cresta Run for crested penguins, it came pretty close. Bella was too frightened to squawk with fear. Digging in her heels made no difference. Petrified, she swished and swooshed from side to side of the glassy, pitch-black ice tunnel, with only occasional shafts of blue reflected light to illuminate the precipitous path ahead. Since seeing what was coming was even worse than blind fear, she closed

her eyes and muttered a penguin prayer of deliverance. Our Flipper, who art in heaven On several occasions during her hell-for-feather descent, Bella felt herself lift offonly to bounce back onto a steeply-angled schuss which whizzed her everfaster into the vertiginous ravine. She opened her eyes fractionally, only to see a solid wall of death directly ahead. She screeched and tried to stop. And failed. Luckily, it wasnt a wall, but a great divide in the path. She didnt know which way to turn. The gentoos smooth groove carried her hard left. She breathed a huge sigh of relief, relaxed too soon and was completely unprepared for the final twist, turn and warp-speed surge into the blinding late-afternoon light. She was even less prepared for the sling-shot experience of bouncing, skimming, carooming, surfing across the unruffled surface of X-Box Bay. A large leopard seal loomed before her, licking his lips, but she zipped past before hed time to snaffle the speeding package of fast food. A skua turned to attack but it couldnt keep up with the allegedly flightless adlie. By the time Bella arrived at the far side of the cove, she was not only breathless but exhilarated beyond her wildest imaginings. The wetsuit, though, was ripped to shreds, its padding having paid the price of the penguins supersonic splashdown. She removed the go-faster garment and hurried toward the family rookery, scrambling past flatulent elephant seals as she went. Waddling as fast as her stubby rubbery legs could carry her, Bella paused at the mouth of the cave, panting with exhaustion. The guano-covered grotto was deserted. It was completely devoid of life. There wasnt an isabelline to be seen. Some nests were still warm. Half-eaten meals of crustaceans and squid lay where theyd been disgorged. A couple of soon-to-hatch adlie eggs sat, deserted, in the communitys communal crche. Theyd been rounded up already. Theyd been taken away and taken out. Theyd been put down in the Adarctic equivalent of Kristallnacht. Anguished, Bella cried out, hoping against hope that some of her kind had escaped Le Penguins clutches. Her heartfelt squawk echoed back from the empty rookery. Only the dripping of melt-water and the hollow moan of an on-shore breeze, disturbed the eerie silence. What was that? Bella cocked an ear. Something was moving. Ffft. Ffffft. Fffft. There was a snuffling sound from the rear of the cave, close to her parents nest. Ffft. Ffffffft. Fffft. Excitedly, yet with a mounting sense of dread, she clambered over the rocky detritus. A dark shadow darted along the rear wall. It stopped. Then started again. Then stopped, hunched behind a boulder, twitching. It was a predatora carrion collectora slinking stinking scavenger of some kind. A crab, possibly. A petrel, probably. A dirty rotten rat, most likely. Inadvertently introduced by idiotic humans, rats were wreaking havoc in Adarcticas delicate ecosystem. They were almost as detested as Isabellines. Sympathetic as Bella felt toward vermin, if only because shed been so described on countless occasions, she wasnt letting a rat eat her species unguarded eggs or fill its belly while fellow isabellines suffered. Flippers fully extended, she advanced toward the creature, backing it into a corner. Ive got you now, you slimy son of a sheathbill.

Astonishingly, the rodent rose to its full height and stared at Bella contemptuously. Towering head and shoulders above her, the slender-torsoed, sharp-faced, erect-eared, eagle-eyed animal fussily adjusted its slim-fit outfit, a beautifully embroidered smoking jacket. How dare you address me like that, you disgusting wetback. Dont you know who I am? No, I dont know who you are, the penguin snarled, trying her best to appear menacing. But I do know that if you dont get your scrawny ratass out of my rookery, Ill rip your twitching whiskers off and shove them where the sun dont shine. Bella didnt know she knew language like that. You, he drawled, and whose army? With an arrogant expression, the obstreperous animal extracted a packet of Lark low-tar cigarettes from the side pocket his pale blue smoking jacket, paused to light up with much flicking and clicking of a vintage Dunhill Rollagas, inhaled deeply in a self-dramatising fashion head angled, elbow up then casually blew a cloud of noxious smoke in the face of his would-be assailant. Taken aback, Bella coughed and spluttered and retched in a most unbecoming manner. She felt the Happy Meal rise in her gorge. Not in a good way. Aleksandr Orlov, at your service, he drawled, with the merest lift of an eyebrow at Bellas unseemly behaviour. I assume youre familiar with my work. Bella was at a loss. NevercoughHeard of youcoughAm Isplutter missing somethingsplutter? Ill say, Orlov said, dragging deeply. Modesty forbids, you understand, but I am big in Britain and Russia and, of course, among my blue-blood meerkat brethren. I am the face of a price comparison website, a most-viewed superstar of YouTube, a radio talk-show compre, the proud possessor of 600,000 Facebook friends, 32,000 Twitter followers and 3.6 million hits on my homepage. I doubled the market share of my sponsoring organisation in less than a year, my TV ads were voted the third most popular of the decade just past, I am a direct descendant of the Romanov royal family (meerkat line) and, all things considered, my achievements make me the worlds most beloved brand character since the glory days of the Honey Monster, bless his cotton candy socks. My catchphrase is Simples. Simples? Simples. Bella was baffled. What on earth are you doing here? This is Adarctica, the most southerly part of the southern hemisphere. The Russian steppes are thataway. Londons over there somewhere. She jerked a flipper over her shoulder, though the exact direction didnt really matter. The point was that Orlovs explanation was thinner than the IBM Ice Shelf around Oracle Island. With a so-what show of indifference, Orlov sucked on his cigarette, flicked a tiny deposit of ash from his beautiful tasselled jacket and made to step around the antagonistic adlie. I havent finished with you yet. Oh, I think you have, he sighed, staring deeply into Bellas eyes. Sleepy. Sleepy. You are feeling sleepy. Very. Very. Sleepy. He clicked his claws with an echoing clack. Meerkats are part of the mongoose family, my dear. We know a

thing or two about hypnotism, not to say subliminal advertising. He winked, stubbed out his cigarette and headed for the entrance to the cave. Simples. But Bella beat him to it. Flippers on hips, she blocked his path. Not so fast Mr Mongoose. Are you going to explain yourself or am I going to poke out those pretty little eyes of yours with this big bad beak of mine? The aristocratic rodent showed no dismay at the failure of his mesmerism demonstration, other than a nervous twitch of his nostrils. Well, he said, since you put it like that, Im looking for someone. Oh yes? Whos that? Maybe I know him. Jean-Marie Le Penguin? Dr Dogeatdog? Not Pingu, surely? The meerkat adjusted his jacket with more fuss than was strictly necessary. He looked around, as if taking in the cave for the first time. Flat Eric, if you must know. Flat Eric? Dont tell me youve never heard of him. Mmmmm. Bella shook her head. Sorry. With a glottal gabble, Orlov rattled out an abbreviated explanation. He was a sort of soft toy, a sock puppet, a brand spokesrodent for Levis jeans, who was huge back in the days before YouTube. Hit singles. Advertising awards. Enormous name recognition. However, he dropped off the grid. I heard that hed moved to Adarctica, where he runs an advertising character maintenance experiment. Its a life-long learning, long life expectancy operation of some kind or other. I was hoping to pick his brain about brand longevity. I dont intend to be a flash in the pan like so many marketing fads. Flat Erics been there. He knows the score. Can I go now? Advertising Character Maintenance Experiment? Is that anything to do with ACME, the Advertising Character Management Enterprise? I have no idea. Its just that I have a bone to pick with ACME and, as Im not sure where Mr Kipling is based, perhaps we could pool our resources. Two species are better than one. Orlov looked at Bella askance. I dont think so. We meerkats are social animals. But I prefer not to mix with the, um, avian classes. He made to go. Suit yourself. Though I should perhaps warn you that a crowd of angry emperors is heading this way and theyre not renowned for their goodwill toward dappled animals, much less dun-coloured rodents. I see. Bella started to step aside, but was interrupted by a shuffling sound outside. Too late, meerkat. Theyre here. A regiment of red-chested emperors stood line abreast across the beach, right beside the isabelline refuge. They looked resolute, ready to do Le Penguins malevolent bidding. Bella suddenly remembered that shed lost her pretty pink camouflage. The S&R wetsuit lay, ripped and ragged, where shed left it. As the only mottled penguin in residence, she was first in line for the chop. She had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. Nor did Orlov. Not so Simples now.

Part II

BrandLand Ho!

Chapter Four

The Axe Man Cometh

The front rank of emperors swaggered up the shingle and over the rocks. Indomitable, uncompromising, determined, their golden breastplates glittered menacingly, their bayonet beaks stood ready to rip, tear, stab. They paused at the mouth of the cave, blocking out the bright sunlight. There was no escape. Is there another way out of here? Orlov whispered to his cornered companion. Bella shook her head. Well, theres an old bolthole at the back but its filled with snow and ice. We didnt think we needed it any more. They told us that the anti-Isabelline purges were a thing of the past. Theres still a bit of discrimination, but nothing like it used to be. The old enmities are behind us, they said. Todays penguins are extremely image conscious, dont you know, smart enough to appreciate that intra-breed antagonism damages overall brand equity. And you believed them? We Russians know better than that! Fearing an isabelline rearguard action, the imperious emperors advanced slowly into the rookery. Their bulk, which stood them in good stead on glaciers, ice sheets and the wide open spaces of Sony Playstation Plateau, proved an encumbrance in the confines of the cleft. The low ceiling forced them to duck and hunker and curse the unspeakable piebald creatures that visited such indignities upon their royal personages. Orlov seized the moment. Lets go. Where to? The bolthole, you flat-footed fool. Before Bella had time to remind the rodent that the rear passage was plugged, he was off, scurrying, scampering, searching for the ice- and snow-filled shaft. She struggled to keep up, tripping and tumbling tail-over-teat in the gloom. Her unladylike oaths carried back to the emperors, who stopped again, suspecting a trap. She could hear them discussing their strategy. And bickering amongst themselves, mercifully. Every second was precious. By the time she reached the snow-choked funnel, her new-found friend was already half a metre into the compacted powder, clawing like crazy. Meerkats, Orlov gasped over his shoulder, are the finest tunnellers on the planet. Theres nothing we cant bore through. Compared to Kalahari hardpan, Gobi gneiss or Patagonian polder, this stuff is Stork supersoft margarine. I cant believe its not butter. A cascade of ice chips spurted between Orlovs hind legs, as he excavated ever-faster, ever-upward. Bella snuggled in behind him and, although the fit was tight, adlies are much more petite than emperors. There was no way those monsters could follow, not unless they let the jackasses or macaronis take over, which would represent an unacceptable blow to the Praetorian penguins pride.

Above the chatter of the ice cascade and the rodents laboured breathing, Bella heard the emperors pause to pronounce on the awful smell of the place and the prodigious stink of its inhabitants, hoping to draw out any remaining isabellines. Orlov just kept digging, digging, digging, digging. Chain smoker he may have been but his feat of burrowing was mighty impressive. Less than fifteen minutes after the excavation began, the meerkats quizzical head popped out of an encrusted snowdrift. Simples, he spluttered. Theyd made it to the plateau above the beach in one piece. The place was deserted, not a penguin, not a skua, not a shearwater in sight. Or earshot. Gallantly, Orlov pulled Bella out of the aperture and, even more gallantly, conceded that his silk smoking jacket was ruined beyond repair. When danger calls, he observed, dandies discard. Pity, though. Ill get you a new one when were done with ACME. With a heavy sigh, the hyperactive meerkat stuffed his crushed cigarette packet into a small leather posing pouch. Forgive me, my dear, but ACME is not on my agenda. I have a prior engagement with a sock puppet. However, given the warmth of the polar welcome committee, Ill accompany you for a little while. Until youre beyond the long flipper of the law. Which way are you heading? All roads lead north. Bella set off with the sun at her back. Orlov scampered alongside, dashing forward, darting back, sitting up every so often nose twitching, eyes flicking scanning the horizon for potential predators, as well as penguins in hot pursuit. When does it get dark around here? he asked, dropping down on all fours. Im feeling a trifle fatigued. I havent dug so much since David Attenborough directed Meerkat Manor. The reshoots were ridiculous. The mans a slave driver. Bella snorted. Sundown? she scoffed. Oh, sometime in the middle of April, then its midnight through September. Theres a few months yet before it gets dark. Enjoy the twilight while you can. Agitated, Orlov stood in front of his new acquaintance, blocking her path. Impossible. My routine is sacrosanct. It must be adhered to rigorously. Meerkats need their regular eight hours and we media meerkats are especially sensitive to sleep deprivation. Bella brushed the obsessive-compulsive aside. The rookerys thataway, if youve had enough for one day. Just follow the footprints back to the shaft. Dont expect much sympathy from the emperors. They march for months on end, through the worst of the winter. Theyre famous for it. They never let anyone forget it, frankly. Theyve been insufferable since that Oscar. Youll have a lot to talk about. You have a lot in common. They had a lot of reshoots too, apparently. Stand-ins, body doubles, claymation models, allegedly. Theyre big girls blouses, you know. Chastened for the moment, Orlov said nothing, not even you didnt call them big girls blouses back in the cave. He fell into step beside Bella. They tramped steadily across the snowfield, over the rippling bands of sastrugi. The snow squeaked as they walked. It sounded like freshly-squeezed polystyrene packaging. The thin crust gave way from time to time. Their feet sank in with a hiss. The katabatic wind picked up steadily, sending sharp slivers of fiery ice into

their faces as the afternoon stroll became an unending struggle. Chins tucked in, they ploughed on, across the inhospitable wasteland that penguins call home. Orlov stopped suddenly. Whats that? he said, pointing into the distance. A black dot was coming towards them. The dot got bigger and bigger as it got closer and closer. It was only when the smudge was almost upon them that they realised it was a massive polar bear. A polar bear? In the southern hemisphere? At the South Pole? In a wordno way! But a bear it was. Bounding towards them at top speed. With its great jaws open wide exposing a bright red tongue and fearsome yellow fangs the beast was preparing to pounce. Bravely, the meerkat refused to budge. He rose up on his hind legs, stared deeply into the snarling creatures tiny eyes, informed their ursine attacker that it was feeling sleepy, sleepy, sleepy and clicked his powerful claws, still with snow under the nails. Poleaxed, the polar bear slumped in front of them like a giant elephant seal, fast asleep, snoring loudly. How on earth? Orlov sniffed. I told you I could do it. But you didnt believe me. You mocked the master. Do you believe me now, little miss sceptic? It wasnt that I didnt believe, Bella apologised. It was because it didnt work. On me, that is. My paws were cold. It works on everyone. The simples minded, perhaps. Lets get out of here before the brute wakes up. She made to move on. Smirking, Orlov placed a forepaw on her chest, preventing further progress. The bear is completely under my power. Hell wake when I tell him to wake. Hell be none the worse for his ordeal, apart from a slight headache. Lets find out what hes doing here, so far from home. Lets wake him. Impressed as Bella was by the meerkats display of animal magnetism, she wasnt sufficiently impressed to stick around while he revived the roaring roustabout. A bear with a sore head was always best avoided. A polar bear with a sore head didnt bear thinking about. Maybe he knows where ACME is, Orlov inveigled. Yes, and maybe hes a furry friend of Flat Eric. Let me know how you get on. Im out of here. Bella had only taken three steps when she was stopped in her tracks by a voice from the void. Did you say Flat Eric? the speaker inquired in a beguiling baritone. Astounded, Bella turned back to her erstwhile travelling companion, preparing to ask if ventriloquism was another of his meerkat talents. But Orlov looked just as surprised as she felt. A snowball rose from behind the hind quarters of the prostrate polar bear and shook itself off. It was feline. A wild cat. Smaller than a snow leopard, bigger than a mangy moggy, it was akin to a tabby on growth hormones or steroidal supplements of some kind. Louis the Lynx, at your service, he purred. Explain yourself, Bella said, unimpressed by the overgrown pussycats performance. Shed seen enough narcissism for one day. Rrrrrrrrrrr, Louis meowed throatily. I like a bird with spirit. I think youre my kind of penguin. Youre a minx, thats what you are. Minxes and lynxes

were made for each other. Were kissing cousins, almost. Whats your name, baby? Rrrrrrrrrrr. Thrown by the cheesy charm offensive, Bella didnt know whether to kick him or kiss him, though she was leaning toward the former. However, she never had the chance to put the boot in, because Orlov was ahead of her, asking about the newcomers acquaintance with Flat Eric. It transpired that Louis was spokespussy for a popular brand of mens toiletries, the worldwide market leader, no less. Louiss Lynx was launched just as Flat Eric was lifting Levis jeans to new heights. They were old friends. They went back a long way. Theyd kept in touch, even after Flat Eric gave up all that fame and fortune and fashion-forwarding for the life of a starving artist in New Yorkie. So youre saying, Orlov interrupted with consternation, that Flat Erics in a loft in SoHo, not a cleft in SoPo? Louis laughed. SoPo? Is that what you call this desolate place? I was wondering. Actually, we call it the South Pole, Bella bit back. Adarctica, to be exact. And what are you doing here, anyway? Shouldnt you be squirting your fancy fragrance in SoHo? The hulking lynx growled seductively, stroking his luxuriant whiskers. Oh, foxy lady! You saucepot, you. Just love your sassy asssssssss. Bella went to biff the burly blowhard, but Orlov stepped between them and, with difficulty, steered the conversation back to basics. Louis, it seemed, was on the lookout for new markets. His brand was known as Axe in every territory except Britain, Ireland and Australia. He feared that his brand name was going the way of Spangles, Marathon, Jif, Ulay and countless other once-loved names that had been dropped in the interest of pan-national advertising campaigns. Unilever was unlikely to axe Axe, especially as it carried the masculine connotations that Lynx lacked. So it looked as though Louis was losing the fight for survival. Unless he could seize new territories before the Axe man got there. As markets go, SoPo was somewhat underdeveloped, not to say godforsaken. However its growth prospects were enormous, especially when global warming exposed the natural resources that lay beneath the icecaps and the climate was more equable. So, youre getting in at the bottom? Something like that, Louis sighed, his playboy pose temporarily abandoned. Bella seized the day. Have you thought of taking your appeal to ACME? The parent company is obviously discriminating against you. Animal rights must be respected. Axe is self-evidently androcentric. The Axe man is being promoted ahead of you. Its worth a shot, is it not? Its better rather than waiting for the ice to melt. Impressed by the penguins persuasiveness, the lynx nodded appreciatively. ACMEs in Madhattan, isnt it? I took the tour once when I was Unilevers blueeyed brand. The scales fell from Bellas eyes. Madhattan. Of course. Where else would ACME be? Where else would Mr Kipling call the shots? Were heading that way, she said. Orlov has to see a man about a sock puppet. Why dont you join us? You know, I might just do that.

Better make tracks. Bella clapped her flippers. All together now. Were off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of ads.

Chapter Five

Making Wishes, Keeping Promises

The euphoria didnt last. Before long, the brand alliance found itself suffering under the biting lash of bitter winds. They were further slowed by thigh-high snowdrifts and struggled to get their bearings, as an unseasonal blizzard blew up from the west. Heads bowed into the brutal assault, the trio trudged across the Ikea Ice Shelf toward the Nike Nunatak, accumulating thick coats of driven snow as they went. They looked like abominable snowmen. They felt abominable too. Despite the whiteout, Bella could sense that the land was rising. The terrain grew ever steeper as they worked their way round the pressure ridges of the notorious North Face Glacier, which was webbed with bottomless crevasses, themselves crossed by delicate ice bridges. An avalanche wasnt inconceivable at this time of year. Are you sure were going the right way? Louis asked, inching carefully across a vast ice arch, hung with icicles like translucent suspension cables. Perhaps we should shelter until this blows over, Orlov said. How long do these things last, penguin? Oh, not very long. Just a week or two. What? Louis yelped, almost losing his footing, sending a spray of powdered snow into the abyss beneath. Only joking, Bella said, noting that braggadocio melted rapidly in sub-zero temperatures. Its usually a month, minimum. A large mound of medial moraine material loomed ahead of them. Snow covered one side of the lumpy bumpy deposit, like an amateurishly iced Christmas pudding. Nevertheless, it offered a convenient windbreak. Orlov quickly carved a hollow on the sheltered side of the hummock and they were soon huddled together in the confined space. It was as close to snug as things get in the most hostile environment on earth. Try not to fall asleep, Louis advised, otherwise well be frozen to death and be found decades hence like Captain Scotts dog team. Not that I hold a candle for canines. Orlov cleared his throat officiously. Scott didnt use dogs. That was his problem. Too kind-hearted. Couldnt bear to kill them as required. The British care more about dogs than people. True, Louis acknowledged, though as a registered feline he couldnt understand what all the fuss was about. Have you ever, Bella asked, keen to contribute to the doze-deterrence exercise, thought of selling Lynx into the animal companion market? Why stop at pets, Louis laughed ironically, when the entire animal kingdoms gagging for body spray? How will they pay? Pawpal? Orlov raised a quizzical eyebrow, speckled with snowflakes. As the worlds favourite brand animal self-anointed, admittedly he could see what the wildcat couldnt. Actually, that makes sense to me. Instead of seeking out virgin sales

territories, why not expand the markets youre in? Humans love animals but hate animal aromas. A sexy smelly shampoo, suitably formulated toiletries and ranges of companion animal skincare, hair care and orifice care collections could do wonders for your brand. You test the things on animals, dont you, so selling to them is the next natural step. The Lynx name is likely to prove more appealing to animal lovers than Axe, moreover, since Axe carries connotations of execution, extermination, putting poor critters down. The lynxes were a society of Italian intellectuals, werent they? Intelligent pet owners buy Lynx for their Labradors, Lurchers, Lhasa Apsos and the like. I can see the campaign now. Hmmmm. When you put it like that, Louis mused, sensing a stay of Axecution. How come you know so much about marketing, anyhow? Simples, Orlov boasted. Ive built up a brand from next to nothing, a brand that lacks tangible touch points, a brand in a highly competitive market, where the available alternatives are almost indistinguishable. Plus, I read Wikipedia incessantly. Ive worked my way through all of the As. Im a mine of information about aardvarks, adlies, advertising, anthropomorphism Bella Adlie perked up, tempted to test the know-it-all rodent. But she wasnt quick enough. Louis asked, with a grin, what anthropomorphism was when it was at home. Orlov lit up, all thoughts of a katnap forgotten. This was an opportunity to display his erudition, which was encyclopaedic as far as it went. Anything before B he was unbeatable. Anything after, he was a busted flush. Anthropomorphism, my dear boy, is one of humankinds most admirable traits, not that theres much else to admire. They are anthropomorphomaniacs. They are inclined to see themselves in other species. They make movies about mice that speak, crows that crack jokes, lions that sing show tunes, big-eared baby elephants that can fly, penguins that perform elaborate tap-dance routines. Their TV channels are full of programmes featuring animals with human characteristics, wildlife programmes in particular. Their advertising breaks are chock-a-block with brand characters from every corner of the animal kingdom. They are strangely attracted to dinosaurs, the bigger and nastier the better. Theyve been anthropomorphising things from the dawn of time, moreover, as Neolithic cave art attests. Alta Mira? Bella said, recognising the A the smug bugger was referring to. Correct, Orlov smiled, with only the faintest hint of aristocratic condescension. And theyll keep doing it till the end of time, because they believe that the Apocalypse involves four horses white, red, yellow and pale plus a skeleton wearing a hoodie while wielding a scythe. Hey, Louis chuckled, curling contentedly in the steamy heat of their bodytemperature shelter, while the snow swirled outside in exquisite wind-whipped spirals, dont knock it. We wouldnt be here if it werent for humans self-regard. BrandLand owes everything to humanitys vanity. Were built on a bubble of belief, hope, desire. Ask yourself, how long would Cadburys drumming gorilla last in the wild? Hed be torn asunder for playing Phil Collins. Shouldve stuck with the Arctic Monkeys, Bella quipped. Louis laughed out loud. Even his chortle was charming. Bella knew better than to fall for a sweet-smelling Lothario, though the hunky lynx was hard to resist.

What do they put into their toiletries, she wondered. Maybe when their ACME quest was over, shed look into a licensing agreement for the South Pole. A joint venture, perhaps. Mmmmm. Penguins pong pretty bad. Maybe there was a market-led alternative to cost cutting, cruel culling, internecine strife Talking of the Arctic, Orlov said testily, miffed that his scholarly soliloquy had been interrupted by ill-educated commoners. You still havent explained the polar bear incident. Why was it chasing you? It was chasing you, Louis, wasnt it? Warm and cosy, Bella wasnt in the mood for Orlovs passive-aggressive palaver. Did you read its mind as well as mesmerise the brute? Perhaps if youd roused it and reasoned with it like I suggested, you wouldnt be sitting there making wild accusations. You suggested no such thing. I wanted to rouse it. You tried to run off. What wild accusations, woman? Accusations that Louis was sneaking polar bears into Adarctica as a cheap publicity stunt for his cheap and cheerful brand of body wash. Louis was at a loss. He had no idea what the whacko woman was going on about. If not quite a cry for penguin psychotherapy it was definitely due to blizzardinduced delirium. Or Freudian psychosis. Or a meow meow overdose. Actually, he said, smiling benignly at the addled adlie, it was all a mistake. The polar bears a brand mascot for Foxs Glacier Mints. Has been for years and years. Hes been steadily deprived of advertising support and bypassed by the extra-strong mints that have eaten his lunch. Hes not best pleased, understandably. Hes been plagued for years by an annoying cartoon fox thats trying to reclaim its own-name mints and depose the bear from its perch on top of the crystalline confectionary. He thinks Im the fox. His eyesight is not what it was. I couldnt shake him off. His sense of smell is still quite sensitive, though, Orlov observed dryly. Yes, well, the Arctic Fox special edition wasnt the smartest move we ever made. The group descended into grumpy silence. Sensing that hed overstepped the mark, Orlov attempted to engage his companions in a discussion of aardvarks, anteaters and analogous A-team animals. Bella and Louis said nothing. They listened instead to the lulling howl of the circumpolar wind, whose voice rose and fell like a wolf on the prowl. Bella felt sleepy. She tried to resist. She tried to keep herself awake with thoughts of bad dreams involving the Ibis of the Adpocalypse. Eyes drooping, she looked around. Louis was curled up in a fur ball, scratching occasionally. Orlovs pointy head was lolling. Doubtless he was dreaming dreams of the Winter Palace, the Romanovs, the Faberg eggs that were his by right. What kind of animal was a Faberg, Bella wondered. How many eggs did it lay in a clutch? Hey, hypothermia wasnt so bad Suddenly, the moraine started moving. Their shelter, far from being a place of safety in the teeth of a storm, was shaking and shuddering and rumbling and rolling. The earth quaked, as did the occupants of the lean-to igloo. With an almighty roar, the hillock erupted, like a karaoke Krakatoa, venting snow and stones and steam and feathers. Feathers?

The vast creature shook itself again and glared down its great beak at the astonished brand band. Can I elp you? it boomed in an incongruous French accent. Snowstorm forgotten and with nothing to lose, Bella chanced her arm. Flipper, rather. Well, you could give us a lift to New Yorkie, if its not out of your way. The gigantic bird flexed its mighty wings, flapped them vigorously, settled them flush against its torso and cocked its head querulously. I am Roc. Lord of ze skies. Ally of Aladdin. Acquaintance of Ali Baba. Companion to Marco Polo. And celebrity spokesdeity for a delightful range of unscented cosmetics, face creams, sun screens and age-defying hypoallergenic embrocations, none of which are tested on ze animals. So, uh, youre fully committed to animal welfare? Louis wheedled in his most persuasive manner, while twirling his whiskers with gusto. It wasnt every day that an economy line of masculine personal care products encountered an exclusive range of fancy French feminine beauty aids and accessories. Unscented, no less. Rrrrrrrrrrrrr. Zat I am, the Roc crowed, clearly unimpressed by the artificial aromas emanating from the budget brand ambassador. Then you can help three animals in trouble, Bella added, building on her companions ad-honed ability to sweet-talk everyone and, if not quite charm the birds from the trees, then twist mythical creatures round his front paw pinkie. Zat I can, the creature conceded. Encouraged, Bella and Louis hip-kissed each other. Not only were they getting somewhere, they might even end up where they wanted to be. Having watched the negotiations in silence, Aleksandr Orlov made a decisive intervention. Three wishes, isnt it? he said, drawing upon his in-depth knowledge of the Arabian Nights, as well as Aesop, Aeschylus and analogous apocryphal allegories. We have three wishes, correct? The Roc riffled and shuffled its feathers uneasily, while hopping from foot to foot. Zat is so. Take us to New Yorkie City, Louis said. SoHo, sil vous plait. Zat is impossible. No, it isnt, Orlov insisted, cognizant of his rights as an Aladdin aficionado. He knew his Ali Baba too and, as for Andersen, Hans Christian, hed seen all the Disney classics on DVD. The Roc hawked and spat in the Francophone manner. Zeres a surcharge to Madhattan. Anything beyond ze tunnels costs extra. Everyone knows zat. Bella tried not to look at the vile purple discharge. How far can you take us, if you cant go all the way? Louis cajoled, with a smirk. To ze edge of BrandLand and not a metre beyond. Bristling, Bella knew better than to fall for that one. But this is BrandLand. Weve been tramping through BrandLand for days. Gallic to its wingtips, the creature curled its beak disdainfully and, with poststructuralist precision, proceeded to split linguistic hairs. Zis is not BrandLand. Zis

is a mere dominion, a contiguous territory, as yet untouched by civilisation. Zis, he sniffed, is Adarctica. The Rocs inflection on civilisation said it all. But the beast was duty bound to do their bidding. Take us to the edge of BrandLand, Orlov commanded. Well make our own way from there. DAccord.

Chapter Six

Brandback Mountain

Be careful, Orlov muttered to his brand of brothers. If it offers us a choice of seating, dont travel claw class. Rocs have been known to drop elephants from very great heights. And were not talking Dumbos, never mind jumbo jets. According to ancient myth and legend, Louis said, with a disbelieving look. The meerkat glared at him. Wikipedia doesnt lie. Yeah, and advertisers dont either. Flexing its feathers and ready for action, the mighty Roc rose to its full height, then invited the threesome to mount. They ignored the proffered foot Louis included and clambered hand-over-hand up the creatures slippery plumage. With a low rumble of discontent, the fabulous beast dropped its shoulder, allowing the questers to get a firm grip and settle themselves in tandem. Wings fully extended, it flapped once or twice, cartilages popping like burst bubble wrap, then took off vertically, into the eye of the snowstorm. Bella gasped as the raging katabatic wind buffeted the unrestrained passengers. She didnt like heights at the best of times but, as her mother often observed, Isabellines cant be choosers. Clinging on for grim life, she dug her flippers deep into the big birds neck feathers. Louis had an eager expression on his handsome face, like a little boy let loose in a toyshop. Orlov, by contrast, sat calmly, humming an old Russian ballad to himself. Having read up on aeronautics, aerobatics, avionics and all sorts of assorted avians, he knew there was nothing to fear. Within a few minutes, the bird-borne party was above the storm, heading north. A driving tail wind, coupled with the Rocs magnificently magical muscle power truly, it was the F14 of mythical creatures enabled the brand animals to eat up the miles. The storm-tossed, berg-dotted main gradually gave way to an azure expanse of oceanic calm, studded with beautiful LOreal archipelagos, lushly vegetated Avon islands and pristine Sephora-fringed beaches, all warmed by balmy Maybelline currents. Beckoning, inviting, captivating, the exquisite Crme de la Mer atoll flashed past as the Roc effortlessly exceeded its customers expectations. Far from being dropped from a very great height, the trio was taken by the scenic route, a route that proved Roc not only met its promises, as its tagline proclaimed, but surpassed them by a considerable margin. And then some. Many hours later, rising thermals, unstable air and an ever-bumpier ride indicated that a land mass was approaching. A barren coastal strip gave way to rolling, lake-dappled lowland, followed by fir tree-covered hillsides and, eventually, snow-capped mountain ranges. Back-beating furiously, the Roc came to rest in a verdant Alpine meadow. They dismounted shakily, taking in the scene. BrandLand, in all its magnificence, lay spread-eagled beneath them. It wasnt so much a patient etherised upon a table as a paradisal panorama, punctuated by clearly-defined territories.

An acknowledged expert in domain names, if only because hed been plagued by punters searching for Comparethemarket dotcom, Orlov was quick to point out the principal places of interest. Immediately below them and to their right lay Mountain Region, the intermontane home of the immortal Marlboro Man. Just beyond that was the allegedly enchanted Forest Province, the stomping ground of Snap, Crackle, Pop and similar elfish creatures. In the far distance, directly ahead, they could just see the skyscrapers of the Urban Division through a fug of shimmering smog that melded with the Desert Quarter, a parched wasteland where abandoned brand characters went to die, reportedly. Downhill and to the left lay Jungle Zone, which was home to such iconic figures as Tony the Tiger, the Lacoste crocodile, the Guinness toucan and the ever-randy Spearmint Rhino. I feel like a kid at Disneyland, Louis enthused. Im standing at the end of Main Street, USA, wondering which territory to try first. Ohlet me seeit has to be a rumble in the Jungle Zone. This isnt a theme park, Bella snapped. She waved a flipper at the vista beneath them. And were not on vacation. Our task is to get to Madhattan, pronto, find ACME ASAP, and make Mr Kipling see sense, PDQ. We dont have time to chat with tigers or lounge around with alligators or watch revolting rhino dancers or quaff pints of porter with a drunken woodpecker. Orlov, the local authority, took over in his most schoolmistressy manner. Its true of course that the Barbet order of Avian genera embraces both woodpeckers and toucans, but the species are quite distinct and while its also true that we dont have time to stop and chat, it is equally true to say that the accumulated wisdom of the equatorial ecosystem is not inconsiderable. We might learn much from big biomass brands. If we were to travel to Madhattan via Jungle Zone, we might learn much along the way. Conciliatory though it was, the meerkats authoritative input was itself interrupted by a rough Roc cough. A word of advice, the big bird boomed. The threesome looked up expectantly, vaguely embarrassed that theyd forgotten to thank their tour operator. Steer clear of ze jungle, it said, with an expression that not only whispered be-careful but yelled you-have-been-warned. Whys that? Louis asked. The Roc refused to elaborate. It simply nodded in the general direction of Jungle Zone. Dark cumulonimbus storm clouds were gathering over the densely vegetated district. The thunderheads pulsed intermittently, disconcertingly. Sheets of lightning flashed in the far distance, like the landing lights of an aircraft in fog. Am I free to go, now that your wishes have been fulfilled? Bella balked. What do you mean wishes? Wish, surely. Weve only had one wish. Weve two more to play with. Cant you count, penguin, the Roc said disdainfully, gimlet eyes glaring down its beak, Zree passengers equals zree wishes in total. One wish per passenger. My contract is complete. Be veri, veri careful. With that, it cracked open its stupendous wingspan, flapped a couple of times to get the stiffness out of its muscles, then took to the air, swirling, arcing and cawing before heading off over the snow-dusted mountaintops.

The nerve of it, Bella muttered. Never trust a Parisian cabdriver. Thats what Paris once told me. Paris? Louis inquired lasciviously, his hottie spotter instincts fully functional once more, after being frozen in flight. Paris is dead! Bella stomped off across the Alpine pasture heading in the general direction of Mountain Region. Perplexed, Louis scampered after her, wondering what hed done to upset her this time. Orlov gestured toward Jungle Zone, shook his furry head with exasperated futility and, jabbering darkly about silly committee decisions, joined the others on their high country hike. The bracing alpine meadow soon gave way to richly scented stands of spruce, cedar, larch and juniper, interspersed with red-berried rowans. They picked their way through the fir cones and pine needles, following a rough-cut path which was steep and precarious in places. Especially for a penguin. Bella stumbled on several occasions, narrowly avoiding plunging beak first into rocky ravines and down steep scree slopes. Dangerous though it was, the winding route offered rewards of its own: rushing streams, steaming waterfalls, pitch-perfect birdsong in the clear mountain air. Bella recognised some of the tunes. Jingles rather. Only the crumbliest, flakiest chocolate, Hands that do dishes, A Mars a day, Just one Cornetto and innumerable other advertising classics carried through the swaying conifers. Orlov, though, was less than happy to hear the operatic strains of Go Compare, the signature tune of a rival price comparison website. He was still complaining when they broached the tree-line and entered a lush mountain valley. The air was noticeably warmer here. Birds of prey circled lazily overhead. Herds of free range cattle grazed contentedly in the distance. I may be mistaken, the meerkat said, but I think were in Ben & Jerry country. Those cows look a lot like the ones on Chunky Monkey cartons. Cardboard cut-outs, you mean? Louis was less than impressed by Orlovs observations. Not only was he a self-important meerkat, whose proper natural habitat was low-lying desert not high altitude pastureland, but he was a bag of wind into the bargain. Thats Elsie the Borden Cow. And thats her smiling flock, you twat. Dont tell me you cant tell the difference between Friesians and Charolais. A row erupted. Each accused the other of ignorance, arrogance and absence of brand sense. Bella left them to it. She badly needed a breather. Not designed for yomping through pastureland, she was perspiring like an elephant seal in a sauna. She spotted an inviting spinney of cypress on a little hillock nearby and headed toward its beckoning shade. But when she crested the rise, she was too astounded to rest. A blissful, birch-fringed, tussock-strewn, stream-silvered dell lay below her, like an Alpine Shangri-la. The heavenly hollow was ringed with split-log fencing, making a vast grassy corral. It was occupied by a herd of brand animals unlike any other. Every imaginable anthropomorphic equine the Ralph Lauren polo pony, the Lloyds Bank black horse, the incomparable Budweiser Clydesdales, the My Little Pony palominos, plus any number of thoroughbred Ford Mustangs was being shepherded toward the far end of the enclosure by a pair of leather-chapped, plaidshirted, Stetson-hatted brand wranglers. Every so often, a frisky Ferrari broke free, pranced and gambolled and skipped over the grassy clumps, only to be steered back to the herd by its mounted minders.

She signalled for the others to join her. Agog, the fellowship of the brand sat on the fence and watched, entranced by a virtuoso display of droving. The herdsmen soon spotted the newcomers and, having secured their charges in a holding pen for later breaking and (literal) branding, galloped across the paddock to greet them with a whoop and a holler. Uncharacteristically tongue-tied, Bella opted for a formal greeting. Mr Marlboro, I presume. The older cowboy, a weather-beaten yet strikingly handsome individual, tilted back his hat and grinned. At your service, maam. Welcome to Gods own country. The good folks around here call me Duke. The bad folks dont call me at all. Its not every day you encounter the single greatest advertising icon of the twentieth century, still hale and hearty after fifty years on fifty a day. Apart from an occasional wheeze, Dukes voice was deep, sonorous and compelling. It bespoke Big Country, Big Sky, Big Flavour, Big Satisfaction, Big Brand Equity, Big Emphysema. Whatever he was selling, Bella was buying, as were her awe-struck associates. Even Orlov, a Lark man to the tip of his charcoal filters, was impressed. The legend introduced his pardner, the all-grown-up Milky Bar Kid, unnecessarily adding that things got kinda lonely round Brandback Mountain, with only cows and cowpokes for company. A cowpokes gotta poke what a cowpokes gotta poke. There was no need to explain. Isabelline penguins know only too well how hard it is to find companionship, let alone love. She asked Mr Marlboro Duke to his friends about the quickest way to Madhattan. The advertising icon was bemused. Why would anyone want to swelter in the city when the open range, the bracing air, the wide, wide west, the thrill of rounding up unbroken brands was readily available. He had heard of ACME, of course, but paid city slickers no heed. Pen-wrangling bureaucrats held no fear for him, not when theres a lariat to hand, a forty-five by his side and nourishing Milky Bars to nibble come suppertime. While he sympathised with Bellas bands plight, he recommended they remain in his mountain fastness, where men are men, pistols are packed and the Surgeon Generals writ dont run, no siree. Much as the trio loved the mountains, an urban cess pit was their priority. Generously, the cowboys volunteered to accompany them to the nearest settlement, where the village people would point them in the right direction. Village people? Louis echoed, with an anxious expression. Dont worry, son, theyre not axe-murderers. Chanced be a fine thing.

Part III

Sure of a Big Surprise

Chapter Seven

Farewell to Farms

For a famously unforthcoming brand icon, someone whose silence was golden because it burnished his marketing mystique, Duke Marlboro proved surprisingly garrulous. As the party progressed down dale, round rivulet and through thicket, he chatted freely about his commercial accomplishments. Modest to a fault, he said that he owed his success to serendipity. Just as Ivory soap was a chance discovery, Kelloggs corn flakes were a complete fluke, Pantene shampoo was found in a frying pan, of all things, and Viagra began as a remedy for angina not that Duke needed the little blue suckers more than four times per week so too the Marlboro brand was a lucky break. It was originally targeted at female smokers, on account of the filter tip. It enjoyed strictly modest success until it was taken in hand by Leo Burnett, the creator of legendary brand characters like Tony the Tiger and the Jolly Green Giant. After a fraught brainstorming session, plus several infuriating false starts, the cowboy archetype was adopted, Marlboro Country was invented and, of all things, a curious tattoo on the poster models wrist intrigued smokers sufficiently to give Marlboro a try. But the tat was an accident, a squiggle by the first picture editor that got printed by mistake. The rest is history. So you dont have a tattoo? Bella giggled. Never had, never will, the crumbly cowpoke replied with a wheezy chuckle. Though if anyone asks, tell them youve seen it with your own eyes. What consumers dont know wont do them any harm, the Milky Bar Kid chipped in, grinning in the winning way that once endeared him to millions. Yes, Orlov stage whispered, while wondering whether it was wise to light a Lark hereabouts, thats what they said about the lung cancer link. In ordinary circumstances, Louis might have agreed with the rodent. But given his own brands disingenuous claims namely, that a dollop of Lynx made a man a sex magnet he was in no position to pass judgement. As things stood, he was more concerned about the Village People mentioned by Duke. A camp camp containing red Indians, traffic cops, construction workers and able-bodied seamen, all inflamed by the irresistible smell of Lynx Unlimited, might be more than even he could handle. If they started up Macho Man, hed join in the chorus. Offers to stay at the YMCA would be politely declined. And as for In the Navy, hed insist that all hands were on deck at all times. A curl of wood smoke in the valley bottom indicated the approach of civilisation, as did the manicured fields, trimmed hedgerows and cottage gardens surrounding scattered farmsteads. The inhabitants called out to Duke as he passed or waved welcome greetings from pigsties, cowsheds and straw-covered barnyards. Bella recognised the Kelloggs cockerel, the Bon Ami chicken, the Old Speckled Hen of microbrewery fame, plus a selection of cartoon livestock from Facebooks famous FarmVille. An ancient yet well-preserved Dove soap dovecote was attached to one gloriously vernacular outbuilding. Other farms boasted such spectacular sights as

the Anchor butter cows, Lindts luscious chocolate lambs and Burts Bees blissfully aromatic apiaries. Another farmstead specialised in bull breeding, all superbly presented prize-winners like the Lamborghini bull, the Bull Durham bull, the everenergetic Red Bull, the Osborne brandy bull from Spain and the once-indefatigable Merrill Lynch bull, which looked the worse for wear. Louis thought he saw the Firefox browser slinking round Le Coq Sportifs henhouse, but Orlov wasnt convinced. The Marlboro Man paused at the edge of the settlement. He directed the travellers to the nearest hostelry and, mounting up, wished them well in their quest for ACME. Then, with the Kid by his side, he galloped off into the gloaming with a yip and a yee-haw and a wave of his cowboy hat. What a guy, Bella sighed, to Louiss annoyance. Hmmph. Smelt of chewing tobacco. A freshly-painted signpost stood at the crossroads. Hamlet half a mile, it said. Happiness is a hamlet called Hamlet, it added, redundantly. The fellowship of the brand didnt quite know what to expect, since settlements were famously few in Marlboro County, Coors Country and their high, wide and handsome cognates. But what they discovered was completely contrary to the rootin-tootin cowboy clich. Far from finding a dowdy collection of clapboard houses, saloon bars, livery stables and general stores with hitching rails out front, they encountered a neat and tidy English village of fine-grained millstone grit. A pretty parish church, a time-worn market cross, a straggling line of twee-as-twee-can-be thatched cottages, each equipped with the regulation privet hedge, garden path, overhanging eves, leaded lights and clouds of efflorescent clematis, lay beguilingly before them in an exquisite sweep which culminated in a willow-dotted village green with a duck pond in the middle. However, as the company advanced into Hamlet, the inhabitants scuttled into their houses, abandoning lawnmowers, watering cans, garden hoses, pruning shears, edge trimmers, hedge clippers and half-assembled hanging baskets. Orlov was sure hed spotted the Oxo stock cube family, the Bisto gravy family, the Campbells soup family and the Gold Blend coffee couple. Only Captain Morgan stood his ground, though the salty sea dog was so sozzled on his own brand dark rum that they couldnt get a sensible word out of him. Ar-har, me hearties was all the swashbuckling brand captain could manage, apart from drunken declarations of love for Nandos hotter than hot chicken mascot. He had a peri-peri in every port, arhar... Wonder whats eating them, Louis observed, somewhat surprised by the absence of ye olde English hospitality. Maybe everythings stopped for Twinings tea, Bella said wryly. Exhausted after excessive Morris Minor dancing, perhaps? Louis guffawed in his ebullient way, while clapping Orlovs back with gusto. If there was one thing the meerkat hated, apart from digital imbeciles who mistook his genealogical website for a ghastly price comparison arrangement, it was being pawed by dim-witted dilettantes. He glared at his feline acquaintance, as if preparing to unleash his ocular powers, then spun on his heel with a snarl and scampered off toward the village green, where Aflac ducks, Swan matches and

Crazy Frog ringtones croaked, quacked and chirruped incontinently. By the time Bella and Louis caught up, the miffed meerkat was heaving open the door of a halftimbered tavern. As the sun was well below the yardarm somewhere, they followed him into the homely hostelry. It was ye olde incarnate flagstone floor, granite inglenook, polished horse brasses, low whitewashed ceiling supported by black oaken beams and a mahogany public bar with big, brass-banded pumps, which gleamed in the welcoming firelight. The place was deserted, however. The usual array of barroom grotesques, beloved by TV advertising directors and scary movie makers, was unsettlingly absent. Undaunted, Orlov called out for a pint of best bitter, mine host, a hogshead of mead, my good fellow, a firkin of gassy French lager, if theres naught else on tap, old chap. Nothing. They waited for a few minutes, working on the assumption that the landlord was changing barrels in the cellar, or whatever it is they do down there. Still nothing. They checked out the lounge bar and the private rooms at the back. All were empty. Torn between waiting for service and helping themselves, with a view to settling up later or leaving an appropriate amount on trust, the thirsty threesome returned to the saloon bar. A line of local yokels, wearing blue overalls, flat caps and tartan slippers yes, slippers! stood between them and the door. Each was armed with a blunt instrument, one with a sharp carving knife. Whats tha doin in ere? Who art tha? Did tha say mead? Mead? Angry mutters at the mention of mead rolled down the line. The leader, a peppery little man with a self-important air, stepped forward. This is the Tetley Tea Temperance Tavern. We dont serve mead ereabouts. Or best bitter. Or gassy lager, lad. Bella clapped her flippers with delight. You must be the Tetley Tea Folk! Ive heard so much about you. Im part of the Penguin biscuit family. Penguins and Tetley go way back. Aye, that were a long time ago, lass, the curmudgeon grunted, slapping his knotty cudgel into the palm of his hand. We prefer to work with Clubs. The tea folk tittered, their ruddy faces aglow with amusement. Theres no joke like a biscuit brand joke. You must be Gaffer, Bella said, ignoring the angry rustics rude remark. And you must be Maurice, she went on, pointing at a portly mad-inventor character. Youre Gordon, Clarence, Archie, she continued, as sheepish grins started to appear. And you, she concluded triumphantly, are Sydney, the consummate cuppa-maker. Id recognise you anywhere. You look fantastic. Have you been away? What an incredible tan. Bashful as ever, simple Sydney smiled shyly, blushed deeply and began to stutter out an answer. Weve b-b-been

But he was cut off by Gaffer, who knew better than to fraternise with strangers claiming acquaintance. Weve been on holiday, he growled, then glared at his gang, reminding them whos boss. Not that its any of thas business, lass. Tannin poisoning, I suspect. The bar fell silent at Aleksandrs impudent words. Too much tea stains the teeth and addles the brain. Psychosis is not uncommon. Thats torn it, Louis groaned. How come you know that? he muttered at Orlov through gritted teeth. And why didnt you keep it to yourself? Grinning inanely, he eyed up the infusion-inflamed goon squad. Assam, Orlov whispered. Theres nothing I dont know about tea. Tetley invented the triangular tea bag. The Tea Folk were big in the 80s, but were dropped in favour of claymatronic animals, the T-birds. Animals like us? They were more Wallace and Gromit. But, yes, brand animals like us. Bella gulped audibly. Now what? There was nothing else for it. Louis fell back on the infallible lynxian charm. Determined to talk his way out of the dangerous situation that was brewing, he sympathised with the Tea Folks plight. He knew what its like to play second banana to a brand icon, a human in his case rather than the animals in theirs. He met the T-birds once. Assholes. Those triangular tea bags you guys invented? Ace. Have you thought of going into the skin protection business, make use of the fact that used teabags are good for sunburn. More manly than factor fifty sunscreen. He knew lots of bigwigs in Unilever. Could put a word in for them. The silver-tongued salespitch was greeted with stony silence. Sydney shuffled his feet. Clarence coughed gently into his hand. Maurice checked that his mallet was fit for purpose, as did Gordon with his andiron. Thas mixing us up with P.G. Tips, Gaffer spat, his rimless glasses gleaming like Joseph Goebbels. Tbirds were P.G. Tips people. We liked the T-birds. A lot. Because P.G. Tips market share fell 14% when they killed tha chimps and recruited tha T-birds. Tetley invented tha teabag tha got that right, lad but tha triangular bag was P.G. Tips attempt to steal our thunder. P.G. Tips is a Unilever brand, along with Brooke Bond, Bushells, Lipton, Lyons, Sariwangi and Scottish Blend. Do tha think wed fraternise with third-rate products like that, Lever lover? Menacingly, Gaffer removed his grubby lab coat, rolled up the sleeves of his shiny serge suit and spat on his ham-like hands. The others likewise discarded their navy overalls. The tea folk advanced, ominously, brandishing their blunt instruments. Tetley, the Gaffer reminded his growling goon squad, dont only make tea bags make tea. They make mincemeat out of uppity outsiders.

Chapter Eight

Bury My Brand at Wounded Tree

Orlov and Louis werent speaking. Theyd been walking for several hours and Louis still hadnt forgiven the weasel whod wilfully misled him about tea culture. You cant expect Aleksandr to know everything, Bella had said, attempting to mediate between her warring associates. He didnt mislead you deliberately or supply misinformation so that youd bear the brunt of the beating. Anyone could have mixed up Tetley and P.G. Tips. Tea brands are identical nowadays. Theres nothing to choose between them. Theyve reverted to commodities, like most FMCGs, fighting on price, twofers and ceaseless in-store promotions. The glory days of P.G. Tips chimps and Tetley Tea Folk are over. Even Thomas Liptons one-man razzamatazz machine is long gone. Retailers own brands are just as good and cheaper to boot. Teas time is up. Coffee cultures king. There was no response to Bellas attempted brand aid. Defeated, she too lapsed into disconsolate silence. They slowly wound their way along the windy road out of Mountain Region, as the sun slid behind the rolling foothills. The roadside hedgerows and grain-glutted fields around Hamlet had gradually given way to thicker and thicker stands of trees. Far from the madding firs, these were big trees, heavy trees, deciduous trees, proper trees like hornbeam, sycamore, walnut, beech, lime, elm, oak, poplar. Theyd entered Forest Province imperceptibly, unobtrusively, insidiously, unawares. The air was chilly. Night was falling. Theyd have to stop soon. That was a brilliant stunt you pulled back there, Louis finally said, his naturally garrulous nature unable to sustain long silences. It was nothing, Bella smiled modestly. An old trick. Im amazed they fell for it. Its a silly thing Australians do with their version of the Penguin choccy biccy, a copycat called Tim Tam. No, no, Orlov interrupted. It was brilliant. A stroke of genius. I myself didnt know that the Penguin brand could be used as a chocolate drinking straw for freshly brewed tea. It tasted delicious too. The look on the Tetley Tea Folks faces was priceless. Louis didnt mince his words. The reason you didnt know about it, ferret, is because biscuit begins with the letter B and chocolate starts with a C. Yes, and arsehole begins with A, Orlov snarled, fur bristling on the nape of his neck. Look, you two, Bella said, planting her feet far apart and placing her flippers on her hips, if youre going to bicker from here to New Yorkie, you can bicker without me. She was standing at the edge of a silver birch-draped clearing. After looking around and sniffing the air, she decided it would do for the night. Now push off the pair of you.

Chastened, her companion animals ignored the invective and started gathering kindling instead. Before long, a fire was crackling in the glade and, thanks to a babbling brook nearby, a billycan of Tetley tea was soon brewing on the embers. Actually, Louis laughed, Im amazed they didnt carry you shoulder-high around town. Or award you freedom of the hamlet, Orlov added, thereby simultaneously supporting Louiss suggestion and extending an olive branch to his estranged fellow traveller. You gave them a gimmick that could revitalise the brand. Im just glad they let us go. With a sigh of contentment, Bella lay back on a thick mattress of maple leaves and stared up at the stars. The night sky wasnt as brilliant as Adarctica at its best, particularly when the Aurora Adealis appeared, but it was pleasant all the same. She tried listening to Louis rabbit on about customer cocreation, hive intelligence and the wisdom of crowds, only to find herself drifting off, exhausted. She dreamed happy dreams of Paris, her parents, Isabelline penguin pride and the convincing case shed make to Mr Kipling in due course. The Ibis of the Adpocalypse failed to materialise, for once. The next day saw an early start. They made good progress through the forest, even though their route was impeded by fallen trees, rotten logs, deep drifts of leaf mould and impassable patches of marshy ground. Unused to rambling rhizomatic root systems, Bella tripped and fell on numerous occasions. In a most unladylike manner. Much to her annoyance and embarrassment. On picking herself up for the fifth time, she was struck by the absence of bird song. Surely wildwoods were bristling with warblers, pipits, linnets and the like, to say nothing of the Nestl nest of fledglings and those little blue Twitter birds, texting furiously on low-hanging branches. Not this one. She was about to draw her companions attention to the songbird shortfall, when something caught her eye. A figure was flitting through the trees. Swiftly followed by another. And another. Look, Orlov said with atypical glee, theres Snap, Crackle and Pop. The elfish emblems of Kelloggs Rice Krispies paused, looked over and waved affably, before evaporating into the undergrowth. Keeblers elves also showed up, as did the loveable leprechauns from Lucky Charms, only to disappear when anyone came too close. A boisterous bunch of mythical marketing forest dwellers the Energiser bunny, the Nesquik bunny, the Trix rabbit, the Schnuffel rabbit, the Glenfiddich stag, the Hartford elk, the Deere deer likewise made a fleeting appearance, flitting in, out and around the trees, scrutinising the strangers. Bella could sense the presence of griffins, Vauxhalls, Scanias and Saabs, most likely, as well as the Royal Liver phoenix, the Kirin dragon, the Unibank unicorn, and the allegedly sadistic Orangina fauns. No doubt Sasquatch and Bigfoot are in there too, she surmised, biding their time for a tasty sponsorship deal or lucrative personal endorsement. Louis was in his element. Watching the frolicking creatures, he felt the stirrings of a major market expansion opportunity. But he was stopped in his tracks by a magical sight. Immediately adjacent to the path, in the centre of a sun-dappled dell, a rambling rose bush was in bloom. A singularly sultry rabbit, wearing a skintight yellow dress, lay languidly beneath it, nibbling on bite-sized chunks of Cadburys Caramel. Smiling, she offered a square to Louis, with an irresistible

flutter of her come-hither eyelashes. My, my, she smouldered. Something smells good around here. Dark Temptation, is it? I cant resist a brand man who smells like chocolate. Fancy a bite, big boy? Inflamed with desire, and not a little need for nourishment, Louis leapt towards the melt-in-the-mouth minx, tongue hanging out, panting like a pubescent puppy dog. Bravely, Orlov interposed himself between the siren and the sap. Dont fall for it, Louis. Its a trick, the oldest trick in the book. Shes Circe, shes cursed, shes a crone in Jessica Rabbits clothing. The lynx laughed in his face. Let me guess, A for Argonauts. Get out of my way, polecat. Daddys coming baby. Rrrrrrrr. Rrrrrrrrrrr. Orlov threw up his hands in a well-I-tried gesture then made to step aside. But before Louis could bound over to his yummy bunny girl, the meerkat transfixed him with a stare, clicked his foreclaws, and caught the befuddled feline as it fell. Aeaea, actually. Did you really have to do that? Dont fret, Bella. Hell come round in a couple of minutes. Im doing him a favour. Yes, I can see that, she said, then turned to tell the strumpet to skedaddle. However, the chocs-chewing courtesan had disappeared into the rose bush, which was still rustling, scattering pretty red petals across the forest floor. An unearthly hush descended. Whats up? Orlov asked, sensing Bellas unease. Can you hear something? She shook her head vigorously, as if to reset her audio receptors. No, no, though I thought I felt the ground tremble for a second. A fearful expression crossed Aleksandrs furry features. Quick. Quick. Must hide. Quick. He grabbed the prostrate lynx by the haunches and dragged him into the billowing rosebush. Ignoring the razor sharp thorns, which clung and dragged and did all they could to prevent penetration, he forced his way into the umbrella-like interior. Bella followed suit. They hunched together biting their tongues, trying not to breathe, hoping Louis wouldnt wake with a ribald remark. A big brown bear lumbered past. It paused for a second, sniffed the air, peered around myopically, then shuffled on. A second bear followed, then a third, then a fourth, then a steady stream, all hulking, all ponderous, all growling. Bears are extremely unpredictable, Orlov hissed, theyre solitary creatures too, mainly nocturnal. This doesnt look good, especially at this time of year when they should be hibernating. Well, they dont actually hibernate, since their body temperatures rarely fall enough to qualify but an extended spell of dormancy usually occurs round about Forgive me, Bella butted in, sotto voce, Im afraid I cant think of the A. The sarcasm was lost on Orlov. Arctophily, since you ask, an unnatural obsession with bears and beasts of an ursine bent. In normal circumstances, Bella would have given off to her acquaintance. And then some. Theres only so many As an adlie penguin can take. However, fearing that shed reveal their position to a bunch of perpetually peckish, famously omnivorous creatures, Bella bided her time. Together, they roused Louis who woke

with a blissful smile on his face. Orlov and Bella exchanged glances. Told you so, his said. Lets get out of here, hers replied. They didnt get very far. In fact, they didnt get beyond the old bole of a lightning blasted oak tree, which looked like a gaping mortal wound. The dell, meanwhile, was filling up with bears. Big bears, small bears, brown bears, black bears, fierce bears, friendly bears, and a veritable host of celebrity bears. Bella could see the Hofmeister bear, Hamms beer bear, Bundaberg rum bear, Labatts blue bear, Cresta lemonade bear, Charmin paper towels bear, Snuggles fabric conditioner bear, Sleepy Travel Lodge bear, Gulliver, the easyJet bear, Smokey, the iconic US Forest Service bear, and the undeniably yummy Gummi bears. SuperTed was also in attendance, as were Pudsey bear, Paddington bear, Yogi bear, Boo Boo bear, Biffo the bear, the Care bears and perhaps the bear that has sold more tie-in merchandise than any brand icon bar Mickey Mouse: Winnie-the-Pooh. The fat bastard. It must have been the biggest bear-fest, the biggest jambearee, the biggest bearstettford in living memory. Sides of beef and fresh fish fillets were passed around. Pipes were smoked, cigars distributed and countless cases of bear brand beer were downed, cans included. Larynges lubricated, the bears burst into song. It was the usual stuff: Teddy Bears Picnic, Me and My Teddy Bear, The Bear Came Over the Mountain and, inevitably, since Winnie insisted on doing an Elvis impression, I Want to be Your Teddy Bear. The bear, Pooh simpered, has left the building. Hiding in the wounded tree, peeping out a knothole, Bella felt a chilling sense of dj vu. Carried back to the ice floe, she knew the reason for the rendezvous. Bears too were being targeted by ACME. This paw-wow was evidently an attempt to amicably manage the oversupply of bear brand icons. At least they seemed civilised about it. Theyll be asleep before long, Orlov murmured. We should be able to get away then. The meerkat spoke too soon. The bears bonhomie was rudely interrupted by rampaging horde of blue-nosed teddies, which emerged without warning from the undergrowth around the glade. Carrying an arsenal of automatic weapons Bearetta pistols, Bearzookas, BearPG rifles, Bearishnikov machine guns the killer teds advanced into the clearing, firing indiscriminately. The brand bears didnt stand a chance. Addled on alcohol and fine cigars, the Gummi bears were gunned down where they stood. George, the Hofmeister bear, tried to flee but was cut down without mercy. Hampered by his heavy duffle coat, Paddington was a sitting duck. He died with his Wellington boots on. SuperTed, a snivelling wimp at heart, begged on his knees for mercy, but received none from the blue-nosed meanies. Appallingly, Smokey the famous US Fire Service bear a brand icon since 1944, with his own television and radio show was torched by a tatty teddy with a flame thrower. The massacre was relentless. It was worse than bear baiting, because the medieval bruins stood a chance when set upon by mastiffs. The unarmed brand bears werent granted that opportunity. Even Pudsey, whose charitable work is second to none, wasnt spared by the assassins. His good eye was gouged out and eaten raw, before a head shot finished him off. Only Gulliver, the easyJet bear,

showed any sense of self-preservation. Supported by Charmin and Cresta, he rallied the remaining ursines and charged for the safety of the trees. In so doing, he sealed the fate of his comrades. A second troop of baby-faced, stony-eyed teddies stood ready at the edge of death dell. They raised their weapons as one. The dirty deed was done. There was no sign of Winnie.

Chapter Nine

Honey Still for Three?

The aftermath of the massacre was horrible to behold. Broken bear bodies lay scattered around the blood-soaked clearing. Yogi and Boo Boo died in each others arms. Cresta gasped its frothy, man before breathing his last. Bundaberg rum bears face was fixed in a frightful rictus, almost as if hed been imbibing his own brand rotgut. Ruperts checked trousers were unrecognisable, such was the bloodletting. The less said about Biffos mutilated corpse, the better. I know who did this, Louis wept, tears streaming down his ashen face. Bella placed a napkin over Snuggles terrified features, frozen in its death throes. You recognised the blue-nosed teddies? And the other ones, the baby-faced ones. Thats the frightening thing. Explain, Orlov ordered, his composure cracking under the strain of seeing so many retired brand icons, most with decades of distinguished service. We talked about a co-branding deal once, Louis answered dully, failing to focus on the salient facts. Men dont like buying greeting cards, you see. A Lynx card range made sense. Very profitable business. Great mark-ups. We talked joint ventures with them all. The meerkat shook his shocked companions shoulders. Greeting cards, you say? Yes, Louis groaned, jolted out of his rambling account. Greeting cards. The baby-faced butchers are Forever Friends, Hallmarks best selling range since 1989. The blue-nosed murderers belong to Carte Blanche, Hallmarks main rival. Me-to-You theyre called. Led by Tatty Teddy, the Me-to-You range has done big business for Birthdays, Clintons and lots of other card shops. Carte Blanche and Hallmark in cahoots. Working together. It doesnt bear thinking about. Okay, Bella said, sensible as ever. Theres nothing we can do here. Lets bury the bodies and move on. They knew she was right, though that didnt make leaving any easier. On returning to the path several hours later, it was clear that the bearcenaries had fled by the same route. Bloodstains, paw-prints, discarded cartridges and torn strips of teddy fatigues on thorn bushes attested to their passage. Cautiously, the trio forged ahead, fearful of stumbling upon a killer bear bivouac. They pushed on slowly, steadily, stealthily, listening intently for any indication of military activity. All was quiet on the Forever Friends front. There was no sign of a Me-to-You encampment. Night was falling. Heavy shadows fell across the path. A chill was in the air. Lighting a fire and sleeping under a bed of leaves was too risky in the circumstances. They kept going, stumbling occasionally over errant roots and inconsiderate tree stumps. Suddenly, a blood-curdling howl erupted from the yew trees ahead. Frantically, Bella tried to remember a wolf-based brand of products, if only to work out what they were up against. But drew a blank. Sounds like the brandshee to me, Orlov said calmly.

Did you say brandshee? Come on Bella, he said. Think about it. Its simples. Were in the middle of a haunted forest. At night, with witching hour approaching. The first brand character dates from 1877. Thousands of critters have been created since. Most have been axed ruthlessly, often in the prime of life. Surely some of them are still with us, hovering on the anthropomorphic astral plane as brand phantasms. The penguin pointed to a fuzzy figure flitting through the ferns. Thats no phantasm. Looks pretty scary to me, Louis said, teeth chattering. It wasnt that he was a coward foolhardy, if anything just that fetches, familiars, faery dogs and so forth were famously immune to personal charm, never mind feline chat-up lines. Orlov laughed. I know what they are. Theyre avatars. Second Life players. Many of the residents adopt animal appearances. Theyre called Furries. Theyre nothing to be afraid of. Bella was incredulous. Are you saying were living in a computer game? No, no. Its just that secondary worlds sometimes collide and overlap. Just as the real world is breaking through into BrandLand, according to recent news reports, so too lots of brands have a virtual presence on Second Life. Its much the same with Animal Crossing, Pet Society, Country Story, Invizimals, Eyepet. Theres probably a portal someplace Well, I dont like the look of them, Louis said. Potentially big market for personal care products, Orlov answered with equanimity, as the wraith-like avatars disappeared into the night. Furries spend a fortune on their appearance. There must be lots of scope for shampoo, deodorant, bath salts and what have you. Axemans welcome to it. The moon eased out from the scudding clouds, full and ominous. Its silvery light cast an uncanny glow across the undulating landscape, as the fellowship of the brand pushed ever deeper into Forest Province. Hampered only by the nocturnal rustlings of a Retro Fox T-shirt and the disconcerting hoot of a Canadian CoucheTard owl, which stopped them in their tracks, they made reasonable progress. Until the rain arrived, cold and cutting. The path soon turned into a slough. They struggled along, slipping and sliding and slithering. Never the best of hikers, since her body wasnt built for trekking, Bella was exhausted before long. They searched for shelter. But shelter found them. A twist in the track brought a terrifying sight. High on a crag, above the sodden forest floor, sat a glowering gothic castle, all basalt battlements and turreted towers. Forced to choose between a wet night in the woods where theyd be assailed by werebrands and blood-sucking Bacardi bats and a crenellated fortress that wouldnt be out of place in a Tim Burton movie, they opted for the latter. I think I know what this place is, Louis said, his Axe-inculcated familiarity with American brand mascots finally paying dividends. Its Count Choculas castle, home of Franken Berry and Yummy Mummy, as well as the famous chocolate vampire himself. Theyre breakfast cereal characters. We have nothing to worry about.

Orlov was not convinced, much less amused. I hate to put a fly in your foulsmelling ointment, Mr Lynx. But may I remind you that Bella is descended from the chocolate bar people. Are you thinking of using her as bait for the undead cocoasucker? Or have you got a garlic-flavoured body spray thatll give her some protection from the beast? Drained, soaked and traumatised by bearmageddon earlier, Bella was too tired to care. She had second thoughts, though, on seeing the baby-faced teddy sentries at the castle gate. By then it was too late to retreat, as the drawbridge fell, the portcullis rose, the cobbled courtyard beckoned and they were asked about their business by the guards. Bizarrely, the weary travellers were welcomed with open paws. The Forever Friends grenadiers steered them along narrow corridors lit by flickering torches, through panelled reception rooms draped with tapestries and pennants, up flights of sandstone stairs dotted with old bronze busts and suits of armour, until they found themselves in an enormous oak-floored hall, lined with oil paintings, heraldic standards and wall-mounted displays of pikes, lances, shields, swords and stuffed animal heads. The latter included Dumbo, Bagheera, Thumper and a replica of Bambis mother. Their eyes seemed to follow Bella as she waddled. Now we know who were dealing with, Orlov whispered as they approached a magnificent set of gilded double doors, which were guarded by Fluffy and Snuffle, stalwarts of the Me-to-You family. Poohs been battling Disney for years over lost royalties. Hes a brand that brooks no opposition. He must have betrayed his companions earlier. Be careful what you say. We didnt see anything. Pooh wasnt the problem, however. Winnie was nowhere to be seen, nor were Piglet, Tigger, Eeyore or the remainder of the Hundred Acre Wood dwellers. Perched on an ornate throne at the far end of the minstrel-galleried reception room, sat His Royal Highness the Honey Monster. His shaggy pelt shone golden in the lamplight. His black eyes glowered behind expensive hair extensions. His cavernous smile, always on the creepy side of welcoming, was positively cadaverous. He looked enormously pleased with himself, not so much the cat that got the cream as Bear Sterns commodities broker whod cornered the honey, mead and beeswax markets. The withdrawal of heavy rotation television advertising, in the aftermath of Big Bears acquisition of Quaker Oats cast-off, would have damaged the selfesteem of most breakfast cereal brands targeted at fickle children. But not the once and future Honey Monster. Im waiting, the creature rasped, picking idly at a selection of aromatic sweetmeats, spread out on a table before him. He scooped up a spoonful of deluxe royal jelly and, head tilted back, poured the amber nectar into his gaping maw. After licking his lips with relish, the Honey Monster repeated his gnomic statement. The travellers looked at each other, wondering what he was waiting for. Tell them about the honey bunny, Louis ventured, vaguely recalling the slogan that made the monsters name. Mummy, it shrieked. Mummy. Its Mummy. Its Tell Them About the Honey, Mummy. Eyes rolling like lottery balls, the hirsute beast started sucking its thumb uncontrollably. Mmmmuuuuummmmy. Mmmmmmmuuuuummmmy. Mmmmmmmuuuuuummmmmy.

Shaken to the core, Bella nudged her companions imperceptibly. All together now, she murmured. Tell them about the honey, mummy! they shouted in unison. As every brand manager knows, theres nothing like a memorable catchphrase to cut through the clutter, psychological or otherwise. So it proved on this occasion. Just as music calms the savage breast, so too slogans calm the savage brand. As if by magic, the creature immediately reverted to the cuddlesome character that, with the assistance of actor Patrick Magee, had charmed generations of British schoolchildren and set them on the merry, sugar-macadamed road to Type 2 diabetes. Miraculously remembering his ambassadorial role, he showed the threesome around his stately home, pausing to point out the bee laboratory, dedicated to finding a cure for the affliction thats decimating honey-producing populations worldwide. He also expounded on new-fangled financial instruments called bearivatives, which held great promise for bullish investors in bears, like himself. When asked politely about his blue-nosed minders, His Majesty the Honey Monster airily replied that he too was of ursine descent and, as things were getting increasingly tough for bear-related advertising icons, he felt obliged to extend a helping paw to the teddy boys. As a philanthropist and all-round Good Samaritan, it was the least he could do. So what do you reckon? Bella asked her companions, when they were finally led to a luxuriously appointed bedroom in the keep, as befitting honoured guests of HRHHM. Its simples, Orlov said. The brutes intent on securing the worlds declining honey supplies, hence the bee laboratories. He has slaughtered the entire bear brand community, either because they represent a potential drain on honey resources or simply to increase the value of his bear-based investments. If he finds out Bellas related to Penguin biscuits, whose delicious wafer centre is heavily honey impregnated, were history. Bella was not amused. Theres no honey in Penguins. Theres nothing but the finest emulsifiers. She looked at Orlov coldly. Youre not very well informed outside the A zone. Lucky for you ACMEs within it. Lucky for us, Louis chipped in, we didnt mention what we saw this afternoon. Keep your voices down, Orlov hissed. Or hell overhear us. Walls have ears. He doesnt know what we know. Lets keep it that way. Otherwise, well never get to ACME. Were doomed, Bella gloomed, as the reality of their situation hit home. Doom was unaccountably delayed. The next morning, after breakfast, His Royal Highness the Honey Monster inquired politely about the brand bands quest. It was almost as if he knew that ACME was their destination. He himself had an issue with ACME and wondered if theyd say a few words on his behalf. Apparently, the Honey Monster had been falsely accused of plagiarising a stand-up comedians catchphrase. He wanted ACMEs support in the forthcoming legal proceedings. When asked why he didnt make a personal pitch to the Advertising

Character Mediation Enterprise, he replied that hed a pooh problem that needed sorting. I thought honey was a natural laxative, Orlov observed, innocently. Not that kind of pooh, the Honey Monster said, without smiling.

Part IV

Ill Take Madhattan

Chapter Ten

The Sound of One Paw Clapping

The growling got louder as they descended. Far from being seen off at the drawbridge, with a fond farewell and sufficient honey buns for the rest of the journey, Bella, Louis and Aleksandr found themselves circling slowly down an enormous spiral staircase, which bored ever deeper into the subterranean depths of the fortress. A line of flaming torches guttered and sputtered in their sconces, offering little by way of illumination. The trio were preceded by Legend and Melody, top guns of the Me-to-You menagerie. Peanuts, Pearl and Snowdrop brought up the rear. Increasingly alarmed, the brand band exchanged wary glances. Bellas said weve been had. Louiss said a dirty dungeon awaits. Orlovs said if the Aenead is anything to go by, were in for an unpleasant time in the underworld. The growling stopped. It was replaced by frantic barking, which echoed and reverberated along the flagstone corridor at the bottom of the stairwell. Dont be afraid, Orlov reassured his companions, as Snowdrop the rabbit wrestled with the rusty lock of a heavy wooden door. Although the dog within has three heads and although his poisonous bite is considerably worse than his bark, Cerberus can be calmed with honey cakes. Luckily, I put three in a doggy bag at breakfast. They should buy us some time. Aleksandrs honey bun sacrifice was unnecessary. There was no sign of Cerberus, let alone Agips six-legged dog, a fearsome fire-breathing beast that holds Italian petrol stations in its thrall. What there was, though, was pretty impressive. A gigantic silver Greyhound, long, sleek and in perfect physical condition, stood before them wagging its tail, raising its paws and barking excitedly, while straining on its leash. A greyhounds the only way to travel to New Yorkie, Legend the unicorn announced, while petting and stroking and chucking the chin of his charge. After a few minutes of excited canine interaction, Melody the parrot attached a howdah-like structure to the greyhounds lean yet muscular back. He escorted the triumvirate into the covered, air-conditioned cabin, strapped them in securely and, after doublechecking that all doggy systems were go, released the leash with a you-go-girl squawk. The greyhound sprinted out of the garage-cum-kennel, circling steeply upwards, its claws clittering and clattering on the flagstone floor. All of a sudden, it burst out of a tunnel into the gloomy forest, where it charged between the trees, dodging, leaping, bounding over fallen logs, tree stumps, saplings, rivulets, railings, fences, getting faster and faster and faster all the while. The dog hurtled past isolated farmsteads, along country lanes and though sleepy villages, as the early morning mist lifted and the sun came out, golden, glorious, gratifying. A perfect day was in prospect. As the journey progressed up Reeses Pieces Street and down Frito-Lay Highway the woods petered out gradually, giving way to the rich arable farmland

and intensely cultivated market gardens of Hershey Kisses County. Despite the greyhounds impressive turn of speed on the Oreo Interstate, the ride was far from uncomfortable thanks to the howdahs independent suspension. Apart from an occasional unsettling wallow, when the go-faster pooch took a corner too tightly, or caught sight of a Volkswagen Rabbit, their mode of conveyance was, if not quite the bees knees, pretty darn close to the dogs bollocks. It may not have been the quickest critter on the Lifesavers Turnpike a steady stream of throbbing hogs (courtesy of Harley), hurrying horses (courtesy of Porsche) and hurtling honking bulldogs (courtesy of Mack trucks) surged past in the outside lane but the greyhound was inexhaustible. She ate up the miles like a bowl of Winalot. Before long, the concrete stalagmites of Madhattan came into view. Glinting on the horizon, the buildings bespoke animal brand nirvana: Madison Avenue, Central Park Zoo, the Natural History Museum, FAO Schwarz. Super Furry Animals at Red Bull Arena. What? Louis read the giant roadside poster with amazement. An open air charity concert, featuring just about every anthropomorphic rock band on the planet was taking place that very afternoon. The line up included Gorillaz, Grizzly Bear, Bat for Lashes, Sheryl Crow, Snoop Dogg, Wild Beasts, Wolfmother, Mastodon, Doves, Seal, Scorpions, Whitesnake, Danger Mouse, Pet Shop Boys, Fleet Foxes, Noah and the Whale, amongst many others. The Penguin Caf Orchestra, Bella gasped, pointing at the billboard. I thought theyd broken up. Maybe we should check it out, Louis said casually. As ever, he was keen to identify suitable backing tracks for his TV adverts. After reaching Number One with Make Luv, a funky little number that accompanied the Lynx Pulse campaign, he was always on the lookout for the next Chipmunk or, better yet, the new Eagles. Orlov snorted. Im sure the Axeman will appreciate your contribution. Squelched, Louis bristled at the cruel jibe. Market leader in Britain he may have been, but Lynx didnt exist in the States. Literally. He was the Robbie Williams of male grooming requisites when he so wanted to be SuBo but being cruelly reminded of his nonentity was uncalled for. Business first, pleasure later, Orlov added, rubbing salt into the wound. ACME is top of our agenda. Followed by Flat Eric. Then we can foxtrot, bunny hop, funky gibbon and turkey trot the night away. How does that sound? Did I ever show you my meerkat mambo? The rodents cack-handed attempt at humour only made matters worse. Louis sulked. Bella stared daggers at Orlov, infuriated by his insensitivity. The threesome fell into sullen silence and resorted to watching the outer boroughs flash by. Eventually, the Wrigley Tunnel yawned before them. Seven minutes later, the greyhound was loping up an access ramp into the irritable bowels of the Pepsi Authority Building. Hardly panting at all from its exertions, the canine conveyance deposited its dyspeptic passengers at stand five on level three, before dashing off again in the direction it came. Must be a homing greyhound, Bella noted, while trying to regain her equilibrium after their up and down journey. Penguins gait was unwieldy at the best of times, but solid ground threw the adlie completely. It was several minutes before her sea legs returned.

The Pepsi Authority Bus Terminal was deserted. It made the Tetley Temperance Tavern look congested. The usual collection of New Yorkie vagrants, panhandlers, hookers, druggies, buskers, security guards, cab drivers and barbarian hordes of Madhattanites pushing, shoving, yakking, yelling at one another, while stuffing their faces with fast food, was nowhere to be seen. Only the infernal buzzing of the fluorescent lights, many of which strobed intermittently, indicated that the place was operational. The grimy suspended ceiling stretched into the far distance, a polystyrene vista punctuated by polychromatic roof supports and posters featuring PepsiCo products, Gatorade and Cheetos mainly. Forty-second Street was equally empty. A chill wind whistled in from the east, blowing a blizzard of trash before it. Balls of newspaper rolled past like urban tumbleweed. Discarded Styrofoam cups bounced aimlessly along the sidewalks. A mini tornado of candy bar wrappers spiralled upward, caught in the inter-building eddies. A flotilla of plastic bags in full sail scudded past, propelled by gusts off the Ever Ready River. I think I know whats happening here, Bella said, as they advanced towards Timex Square. The neon marquee of Disneys New Adstersdam Theatre arabesqued before them, as if a performance was about to begin. There were no lines of eager theatre-goers, though, nor strolling pedestrians of any kind. The real world is breaking through, just like you said, Aleksandr. The human world is a horrible place, squalid, dirty, devoid of hope and authenticity. Mindless consumption fills the emptiness. Marketing gives it meaning. Brands are the beauty to humankinds beastliness, animal brands especially. The bubble of hype that holds BrandLand up is particularly big in the vicinity of Madison Avenue and hence most liable to burst. Were in the middle of a burst brand bubble. Thats what I think. Why are there no humans, then? Orlov asked in his most condescending manner. Bella brushed a mote of airborne dust from her eye. Humanity is nothing without Brands. Theyre their only meaningful means of self-definition. If we go, they go. Surely everyone knows that. Oh, Im sorry, you never got as far as B, did you? Unfazed and imperturbable, Orlov ignored the ill-educated penguin. He had a better theory: the Madhattan Project. Just as the atomic bomb was developed in and around Manhattan during the Second World War hence the codename so too its advertising community had long been seeking a silver bullet, a thermo-nuclear marketing device designed to bypass humans anti-adcraft defences, penetrate their psychic shields and destroy residual resistance to incoming commercial messages. Something had obviously gone horribly wrong, branders and brandees obliterated in a dreadful laboratory accident. Reluctantly dragging himself away from the pornographic window display of Hey Whipple, Squeeze This, one of the few retailing reminders of 42nd Streets salacious past in its sick puppy days before Disney, Louis wasnt convinced by the meerkats reasoning. But surely, he said, in as cutting a way as he could manage, such an accident wouldve had some brand survivors. Horribly disfigured, perhaps. Mutant maybe. But survivors all the same.

No sooner had Louis uttered the dread words, than a blood-curdling yowl broke the unnatural silence. Another followed. Then another. A ravening pack of feral brand spokespooches dashed through Timex Square, yapping and yelping and snapping and snarling. Louis spotted the Andrex puppy, the Dulux sheepdog, the Taco Bell chihuahua and the Hush Puppy basset hound, plus a smattering of rabid Scotties from White & Mackays blended whiskey. Luckily, the pack paid no attention to the eminently pursuable penguin, lynx and meerkat in their midst. They were more interested in chasing a posse of fleeing sock puppets the Pets.com critter, Monkey from Sky TV, the Vauxhall Corsa grotesques, Skittles shuffling tube sock and something that looked suspiciously like Flat Eric which squeaked in panic and ran hither and yon like Foster Imposter chickens of the headless variety. Led by Cheeka, the dogged pug thats electrified Indias mobile phone market, the baying mob disappeared down Brandway in the general direction of Macys. Devoid of honking yellow cabs, horse-mounted traffic cops, gawping out of towners and ticket touts for shows that were so far off, off, off, off Brandway that they were practically in Yonkers, Timex Square was an empty, unwelcoming place. Even more unwelcoming was the Jumbotron, a giant plasma screen shaped like an elephant, whose circulating text messages chilled Bella to the bone. Brand Flu Outbreak Gets Worse, it stated. Marketing Mortality Rates Reach Record Levels, it went on. Advacuation Procedures Continue Despite Contagion Concerns, it added. Holy Doughboy, Louis gasped. Bloody Hellmans, Orlov exclaimed, stunned by the update. Brand flu? Bella echoed in a baffled voice. What the FCUK is brand flu? The meerkat quickly regained his composure. Well, we know that many human consumers suffer from Affluenza, an irresistible urge to spend, spend, spend. And we also know that infecting consumers though viral means is the cutting edge of contemporary marketing practice and has been since the publication of The Tipping Point, a mega-selling management tome Oh my Gladwell, Bella groaned. Youre saying that a deadly brand virus has somehow mutated, metastasised and is rapidly spreading throughout Madhattan, destroying every USP in its path? Shrugging his slim shoulders, Orlov avoided Bellas imploring look. His supreme self-belief encapsulated in his seminal Simples! slogan was wilting in the face of brand catastrophe. Well, Louis said, diplomatically deciding not to contradict the meerkat, lets find ACME and see whats what, then get the Dell out of here. Gotcha. Orlov took off, as if the Cheetos cheetah was on his tail.

Chapter Eleven

Old McDonald had a Brand

They say you can take a meerkat out of the Kalahari but not the Kalahari out of a meerkat. Even in Madhattan. Scampering ahead in his stop, start, stand up, drop down, look left, look right, look round again manner, Orlov scanned the eerily empty New Yorkie streets like predators were about to pounce. Patrolling down 42nd Street, he paused briefly at Bryant Park. The fashion week tents were still standing, flapping idly in the breeze, with nary a designer label nor a diffusion line in sight. There was no sign of Jack Wills snooty grouse, Lyle & Scotts imperious eagle, Fox Heads eponymous renard, Evisu Jeans red gull, Le Tigres fashion-forward carnivore or Silo & Roys famous fairy penguin. It was a brand free zone. The nearest things to anthropomorphism were Patience and Fortitude, the two stone lions that guard the entrance to New Yorkie Public Library on 5th Avenue. Louis and Bella struggled to keep up. Madison Avenues another block over, the lynx called out as the meerkat forged ahead. Wait for us. Impatient as always, Orlov pirouetted in ever-decreasing circles at the junction of east 42nd and Madison, pausing only to stare pointedly at the stragglers. Whats the address? Quick. Quick. We dont have much time. Which way? Which way? Louis looked at Bella. Bella looked at Louis. The lynx raised his front paws in a dont ask me gesture. The penguin did likewise with a do tell signal. The meerkat glared at them both, getting more infuriated by the second. He was about to launch into a weve come all this way rant, followed by Louis, I thought youd been here before strop, culminating in a hissy fit of the Madison Avenue stretches from 23rd to 138th Street kidney. But Louis cut him off. Smirking, he pulled an iPaw smartphone from a secret pouch in his pelt. Calm down, ferret, he said curtly. Let me handle this. Orlov was fit to be tied. He launched into a tirade about keeping the cellphone hidden. Why didnt he call for help when the Tetley Tea Folk turned nasty or consult Google Earth when they were lost in the Forest District? Too busy watching Lynx ads on YouTube, no doubt, while they were in mortal danger. No signal, Louis snapped. For your information, I picked this up in an Apple orchard in Hamlet, right beside the big BlackBerry patch, while you were galloping ahead to Tetley Tavern and getting us all into trouble. Infuriated, the meerkat rose on his hind legs, ready for fisticuffs. Growling, Louis looked down at him. They stood snout to snout, eyes locked, breathing heavily. Orlov backed down. Having stared the meerkat out, Louis turned to Bella. Its time to surf the World Wide Webster.

Huh? she said absent-mindedly, distracted by something in her peripheral vision, a furtive movement outside Brand Central Station. Her sightline was impeded by scaffolding and construction work on the skyscraper opposite. She wasnt helped by Louis waving his iPaw in front of her face and talking nineteen to the dozen as the fight-or-flight adrenaline dissipated. World Wide Webster. Its an expression I picked up when Unilever was considering an official animal mascot for Lynx. It refers to the legendary adman John Webster, the brains behind the Smash Martians. He was a British version of the even more legendary Leo Burnett, the advertising legend who gave the world Tony the Tiger and Charlie the Tuna. Critters he called them. Bella had no time for legends. Just get Google, will you. The connection took forever. Louis filled the time with chit-chat about Oranges animal talk plans: Dolphin, Racoon, Monkey, Camel, Panther. He was a Panther man himself. Rrrrrrrrr. Bella tried to let the Talk Talk wash over her, but she felt a tingle travel down her spine. Something or someone was watching them. She was sure of it. She turned round and stared up 42nd Street toward the Cond Gnash Building. Then whirled around again to check Brand Centrals covered forecourt. Nothing. It was her imagination. The stress of the quest. Its number 285. The Young and Rubicund building. The meerkat was off like a shot. The building was just a couple of blocks away, in a downtown direction. Bella made to follow. Louis held her back. Let him go. Hes barking up the wrong office block. What? Bella retorted, feeling edgier by the second. Whats with the misinformation? Were meant to be a team here. Were off to see the wizard of ads, remember? I know you two dont get on but unless we stick More in sorrow than in anger, the lynx looped an arm around his anguished sidekicks shoulder. Look. He held up the display screen of his smartphone, which was filled with ACME Incs homepage. Hed clicked through from Google Street View. I dont believe it, Bella moaned, scanning the copy with mounting dismay, not to say incredulity. Theyve off-shored? To India? When? Why? Louis shrugged. It doesnt say. He switched off his iPaw, pocketed the smart phone and patted his pelt back into shape. But I thought only manufacturing and back office functions got offshored. The brand stayed in the west Nike, Adidas, Armani as did all the activities that support the brand advertising, publicity, design, research, officiating bodies like ACME. That was all accountancy bullshit, Louis sighed, drawing upon painful personal experience in a multi-national organisation, designed to justify cost cutting, down-sizing, stock market performance and cock-and-bull ideas about shareholder value. Once production goes, innovation follows, creativity evaporates, originality disappears. Chinas laughing up its sleeve at the west. Accountancys the bane of branding, believe me. Read that in Wikipedia, did you? Bella shouted. Youre getting as bad as Orlov, As included. Pity you didnt read Anticipation while you were at it and save

us the journey. Penguins are dying while we flounder around here. The Adpocalypse is upon us and youre not helping matters. Louis let her vent. Although they look laid back, penguins are prone to anxiety attacks, isabellines especially. He simply slipped his forepaw into her flipper, tugged her toward him in a companionable manner and, arm in arm, they strolled down to 285. They passed a Starbucks, Pret A Manger and Payless Shoes, all disconcertingly empty, as was the McDonalds diagonally across the street from Y&Rs imposing headquarters. A pair of angled flagpoles flanked the entrance at first floor level, their Old Glories unfurled, stiff and straining in the breeze. With a heave, they pushed through the heavy revolving door into a neo-Art Nouveau lobby. It too was devoid of life. After checking the list of tenants ACME was still there they settled into a leather-alike banquette and waited for the meerkat to reappear. Chuckling, Louis wagered that the crazy Russian would return with another crazy conspiracy theory, possibly one involving Animatronic products made up from brand body parts Head & Shoulders shampoo, Arm & Hammer toothpaste, Von Dutch bloodshot eyes, National Lotterys disembodied hand, New Yorkies iconic heart logo. Bella refused to take the bet. A couple of minutes later, the Russian emerged from the elevator, hot, bothered, extremely agitated. We know, Louis said before Orlov had a chance to speak. The meerkat stopped dead in his tracks, mouth agape. Fearing another tantrum, a strop and sulk situation, Bella hurriedly explained the off-shoring scenario, concluding with you dashed off before hearing the full story, Aleksandr. Far from being crestfallen, let alone embarrassed, the meerkat launched into a blow-by-blow account of his shakedown of the building. The locked ACME offices. The curt note on the door. The vacated Y&R floors. The wreckage all around, though that may have been the art directors department. He had a theory. A conspiracy theory. Y&R were caught up in an internecine war between advertising agencies, a bit like The Sopranos, only with account managers and art directors. Corleone the copywriter, Louis said laconically. Nodding enthusiastically, Orlov missed the sarcasm. Things obviously got out of hand between the two elemental schools of Advertising. Oh, Louis yawned, you mean the soft sell and the hard sell conspiracies? Bella elbowed him in the ribs. Yes. Yes. Exactly. Hard sellers hate whimsy, subtlety, jingles, jokes and just about anything that detracts from repetitive, reason-why, buy-buy-buy sales pitches. They especially hate cute critters, brand mascots, advertising characters. Us! Me!! Winking at Bella, Louis wondered how anyone could possibly hate Aleksandr, then politely suggested that perhaps he was reading too much into things. The big city was distorting his thinking. The whole place was completely empty. There was no brand war, no winners or losers. Unless the brand flu virus was released by Y and Orlov never completed the sentence. He was interrupted by a banging noise behind him. Startled, he looked around, as did his equally dumbfounded

companions. Something or someone was alive and active and trying to attract their attention. Almost. Active and attention seeking Ronald McDonald may have been, but alive he most certainly wasnt. Eyes glassy and unseeing, the zombie clown stood outside Young and Rubicunds offices, face squashed against the glass trying desperately to break through. He was joined by a second Ronald McDonald. Then a third. Then a fourth. Soon the entire office frontage was filled with undead McDonalds, all scrabbling and scrambling to gain access. Quick, Louis yelled, jumping to his feet, lock the revolving door. Bella leapt out of the banquette, slid at high speed across the polished lobby flippers outstretched to maintain her balance and secured the snib just as one of the slackjawed creatures was pushing through. Caught betwixt and between, trapped in one of the compartments of the revolving door, the zombie was momentarily confused, then went berserk trying to batter its way in, out, round. Its catatonic associates followed suit, moaning and groaning and hammering the glass, which wasnt designed to withstand assault by rampaging Roland McDonalds. Their sporadic pounding coalesced into a rhythmic thump, thump, thump. Thump, thump, thump. Thump, thump, thump. A crack appeared in the pane, then another, then another, serpentining across the surface like fissures in an ice-floe. Are you sure theyre zombies? Orlov asked in a weird otherworldly monotone. Maybe theyre Adbominables, he added, still lost in the alternate universe of conspiracy theories. Louis lost the head. What does it matter if theyre McMummies or Big Mac foots or nice New Yorkie Jewish golems. Lets get out of here! Hurry, Bella urged. Theres more of them coming from the McDonalds across the street. The glass was groaninggroaninggroaninggone. It suddenly shattered, scattering razor sharp shards and pasty faced clowns all over the shop. The lobby looked like a three-ring circus during a comedy acrobatic act that had gone horribly wrong. Catapulted out of his crazy reverie, Orlov hurried towards the elevators and the stairwell beyond. Bella and Louis did likewise, the former sliding on the marble, the latter sprinting on all fours. Lucky I checked out the building, Orlov shouted over his shoulder. Theres a side entrance on to 40th Street. He led the way through three sets of swing doors, vaulted down a short flight of steps using the brass hand rails for leverage, and pushed on the side door. It was locked. He pushed again. Nothing. He shook the aluminium handles with all his meerkat might. Nada. Frantic, the three of them backed up several paces, then charged at the barrier together. The door burst open. They spilled into the street. An earsplitting alarm went off, like a fire tender on emergency call. They picked themselves up. There was no time to lose. Without pausing to dust themselves down, the trio dashed up East 40th Street, heading away from McDonalds on Madison. The alarm alerted the undead, however, Glancing round as he ran, Orlov caught sight of the creatures emerging from a dry cleaners on the corner. Arms outstretched, some with freshly-laundered designer apparel attached, the zombies lumbered after their fleeing quarry.

But the quarry was too quick for them. The threesome got to the corner of and Park Avenue, where they paused to catch their collective breath. A second line of Ronalds was advancing up Park Avenue from downtown. A third was coming towards them along 40th from Lexington Avenue. Were trapped, Bella said, with an unrepeatable oath. Lets stand and fight. No surrender. A penguins worth twenty Filet-O-Fish. Did you see the complexions on them? That comes from eating too many supersized fries. Theyre softies. Theyre milkshakes. Theyre wusses. Theyre Louis tugged on her flipper. No, Bella, no. This way. This way. He galloped up Park Avenue, in the direction of Brand Central Station. With no realistic alternative, Bella stowed her bravado and followed at full tilt. I think theres a food court in that place, Orlov said to himself, as he scampered after his brothers in brand. 40th

Chapter Twelve

Beau Jest
Brand Central Station contains thirty-six eateries, most in a gourmet food court beneath the main concourse. But none of them are McDonalds. As Bella, Aleksandr and Louis the Lynx pushed through the enormous entrance doors, looking anxiously behind them, they were confronted once more with an enormous empty space. Not a sinner stirred in the vast plaza, which ordinarily copes with 150,000 passengers per day. Too worked up to worry, they ran pell-mell down the much-photographed double staircase of Carrara marble, galloped across the celebrated cyan-ceilinged concourse, skidded past the clock-topped information booth that features in countless chick-flicks, and hurtled down the white-tiled tunnel to the trains. I think weve lost them, Orlov said, gasping for breath. Dont bet on it, Bella panted, holding her side, face contorted in agony. Stitch, she added, by way of explanation. I can swim for hours, you know. No bother. But my sprintings not so good. Suppressing a smile, the lynx tried to sympathise. Different muscle groups, he commiserated. Yes, I believe penguin stitch is a real pain in the rump, Orlov empathised. Sniggering to start, then with a roar that echoed off the tunnel walls, the ordinarily antagonistic pair burst into hysterical laughter. As it was motivated more by relief than anything else its not every day Ronald goes postal Bella couldnt help but join in. Giggling, she told them of her youthful ambition to meet Ronald McDonald, the brand mascots brand mascot. Never meet your heroes, Louis laughed. Lynxes excepted. Rrrrrrrr. I dont know any heroic lynxes, Bella deadpanned. A good brand is hard to find. Unabashed, Louis snorted and fed Orlov a line. Im starving after all that exercise. The meerkat cracked up. Bet you could murder a McFlurry! Do you think they were flesh-eating zombies, Louis continued, winking at the other half of his double act, or strict vegetarians? I understand McDonalds is into healthy options these days. Yes, those McTofus are really something. Wiping her eyes, Bella eventually brought the banterers back to business, albeit with difficulty. Okay guys. Where to now? We need the A-line to SoHo, Orlov said, grinning. Thats where Flat Eric lives, right Louis? Right, he conceded. But downtowns not a good move. The Ronalds were coming from downtown. Theres more McDonalds south of Houston than in the whole of South Dakota. He wont be there anyway. Orlov made for a map of Brand Central, scanning the plan for a route through the labyrinth. How can you be so sure?

There isnt anybody here! Bella interrupted, the moment of light relief forgotten. ACMEs our priority, Aleksandr. Its relocated to India. We need to make our way to JWT Airport, the one that does international flights. Understandably perhaps, since everyone was still on edge despite the endorphin-activated jollity, Orlov launched into an apoplectic speech that included references to McDonalds restaurants in departure lounge food courts, huge crowds of people trying to flee the ravages of brand flu, Bellas obsession with ACME, ACME, ACME, to the exclusion of others objectives and her waste of two wishes when the Roc was on tap. Im heading for SoHo, he said. Coming with me, Louis? Its getting late, the lynx said, trying to make the peace. Weve had a very trying day. Lets rest up for the night and decide what to do in the morning. Thingsll be clearer then. The meerkat hesitated. He looked around in that ever-wary way, swivelling his head this way and that. Where are you thinking of hiding out? Bronx Zoo. Its well uptown. The Ronalds were coming from a downtown direction. We should be safe there. Brooklyn Zoos better, Bella said. Its beyond the reach of Madhattans McDonalds and on the way to JWT. She looked from one drained friend to the other. If thats where we decide to go. Decisions, decisions, decisions, Louis sighed, placing a paw across his furry brow for irreverent effect. All of which are moot, because theres no public transportation. I havent seen any taxis or heard any trains. Have you? The decision, as it happened, was made for them. The distant screech of a subway train indicated that at least one line was running and, as all lines led out of New Yorkie, one suburban hideout was a good as the next. Finding the right platform wasnt easy, though, even without the crushing and jostling and claustrophobia that are par for the concourse in Brand Central Station. Thanks largely to the meerkats incredible homing instinct and not a little huffing and puffing they tracked down the out-of-town bound train and jumped on board, just as the doors were closing. Settled in their seats, exhaustion soon caught up with them. The rocking of the carriage took its toll on Bella, who started snoring like a Weddell Seal with sinusitis. Then Orlov followed suit, twitching spasmodically as the Land of Nod made him welcome. Louis struggled against his drooping eyelids, until he too failed the sleepy-time test. Cat naps are catnip to cats of all creeds. Bella awoke with a start. Whawhawhat? Her mouth was a dry as a dromedarys armpit after a spray with Dove deodorant. And tasted like it too. The sun was shining into the subway carriage. Hot sun. Boiling sun. The place felt like an oven. Inside a greenhouse. Inside a smelting plant. On Mercury. If not quite melting, Bella was sweating like a runner in the Alice Springs marathon. Wiping away the penguinny perspiration, in as ladylike a manner as she could manage, she shook her still-slumbering companions. They too struggled with dry mouth and dehydration, as they tried to get their bearings. Looks like Coney Island, Louis croaked, as he pressed his face against the window, peeping outside. We must have missed our stop.

Not a problem, Orlov rasped. Much as he loved dry heat, the Kalahari was a chill cabinet compared to their carriage. Theres an aquarium on Coney. Botanic Gardens too. Well be safe among the carousels, ghost trains and roller coasters. Bella struggled to speak, masticating her words like they were made of Shredded Wheat. Were not in Brooklyn anymore, boys. She pushed the door release button of the boiling subway carriage. The door hissed open. It was hotter outside than in. A sea of sand stretched in one direction, dune piled upon dune, piled upon dune. A cluster of mudbrick dwellings, flat-roofed and ogee arched, beckoned from the other. Gathering their wits, as best they could, they stumbled down from the train and trudged along the boiling boardwalk toward what passed for civilisation. This doesnt look like Steeplechase Pier to me, Orlov remarked, vaguely recalling A for Amusement Park. I reckon were in Desert Quarter. Too parched to say anything, Louis pointed at a sand-blasted signpost by the side of the slatted walkway. Welcome to Mirage, it said, Home of Flea-Bey Bazaar. Twinned with Wide Blue Yonder and Far, Far Away. Bella wished she was far, far away. The heat was fearsome. Mercifully, the brightly-coloured awnings that stretched haphazardly between the whitewashed buildings afforded a modicum of welcome shade. Their eyes were still adjusting to the darkness, as the hawkers and hucksters and merchants and tradesmen of FleaBey Bazaar descended on the newcomers like flies. Except that they werent flies. Many were of the dung beetle ilk, some were of the scorpion persuasion and quite a few had asp written all over them. Whatever their phylum, each and every one was desperate to sell their wares, most of which were counterfeit. Hydration was the brand bands priority. They pushed passed the bartering beasts and refused to listen to the medinas marketing marsupials fruit bats, vampire bats and flying foxes primarily since finding somewhere to sip, sup and freshen up was top of the agenda. Bertie Bassetts Bar, Grill and Waterhole, situated to one side of the beastly bazaar, not only looked inviting, it practically begged to be patronised by hot and bothered vagabrands. The curtain of cool air at its entrance was the nearest thing to paradise this side of the LG Glacier. Unselfconsciously, Bella stood in the doorway, twisting and turning, unashamedly showering in the fountain of frigidity. Self-respect be damned. Onlookers, be gone. Gasping for a drink, Orlov and Louis practically dragged her into the cavernous tavern. The chill of the place was counterbalanced by the warmth of the welcome and the delightful scent of freshly made liquorice. The brand character caravanserai was full to overflowing. Mine host, Bertie Bassett, held court behind the bar, regaling his patrons with cock and bull stories about his time in the Dolly Mixtures mines, his rise to fame and fortune in the Roaring Twenties, when brand icons were dapper men about town, and how Mr Peanut, the monocled, top-hatted, spats-wearing spokespulse for Planters, was a poseur, a fraud, an imposter. A poor mans Bertie Bassett, in short. The barflies hung on his every word. The Birds Custard bluebird, immaculately dressed in her fashionably retro livery, trilled and tittered at Berties bon mots. The Robertsons golly grinned inanely, his afro bouncing in time with his politically incorrect chortles. Reddy Kilowatt beamed in the corner, like eco-

unfriendly lightbulbs were going out of fashion. The Quantas koala knocked back brewski after brewski. Unceremoniously dropped by the airline, he didnt give a 4X, let alone an LAX, for eucalyptus. Meanwhile, the Vladic stork perched at the piano, bashing out hits from Cats and The Lion King, interspersed with Groucho Marx quips from Duck Soup, Horse Feathers, Monkey Business and more. Whats a thousand dollars? he asked rhetorically. Chicken feed. A poultry matter. Liquored up on hard liquorice, the audience roared. Literally in the case of the Lwenbru lion. Orlov didnt join in. He started mumbling and grumbling to himself about Arachis hypogaea, the proper name for the peanut family. Not only were they popularly known as monkey nuts, pig nuts and pygmy nuts, but Mr Peanut predated Bertie Bassett by at least a decade. He didnt trust the liquorice loudmouth and no amount of ice cold libations would allay his suspicion. Unconcerned, Bella and Louis supped up, while drinking in the atmosphere of Berties brewhouse. A hen party, consisting of Wild Turkey, Grey Goose, Famous Grouse, Kingfisher Beer and several other bootylicious brandbirds, stumbled into the watering hole ready to rock and roll on the rocks, just as the storks set was finishing. Louis, the lusty lummox, was in seventh heaven. Smirking, he sashayed over to the jukebox and checked the classic rock selection. Howlin Wolf. The Monkees. The Beatles. The Animals. Adam and the Ants. Buddy Holly and the Crickets. No sign of Owl City, never mind Fireflies. No matter. While winking at Miss Thunderbird Fortified Wine, a full-bodied Californian that goes down smoothly, he put on Fly Like an Eagle, a golden oldie from the Steve Miller Band, followed by Wild Thing, Hound Dog, Crocodile Rock and Foxy Lady, a sure-fire floor filler. Getting ready to strut his funky stuff, Louis was collared by the meerkat, much to his annoyance. Notice anything suspicious? Orlov asked his travelling companion. The lynx hadnt, nor did he want to know right now. Brusquely, he asked the interfering stoat to step aside. It was time to let his haunches do the talkin. Orlov persisted. All of the icons in this bar are Anachronisms. Uh-huh? Theyre retired. History. Lapsed. Dropped. All axed by their advertising agencies. Id rather you kept Axe out of this. He hadnt quite forgotten their exchange on the howdah. Ill give you a shout when the meerkat mooch starts. Its mambo. Meerkat mambo. Right. Undeterred, Orlov seized the upper arm of his lust-addled acquaintance and squeezed as hard as he could. This is the last brand saloon, the marketing equivalent of Ricks Bar. Were in Brandablanca. Weve got to get out of here. Wheres Bella? Louis hadnt a clue. Last he saw she was sitting at the bar, sipping Salty Dog cocktails. Panicking, Orlov launched into a rant about the Brand Slave Trade, spokescreatures sold into bondage, spokespenguins held to ransom. Louis didnt

want to know. He was more interested in beginning a beautiful friendship with Miss Puffin Books, a nice tight volume with slight foxing. Releasing his grip, Orlov gave up on the lynx. He made his way to the restrooms. There was no sign of Bella. He slipped into the backstage area. No sign of her there, either, only the Vlasic stork entertaining a Nestl fledgling, while complaining anachronistically about the rise of recorded music and the concomitant decline of live performance. Bella was outside, standing in the shade, having a cigarette, deep in thought. I didnt know you smoked. I dont. Except when Im on the Salty Dogs. However, after hearing what I overheard in the ladies, I need something to calm me down. Dont tell me, the abstemious meerkat said, trying to hide his relief. Youve got the McMunchies and you could kill a Big Mac with fries. Bella nodded. It wasnt so funny the second time. Okay, then, a Happy Meal. Ambitiously aiming for playfulness, though never rising above ill-at-ease, he punched her lightly on the shoulder. Whats up, doc? Bella forced a smile, then gestured in the general direction of the bar. Theyve all escaped from a place up country. Theyre in transit, trying to get to Hamlet. So thats why the villagers were so suspicious. They thought we were brand bounty hunters. Exactly, she said, stubbing out her illicit cigarette and exhaling heavily. But whats it to us? Theyre not our problem. Im afraid it is our problem. Mr Kiplings been spotted there, apparently. So youre saying ACME isnt in India after all? Its just up the road from here? Well, the CEO is. Excellent. You havent heard the worst bit yet. Hes on his death bed. He only has hours to live and the hospitals a long way away. Lets get going, then.

Part V

Just Deserts

Chapter Thirteen

Mista Kipling, He Dead

Decision made, they returned to the bar. Louis was on the dancefloor, throwing shapes with Miss Puffin Books. Resplendent in her bright orange jacket, Miss Books was a first-class jitterbugger. Louis wasnt in the same league. If not quite doing a dad-on-the-dancefloor routine, he was definitely getting more giggles than admiring glances from Miss Books sisters, Pelican and Penguin. The lynx didnt care. He had a body to pop and a rrrrrrrrreputation to polish. The Lion Sleeps Tonight started up. As a feline of sorts, he felt obliged to defend the familys dancefloor honour. Awimoway, awimoway, awimoway, awimoway After much gotta-go semaphore, Bella and Orlov caught the attention of the high-kicking wildcat. They explained the situation to him, shouting over the music. He didnt want to know. They explained the situation to him again, more emphatically than before. He still didnt want to know. So they left him to it. Do you think hell be all right, Bella asked anxiously, as the mismatched pair set off for the subway station. Hell be there when we get back, Orlov answered. Id bet my bottom rouble on it. Bella wasnt reassured. The rouble wasnt exactly the hardest of currencies. However they didnt have time to argue the toss. Orlov led the way through the labyrinth of higgledy-piggledy streets stuffed with market stalls selling silks, spices, sweetmeats, carpets, carvings, ceramics and lots and lots of counterfeit goods. The proprietors names were pretty explicit: Ali Barbour, Ali Bally, Ali Boden, Ali Brioni, Ali Burberry, Ali Balenciaga, Ali Bottega Veneta. A glad-handling dung beetle barred their way. He introduced himself as Mustapha, fashion designer to the stars. They shoved him aside. Talking all the while, he refused to let go. His pincers were very powerful and once they grasped his fashion victims their fate was sealed. Reluctantly, Bella and Orlov were dragged into his design studio, a hole in the wall where the medina met the mosque. He rattled through a well-oiled sales spiel, laying out his wares as he talked. Bella was impressed, despite her desire to depart. Far from being a rip-off of western designers, Mustaphas own label outfits were superior to anything shed seen on Paris. His desert coloured cat-suits were to die for. His logo, a stylised scarab in a circle, was also quite striking. Only the name of the operation let it down: Mustapha Middens Merchandise Mart. The meerkat was much less impressed. A mere man, he didnt understand the clothes purchasing process. But he moaned so much about the task in hand that Bella aborted the sale. Unconcerned, Mustapha immediately cut his prices. Irate, Orlov insisted that they leave right now. Mustapha offered two for the price of one. Orlov made for the door. Mustapha cut his prices even more. Ill be back, Bella promised, as Aleksandr shepherded her out of the shop and into the bustling bazaar. He paused to get his bearings. He sat on his hunkers and looked left and right in that mad meerkat manner, attracting odd looks and odder offers from eager

merchants. This way, he decided, then scampered off through the swirling crowds, with Bella in hot and bothered pursuit. This way was the wrong way. There was no sign of the subway station. Only a dilapidated Foreign Legion fort stood between them and a rolling ocean of sand. The horizon shimmered in the heat haze. Whoops, Orlov apologised, sorry about that. Must be the other way. He plunged back into the casbah and, after much pushing and shoving, emerged on the other side. Still no sign of a subway. Only a palm-fringed oasis, populated by belching braying camels, stood between them and the same sand sea. The horizon still shimmered in the heat haze. So much for kat-nav, Bella said beneath her breath, as her sheepish sidekick gathered his geographical wits for yet another attempt. A dung beetle barred their way. Having trouble? Mustapha Midden asked. Need a hand? Can I help you with anything, Missy Bella? Orlov blanched. His ordinarily impassive demeanour was an aghast combination of were-being-followed and how-come-he-knows-your-name? Any port in a storm, Bella decided. She told the beetle of their intentions. Mr Midden said that was a very, very, very bad idea. But business was business. With a few swift clicks of his pincers coupled with rapid-fire negotiations he had secured them a dromedary, plus provisions for their journey. It was no ordinary dromedary moreover. It was Joe Camel himself, fabled spokesungulate for Altrias preeminent cigarette brand. Persecuted for appealing to impressionable adolescents, Joe was undeniably cool. Even in the searing heat of the desert, he was as cool as a walrus with an icicle in every orifice. He looked supercool too haughty, detached, indifferent to everyone around him. Unwisely, Orlov offered him a Lark, hoping to bond with the brute. Breath like a brazier, Joe brayed in his face then knelt for Bella to mount, grumbling and griping all the while. The shit of the desert set off, head aloft, nostrils flared, eyelids narrowed, looking down on all he surveyed. Mustapha Midden stood by the waterhole, arguing vociferously and gesticulating wildly at the iconic camels agent. He stopped shouting for a second to wave goodbye. Bella waved back. Orlov didnt. Instead, he launched into a tirade about prattling penguins in general and Bella the blabbermouth in particular. Careless squawk costs lives. Way too hot to argue, she let him talk himself out as the temperature soared and they padded on, up dune, down dune, past thorn-bush, through tamarisk thickets, across eroded sandstone pavements studded with bleached skeletons of Tiger tanks, Harrier jets, Puma helicopters, Scorpion armoured vehicles. They were worrying animal omens. Eventually, Joe called a halt. The old lungs werent what they were, he explained with a bronchial cough, before lighting up an unfiltered king-size. He offered one to Orlov, as a peacemaker. Orlov accepted, whipping out his Dunhill Rollagas to reciprocate. They sat in the shade of a gnarled acacia, dragging deeply, blowing smoke rings, shooting the breeze about their brand adventures. Orlov unburdened himself about his debatable durability, his dubious long-term commercial prospects. Smokin Joe told him not to worry. Brands come, brands go, theyre hot, theyre not, theyre a delight, a disgrace, good fun, good-for-nothing,

bad influence, bad as in good. Whatever. Customers are fickle. Stay true to yourself. Dont pander. Dont lose hope. Fashion changes, styles forever. Only a churl would point out that Joe Camel, who once bestrode BrandLand, selling more ancillary merchandise than Cokes polar bears and Budweisers Clydesdales combined, was reduced to ferrying an isabelline penguin across the Adhara Desert, with a bipolar meerkat for good measure. Churlishness was the last thing on Bellas mind. Mr Kipling was near now. She could taste him. Are you sure you want to go through with this? Joe asked, rising majestically after his moment of R&R. Its just that He threw his cigarette butt away with a heavy sigh. brand characters talk. The Bertie Bassett barflies above all. Ive heard things. Rumours. What things? Orlov interrupted. What rumours? The camel explained, speaking slowly, earnestly, his sang-froid abandoned. Five minutes later, Bella nodded appreciatively, having decided what to do. Ive come this far. Im going to see it through. You can go back if you want to, Aleksandr. The meerkat looked from one to the other, undecided. Joe shrugged. Your funeral, Bella. He indicated with his hoof. Its just over that rise. This is as far as I go. Sorry. You know how it is. Im an icon, after all. Ciao, Bella replied brusquely. She waddled up the wadi, a steep canyon carved out of the hillside, stumbling repeatedly in the rocky terrain. Momentarily inattentive, she twisted her ankle on a boulder, which rolled back down the ravine, causing a mini landslide. Bella hobbled on. Take care of Louis for me, she shouted over her shoulder. Rounding a bend in the dry river bed, she sat on a stone and burst into tears. It was all too much. Sobbing uncontrollably, she wept for her dead mummy, dead daddy, dead best friend, dead brand quest Want me to strap that ankle for you? Orlov was looking down at her, smiling. I can carry you the rest of the way, if you want. Youve carried me far enough already, Aleksandr. Thats true, he laughed and pulled her up with one paw. Supporting each other, they clambered up the dusty gulch, slipping and sliding as they scaled the scree-surfaced mesa. The sight that greeted them at the summit was unexpected, to put it mildly. Anticipating uninviting salt flats, or something similar, they found themselves gazing down on a green and pleasant gated community. It was a refuge, a benison, a tropical island in a sea of sand. It was the Betty Crocker Rest Home for Retired Brand Characters. Amazed, Bella and Orlov advanced toward the lustrous condo complex. Its low-rise red-roofed residential facilities were surrounded by croquet lawns, tennis courts, brightly coloured flowerbeds and acres of glorious greensward. They could hear the sprinklers hissing as they sprayed their aquatic balm onto the once parched earth. Looks innocent enough, Orlov murmured, as they approached the adobe gatehouse. The Maytag repair man, having finally found gainful employment, checked their brand credentials then directed them towards an administrative block, where Betty Crocker herself would meet them.

Welcome to paradise, Betty said, as they were ushered into her office, a homey assemblage of chintz curtains, plump cushions, thick carpets, overstuffed sofas and comfortable rocking chairs. The smell of home cooking wafted around the room, making their mouths water and tummies rumble. Betty herself had seen better days. Repeated bouts of plastic surgery had wreaked havoc on her formerly fetching features. She looked like Joan Rivers in a wind tunnel. But she was friendly enough, explaining the rationale for their operation, a kind of Betty Ford clinic for brand icons whose fifteen minutes of fame were over, regretfully. In return for a small proportion of their remaining brand equity, the Betty Crocker Rest Home enabled once bountiful brands to enjoy life, free from the stresses and strains of making the sale, increasing market share, shouting ever louder in a cacophonous marketing world. Would you like to look around? she said, rising from her sofa. I think youll be impressed. Without further ado, she took Bella and Orlov on a whistlestop tour of the premises, taking in the gymnasium, the golf course, the arts and crafts studios, the coffee shops, the convenience stores and the community centre, which offered a variety of time-filling activities, ranging from Ashtanga yoga to ballroom dancing classes. They peeked into the communal sitting room. It was filled with immortal brand icons, sitting in a circle of silence, seemingly enjoying a post-prandial snooze: J.R. Hartley, Aunt Jemima, Joe Isuzu, Howard Brown, Crazy Eddie, Frito Bandito, Alka Seltzers Speedy, assorted Scottish Widows, the Coppertone girl, whod seen better days, the Tango man, as orange as ever, Clippit, the irritating paper clip from Windows 2000, Johnny English of Mastercard and movie fame, Frankie and Louie, the unforgettable Budweiser lizards, Beattie and Buzby, the forgotten British Telecom titans, Nicole and Papa, formerly the face of Renault cars and just as smug as ever. The once irrepressible Capital One Vikings were clustered in one corner, dreaming dreams of Ragnark and 0% APRs, their raping, pillaging and whats-in-your-wallet days behind them. The other corner was occupied by a mangy pooch in an armchair. Look, look, Orlov cried. Its only Nipper! His little furry ferret face was flushed with excitement as he dashed across to the short-haired terrier. Nipper? Whos Nipper? Bella asked, joining her friend beside a canine that wasnt exactly in the first flush of youth. At first she thought its shades were an affectation and its refusal to answer questions a sign of unspeakable brand arrogance. However, it soon became apparent that the dog was as deaf as a post and partially sighted to boot. After decades of listening to heavy metal music, with its ear cocked up against the loudspeaker, HMVs venerable brand mascot was paying for its youthful indiscretions. Orlov tried to get through to it, shouting ever-louder for Nippers autograph. The mute mutt kept mum, though it took off its sunglasses and peered myopically toward the enthusiastic twosome, smiling benignly. On a whim, Orlov spelled out his request in Admerican Sign Language. Nipper responded eagerly, waving his paws to and fro in a torrent of canine communication. Whats he saying? Bella said. Whats he saying? Woof, Orlov replied. Woof, woof, woof. Bow-wow. Bow-wow. Grrrr. Ruff. Woof, woof. Yap.

Which means? Youre in terrible danger. Get out. Right now. Kiplings a come-on. Hes not here. Never was. Crockers ac..cucun A cunning con artist? Something like that. Orlov and Bella exchanged anguished glances. Theyd walked into a trap. Thinking quickly, they thanked their generous host for the guided tour but said they had to be on their way. Smiling benevolently, Betty observed that they werent going anywhere. They were there for the duration. Their accommodation was waiting for them.

Chapter Fourteen

Youre Never Alone With a Brand

Arrrrrrgggggh. The pain was excruciating. Oooooohhhhh. The agony was unrelenting. Noooooooooo. The torture wouldnt stop. Louis had never had a hangover like it. Hed spent more than a few nights on the tiles and one or two Lynx launches had got out of hand. Then there was that hot tub threesome with Elizabeth Arden and Este Lauder which, well, hed prefer to draw a veil over. However, he couldnt remember a night he couldnt remember. Head splitting, Louis tried to reassemble the pieces of the previous evening. Dancing with Miss Puffin Books? Check. Dirty dancing with Wild Turkey? Double check. Doing the duckwalk with diverse Playboy Bunnies? Youza, youza, youza. Then things got a bit hazy. Was Rohypnol involved? He hoped so, though they only had to ask. Was Viagra involved? He hoped not, though he wasnt as young as he was. Was bondage gear involved? He wasnt sure, though hed try anything once and the pain he was feeling was certainly suggestive of strenuous activity. Lynxes were lithe, but there was a limit. Louis sat up with a start. And instantly regretted it when his temples were clamped by an invisible vice, which tightened inexorably, mercilessly. He flopped back down again, feeling queasy. With a sudden shudder of horror, he remembered several more moments of madness. Did he really lead the bar in a tuneless chorus of When the Red, Red Robin, followed by Chirpy, Chirpy, Cheep, Cheep, followed by How Much is That Doggie in the Window? followed byLouis felt a wave of shame wash over his shattered bodyThree Little Fishies, complete with arm actions as they swam and they swam all over the dam? He didnt know which was worse, the mortification or the migraine. Groaning, the lynx tried to get his bearings. He looked around, eyes throbbing and all-but squeaking in their sockets. He was in a storeroom of some kind. There were sacks of bar snacks stacked against one wall. He was lying on a small camp bed, partly covered by a thin horsehair blanket. Perhaps hed passed out and Bertie took pity on him. It was the least the bar owner could do, given the free floorshow Louis provided. He moaned again and wondered if he dare switch on the light. Better not. The pain of sudden illumination might annihilate his remaining ocular nerves and neurological wellbeing generally. Dawn would be up and about before long. He could just see the sky lightening through a barred window above his bed. Barred? There were bars on the door panel as well. Presumably there were bar snack sneak thieves around town. Cant be too careful, though they were welcome to Berties allsorts, frankly. Dehydration is a corollary of drunken degeneracy, as are bladders full to bursting. Louis desperately needed a drink and a bathroom. Every fibre of his psychological being shouted stay put, dont move, lie still, but when nature makes physical demands animals respond instinctively. He decided to risk the consequences of getting up and moving around.

It was a decision Louis lived to regret, albeit not on account of the nausea, the shakes, the general out of body experience as he staggered toward the door. It was because the door was locked and no amount of tugging, yanking or pulling would shift the thing. Sobriety took hold. He banged on the door, hoping to attract someones attention. He shouted for assistance, but the best he could manage was a drymouthed croak. He reached for his iPaw, with a view to ringing the bar. If not Bertie himself, surely thered be a barman or cleaner or dogsbody to pick up the phone. His iPaw was missing. Anxiety mounting, Louis rushed over to the camp bed and checked underneath. There was no sign of a cell phone. He searched around the room his cell without success. Apart from the sacks of snacks, there were several sealed barrels of something called Pixar BP Gelatin. He recognised the movie studios desk-lamp logo, though he had no idea where BP Gelatin fitted into the picture. Improvising to the best of his depleted ability, Louis positioned a Pixar barrel beneath the tiny window. He clambered onto it awkwardly and, grabbing hold with both hands, peered through the iron bars. The pre-dawn streets of Mirage were empty. All was quiet apart from the distant barking of desert foxes. Only the minarets showed signs of life, as the dawns pink glow caught their conical domes and advanced slowly down their slim and shapely spires. A call to prayer was imminent. Louis needed all the help he could get. He jumped down from the cask a mistake and made for the door, head thumping. He squeezed his face against the bars and, despite the suffering inflicted on his fried eyeballs, squinted down the gloomy corridor outside. There was nothing to see except more storeroom doors. And a figure sitting silently at the end, fiddling with an iPaw. Louiss iPaw. Livid, the lynx yelled at his gaoler, a cracked-croak stream of abuse that could curl more hairs than a Helena Rubenstein home permanent. His red-suited, rabbiteared guard remained silent, eyes fixed on the smart phone, ordering a Dominos pizza for all Louis knew. Im talking to you, he shouted, kicking the door and shaking the bars. He paused, waited for the palpitations to pass, then tried again. Im talking to you, you son of a bitch. There was movement. Louis angled his face on the bars, hoping to see what the thieving bastard was up to. Switching off the iPaw with a bleep, the red-suited figure stood up and walked away, briskly. Avoid the Noid, he called out, before disappearing through a swinging access door, which flapped to and fro in his wake. Christ. Louis sat on the bed with his head in his paws, holding it in, dying for a drink. Suddenly, something suspiciously delicious assailed his nostrils. He sniffed, trying to place the aroma. It was sweet, sugary, liquorice-like. Louis looked up. Bertie Bassett was peeping through the bars. He unlocked the door, shoved it open with difficulty, lumbered into the storeroom in that ungainly way of his and plonked himself down on a big sack of bar snacks. Louis played it cool. Maybe hed been locked up for his own safety. Presumably, to keep the Playboy Bunnies at bay. Ooohhh yeaaah. Ive been expecting you, Mr Bassett. His Ernst Blofeld impersonation was a bit shaky understandably and stroking an imaginary Persian cat could lead to incarceration

in cultures unfamiliar with 007 conventions. But it was the best he could do in the circumstances. The count-line confectionary giant refused to play his part, not even My name is Bassett, Bertie Bassett. Instead, the icon slapped the sack he was sitting on and nodded towards a Pixar barrel. Ever wondered where Jelly Babies come from? Wisely, Louis refused to be drawn, because his personal peccadilloes involving lashings of Jell-O were none of Bertie Bassetts business. Does a wobbly stork deliver them? he answered, continuing to play it cool. Are they found at the bottom of the lollipop garden, under a candy floss cabbage? Casually checking his fingernails, the liquorice magnate said nothing. Nonchalant yet nasty, he started whistling Three Little Fishies. Maybe, Louis countered, Jelly Daddy and Jelly Mummy get together and do the jelly jigga-jiggy. Bassett segued into A Four Legged Friend, which was a kick in the teeth for the shame-faced lynx, as the most mortifying moment of the night rushed back to him in all its tabletop tap-dancing horror. They come from that, he said, nodding toward the barrels once more. We send brands up country and they send back BPs by-products, that is which we put to productive use in our production plant next door. Im not with you, Bertie. Most of the people who come to our nightclub are looking for someone or something. We convince them that that someone is a short ride across the desert. They never come back. Well, some of them come back or, should I say, some parts of them come back. Although Louis wasnt firing on all cylinders, he realised that something wasnt right. But I thought your bar was a refuge, an escape route for persecuted brands, the Ricks Bar of BrandLand. Heres lookin at you, kid, round up the usual suspects, and suchlike. Thats what we want them to believe, Bassett smiled. Were a kind of Ricks Bar in reverse. We represent the end of beautiful friendships. I see. There was no time to lose. He had to find Bella and Orlov before they fell into a trap. It might already be too late. Louis cursed himself for partying while his friends were in peril. He had to get moving right away, Bassett or no Bassett. But why, he said, rising energetically from his camp bed, hangover overcome by willpower alone, are you telling me all this? Whats in it for you? What are you after? What do you expect from me in return? I expect you to die, Mr Lynx. For a second Louis considered correcting Bassett on his Bond misquotation that was supposed to be his line but thought better of it. He kept his cool instead. Thats a bit melodramatic, he said, in response to the ridiculous death threat. The liquorice kingpin curled his lower lip. Marketings inherently melodramatic. We make dramas out of crises. We turn minor conditions like trapped wind into life-threatening, buy-or-die issues. Have you forgotten your training, Unilever boy? He stood up, dusted himself down and sauntered in his disjointed fashion towards the door. Your days are numbered, Mr Lynx. And todays the day when your numbers up.

Ordinarily, Louis would have laughed at such ludicrous overacting. However, he sensed that Bassett was serious, a sense reinforced by the brand traffickers parting shot. He started humming Dont You Wish Your Gerbil Was Hot Like Me?. Louis felt his hind legs give way as the previous nights mercifully forgotten events reared up in his mind once more. Everlasting shame is not a term used lightly where brand icons foregather, but the shocked faces of the audience during Louiss impromptu tribute to Richard Gere would live with him forever. Five minutes later though it may have been longer the lynx awoke from his dead faint. He was curled up on the floor of the store in a foetal position, a cold sweat clinging to his furry brow. Although he was still alive, he actually wanted Bassett to kill him. Anything to make the memory go away. He should have known better than to tempt fate. He soon would.

Chapter Fifteen

No Rest Home for the Wicked

What in the name of Jesus Jeans is that smell? Orlov was gagging uncontrollably. It might have been a reflex reflux reaction to imprisonment, since some creatures are sensitive to incarceration. But Bella didnt know the psychology of it, much less the physiology. All she did know was that she couldnt smell anything, never mind a sickening stench. She was more concerned about getting out of Crockers concentration camp. There was no perimeter fence, neither electrified nor chain link. There was no unscalable wall, with watchtowers and guards. What there was was a ruthless crop of brand spokesvegetables Colonel Corn, Tom Tomato, Mr Soybean, Irelands own Mr Tayto, the fearsome Fruit of the Loom bunch who sprouted up with a snarl and a submachine gun when anyone made a bid for freedom or approached the outer edge of the greensward, which marked the boundary of the accursed rest home. After a good nights sleep and a belly-filling breakfast, Bella could see the attraction of the place. The accommodation was superb, a one bedroom duplex with all mod cons. The recreational facilities were wonderful, not least an Olympic sized swimming pool, where Charlie the Tuna was head coach and needed an assistant. She was very tempted. The food, companionship and evening entertainment facilities were especially appealing. The weekly Brand X-Factor review seemed like great fun. Bella could understand why any brand icon, after decades of battling in a relentlessly brutal marketplace would want to settle for such a refuge. No hassle. No hustle. No hard sell. No soft soap. No worries about market share falls or ad character Q scores. But, as Nipper made clear, something strange was going on. Brands, Bella well knew, were a bit like piggy banks. Despite frequent attempts to measure their exact worth by accountants and their ilk, the reality was that you could never invest too much in a brand. That investment kept on growing and growing and, even when the brand disappeared from supermarket shelves, its equity was still there, locked in the happy aspic of consumer memory. Every brand icon, no matter how venerable, no matter how outmoded, was a crock of marketplace gold. Crockers camp, clearly, extracted that gold then discarded the crock when the extraction process was complete. By winnowing the ranks in a Darwinian manner, Crocker also kept supply and demand in a semblance of balance, as per ACMEs edict. Bella was kicking herself. She should have known better than to fall for the scuttlebutt in Bertie Bassetts waterhole. Far from being a place where superannuated brands, like Mr Kipling, drowned their sorrows in convivial company, it was a conduit that conveyed gullible brand icons into the conniving clutches of Crocker and Co. She wondered if Joe Camel and Mustapha Midden were in on it, part of the brand trafficking operation. Their insistence that she shouldnt go to Crockers only made it more desirable. The old reverse psychology manoeuvre. The forbidden fruit trick. As a consequence, she was faced with the forbidding fruit that patrolled

the perimeter. There was no escape. The only sliver of silver she could see was that Louis was still out there, footloose and fancy free. She half expected him to turn up any minute with raunchy dance partners in tow. Maybe he fled Berties with his dignity intact. Some chance. Still, where theres Lynx theres hope. Orlov was doubled over, retching in a revolting manner. Bella knew that meerkats had some unsavoury habits eating each others young, for one but this was ridiculous. Maybe it was something you ate, she said, patting him on the back. Orlov looked up. Tears were streaming down his peaky face. He coughed. He spluttered. He couldnt believe she couldnt smell anything. What does it smell of? Carrion? Camembert? Chanel Number Two? Wiping his eyes with the back of his paw, Orlov thought for a second. Acrylic, he said. Burning acrylic, he added. Look, theres a plume of smoke over there. Thats where its coming from. A thin wisp of white smoke rose from an aluminium chimney, behind a dense stand of leylandii. It looked like the favourable outcome of a papal conclave, only with incense thats gone off. I still cant smell anything, Bella said. Want me to check it out? Im going with you, Orlov insisted, struggling to his feet. He didnt look up to the challenge. Bella told him so. Undeterred, he pulled out a Lark and lit up. He offered her one. She declined. Not wanting to attract undue attention, they strolled toward the screened smokestack in a roundabout manner. They wandered past the outdoor fitness suite, where a buff Pillsbury Doughboy was leading Mr Bradford and Mr Bingley in a vigorous aerobics session, then took in the nine-hole golf course, where a Great White Shark was talking eagles and albatrosses to a bunch of rookies. Doubtless Tiger, Golden Bear and the Walrus were already in the clubhouse, Orlov observed with a cynical laugh. He wasnt laughing when they reached the leylandii stand. Pushing through the branches albeit with difficulty, due to a big border of box Bell and Orlov found themselves facing a long, low-rise glass building. It looked like a grace and favour greenhouse. The stench was stronger now. Even Bella could smell it. The aroma, if not quite akin to a constipated water buffalo after the Ex-Lax kicked in, was somewhere between niffy and noisome, minging and malodorous. Definitely acrylic, Orlov gasped, reaching for yet another nicotine flavoured air-freshener. What kind of animal is a cryclic? Bella asked innocently, just to see the look on his face. Its a bit like a civet, isnt it? A member of the meerkat family, only smarter. She let him splutter, hoping it would take his mind off the vile smell. It worked. By the time Bella had crept up to the plate glass walls, he was beside her pointing out the error of her ways. Bad as compare the market/meerkat morons were, Bella was beyond belief. She was a penguin ignoramus, a penguinoramus, no less. Hed never been so insulted Bella held up her flipper for silence and cradled her eyes while she peered inside. She rubbed her eyes then looked again. It was worse than she thought. The smell was as nothing compared to the sight. The low-slung glass building was a skylight over a subterranean holding pen. Hundreds of sports team mascots, all wearing oversized acrylic outfits, were shuffling along a steel-floored walkway, their

giant velveteen headpieces bobbing idiotically. It was nothing less than an animal mascot slaughterhouse, a brand abattoir. Appalled, Orlov pointed out the team totems he recognised: Arsenals Gunnersaurus, Portsmouths Frogmore, Aberdeens Angus, Burnleys Bertie Bee, Norwichs Captain Canary, Glasgow Rangers Broxi Bear, Sunderlands fabled black cats, Samson and Delilah. They were mainly Premiership soccer critters plush, pampered, overpaid which was something to be grateful for. But Olovs hope that the extermination process was limited to the football league was dashed when Bella drew his attention to an electronic scoreboard, a giant illuminated panel displaying real-time throughput ratios, quotas, targets similar work schedule metrics. Beanie Babies had been and gone, as had Go-Go Hamsters. Tellytubbies tie-ins had been done to a turn. Peppa the Pig was no more, nor were Alvin and the Chipmunks. Barney, the purple dinosaur, was extinct, sadly. Even the Muppets had been rounded up and roasted. It was apocaplush, nothing less than the furry solution. Gruesome as the big screen was, the motto above the scoreboard plumbed the very depths of degradation: Pixar Rendering Plant Jobs Brings Freedom. I knew rendering was an integral part of computer aided animation, Bella whispered. Id no idea Pixar actually used reconstituted animals to make Ratatouille, let alone A Bugs Life. Yes, Orlov said. They certainly kept that quiet, though Monsters Inc should have given us a clue. And I thought leopard seals were sons of bitches. Compared to the sharks in showbiz, Bella, theyre cuddly toys. At a loss, the questers considered their options. As a Russian, Orlov had a soft spot for Chelseas blue-suited mascot, Stamford the Lion, who looked more and more bear-like with every passing season. As a democrat, Bella held a candle for HAngus, the monkey mascot of Hartlepool United, who ran for mayor on a campaign promise of free bananas for local schoolchildren. And won the election by a landslide. In the annals of advertising slogans, which includes such classics as Just Do It, Beanz Meanz Heinz and Every Little Helps, few can compare with Vote for HAngus. He Gives a Monkeys. There was no way they could stand by while Stamford, HAngus and the rest went to meet their makers. There was only one problem. The guard. The guard was no ordinary guard, neither feral dried fruit like the California Raisins, nor a rabid vegetable like Little Green Sprout. It was Pegasus, the indomitable brand insignia of Mobil Oil, its fleet footed feathered features familiar from countless petrol stations worldwide. From its perch above the production line, Pegasus swooped on stragglers and malingering mascots, kicking them toward a trapdoor contraption, which fell away when full, dropping the velveteen victims into the waiting incinerator. Desperate times require desperate measures. Have you ever mesmerised a mythical creature? No, but I know that as a Greek God he shouldnt be doing this. Raging, Orlov barged through an adjacent access door, which led onto a steel gantry above the holding pen. Pegasus immediately spotted the intruders and flew over, backbeating its wings while hovering in front of them. It was about to launch into

an how dare you, you shouldnt be here, Im calling security spiel. However, Orlov cut the creature off. He told the mythical thoroughbred that it should be ashamed of itself; that its father, Poseidon, would be appalled by his offsprings actions; that consorting with unethical oil companies and sweatshop-dependent sneakers suppliers was no excuse for such unspeakable behaviour; that companies as diverse as Asus Computers and TriStar Pictures would sever their connections with the creature if they knew what it was getting up to. Once one sponsor departs, the rest soon follow. Its the way of the world. Just ask Tiger. Pegasus looked unimpressed. So youve read my Wikipedia entry. Or checked me out on NagsReunited. Whatever. If so, youll know that Mobil pretty much abandoned me after the merger with Exxon in 1999. The rest of my sponsors are chicken feed. A gods gotta graft. Im not proud. Im not choosy. Im the offspring of Medusa, in case youd forgotten. I dropped Bellerophon in it, remember. BTW, dont even think of giving me the evil eye, Orlov. Oh, and dont look so surprised. I know all about your Russian brain-washing tactics. Hit the trail and keep your mouths shut. Otherwise youll be joining your furry friends in the fiery furnace. The no-nonsense animal flapped its wings dismissively, preparing to shift from hover to swoop. Bella seized her chance. The Roc sends her regards. Pegasus paused and stared at the penguin suspiciously. Is that so? Yes, the pair of us hooked up with her on the way here. She said she was gonna kick your bony ass the next time she sees you. She says youre a low-down yellow-bellied son of a bitch. She says youre a sell out, an equine immortal who prostitutes itself for oil companies in return for a few stinking shekels and your face on a letterhead. She says youre dead horsemeat. The Roc was always a bit of a blowhard. A blowhard whos going to rip you apart with those big bad claws of hers. Pegasus whinnied. Oh yeah? Well see about that. Shes full of it you know. Does she still do that thing with the three wishes? Fools them every time. Yes, she does, Bella acknowledged. However, theres only two of us, as you can see. Weve still got a wish in hand. Call her, Orlov. Your wish is my command, Bella.

Part VI

Penguin at the Gates of Dawn

Chapter Sixteen

Cincinnati Smackdown
Groaning, Louis drifted in and out of consciousness. At one stage, he had a vague sense that Paddy McGintys Goat was belted out during the previous evenings escapades. And that actual tethering was involved Fortunately, he was distracted by a cough, a chesty wheeze from the street outside. Intrigued, he picked himself up, clambered onto the Pixar barrel and pressed his face against the prison bars, preparing to call for assistance. The cry caught in his throat. The sight that greeted him was not simply surreal but sufficiently hallucinogenic to suggest that hed hit the absinthe during the goatgrappling depravity. A camel was outside, a celebrity camel, the celebrity camel with a yammering dung beetle on its back calling the shots. Bella sent them, the chatterbox beetle explained. She asked them to keep an eye on her biddable pal. They had a rope. They were going to pull the bars out. Stand back while Smokin Joe took the strain. Get ready to run for it. The lynxs moment of deliverance was short-lived. An overpowering aroma indicated that someone was coming. Hurriedly instructing his rescuers to hold fire, Louis leapt into bed and covered his throbbing head with the horsehair blanket. He could hear the door opening. He prayed that the consumptive camel pressed against the outside wall wouldnt start coughing. The smell was so strong that he felt his head swim. It was a smell he recognised from way back when. It wasit wasit wasOld Spice, the fragrance Lynx users graduate to when theyre geriatric. A cold hand clasped Louiss heart. And squeezed. The smell of Old Spice meant one thing in addition to middle-aged taste bypass and that thing was Procter & Gamble. It meant that the most ruthless brand managers on the planet were in town. Known to their enemies as Proctoids, and feared by every FMCG brand animal in existence, their marketing methods made Abu Ghraib and Guantnamo Bay look like Walt Disney World with waterboards. P&Gs citadel in Cincinnati was widely considered impregnable. In Cin City, allegedly, no one could hear brands scream. The blanket was ripped from Louiss prone body. Bleary-eyed, he glanced up at the Proctoids. One was a round-faced cherubic fellow with a handlebar moustache and greasy hair parted in the middle. The other was lean, mean and muscular. Shaven-headed, he wore a tight white T-shirt and an extravagantly bejewelled earring. It was Louiss worst nightmare (apart from the one with the goat). It was nothing less than a good brand-bad brand, P&G shakedown. Let me guess, Louis snarled, turning defence into attack, youre Procter and youre Gamble. The cherub chuckled in that despicable hail-fellow American manner. His distended belly undulated with imitation mirth. Im Julius Pringles, he said. This is my esteemed colleague, Mr Clean. You may have heard of us. You may also have heard that we get what we want, by fair means or foul. Naturally, Im hoping it will

be fair, but if thats not possible then Mr Clean here can get a bit angry, and once he gets a bit angry he stays a bit angry. Once he pops he cant stop. Is that what youre saying, Pringles? American corporate life isnt renowned for its sense of humour and so it proved on this occasion. With a bestial bellow, Clean grabbed Louis by the scruff of the neck, hauled him out of bed and began shaking him vigorously. Holding the limp lynx in his humungous left hand, he started pulling out Louiss whiskers with his right. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Under normal circumstances, the pain would have been intolerable, especially for a brand with a raging hangover. However, Unilever had been battling P&G for decades and Louis wasnt going to give up without a fight. Mr Clean gets rid of dirt and grime, the lynx sang tunelessly, throwing the enforcers facile jingle back in his face. And grease in just a minute. Mr Clean will clean your house. While wearing a girlie pantsuit. Clean went crazy. He kicked and punched and pummelled the irreverent wildcat. Clearly, Louiss reinterpretation had touched a nerve, the one that controls cross-dressing. Pringles struggled to calm his colleague down. With enormous effort, he pulled the berserk brand icon off the bruised and battered feline. Lets find out what he knows first, Pringles ordered, pushing his psychotic partner into the corner. Take it easy, Veritably. What is it you want to know? Louis asked, his ears pricking up at the sound of Cleans forename. Surprisingly feminine forename. Not so surprising, come to think of it. Pringles grimaced in a vain attempt to re-establish his good guy credentials. Why is Unilever beating us in head to head contests, regardless of product category or sales territory? Whats your secret, Louis? Playing for time, the lynx spat a mouthful of blood onto the dusty floor and checked his wobbly incisors. You know I cant tell you that, Julius. Our marketing strategy is sacrosanct. Revealing trade secrets is more than my life is worth. Sorry. Clean shoved his conciliatory colleague aside. Ill show you what your lifes worth, asswipe. He took hold of Louiss tail and, with a butt-ripping jerk, began dragging him out of the cell. Instinctively, the lynx sank his claws into the hardwood floor but the ensuing pain was so acute that retraction was the better part of valour. One-handedly, Clean hauled the wincing wildcat down the corridor, past the Noid whod nodded off, through the swing doors into a makeshift torture chamber. It contained a chair, a bucket, a board, a rack-like device and a selection of sharp instruments in a bracket by the wall. Without pausing for breath, Clean strapped Unilevers brand emissary to the rough wooden board and propped it up at an angle. Louis felt the blood rush to his already pounding head. The pounding was nothing compared to having his jaw prized open and a steady stream of water poured in. This was no ordinary water, moreover. It was P&G water. Pantene Pro-V enriched, the mixture played havoc with Louiss gag reflex. He felt like he was drowning in bubble bath. The persecutor paused, giving his victim a chance to spit it out, both literally and metaphorically. Stoically, Louis refused to divulge Unilevers best kept brand

secrets. Nice lather, he spluttered. Helps keep a cats pelt shiny. Not as helpful as Sunsilk, though. Understandably infuriated by the brazen mention of a rival brand, Veritably Clean reached for his array of sharp instruments. Recognise this? he raged, eyes glinting, pate glistening, in the wan glow of an eco-friendly light bulb. Its a Gillette Fusion razor blade. The one without the battery. Correct, Clean crowed. Five precision blades, perfectly angled for the smoothest shave in history. Its the best a brand can get. Glad to hear it, Louis retorted, fully re-hydrated after his unanticipated encounter with an experimental energy drink. I could do with a shave. Im feeling a little bit bristly. The ladies like it that way. Rrrrrrr. Admirable though it was, the lynxs bravado was unwise. He had overlooked one crucially important item, a cruel modification to Cleans five-blade cleaver. The brand spokespsycho had removed the lubrication strip. Louis was looking at five fearsome slivers of finely-honed steel and facing razor burn beyond his worst imaginings. No amount of aftershave balm could assuage the pain that was about to be visited upon him. Pringles didnt even try to restrain his colleague, as he got set to let rip on Louiss furry face. The time for good brand-bad brand tactics was over. Masochistically shaving against the grain, Clean started work with slash and burn relish. But he had miscalculated. The lynxs winter pelt clogged up the blades, which couldnt cope with the stress and strain. Cursing and swearing, Clean went through his entire stock of replacement cartridges. Even at wholesale prices, it was costing him a small fortune, especially for so little reward. Louis was happy to let Clean exhaust himself. Yes, he lost a few large tufts round the jowls and the tugging was extremely unpleasant. Nevertheless the net effect of Cleans energetic action was nil. Howling with fury, Clean hurled his useless blade holder against the wall. He released Louis from the waterboard and physically hurled him onto the rack-like mechanism. Quickly and efficiently, he tied Louis down, one paw in each corner of the instrument of torture. Youve heard of brand stretch, the crazed Proctoid crowed, spittle spraying onto the face of his spread-eagled victim. Ill give you goddamn brand stretch. Muscles bulging, he slowly turned the great wooden handles, which creaked and groaned from want of use. Pringles intervened before things got out of hand. Placing a restraining hand upon the knotted bicep of his psychotic partner, he asked Louis to reconsider. Tell us what we want to know. Make it easy on yourself, Louis. You dont owe Unilever anything. Theyre about to abandon your brand name. Its common knowledge. The lynx knew he was right but refused to spill the beans. His training kicked in. He thought pleasant thoughts to counteract the cruelty. Strangely, they werent of Playboy Bunnies or Puffin Books. They were of the friendships hed forged during the past few days, fraught though they had been. He thought of Orlovs face when he produced the iPaw. He thought of Bellas reaction to the Murder a McFlurry line. Mostly, though, he thought of a chatterbox beetle and knackered camel whod be mounting a bold rescue bid sometime soon. Wouldnt they?

Clean was getting nowhere fast. The Lynx brand had been stretched to breaking point in the past hairdressing salons and male beauty parlours, for starters so there wasnt much additional damage he could do. It was time for a change in tactics. Try the swiffer, Pringles suggested. The swiffer? Louis echoed. Whats a swiffer? The Proctoids cackled. We blindsided you with that one, Pringles said, fastidiously adjusting his drooping moustache. Its a revolutionary way of picking up household dust and dirt, electrostatically. Cool, Louis gasped, as Clean cranked the rack handle to its maximum extent. It doubles as a tickling stick, though. Are you ticklish, lynx? You look like the ticklish type. Cats love a tickle, they tell me. Louis tried to resist. He really did. He fought against the relentless funny bone assault. But securely bound and helplessly splayed, he was a giggling, gibbering wreck in no time. He spilled his guts about swarm intelligence, the hive mind and how Malcolm Gladwell, the American management guru, got it completely wrong with his Law of the Few. His influential idea that key connectors disseminate brand information and that consumer swarms duly follow the leader was mistaken. By blindly following Gladwell, P&G were throwing precious resources into a marketing money pit. Recent European research revealed that leaders were invisible. Any customer can be a leader in any given situation. It followed that mass advertising to the entire swarm was more effective than trying to target influential individuals in the American manner. Hence the difference in headto-head brand performance. Well, I never knew that, Pringles said, patting his hands as if to remove superfluous dust particles. You learn something new every day. He smiled graciously at the prisoner, then turned to go. Kill him, Clean.

Chapter Seventeen

I Heart Darkness
Pegasus cracked. It wasnt that he was weak or worried about his squeaky-clean image, which was unlikely to recover from rendition plant revelations. The reason rather was that, as gods go, Pegasus was basically kind, ethical, keen to do good. But hed been so brutalised by unrelenting competition in a declining market the bloody flux of post-crunch capitalism that hed compromised, cut corners, succumbed to temptation and did whatever he had to do to get a gig, make the sale, move the merchandise, keep body and soul together, even though that soul had been corrupted in the process. He was capitalism in microcosm. Bella and Orlov werent interested in excuses. They had raised the stakes, bluffed the brusque beast and, when the chips were down, watched him wimp out like the flying chicken he was. He owed them three wishes. First, release the furry football prisoners. Their mass bid for freedom would not only occupy the guards but cause sufficient mayhem to cover their own escape. Second, information on the exact whereabouts of Mr Kipling and a lift to his lair. Third, a pit stop at Bertie Bassetts to extract Louis the lusty lynx from the caravanserai of carnality. Reluctantly, Pegasus agreed to wishes one and two, but wish three was unnecessary. Louis had already departed Bassetts bordello. Not long after liftoff, they spotted him hiking across the desert in the general direction of Betty Crockers. He was on a rescue mission, with Joe Camel by his side and Mustapha Midden in tow. Far from leading Louis to his doom, Mustapha and Joe had helped him escape. Theyd broken into his cell in the nick of time, taken care of nasty Julius Pringles and very nasty Veritably Clean, then high-tailed it out of Mirage. They werent part of the plot. They were part of the plot against the plot. After greeting Bella and Orlov with much back-slapping and hand-shaking, Louis sheepishly admitted that his loins had got the better of him. He couldnt help it. His brand had been targeting teenage boys for years. All those raging hormones had clouded his judgment. Hed stick to cold shower gel in future. Pretending that they hadnt noticed the state of his kisser though both had heard scandalous stories about promiscuous Puffin Books Bella and Orlov forgave him. They also asked Mustapha and Joe to join the great brand quest. But Joe had an appointment with his veterinarian. He had a cough that wouldnt go away. He was constantly short of breath and losing weight off his hump, which was worrying for a working dromedary. Its nothing, Orlov lied authoritatively. Probably a slight touch of Angina. A day or twos rest should do the trick. Unconvinced, Joe raised a weary eyebrow. But see your vet anyway. What about you, Mustapha? Bella wondered. Want to join us? We could do with a negotiator like you. That little brand of yours has potential. We can talk to ACME. Your prices are competitive, just perfect for recessionary times. Qualitywise, your products are right up there with Silo & Roy.

Im a dung beetle, Bella, one step above slugs and snails. Nobody loves us. Name a single brand based on a beetle or any other insect? Well, theres the Volkswagen Beetle for a start. Theres the Raid Bugs. Theres Caterpillar, the earth moving equipment and yellow apparel people. Theres Firefly mobile phones, Orlov added, specially designed for young children. Theres Ladybird Books, Louis chipped in, with a slight cough of embarrassment. Okay, okay, there might be one or two. But dung beetles are persona non grata. As far as most people are concerned, Im in the dingleberry business. And, as brand names go, Mustapha Midden isnt exactly A Bathing Ape. There was no persuading him. The beetle had a business to run. Pegasus was getting frisky too. Forthright as ever, he insisted on renegotiating his fare, now that an additional passenger was on board and hed made an unforeseen stop. Hed take them as far as he could, but no further. Evidently, hed learned something from the Roc. With no realistic alternative, the brand band agreed. Blowing affectionate air kisses at Mustapha and Joe, the threesome took off, soaring up and away, through the wispy white clouds into the lightest of breezes. Although Bella didnt like heights, her qualms were quashed by the spectacle altitude afforded. Desert Quarter looked incredible from above, dusty brown but infinitely variegated, dotted with iridescent oases, closely-packed settlements, snaking camel trains, herds of wild horses, irrigated patches of intensive cultivation, stark plateaus of bright red sandstone, half as old as time, and criss-crossed by zigzagging ravines that plunged precipitously into Stygian darkness. It was forbidding, yet beautiful. Not as beautiful as the jungle, though. The land below was changing from desert to scrub to savannah to ever-thicker equatorial vegetation. The cloud cover gradually thickened as well. Banks of cumulonimbus rose menacingly on either side. Flashes of lightning, claps of thunder and dark curtains of driving rain greeted them as they soared over a mountainous watershed into the Amazon.com basin. Millions of books far beneath them flapped and fluttered like butterflies in the wilderness. There were almost as many CDs and DVDs, beautiful in their Blu-ray plumage and iridescent jewel cases. Pegasus didnt pause. He fast forwarded ever further into the deep dark heart of Jungle Zone. Hold tight, the flying horse finally announced, were coming in to land. He circled and banked and glided, gradually descending through the clammy clouds, controlling the turbulence with his wing tips. A flurry of feathery flutters later, they came to rest beside a small jetty. A vast river, sludgy and sluggish, rolled before them. A not-so-vast tramp steamer sat idly at the ramshackle quay. Decrepit, it looked like a long abandoned prop from The African Queen. Whats this? Bella asked. This is as far as I go, Pegasus snorted. The objective you seek is upstream. That vessel will take you there. Aleksandr Orlov and Louis Lynx, the Katherine Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart of Bellas brand band, laid into the winged god. How dare he drop them

miles from nowhere? Who does he think he is, Michael OLeary? What kind of customer service do you call this? Unmoved, the surly beast of burden stared crossly at his disgruntled passengers. I can see into the future. I can tell you wont get to the final chapter of this story. Youre no loss. Youre not proper brand icons anyway. A flash in the pan website, a fifth generation chocolate bar that ceased advertising decades ago, an adolescent deodorant without an actual brand character and only an animal name to its name. Youre a joke. You dont belong in BrandLand. With that, Pegasus whinnied disdainfully, snapped open its wings, took off with a kick of its hind legs and soared up, up and away. Have a nice day, Louis shouted at the disappearing steed. I intend to, a cordial voice chortled. Welcome to the jungle, brothers and sister. What can I do you for? Bella looked round. A grey-bearded, open-faced figure, wearing a dark blue naval uniform and an officers peaked cap, stood at the prow of the tiny tramp steamer, arms outstretched in a welcoming pose. Captain Iglo, I presume. Captain Birdseye, he corrected, touching the peak of his cap in an amicable manner. Im called Iglo in France, Germany and most European markets but my real name is Birdseye. They use my proper name in Britain, but as long as they keep the Captain part, I dont particularly mind. Its the k-sound, you see. You know how it is. They didnt know how it was, but were fascinated to hear the ancient marketing mariners exposition on phonics, plosives, sibilants, aspirates, diphthongs and other linguistic treasures. Research showed that k-sounds were king when it came to selling. Hence Kodak, Kit-Kat, KFC, Krispy Kreme, Kelloggs Corn Flakes, Coca-Cola, Calvin Klein, Campbells Soup. Compare the market, Orlov contributed, modestly. Betty Crocker, Bella ventured. The B-sounds effective too. Correct, Captain Birdseye laughed and reciprocated. Ps a pretty powerful plosive, P-P-P-Penguin. Feeling a little left out, Louis the Lynx made a heartfelt case for the letter X, with its connotations of edginess, excitement, energy: X-Factor, X-Box, 4X beer, K-X soda, X-tra strong mints, X-series sports cars. Yes, the captain conceded, that Axe deodorants doing well in France and Germany and even in the United States of Advertising, apparently. Louis said nothing, though he couldnt help but notice that Captain Birdseye, aka Iglo, was in a similar linguistic fix to himself. The dude was also reduced to navigating a rundown steamboat that stank of rotten fish up a dirty old river in the back end of beyond. Earnestly, Bella explained what they wanted and who they were looking for. The old salt nodded sagely, with a wary look in his eye and a heard it all before expression on his weather-beaten face. I guess we better get going then. Welcome on board, landlubbers. They leapt onto the decrepit wooden craft, which creaked ominously underfoot and paw. Birdseye showed them around. There wasnt much to see: a

compact cabin, a gimcrack forecastle, a rusty smokestack and a pensionable engine that ran on Diesel jeans. As shipshape as theyd ever be, Captain Birdseye cast off. With a barf and a bellow, the whiffy steamship chugged and chuntered to the centre of the waterway. After the requisite toot of the whistle, it shouldered its way upstream. The current was strong but The Diary Queen was stronger. Just. Progress was slow, albeit steady as she goes. The jetty was soon behind them and, after a few wide bends of the slow rolling river, the passengers resigned themselves to the pedestrian pace of the meandering mode of transportation. Whats the name of this river? Bella asked the master and commander, as he nudged the wheel this way and that, steering a route of least resistance. The Cokenoco, Birdseye replied, with a smile that suggested hed been asked that question on countless occasions and knew exactly where the conversation was going. As in the cola? The captain nodded. Taste it. He handed her an old pewter cup, stained with jolly jack tar. Sceptical yet intrigued, she dipped the dirty cup into the lazy current. It was a bit brackish but definitely Diet Coke. Its filtered and concentrated about five miles downstream from here, at the Rainforest Caf syrup works. The wellsprings are about fifteen miles up ahead. He nodded toward a cloud-shrouded escarpment in the distance. There are three tributaries, Diet, Classic and Zero. Diets the least turbulent. The rapids on Zero are almost impassable. The Classics swallow holes have to be seen to be believed. Right. Bella didnt quite believe him, since beverage brand claims are notoriously exaggerated, not to say faintly ludicrous. However, it was a plausible brand yarn and, with forty years of sales pitching behind him, Captain Birdseye was pretty persuasive. Before you ask, the Pepsipopo Rivers on the other side of that mountain range. Its pretty inhospitable country. The 7-Upstreams a couple of carbonated watersheds away. I wasnt going to ask, she said. Ill take your word for it. Eyes twinkling, Birdseye broke out a whiskery grin. Youre heading for the treasure I suppose. Treasure? What treasure? He sucked on his teeth then shrugged, as if unconvinced by her reply. Ive been plying this river for fifty years, Bella. I know treasure seekers when I see them. He gestured towards Orlov and Louis, who were staring idly at the passing rivertine scene, lost in their own thoughts. Your furry friends have got fortune hunter written all over them. I think its exhaustion, Captain. Weve been on a long journey. He nodded. So, wheres this treasure? The captain cleared his throat in a way that spoke volumes. Hed been there, done that, bought the T-shirt. And was wearing it under his uniform. The ACME Horde, its called by some. The Trove of Death, by others. Every sales promotion, every lucky winner draw, every free gift scheme, every air miles offer, every loyalty

card, scratch card, privilege card redeemable premium, every money off voucher, reward or guarantee, every collect the tokens, complete the sentence, win a million, win a house, win a car, win a holiday, win a lifetime supply of Pot Noodles incentive from time immemorial has been registered with ACME. In return for a fee, ACME endorses the competition and monitors its impartiality. Anything unclaimed at the end reverts automatically to ACME, who sells it on. The accumulated trove is way beyond any brands wildest imaginings. And its buried in them thar hills. According to old wives tales, that is.

Chapter Eighteen

Tony, Tony, Burning Bright

The jungle closed in. As The Diary Queen laboured upstream against the colacurrent, the bank-side vegetation grew denser and denser and ever more claustrophobic. A great crepuscular cocoon of evergreen foliage enclosed them like an equatorial Iron Maiden. It was hot. It was humid. It was as hushed as a heavy metal band playing Number of the Beast. The noise was deafening. Screeches, howls and yelps emanated from the undergrowth in an ear-splitting cacophony of advertising claims, slogans, straplines, catchphrases and suchlike. A bright-beaked toucan flapped past crying Guinness is good for you, Guinness is good for you, Guinness is good for you. Another even brighter toucan sat on a Yungkan branch, yammering at top speed. Calcium, Niacin, Riboflavin, it parroted. No added sugar. Nothing but the best in Kelloggs Fruit Loops. A troop of Coco-Pops monkeys joined in the Kelloggs chorus, only to be outshouted by a company of cheeky chimpanzees in overalls and bowler hats, screaming the praises of P.G. Tips. Every so often, a primal roar cut through the jangle of jingles. Bella couldnt tell if it was the Airness cougar, the Exxon tiger, the MGM lion, the Slazenger panther or an unholy combination of them all. She didnt want to know. She merely hoped against hope that a herd of tasty Investec zebras or strongly scented Airwick ostriches was in the vicinity and on the big cats menu. Penguins werent the fastest runners on the planet and, in a foot race, a head to head against the Puma puma would only end one way. Bella grasped a bulwark tightly, as The Diary Queen sloughed on. It was twilight by the time Birdseye called a halt. He manoeuvred the vessel into a little inlet and switched off the spluttering engine. The throbbing ceased, to everyones relief. Ill wait for you, he said, as Bella, Louis and Orlov disembarked, stretching and yawning and rubbing life into their cramped limbs. Its that way, the old boatman added, pointing toward a twisty path through the fern-filled undergrowth. You cant miss it. Something tells me hes not expecting us to return, Orlov murmured. Instinct? Bella asked. Intuition. Did you notice that he didnt ask for payment? Perhaps hes being paid by someone else. Its okay, guys, the lynx intervened. I got it covered. I promised him a years supply of Midshipman Musk. Its one of our special editions. Its big in Brazil. He can always swab the decks with the stuff. Orlov winked at Bella. The horror. The horror. Ill say. Grinning despite herself, Bella pushed through the riverine mangroves and lichen-covered kapok trees. The path was narrow but passable, if a trifle slippery. A trail of hoof, foot and paw prints indicated that it was a heavily trafficked route, or had been fairly recently. Must be a nightmare after a storm, she observed, as the going got increasingly rutted. Her companions didnt disagree. However, they forged forcefully ahead, shoving aside the creepers and climbers,

listening intently from time to time, pausing occasionally to admire the Bovis hummingbirds dipping their bills into exquisite orchids and aromatic cinchona shrubs. The clammy heat was, if not quite unbearable, decidedly unpleasant. Bella was wiping the sweat from her brow when the drumming started. Boom. Boom-boom. Boom. Boom. Boom-boom. Boom. Boom. Boom-boom. Boom. A second drummer joined in, then a third. The jungle was reverberating to the thunder of asynchronous drumbeats. Orlov and Louis looked worried, as well they might. Suddenly, the pounding percussion patterns converged and coalesced. Bella burst out laughing. It was the Cadburys gorilla tune, an ensemble rendition of In the Air Tonight, minus the vocal accompaniment. Chuckling, Orlov and Louis exchanged silly-me glances, embarrassed by their cowardice in the face of Phil Collins. The din was coming from a clearing up ahead. Emboldened, they inched forward and, easing a succulent aside, found themselves staring into a natural amphitheatre. An enraptured gathering of wild beast brands, ranging from the fashionable Ecko rhino and the Onitsuka sneakers tiger to the rampant Peugeot lion and the elegant Cartier leopard, was scattered around the periphery. The drumming gorillas sat on individual risers, though they werent the centre of attention. An enormous pyre of promotional material flyers, coupons, posters, shelf-talkers, cut cases, dump bins, till receipts beyond number filled a vast pit in the middle of the clearing. In front of it stood A Bathing Ape, the high priest of high fashion, brandishing a burning brand. The drumming stopped. The crowd held its breath. With a blood-curdling yell, Bape plunged the torch into the pyre. A sheet of flame shot into the night sky as a great roar erupted from the mammalian multitude. The trumpeting of Elephant washing powder, a big, big brand in west Africa, must have carried for many, many miles. Advent, Orlov whispered. Its obviously a marketing version of the Christian festival, which anticipates the second coming of Christ the Redeemer at the end of time. Louis was less than impressed. Looks like a bog-standard brandfire to me. Ssssshhhhh, Bella hissed. Lets just watch and wait. If ACMEs behind this, Mr Kipling might make an appearance. Then what? Louis grumbled, understandably irritated by Orlovs exhibition of erudition at such an inappropriate moment. Ssssssshhhhhh. The crowd pushed back to the edge of the grassy bowl, as the ceremony proper commenced. This was no ordinary ceremony, however. It was a devout demonstration of marketing Darwinianism. It was nothing less than a battle of the brands! The first brand bout was between Cobra beer and Woodpecker cider. Unfortunately, it didnt last long. Fast as the cobra was, terrifying as its hooded features appeared, the poisonous snake was no match for the fast-moving woodpecker. Its razor-sharp bill and speed-of-light head action decapitated the venomous serpent before it had a chance to strike. A great shout of glee rose up

from one group of onlookers, as a groan escaped from the majority, those whose side-bets were misplaced. Without further ado, the corpse of the cobra was removed from the ring. Then another brand character contest kicked off. It was a potentially attractive tag wrestling encounter, the Kangol and Quantas kangaroos versus the WWF panda and the Coca-Cola polar bear. This also ended on a disappointing note, since the panda was a pacifist by nature and the polar bear was too kind-hearted to deliver killer blows. The high-kicking kangaroos ripped them apart. The panda tried to surrender but got no mercy from Kangol. The polar bear burst asunder, with a sickening sound of escaping gas, when Quantas jagged claws pierced its paunchy abdomen. Booing derisively, because a lot of money had been lost, the rowdy crowd was getting restless. Luckily, the third bouts combatants were more evenly matched, Mr Peanut on one side Ms Chiquita Banana on the other. In his top hat and monocle, Mr Peanut didnt look like a fighter, much less a sucker-punching southpaw. But with decades of experience and not a little guile, he ducked and weaved and bobbed and milked the crowd by checking his fob. His exhibition was more rope-a-dope than Marquis of Queensbury. Miss Banana, meanwhile, circled slowly searching for an opening. Ingeniously, she started dancing, belly dancing, shaking her slinky hips and wiggling her shapely booty, all the while gyrating like her life depended on it. Which of course it did. Peanut paused, removed his monocle and, pretending it had steamed up, proceeded to polish the eyepiece ostentatiously, to the crowds delight and a fresh round of frantic betting. Mr Peanut, however, had no answer when Miss Banana played her ace. She started peeling off her skin, slowly, seductively, exposing the firm white flesh beneath. Transfixed, her opponent was ripe for a karate chop to the throat, a quick kick in the knackers and ruthless application of the infamous Fyffes death grip. As Mr Peanut breathed his last, the Boudica of branding burst into her muchloved jingle, Chiquita bananas taste the best/And are the best for you. Intoxicated on the heady scent of victory, she encouraged the crowd to join in. The response was lukewarm, a sure-fire indicator that sizeable sums had been lost on the contest. Aghast at the brand butchery, Bella asked her companions for an explanation. Orlov argued that it was Adtonement, an attempt to propitiate the gods of western capitalism gods who were deserting their true believers in the deepening economic downturn with appropriate acts of brand sacrifice and marketing mortification. Louis reckoned it was a fertility festival akin to Mardi Gras or Rio carnival, with fighting as part of the fun. As Mr Peanut RIP was carried off the battlefield with efficient dispatch, Bella concluded that Louis was right. They couldnt remove Peanuts body quickly enough. Clearly, the next brando-a-brando match-up was set to be a ripsnorter, the main event, the cruiserweight climax of the card. The drums started up again. The gorillas segued into We Will Rock You rhythm, as the onlookers went ape. The great fire was reaching its apotheosis, a 48sheet poster of living breathing flame. Howling with bestial abandon, the crowd parted on either side of the rough and ready arena. The first combatant strode in imperiously. Tony the Tiger was wearing an ankle-length dressing gown, all shimmering silk and sparkling sequins. His followers showered him with confetti-

like Frosties, as he threw a flurry of furry punches at an imaginary opponent. Theyre great, he roared. Youre great, his fans responded in kind. Theyre great, he shouted again. Youre great, they roared back at him. He raised his mighty forepaws aloft, acknowledging their undying support. A brand icon for decades 45 years and counting Tony was the undefeated heavyweight champion of the knock-em-dead catchphrase. Except there was a new catchphrase in town. Oh yes, the shout went up. Oooohhh yes, the cry went up once more. Oooooohhhhh yessssssss, it rose for the third time, as Churchill the Bulldog bounded into the clearing, ready for several rounds of brand-to-brand conflict. He was wearing a great leather dog collar, studded with massive, sharply-pointed spikes, which made him look like some kind of canine S&M addict. Supremely confident, he waggled his signature cigar, flashed V for Victory signs and cheekily adjusted his enormous rubber jockstrap as he swaggered toward his brand name nemesis. Theyre great, Tony bellowed into Churchills pugnacious face. Oh yes? the British bulldog replied dryly, to the delight of his aficionados. Well see about that. Infuriated by the trumping of his trademark turn of phrase, Tony tore off his cape and squared up to the smirking financial services spokespooch. Not without difficulty, he was held back by his seconds, then steered to the edge of the animal circle, where the big cat renewed his spitting, snarling defiance. Flicking a reverse V sign at the champion, Churchill casually removed his collar and handed the dummy cigar to a second, chortling quietly to himself. Hed won the first round and they hadnt even started. Boom-boom, the drums thudded in unison. Boom-boom, they thudded once more. Boom-boom-boom, they thudded a third time, only to fall eloquently silent. The antagonists stared at each other, on opposite sides of the surrogate ring, then hunkered down like sumo wrestlers, raising and lowering their legs and slapping their thighs alternately. Tonys watered silk shorts shone in the firelight. Churchills moulded jockstrap creaked ominously. The crowd held its breath. The makeshift arena was so quiet that the crackling of the burning money-off vouchers could be heard from Bella, Louis and Orlovs vantage point. With a spine-tingling roar, the combatants rushed toward each other at top speed. Many in crowd covered their eyes as the belligerent brand icons charged across the clearing, getting closer and closer with every gigantic stride. Some yelped and howled in fearful apprehension, as an irresistible force and an unstoppable object seemed set to collide. Tony suddenly crouched and cupped his front paws. Churchill planted his hind paw in the padded cup and was hurled upward, where he somersaulted twice then landed on Tonys shoulders, stubby forelegs outstretched. They were working together! It was a double act!! Grabbing Churchills ankles, Tony held the bulldog steady and strutted around the arena, as Churchill flexed his pecs and struck muscle-man poses. They went into an obviously well-rehearsed routine of tumbles and rolls and back-flips and somersaults, each taking it in turn to support the other. It was a dazzling feat of animal gymnastics, on a par with Barnum & Baileys circus in its heyday. It wasnt what the audience was expecting, admittedly. Quite the

opposite. But, once the shock had passed, and the realisation dawned that both sides had won, contrapuntal shouts of Theyre great Oh yes echoed from every side of the clearing. It was a brilliant double bluff, a creative confounding of customer expectations that bordered on genius. Theyre great, Churchills supporters called. Oh yes, Tonys fans reciprocated. And so the show continued tumbling tiger and acrobatic bulldog, working as one driven by the tom-tom beat of the silverbacks. Until it was rudely interrupted. Tony and Churchill may have cheated death, but death wouldnt be thwarted. Old Father Time wanted a blood sacrifice and a blood sacrifice he received. The M & M candies, malevolent Blue and mean-spirited Green, emerged from the jungle, dragging a recalcitrant creature between them. They pulled it to the brink of the fiery pit, where A Bathing Ape stood silently, head bowed, seemingly deep in prayer. The flames had all but disappeared but the glow from the ashes was fearsome. The scene was so brightly lit, in fact, that the brand band recognised the prisoner. Its Mustapha, Bella gasped, as the hard-hearted candies prepared to hurl the doughty dung beetle into the glowering inferno.

Part VII

Brands Can Only Get Better

Chapter Nineteen

Keep It Simples, Stupid

Decisive action was needed. A rescue had to be mounted. One of the few good brands theyd met on their quest was in serious trouble, and Louis owed him big time. Mustapha Midden wasnt the biggest brand in the world quite the opposite but there were more important things in commercial life than market share, advertising spend, return on equity, trade mark registration and intellectual property rights. Brand loyalty for one. Trust for two. Reciprocity for three. You scratch my brand, Ill scratch yours. Louis flexed his muscles for battle. Its time to scratch, rip, tear and claw. Lynxes were hellcats when riled and Louis was really riled. Spitting, in fact. Orlov placed a restraining forepaw on his brave companions broad shoulder. Youre totally outnumbered. Full frontal assault wont help him. Theres got to be a better way. Weve got to use our smarts. Smarts, schmarts, Louis said, sounding awfully like the unspeakable Axeman. Im going in. His declaration was more Wash and Go than Lock and Load. However his intentions were good, as always. In the centre of the glade, A Bathing Ape stood stock still, arms outstretched above his head, feet planted firmly apart. On the ground before him knelt muttering Mustapha, shoved there by belligerent Blue and gloating Green, the dark-hearted candies. Despite his fetters, and the gaolers on either side, the dung beetle remained defiant. The high primate ignored the insolence. Instead, the marketing muezzin poured out a prayer of supplication, propitiation, solicitation, benefaction, expiation, execution, necessary sacrifice. A votive offering was required in return for the deitys deliverance. Bape finished its propitiatory ritual with a fearsome howl, then motioned for the M&Ms to manoeuvre Mustapha to the lip of the fiery furnace. He never got there. Kaa-boom! An almighty ear-shattering, ground-shaking explosion interrupted the apes climatic entreaty. Crraacck! A flash of intense illumination turned the dark dell into dazzling daytime, as a biblical bolt of lightning accompanied the apocalyptic clap of thunder. The rain came down in torrents, steeltipped spears of precipitation. Everyone was soaked in seconds. The firepit fizzled out, with much steaming and hissing. The agog crowd didnt quite know what to do, since the brand gods had spoken and they werent saying nice things. Quickly recovering from the meteorological onslaught, Bella realised that now was their time, their time was now. Hurry, hurry, she urged. Go. Go. The trio tore into the glade, cutting through the cowering advertising characters. They shoved A Bathing Ape aside, to his evident astonishment, heaved the hard-shelled candies into the still-smouldering bonfire, where their dont melt in the hand claim couldnt help them, and, after grabbing their friend by the flailing feelers, made a beeline for the encircling foliage.

The brand animal congregation remained in a state of shock. A few minutes earlier theyd been celebrating the co-branding antics of Tony the Tiger and Churchill the Bulldog, but their reason to believe had collapsed in an instant. Visibility was obliterated too, thanks to the lashing fallout from the thermo-nuclear cloudburst. Bella ignored the bad weather. Having braved much worse in the wilds of Adarctica, she knew exactly what to do. The penguin ordered Orlov and Louis to sprint for The Diary Queen, using their natural speed to best advantage. Electrified, they took off for the Cokeonoco far below. Trusting that the torrential rain had lubricated the muddy access path to sufficient slide n glide consistency, Bella then settled Mustapha on her back, told him to hold on for dear life and started to toboggan downhill. Twirling her flippers to overcome the initial inertia, she felt her speed pick up slowly, slowly, slowly, faster, faster, faster... Accelerating rapidly as the ground fell away, Bella slalomed between the trees, past the bushes, around the saplings, through the undergrowth, mowing down climbers and creepers and ferns and fungi en route. She skipped over the bumps, plunged into the hollows and took off on several occasions, to Mustaphas abject terror. It was alarming. It was exhilarating. It was adrenalising. It was the experience of a lifetime. It was the way to go. Fast as Louis and Orlov were on the flat and faster still as they hurtled downhill, on the pell-mell point of losing control they were no match for a tobogganing penguin. Bella was first back to The Diary Queen. She roused Birdseye from his slumber. He fired up the temperamental steam engine. Their getaway tub was soon primed and ready, but there was no sign of Orlov and Louis. Anxious seconds turned into worrying minutes, as the unsettling sound of hotfoot pursuit carried through the trees and the meerkat and lynx failed to appear. Birdseye yelled that it was time to cast off. But he was no longer in command. Another minute passed, then another. Still no sign. A bloodcurdling roar bounced off the rainforest canopy, indicating that Tony himself was on their trail. Suddenly, Louis burst through the bushes, carrying a comatose meerkat in a firemans lift. He leapt on board with an enormous bound then collapsed to his knees, panting and gasping and coughing and heaving. Orlov had run head first into a kapok tree and, nothing if not loyal, Louis returned for his concussed companion. Birdseye reversed out of the inlet. They set off at top speed, which was next to no speed, with a view to getting as far away as possible before Churchill the indomitable acquired their scent. The old salt tried to turn downstream, since the flowd be in their favour. But Bella overruled him, as downstream was exactly what their pursuers would expect. Upriver was the way to go. Reluctantly, Captain Birdseye complied. He said that she was making a big mistake, because the headwaters were almost unexplored and extremely dangerous. Goldman Sachs, the fearsome vampire squid, was reputed to reside upriver. Bella wasnt listening. Talk to the paw. Point the prow thataway. The isabelline penguin regretted her decision come the dawn, which broke cold and damp. When Birdseye revealed that hed never navigated beyond Treasure Trove Cove thats as far as anyone ever went there was hell to pay. Hell in the

form of sandbanks, shallows, rapids, eddies, whirlpools, plus a veritable plague of Lacoste, Izod and analogous alligators, which slid off the muddy banks with mastication in mind. Simonez turtles popped up from time to time, top-hatted and smirking, as did the rather less welcome Hot Tuna barracuda. A strange strain of fish, brightly coloured with cheap plastic scales, also appeared in overwhelming numbers, rising to the surface for flies before disappearing into the depths. The captain said they were Crocs, a non-native species that were doing to footwear brands and fashion generally what cane toad frogs did to the Adstralian outback some years back. If the dawn was dank and the going increasingly difficult, the good news was that Orlov was none the worse for his collision. If anything, it knocked some sense into and condescension out of him. He apologised to Louis for his high-handed behaviour hitherto. The lynx laughed it off, adding that the meerkat would have gone back for him had he banged his head on a branch. Bella wasnt so sure. But she said nothing, as her brain and brawn bonded with a high fore, which is the animal equivalent of a high five. The river got narrower and narrower, the jungle less and less dense, as The Diary Queen struggled upstream. Signs of hunter-gatherer agriculture were everywhere apparent, not least when a tribe of pygmies assembled by the bank and stared at the passing craft in silence. Birdseye reckoned they were the Gold Dust boys, a once-famous make of soap powder whose scrubs-anything-clean claim was deemed so grotesquely racist that it damaged the brand irreparably. He added, apropos of nothing, that he never laid a fish finger on the cabin boys in his care and all that stuff about exposing his cod balls was boloney. Bella didnt know what he was talking about. A more congenial encounter occurred in the early afternoon, when Uncle Ben was spotted fly-fishing in a secluded pool. They stopped, exchanged greetings and, after asking what was biting, chewed the fat about brand longevity. Stereotyping and racial insensitivity notwithstanding, Uncle Ben was a paradigm of consistency, of conviction, of continuing with the same basic proposition, rather than pursuing ephemeral marketing fads. Neither overextended nor underadvertised, Uncle Ben was an authentic brand icon. Understandably, Aleksandr was in awe of the master. Mustapha felt hed finally found a role model. He launched into the harrowing story of his return to Flea-Bay Bazaar, where P&Gs goon squad picked him up, shook him down, and whisked him off to meet his doom. Uncle Ben felt the dung beetles pain. Hed been there. Hed suffered the slings and arrows too. He was a Mars Inc. brand. He knew what P&G were capable of. But anything that doesnt kill you They listened in silence, which was a first for Mustapha, then asked why some brands endure and others dont. Ben explained that time runs differently for brand managers and brand consumers. The former get fed up with catchphrases and campaigns long before the latter do, since they are exposed to them more frequently. Managers insist on refreshing the brand when consumers are still invigorated. CEOs need to chill a little. Brands should run on consumer time rather than corporate time. He was thinking of starting a slow brands movement, similar to slow food, slow travel, slow parenting and so on. But not right away.

As the brand band slid upstream, there was a growing sense that ACME lay ahead of them. Not far ahead of them, either. There were no signposts to speak of. There was no hard evidence to support the hypothesis. There were only sights that got stranger and stranger and thus suggestive of an impending epiphany. At a bend in the river, they spotted Strider, the Johnnie Walker whisky character, strolling armin-arm with the Beefeater Gin guardsman, deep in conversation about a possible joint venture. More astonishing still was the flock of Toilet Ducks that flew in formation overhead, dripping their bleachy balm on the razed rainforest beneath, where 99% of global germs were known to accumulate (and must be eradicated on principle). A cawing convocation of eagles American Airlines, Barclays Bank, Smirnoff Vodka and Eagle Star Insurance among others swept down on the unsuspecting ducks, who scattered with much screeching of slogans and honking of BOGOFs. The oddest sight of all greeted them several oxbows beyond. At the end of an eyot in the centre of the stream, a gigantic glistening figure sat silently. It looked like an enormous alabaster statue, a superhuman snowman, the marketing equivalent of Rio de Janeiros Christ the Redeemer. Its the Pillsbury Doughboy, Louis said, in an awestruck voice. Jeez, hes really let himself go. No, no, Bella contradicted. We saw the doughboy at Betty Crockers. He looked in pretty good shape. Thats definitely not Doughboy. Heaven help us, Orlov gasped. Its Bibendum! Mustapha was none the wiser. Who? Bibendum. The Michelin Man. Arguably the worlds foremost advertising icon, bigger than the Marlboro Man. Hes big, all right, Mustapha said. Who ate all the tyres? Louis added unkindly, though not inaccurately. The bloated hulk wasnt so much Jabba the Hutt as Pizza the Hut. Orlov laughed at his boon companions cruel joke, even though he knew he shouldnt. Five star restaurants, more like. He doles out the awards, dont forget. That kind of gourmandising takes its toll. Look at the size of It cant be Bibendum, Bella snapped, not liking where conversation was going given her own ample avoirdupois. Ive seen his photos in the ads. Hes a slim athletic guy with good muscle definition. Hes a touch steroidal maybe but not a big bloated blob. Photoshop, Louis sighed. Theyre all at it nowadays. The Axemans an ugly sonofa, believe me. But with Snow Leopard software and an Apple Mac, you can airbrush a pigs ear into an A-lister. No sweat. Those Ronald McDonalds couldve done with a touch of the airbrush, Orlov quipped. They were airbrushed, Louis continued. With a flame thrower! Understandably, Mustapha looked confused. Louis and Orlov fell about, like little boys playing truant. Bella asked Birdseye to stop the boat. He throttled back and, allowing for the onrushing current, held her steady in the centre of the stream, right in front of the distended inner tube. She shouted up at the gone-to-seed gourmand, asking after his welfare, wondering if they could do anything for him, run a few errands. The overweight icon said nothing. The remains of a massive

vampire squid lay on the ground beside him, as did the bones of an entire Red Lobster restaurant. I think its a statue, Orlov said. It isnt alive. But it wasnt. And it was. A huge sigh escaped from the pneumatic brand personality, hissing like a deflating cross-ply. A tear rolled down its undulating cheek, ravaged by fine wines, high times and incipient arteriosclerosis. His bloodshot and liverish eyes took in the questing voyagers, but he still said nothing. The blimp burped instead. Aware of the brand icons geographical acumen maps and guidebooks were his most profitable sideline Bella asked if ACME was around here somewhere. The blob nodded imperceptibly and signalled over his shoulder with a swollen thumb. Smiling appreciatively, they waved goodbye to the overstuffed superstar and set sail once more. Before long, the mist descended. White to start. Red thereafter.

Chapter Twenty

All Your Brands Are Belong to Us

The mist was thin at first, tiny wisps of condensation along the banks and among the bushes. As The Dairy Queen crawled ever-sourcewards, the fog thickened steadily from tendrils through curtains to duvets then snowdrifts. Birdseye was all for calling a halt but Bella urged him on. ACME was within her grasp. She could sense it, smell it, touch it, practically. Taking command once more, she posted Orlov and Louis in the prow, where their extra-sharp eyesight might come in handy. Mustapha Midden found himself behind the steering wheel, gripping it for grim death with all six legs. Bella stood in the forecastle, such as it was, while Birdseye cowered in the cabin, crossing himself obsessively and mumbling about brand retribution. No good will come of this, he gurned from time to time. But Bella wasnt listening. She had other things to attend to. A humming sound started up to starboard, gradually increased in intensity then rose and fell rapidly, like an air raid siren. Another loud hum struck up to port. It sounded similar to an angry wasp in a bottle. Strobe lights flashed and flickered, their intensity softened through the gaseous gauze. They moved around above them, pulsing intermittently, sometimes to port, sometimes to starboard, sometimes arcing across the sky, with an oscillating thrum and a crackle. The fug literally vibrated at one point, as a disco ball of swirling light danced and cavorted dead ahead. What do you reckon, Orlov? Bella called. Area 51, he shouted, anxiety etched on his aristocratic features. Were entering Aliens country. Close encounters. UFOs. Little green men. Brand abduction. More in hope than expectation, Bella bellowed back. Advertisers have been using extraterrestrials for years, right? Since the 1950s, at least. Theres nothing to worry about. A whooshing sound passed overhead at extremely high velocity. It came so close inches rather than yards that Mustapha ducked down instinctively. Maybe back in the good old days, Orlov yelled over the ear-throbbing pulse. But in this day and age, when the advertising universe is in turmoil and its every brand spokesdroid for itself, who knows their otherworldly intentions? Fearing a War of the Brands scenario, with Disney death rays and Pixar proton torpedoes, Bella ran frantically through her memory banks, desperately trying to recall alien advertising characters. There was Quisp, the propeller-headed breakfast cereal pitchcreature. There were those wassup spouting extra-terrestrials in the spoof Budweiser ads. There was that Captain Ric character who sported a Kelloggs Ricicles space suit. There were those for-mash-get-Smash aliens, who cackled at earthlings attempts to peel potatoes. There was Googles Android software icon, which looked like CP3Os studious kid sister. There was Buzz bloody Lightyear, whos sold sufficient tie-in merchandise to stretch from here to infinity and beyond. She couldnt think of any more. Her brain had gone numb. Maybe a tractor beam had got her already. Maybe it was Birdseyes jabbering and

yammering that prevented rational thought. Shut him up, someone, she shouted to Louis. Please. Orlov did the needful. An intense stare, a few quick passes and Birdseye was sleeping like the Gerber baby, sucking his thumb. Louis reached out a gimme-one paw. They highfored like life-long friends and threw in a furry butt bump. Smirking despite their perilous situation, the meerkat resumed his position in the prow, where the fog buckled and bulged before them. Hush, Bella hissed. Spectral silence reigned. The buzzing had stopped. The landing lights had moved on, presumably to another planet. The lull didnt last, though. A dull rumble roared ahead. It got louder and louder. The previously placid surface of the Cokenocos upper reaches bobbled and bounced beneath the boat. They could feel a spritz of hissing spray hitting their faces. Bella licked the side of her beak. I know where we are, she called, though her voice was almost drowned in the thundering cacophony. This is Fanta Falls. Birdseye mentioned them to me yesterday. Said they were legendary. Theyre impassable, allegedly. Her companions didnt doubt it, as a wall of fizzy water, eyeball-melting orange in hue, emerged through the mist immediately ahead. This is where we get off. With a natural nautical flair, Mustapha Midden steered the boat to the bank. They stepped on to land that would have been dry if it werent for the cascades collateral spray. Louis made to tie the tub up, but Bella said no, let her go. Shell drift back downstream of her own accord. The captainll come round soon enough. Hes done his duty by us. Theres no point persecuting him any further. A brand should never be taken out of its comfort zone. Extensions arent a good idea by and large. Brand stretch is bad news. Louis didnt disagree. At the side of the falls, they spotted a steep flight of stone steps, cut into the living rock. Without pausing for breath, they mounted purposefully. Orlov and Louis scampered ahead. Bella helped Mustapha as he scrambled and scuttled, feelers flailing, legs lashing. Before long, he gave up, broke out his wings and took flight, flitting ahead of the astonished posse. The clammy mist gradually thinned as they climbed, flight by flight, to the tableland above. Eventually, the foursome emerged into bright sunshine, where a breathtaking sight greeted them. A vast orange sodafall, bubbling and fizzing, plunged into the fog-bound abyss, like an outpouring from an immense glass bottle. Above the cascade stood a gigantic copper statue of the Jolly Green Giant, one verdigried foot on either side of the Fanta Falls, supersized arms akimbo on his superhuman hips. The only thing missing was a pre-recorded Ho, Ho, Ho. If not quite the Colossus of Rhodes, it was definitely the colossus of brands. The epitome, rather. The acme, even. Bellas band were close, very close, though it took ten to fifteen minutes before they could tear themselves away from the Fanta Falls viewing platform. Several flights of stairs later, they found themselves on a bare limestone plateau, its bleached bones of stones interspersed with gorse bushes, bracken patches, bramble

bunches and hardy karst grasses. An enormous geodesic dome nestled among the clints, grikes and runnels ahead. As they drew closer to the structure, it became clear that the translucent dome was not a Spaceship Earth facility, let alone the secret love child of Epcot Centre and Eden Project. It was a university, a new university, nothing less than BrandLand University College. The Academy Country Mammal Education campus, to be precise. Bella was bewildered. Every indicator suggested that their final destination was hereabouts, not least the ever more iconic array of brand spokespersons: Uncle Ben, Beefeater, Bibendum. The Jolly Green Giant was as good as it got. According to a poll in Time magazine, he was one of the top three advertising characters of all time. But a university? In Academy Country? ACME, surely, concerned itself with the day to day management of advertising characters. It had no time for academic theorising or hypothesis testing. Certainly, thats the impression shed got from Jean-Marie Le Penguin and his PawPointed henchhusky. I just dont get it, she said. I imagined a busy office with frantically ringing telephones, wall-mounted day planners, personalised schedules for armies of ad characters and intense war cabinet meetings for big rebranding exercises. An academic setting just doesnt make sense. Lets track down Mr Kipling, Louis said in his live-for-the-moment manner, and then see whats what. So where do we find him? Ever efficient, Orlov scanned a nearby map of the campus, which was perched on a pair of decorative iron stanchions. Its Professor Kipling, I suspect, he said, while trying to work out where they were. The others gathered round to do likewise. Louis suggested the Students Union, since it would be full of helpful female undergraduates whod just love to show them the ropes. The Department of Agriculture caught Mustaphas eye, because it was some time since hed rolled a ball of dung and he was suffering withdrawal symptoms. Bella quite liked the look of the sports centre, which boasted an indoor ski slope that may have been artificial but was bound to be cold, cold, cold. However, Orlov voted for the central administrative block, where theyd quickly uncover Prof Kiplings current whereabouts. He was right, of course, because work always comes before pleasure at great seats of learning. Truth, too. They set off for the administrative building, a giant ivory tower slap bang in the middle of the campus, adjacent to an ornamental lake and arboretum. The groves of academe were looking particularly resplendent. Blooming cherry trees scattered their pink petals hither and yon. Close-clipped privet hedges and neatly edged flower beds, with hyacinth in aromatic bloom, bordered a maze of crazypaving walkways, which intersected and circled and cut across immaculate, ABC peacock-dotted lawns. The buildings were a mix of gothic revival, neo-classical pastiche, almost art deco, Bauhaus-brutalist bunker chic and pomo rococo a go-go. Beautiful as the buildings and grounds of BrandLand University College undoubtedly were, more beautiful still were the students. Although few in number on the campus outskirts, the crowds of alluring undergraduates thickened considerably toward the main mini-mall area and refractory facilities. As Bella and the boys strolled past, they were stuck not only by the good looks of the student

body, but also by the fact that they were indistinguishable. Every other one was Hello Kitty and the remainder hailed from the Sanrio stable of cute critters Pippo the pig, Pochacco the dog, Pekkle the duck, Picke Bicke mouse, Patapata Peppy owl My Melody rabbit and more. There was a small bunch of ugly Bagpusses in addition, though they were likely studying archaeology or sociology or similarly warped subjects that appeal to the misshapen in mind and body. Louis, if not exactly in seventh heaven, was outside its pearly gates begging St Peter to open up, a.s.a.p. He actually began barking at a giggling gaggle of shortskirted Hello Kitties, which was quite an achievement for an accredited feline. Understandably, Orlov was appalled by his companions ungentlemanly antics, while bowing in an olde-world manner and offering Lark cigarettes when a voluptuous Pandapple panda walked by. Exasperated, Bella tried to dampen their hormonal urges surely Louis should be more circumspect, especially after the Bertie Bassett business by stopping at every available campus map to check their rate of progress and re-orientate herself as necessary. Mustapha Midden started tugging on her flipper. Not him too. A dung beetle in heat doesnt bear thinking about. She looked where Mustapha was pointing. It was a nondescript sixties tower block, with a series of unsightly carbuncular extensions. BrandLand Business School was emblazoned in a sans serif font above the uninviting entrance of the claddingcovered concrete bunker. Want me to nip in and check the notice board? Bella nodded. Mustapha scuttled off at a rate of knots, disappeared into the belly of the beast, then reappeared waving excitedly. This is the place, he shouted, while holding open the heavy glass door. Excellent, Orlov sighed. At last. Hes in, Mustapha crowed. Theres a board by the door that says so. There was indeed. The names of the faculty were listed alphabetically, their presence or absence indicated by a small sliding bar. Mr Kiplings office was on the top floor. Its Mr Kipling, Bella noted. He isnt a professor after all. Theres hope for us yet. Thats a good thing. Most business academics are salt of the earth types until they get a doctorate. Actually, Orlov corrected, its more likely that hes a Mister in the medical sense. Top medics are always called Mister. Its even more elevated than Professor, a kind of inverted snobbery. Great. Bella was still grumbling as they waited for the lift to the top floor. A few Hello Kitties were scattered around the lobby, clutching clipboards and laptops and talking about overdue assignments. Louis would have volunteered to help, if Bella hadnt glared at him. He winked by way of replying, mouthing bowwow for good measure. Bella shook her head. They piled into the lift and, a few moments later, stepped onto a thickly carpeted corridor, lined with old oil paintings of distinguished cats, rats, bats and gnats in full academic regalia. Kiplings door was at the very end. They knocked politely. Enter, a melodious voice responded. Enterrrrr. Dont be bashful.

Bella looked at her companions with a will-we-wont-we expression. Orlov shrugged. Louis nodded. Mustapha twiddled his antennae inscrutably, thought about things for a second, then scuttled back down the corridor with a see-a-manabout-a-dog demeanour. Undeterred, Bella took a deep breath, raised her flipper, and pushed.

Chapter Twenty-one

Perfectly Good Fakes

Bella had never been in an academics office before. She didnt know what to expect. She imagined, somehow, that it would be filled with books and not much else. She was right on the first count, but not on the second. Books there were; hundreds of them in big leather bindings on heavy wooden shelves, which stretched from floor to ceiling. A pile also sat on an antique walnut desk in the middle of the room, though most of these were open and in use, as was an Acer Aspire laptop. It was the statues that surprised her. Statues of cats. Dozens of them, all ceramic, all silent, all staring towards the door in unsettling symphony. Most of the reproduction felines were lucky cats, the beckoning Maneki-neko of Japanese legend. But there were long chains of Russian cats, polished plaster dolls that nested Matryoshka-style, impressive clusters of Ancient Egyptian cat sarcophagi and diverse kitsch cats in sickeningly cute poses soppy faced, dewy eyed, smiling obsequiously, curled in a ball, peeping over the edge of Royal Worcester wicker baskets. The place looked like an airport shop for cat lovers. As Bella gazed around the room, she noticed that the cat motif didnt stop with statues. The office was also furnished with copious oil paintings of cats, reproductions of legendary masterpieces with cats in place of people. There were paintings by Catavaggio, Cataletto, Catstable, Pussain, Salvadore Kitty, and several others she didnt recognise. Pride of place was occupied by the Veermeows Pussy With a Pearl Earring and the Moggy Lisa, an Old Master with a weird smile that screamed got-the-cream. Before you ask, Mr Kipling said, without looking up from a mound of paperwork, the rationale for the cats collection is twofold. His voice was calm and mellow avuncular almost just like his demeanour. First, when my brand was formulated back in the 1960s, they were planning to call me Mr Kitty, then changed their minds when a Disney cartoon of The Jungle Book focussed attention on the works of Rudyard Kipling, one of whose Just So stories featured The Cat That Walked By Himself. He glanced up at this point to reveal a pair of intelligent hazel eyes behind old-fashioned tortoiseshell glasses. He appraised his visitors quickly before continuing. Second, cats are the most popular companion animal in the world by far, yet they are grotesquely underrepresented in advertising campaigns, as brand mascots, as product spokespersians, etc. Whereas dogs are everywhere, cats are discriminated against and, what few portrayals there are, are often negative. I am president of Adopt a Cat Mascot Everyone, a pussy pressure group that endeavours to push through the cast iron cat-flap. Thanks to her fathers activism on behalf of Isabellines, Bella was well used to anti-discrimination campaigns. Is that like the glass ceiling, she asked, only for cats? Smiling, Mr Kipling sat back in his leather armchair. He was wearing a threepiece herringbone suit, with black necktie and starched collar. His handlebar

moustache would have done a walrus proud while his pate wouldnt embarrass a coot with alopecia. To all intents and purposes, he was a Victorian patriarch: prim, proper, industrious, unerring. Correct, Kipling conceded, then rose to greet his visitors. He recognised Bella right away, or said he did, since his brand was once part of the Rank Hovis McDougall empire, which also included a tasty range of teatime snacks. He knew her grandfather well. Orlov, hed heard of who hadnt? though he recommended enrolling on the business schools Advertising Character Maintenance Experience, a short course on the strategic protraction skills that modern branding demands. Louis, he was less impressed by, since the brand was a lynx in name only. Neither the logo nor the packaging properly reflected its animal origins, which was disappointing given the manifold myths, narratives and allegorical attributes that adhere to lynxes piercing vision, intellectual acuity, clandestine success. Louis didnt know what Kipling was on about academics, schmacademics but he knew enough to know that the scholars assessment was fair. His brand had failed to make the most of its lynxian links. However there was a good reason for that. Politely acknowledging the great mans perspicacity, he briefly outlined his Axeman anxieties, his primal fear that Lynxs days as a freestanding brand were numbered. I see, Kipling said calmly, removing his reading glasses with a heavy sigh. As it was true confessions time, Bella blurted out her own concerns about ACME, about flipper fatigue, about the Isabelline cull ordered by Jean-Marie Le Penguin on behalf of their host. I see, Kipling said, peering at her intently. He rubbed his chin idly, lost in thought. And you, he continued, turning to Orlov, are searching for the philosophers stone of brand longevity? Unsurprisingly, the meerkats ears pricked up at the allusion to Alchemy, but he didnt get a chance to flaunt his wiki-supplied expertise. Mr Kipling was too fast for him. The patriarch pushed back his chair, rose from his desk, strode across to a pair of glass-panelled doors and ventured out on to the balcony beyond. Let me show you something, he called. The supplicants followed the guru on to the terrace, which afforded wonderful views across Academy Country. What do you see? Kipling asked, with a sweeping arc of his outstretched arm. Bella inhaled deeply. The autumnal air was deliciously cool and invigorating. She wasnt sure what he was referring to but took a stab. The Jolly Green Giant presumably is to deter unwelcome visitors, along with the space-invader sound effects. He wasnt referring to the colossus, it transpired, nor the surrounding countryside, much less the BrandLand University campus. He certainly wasnt referring to the Department of Politics, where they studied national animals like the Russian bear and American eagle. He definitely wasnt referring to the Departments of Divinity and Computer Science, where animal gods and anthropomorphic MMORPGs were the foci of attention respectively. Indeed, when the English Literature department came up for discussion, he made a derogatory remark about lit-crit meets crit-lit, abject academic analyses of beast fables like Babar, Black Beauty,

Animal Farm, Watership Down, The Gruffalo, Toad of Toad Hall, The Ugly Duckling, Call of the Wild, the Hare and the Tortoise, Beatrix Potters greatest hits. If its not any of the buildings, Bella said, what is it? The students? Smiling, Kipling waved at a group of Sanrio sugarbunnies playing Frisbee in the college gardens below. Its more intangible than that, Bella, even though our recruitment of Hello Kitties attests to the emergence of the Chinese market, a country big in population numbers and economic growth but small in brand name products, animal emblem products in particular. At a loss, Orlov and Louis exchanged bewildered glances. Hello Kitty was a Japanese brand and China was one of the most anthropocentric cultures imaginable, as the Chinese calendar bore witness. Mr Kipling caught their exchange then explained that Hello Kitty was Japans official ambassador to China and, having established a foothold in one of the worlds fastest growing markets, the cute cat brand was set to grow rapidly, thereby offsetting the blatant discrimination that felines face elsewhere. A successful cat-based brand would soon lead to more catbased brands copycat brands, as it were and as Chinese brands slowly take over the world, felines will finally emerge as the dominant brand animal. Although Bella couldnt help admiring Kiplings stealth cat strategy, he still hadnt told them what they were supposed to be looking at. She tried again. Were talking about a state of mind, I take it. In a way, Mr Kipling acknowledged. This place is full of ACMEs: Animals in Computer Mediated Environments, Animal Coloration in Medieval Embroidery, Animal Construction in Media and Entertainment, Alsatian Chamber Music Ensemble, Advertising Character Maintenance Experience, Adopt a Cat Mascot Everyone, Academy Country Mammal Education. This very building contains an Academic Centre of Management Excellence, where we study black swans, purple cows, 600 lb gorillas and apes in the corner office. What you see, Bella, is an agglomeration of ACMEs. A light went on above her head. The clouds parted. Everything became clear. So, youre saying that its a free for all, that the Advertising Character Management Executive doesnt exist? Exactly. ACME is a generic term, unprotected by copyright or trademark, used by all and sundry. There is no controlling force, let alone a committee that calls the shots. Bad as capitalism can be, BrandLand hasnt suddenly become communist. There are hundreds of ACMEs but not the all-powerful ACME you seek. Its a fake, Bella. An exceedingly good fake, Orlov quipped, to Kiplings irritation. Bella was too stunned to respond. All this way on a wild goose chase? If the Advertising Character Management Executive doesnt exist, thenthenthen She felt nauseous. She clutched the decorative railing of the balustrade, struggling to breathe deeply and keep calm. She felt her legs buckle beneath her. With a start, Bella awoke. Shed been out for hours. She was lying on a leather chaise longue, surrounded by plaster cats, all staring unblinkingly into the distance. Louis and Orlov were hovering nearby, worried looks on their faces. Mr Kipling sat beside her, a glass of hard liquor in hand. Take a sip, he said, with a

twinkle in his eye. Its Curvoisier brandy, distilled from dead dogs, or so the story goes. After several days of stress and strain and skin-of-her-teeth escapes to say nothing of unanticipated orphanhood and sudden friendicide Bella badly needed a little lift. Curvoisier delivered. The burning liquid was both ambrosial and revivifying. I could acquire a taste for that, she thought. Drowning her sorrows seemed appropriate somehow. All this way for what? What indeed. As Bella sat up, to her companions relief, Kipling returned to his desk, where he opened a drawer and brought out a couple of exceedingly good cakes. No really, Bella said, raising a flipper in protest, Im not hungry. Im okay. Another Curvoisier wouldnt go amiss, though. With a knowing look, Mr Kipling replenished her glass, then stowed the bottle away. This isnt a snack. Its a test. Do you know what these are? Orlov was in his element. Almond slices, arent they? Angel cake, perhaps? Apple pie, possibly? The guru stared at Orlov in amazement. Not many meerkats are clued up on count-line comfort foods. Fewer still are familiar with Mr Kiplings mouth-watering cake collection. Orlov held the eminent scholars stare. Im impressed, Aleksandr. Very impressed. You should consider a career in academia. We need people like you round here. However, I wasnt actually asking you to identify the products. It was a rhetorical question. Disappointed, Orlov dropped his eyes. Oh. With a good-try smile, Kipling placed the slices side-by-side in the centre of his desk. These are the essence of branding, he said. We live in a world of identical products, products that are well-nigh indistinguishable in functional terms, just like these slices of cake. Whether its cars or colas or cornflakes or computers or cellphones, products these days are pretty much of a muchness. The one thing that distinguishes them is branding. Branding is what differentiates the identikit, separates the inseparable, renders the similar dissimilar. Brand managers seize upon the slightest differences the fact, say, that this slice has a heavier dusting of icing sugar and prise products apart by advertising, emphasising, exaggerating and incessantly communicating this teeny-weeny disparity to consumers, who pay a premium for and remain loyal to the deep dust slice or whatever its called. The meerkat nodded sagely. Branding, someone once said, means making customers an offer they cant confuse. Kipling pointed a finger at his prize pupil, cocked his thumb and pulled the trigger. Exactly. Exactly. Effective branding is a very slow process, though. Its a big investment that takes time to come good. The rewards are enormous in the end, but the absence of an immediate return can prove too trying for some, especially in these days of instant results, instant returns, instant rewards, instant impactor else. Theres a guaranteed way of winning the branding battle, however. Louis couldnt take it anymore. He was starving. Hed eaten nothing since Bertie Bassetts. Mr Kipling had been moving the slices ever further apart to illustrate his thesis. One was right in front of the lynx. It looked and smelled delicious. He succumbed. He popped the pastry into his mouth and swallowed it whole.

Expecting to be lambasted for his greed, his rudeness, his flagrant disregard for interpersonal niceties, Louis struck his best cute cat pose. He neednt have bothered, because Kiplings sagacious face broke into an enormous grin. Exactly. Exactly. You swallow the competition. You establish a monopoly. You become the brand of choice by controlling customer choices. Its cheap, fast and effective, at least in the short run. I still dont see, Bella said, finishing her brandy. I think you do, Mr Kipling replied. Its as plain as the beak on your face. Wake up and smell the coffeecake, Louis added, eyeing up the other slice. I still dontof courseof courseI should have realised...

Part VIII

The Emperor Penguins New Clothes

Chapter Twenty-two

Let Us Now Praise Famous Brands

What a fool shed been! How could she have been so stupid? Le Penguins rabblerousing speech, his call for a cull of isabellines, was motivated by self-interest. Breed-interest, rather. It was a blatant power-play. It was a barefaced act of political brawn. It was a piece of macaroni misdirection, designed to make his breed the boss. Hed concocted a credible external threat, an ACME report on penguins jumping the shark, and supplied a convenient internal scapegoat, those pesky Isabellines who were polluting the brand, in order to rip up and rearrange the penguin pecking order. Although macaronis were the biggest single penguin species, long confined to offshore islands rather than the Adarctic mainland, they were much less photogenic than adlies, emperors, chinstraps or rockhoppers. Their big bushy whiskers made them look a bit mad, frankly. Accordingly, theyd been ignored by movie makers and Disney cartoonists and wildlife photographers and advertising executives, to say nothing of tourists. No wonder they felt as mad as they looked. However, Le Penguins putsch was totally unexpected, the Adarctic equivalent of Adolf Hitlers rise to power in Nazi Germany, except that the brownshirts the isabellines were the scapegoat rather than the scapegoater, the sacrificial lambs of the southern hemisphere, the suckers at the centre of it all. Bella cursed herself bitterly. She should have realised that McHusky was a plant. Management consultants are pliable at the best of times, conveniently finding the facts that their clients want found. But a dog-fronted firm of consultants was about as biddable as they come. Dogsd do anything, say anything, swear to anything, in return for a chewable shinbone and a pat on the head. Had it been McKitty, independent opinions would have been guaranteed. Le Penguin didnt want that, though. He wanted power. He wanted facts thatd support his hideous fiction, his slaughter of the innocents. The irony, as Mr Kipling ruefully explained, is that penguins are as popular as ever, despite the worldwide advertising downturn. If anything, the demand for spokescritters increases during economic Armageddon. Humans turn to comforting cartoons loveable creatures with anthropomorphic features when times get tough. Cute critters remind them of childhood. Concerned consumers revert to childlike habits when recessions bite. The 1930s and the 1970s saw a surge in anthropomorphism, as did the early 1900s, the early 1950s and the early 1990s, when western capitalism also wobbled. The demand for spokescreatures, in short, was counter-cyclical, which made Le Penguins power play all the more despicable. As did the Great Chain of Branding. Bella had never heard the expression before. But then she wasnt an expert on Academic Concepts, Models and Explanations. Humankind, according to Kipling, intuitively ranks brand ambassadors in relation to themselves. Those that are most humanlike are most popular, hence the iconicity of Marlboro Man, Michelin Man, Captain Birdseye, the loathsome Bertie Bassett. Next are bipedal animals, those that walk or stand upright

in semi-human fashion, most notably bears, penguins, monkeys, meerkats and prairie dogs. Quadrupeds like cows, cats, dogs, sheep, tigers, rhinos, crocodiles are further down the rankings, though not as far down as six-legged, eight-legged and over-eight-legged animals. There werent too many brand characters based on squids, spiders and cockroaches, much less millipedes. The Great Chain explained a lot. Bella was simultaneously appalled by Le Penguins malign manoeuvres and ashamed by her privileged status. Isabellines may have been put upon and marginalised by the denizens of Adarctica. Yet compared to dung beetles or mosquitoes, theyd been living on a pigs back. Literally, since swine were several critter castes down the chain. She recalled, with shame, the climax of Animal Farm, when the pigs started walking upright and strutting around in their all-too-human apparel. Even in BrandLand some animals were more equal than others, sadly. Beaten, Bella slumped in her chaise longue. Not only was their no ACME to appeal to, but even if there were shed have been brushed off, because penguins had done pretty well, by and large. The entire journey had been a waste of time. Worse, she couldnt return home since there was a price on the head of isabellines. Le Penguin had won. No doubt hed pick on gentoos next, or possibly rockhoppers, and gradually manoeuvre his macaronis past royals and emperors, to the top of the penguin pile, where theyd revel in the spoils of a rising endorsement market. Clearly, a similar stunt was being pulled in the ursine community by the Honey Monster and his henchbears. The massacre of the soccer mascots was probably part of the same hideous process. Recession, they say, is a time of opportunity for savvy brands, a chance to seize sizeable chunks of market share. Anarchy is advantageous for ambitious animals and few were more ambitious than Le Penguin. Branding, at bottom, is red in tooth and claw, where only the fittest and most vicious survive. Easy-going as a rule, or so she believed, Bella felt fit to be tied. Shed been a fool. Shed fallen for it. Shed been outsmarted. Shed been beaten. Well beaten. But all was not lost. Not yet. Not completely. Not by a long chalk. She glanced across at Kipling. His kindly eyes were inscrutable. She sensed he knew what to do but wanted her to work it out for herself. She turned to her companions. They were a study in contrasts. Louis seemed excited, as if hed been hit by a brainwave. Orlov looked as bad as Bella felt. I think its time to go, guys. Actually, Bella, Louis said, Ill be staying here for a while. Ive just realised that the Chinese market is totally untapped by Unilever. Lynx is a natural fit for that country and, given its size and growth prospects, I think I can pull a fast one on the Axeman. Eat my deodorised shorts! This decision, naturally, has nothing to do with the Hello Kitties hereabouts? How could you think such a thing, Bella? Though a co-branding collaboration might be worth exploring. She couldnt help smiling at the loveable lummox. She was going to miss him. However, he had his own brand to ballyhoo and Adarctica was no place for a stud bunny, where the cold would do his courtship display no favours. They hugged. Rrrrrrrrr, Bella purred. Louis rrrrrrrred in return.

Sad-faced, the meerkat watched his friends demonstration of sweet sorrow. Im staying too, he said, when Bella concluded her lynx clinch. Whys that, Aleksandr? Orlov shrugged. Ive got a lot to learn, Bella. I should have known about the ACME profusion and saved you the trouble. But I skimmed that particular entry, the way I skimmed so many others. Assam, for example. Im a fraud, Im afraid. Im a fad. Im Flat Eric 2.0. I need to knuckle down and learn about branding the hard way. The Advertising Character Maintenance Experience is a good place to start. Youll always be an Amazingly Clever Marketing Expert to me. Touched, the aristocrat crossed the room to cuddle his boon companion. Thanks, Bella. Youre too kind. However theres so much more I need to know Twenty-five letters worth, for starters, Louis laughed. Beaten to his own punch line, Orlov highfored his other bosom buddy then continued. and, in light of Mr Kiplings indication that an academic sinecure is in the offing, I think Ill focus on self-improvement. I could do with it. Much as she needed his gifts in Adarctica, not least cadged Larks when Salty Dogs took hold, Bella couldnt stand in his way. She held him tightly, before whispering in his ear, You gave Kipling the look, didnt you? Just a little one, he giggled. Thats our Simples secret. Mirthful, he pushed her back and held her at arms length, eyes shining with meerkat tears. If ever you need Yes, I know. I know. Thanks, Aleksandr. She leant forward, kissed him on the cheek and, with a come-here gesture to Louis, held her two close friends in a farewell group hug. Ever proper, she shook Mr Kipling by the hand, thanked him for his sagacious insights and asked if he knew the way to Adarctica. Was there a taxi rank or something? Oh, the great brand man chuckled, I think we can do better than that. Follow me. Pausing only to stroke a ceramic Morris the Cat for luck, he said Mr Kipling led the brand band out of his office, down the portrait-peppered corridor and into the elevator, where he chatted idly about a forthcoming guest lecture by D. Attenborough. Orlov instinctively assumed it was David Attenborough, the vaunted TV naturalist. The meerkat was mistaken. Kipling was referring to Dame Delia Attenborough, Emeritus Professor of Ethological Gastronomy at Caius College, Cambridge. She not only studied wild animals (ethology) but ate them with relish (gastronomy), as well as with sauces, pickles, condiments and preserves. Apparently, shed published a lot of TV series tie-in books, including Catch It, Clean It, Cook It, Chew It and the bestseller Trap It, Trim It, Toast It, Taste It. Her latest was called Snare It, Shoot It, Skin It, Scoff It. To his shame and embarrassment, Orlov had neither heard of Dame Delia nor skimmed her Wikipedia entry. However, he looked forward to attending her lecture, which was sure to prove provocative. He had finally found his pointy-headed vocation. Still chatting, Mr Kipling steered them across the bucolic campus, drawing their attention to the highly regarded Department of Philosophy, where Hegels Owl of Minerva took flight at dawn, and the not so highly regarded Department of

Popular Culture, where pseudo-intellectual academics studied mullets, beehives, ponytails, cow-licks and the meaning of hairstyles generally. Eventually, they emerged into a compact, bookstore- and restaurant-fringed piazza in front of a great colonnaded building modelled on the Temple of Rameses at Karnak, only with four enormous felines flanking the entrance instead of pharaohs. The entablature was capped by a gigantic acroterion in the shape of a familiar angel, Rolls Royces Spirit of Ecstasy. Under normal circumstances, Bellad be amazed by the sight of Boeing Auditorium, and even more amazed by the thought that Ecstasy herself was prepared to transport a penguin back to Adarctica at Kiplings behest. Her utter amazement, however, was reserved for the occupants of the piazza. A crowd of excited Hello Kitties had gathered around a market stall, where they were pushing and shoving and hissing and generally going crazy for the merchandise. So much so, they were virtually throwing money at the stallholder, one Mustapha Midden. Before long, the throng dispersed, many with disappointment etched on their ordinarily inscrutable faces. All sold out, Mustapha said to his astonished associates, while rubbing his legs gleefully. All six of them. I like this place. Beats the hell out of battling for business in a sweaty souk full of cut-throat competitors. Much as the triumvirate admired their leggy friends entrepreneurial flair, they were taken aback by this latest turn in his fortunes. But how? Bella asked. But where? Louis inquired. But surely, Orlov said, you need permission, raw material, suppliers, credit No less nonplussed, Mustapha stared at them askance. For big name brand icons and big-brained academic types, they hadnt a dickey bird about doing business. I found a bunch of Hello Kitty hairballs beside the communal scratching post. With six legs and a little get up and go, its fairly easy to run up a few fast fashion outfits. Many claws make light work, Orlov said. Mustapha nodded eagerly and continued in his motormouth manner. A couple of tea chests and an old blackboard for the stall; a facility for mental arithmetic and sales tax calculus; plus a bit of the old suits-you-sir smarm, lookingood-ladies palaver, bish-bash-bosh bonhomie; and, before you know it, bobcats your uncle. The fact that I ran out of stock also helps, since those who couldnt get one now want one even more. He rubbed his claws again. As Bella studied the rapidly dispersing crowd of Hello Kitties, all clutching their fashionably taupe T-shirts and sweat-tops, all with a snazzy scarab logo, she felt the glimmerings of an idea. After youve cleaned up here, Mustapha, perhaps youll pay a visit to Adarctica. No can do. Cant stand the cold. Im a desert rat, dont you know. He reached behind the makeshift counter. Ive got something for you, though. With a flourish, Mustapha pulled out a full-length, generously-hooded cat-fur cloak, plus matching undergarments. You might be needing these for your journey. Taken aback by Mustaphas generosity (and industry), Bella tried them on. They were a perfect fit. With the hood up, she looked like a sacred ibis, the great

god Thoth of Egyptian legend, the arbiter, the scribe, the all-knowing deity who created the world by his voice alone. On Kiplings call, Spirit of Ecstasy descended from the pediment, glided effortlessly around the piazza and landed lightly beside the fellowship of the brand, where she awaited further instructions. Bella hugged Aleksandr, Louis, Mustapha and Mr Kipling in turn, then mounted her de luxe conveyance. With a whirl and a wave and a swelling of tears, she was gone.

Chapter Twenty-three

Who Was That Masked Mascot?

They say that theres no ride like a Rolls Royce ride comfortable, luxurious, serene, smoother than a baby seals bottom. Legendary adman David Ogilvy once claimed that the loudest sound in a Silver Ghost was the ticking of the dashboard clock. If hed been on this Rolls, Bella thought, the loudest sound would be his screams of terror. Ogilvy hated flying, apparently. So did Bella. But after Pegasus and the Roc, she was getting used to it. She had more important things to think about than her former hatred of heights. As the Spirit of Ecstasy lifted off from Purina Piazza, a plan was fermenting in Bella Adlies fertile mind. As they flew over Fanta Falls, between the outstretched thews of the Jolly Green Giant, the offbeat plan solidified. As they followed the winding course of the Cokenoco River, with impenetrable jungle on either side, she convinced herself that it was far too crazy to succeed. As they rose to their cruising altitude, which revealed the many and varied glories of BrandLand from Best Buy Bay in the west and Dollar Tree Swamp way down south to Radio Shack Mountain Range in the east she decided to give it a go anyway. She had nothing to lose. She had lost her parents, Isaac and Nina, she had lost her best friend, Paris Humboldt, she had lost her very place in the wet n wild world, lowly place though it was. Faint heart never won fair mermaid, much less defeated fierce macaronis. It was true what they said, though. The ride in a Rolls was second to none. Nestled in the small of the back of Spirit of Ecstasy, Bella was actually beginning to enjoy herself. Ecstasy asked if everything was okay. Bella replied in the affirmative, complimenting the carrier on her build quality. They dont make em like you, anymore. Rather, the majestic mascot replied in a clipped English accent, redolent of Roedean, Girton and jolly-boating-weather at Henley Royal Regatta. Bella didnt hold that against her. She asked instead about the brand, how Rolls had slipped from a byword for British brilliance to a fusty relic of bygone days, under German ownership. We fiddled while the brand burned, she said. I myself was redesigned on countless occasions. They had me kneeling in supplication at one point. During the appeasement era, suffice it to say. Bella wasnt sure whether that was a joke or not, nor whether to offer congratulations or condolences when Ecstasy claimed to be one hundred years old. Youre looking well on it, she replied diplomatically. Yah, yah, I am, Ecstasy said immodestly, then proceeded to deliver a blowby-blow account of the torrid love affair between Lord Montagu and Eleanor Thornton that instigated the emblems creation. If not quite Anna Karenina, it was undeniably Mills and Boon. Bella was spellbound. Why, she asked, does Rolls never use her heart-warming story in its marketing strategy?

Thats where we went wrong, Ecstasy sighed, while trimming her wings to counter the unpredictable updrafts, eddies and air pockets above Victorias Secret Canyon. We emphasised our brands functional attributes, rather than the narrative that surrounds it. Sad, I suppose. Tell the tale, make the sale. Quite. All talked out, they lapsed into companionable silence as the supersmooth journey continued. After climbing over the precipitous slopes of Brandback Mountain, Ecstasy took the direct route to Adarctica, via the tempestuous Accenture Ocean and stormy KPMG Sea. Buffeted by howling winds, Bella wrapped herself ever tighter in her magnificent MuMi outfit. Whodve thought hairballs could be put to such productive use? Bezoars could be the next big thing, she mused, as they crossed the bright ice blink threshold into Adarctica proper. Almost instantly, Bella felt a chill in the air. It was wonderful. It was invigorating. It was as close to ecstasy as Ecstasy was to her. Better yet, the chill got chillier still as they flew south. Before long, it was bitter. The bitterer the better, Bella believed. It was beautiful too. She could see the Homebase Glacier, the Iceland ice shelf, the deep blue Boots crevasses, the wind-whipped blizzards out by TK Maxx Moraine, the magnificently crumpled M&S Ice Falls and, in the far distance, the sublime sculpted icebergs in Starbucks Frappuccino Sound. Bella could feel herself welling up. She was home, even though shed no home to go to. Spirit of Ecstasy started circling, looking for a suitable landing site. Bellas heart leapt when she saw her first penguin. It sank again when she realised that there were hundreds of them standing line abreast on top of Sony Playstation Plateau. It was dj vu all over again, except that there were more macaronis than before. The muster was much better organised, moreover. They stood in serried ranks in front of the podium, all equidistant, all regimented, all shouting as one. Yes, were tuft enough! they roared in response to Le Penguins demagogic incantation, Are you tuft enough? The crystal clear air carried the autocrats speech aloft. He sounded crazier than ever. The isabellines must be found! The emperors are responsible! The cunning kings are irresponsible! The rebellious rockhoppers will pay for aiding and abetting their isabelline brethren! ACME insists!! True to form, Le Penguin was playing his divide-and-conquer card. The colony had fallen under his sickening spell. Theyd bought his bogus bill of goods. Outraged, Bella screeched at the multitude below, Its a macaroni manoeuvre, a penguin power play, dont fall for it, folks. Hes a tyrant. Its a trick. Carried away on the wind, Bellas cautionary call went unheeded, though some adlies looked up. She could see them pointing their flippers. More and more turned round and faced skywards, taking in the incredible apparition above them. Bella could clearly hear the group gasp, an enormous shocked intake of breath. A murmur commenced. She couldnt make it out at first. Suddenly she could. The Ibis of the Adpocalypse. Look, look, its the Ibis of the Adpocalypse. Taken aback, Bella whirled round, expecting to see something truly horrific hovering among the scudding Adarctic clouds. Then she realised with a start that the crowd was referring to her. Perched on the back of a flying angel, wrapped up

in a great taupe cloak, head covered in an enormous cowl, with only her beak protruding, she must have been a baleful sight, straight out of a medieval bestiary by Hieronymus Bosch. The Ibis, it seemed, had finally arrived. Even Le Penguin stopped talking as the avenging boogie bird of penguins collective unconscious circled ominously overhead. He quickly regained his composure, claiming that ACME had sent a warning, a sign, a messenger, a shot across the bows. Round up the remaining isabellines or else the emperors would be forfeit, followed by those of gentoo descent, followed by Bella asked Ecstasy to set her down by the side of the stage. The entire crowd squawked in horror, as her image appeared on the giant screen. Le Penguin tried to put on a brave face, but Bella could see the fear in his rheumy eyes. He vacated the microphone. She knew she only had one shot. She took a deep breath, preparing to denounce the despot and expose his nefarious plot. It was hard to control her anger. These were the people whod killed her parents. However, as she stalked across the platform and looked out over the hollow where the rally was being held, she noticed that all the participants were wearing macaroni tufts. Emperors, chinstraps and adlies alike were wearing imitation crests ridiculous fake headdresses in homage to their leader. Were all macaronis now, they seemed to say. Bella swallowed. Denunciation was doomed. A direct attack on macaronis meant her head on a spit. She held fire. She bit her lip. She reverted to Orlovs maladroit marketing manoeuvre in Flea-Bey Bazaar. Antithesis. It was risky. Very risky. Penguin psychology was unfathomable at the best of times but relying on reverse penguin psychology was dicing with death. Seize the day, she whispered to herself. I am not the Ibis of the Apocalypse, Bella announced to the multitude, while pulling back her khaki cowl. The crowd gasped again, in delight and relief, because she was one of their own. I am, however, here on behalf of ACME. Ten days ago, I set out to speak with Mr Kipling. I went there on behalf of the Isabelline community yes, I am one of them! in order to plead for mercy. I met him. He confirmed that penguin stock had fallen precipitously. He showed me the Dog Jones Index and the Fang Seng index, both of which indicate that our species marketing standing has collapsed. Mr Le Penguin is quite right in that regard. There is no hope for us. All brands must pass. Even macaronisation wont save us. Would it were otherwise. Bella allowed her statement to sink in. She could see the confusion on Le Penguins puffy features, as he tried to work out her angle. But he couldnt interrupt. Bella had the crowd in her pocket. Inadvertently, the dictator had ceded command of his followers. There is a solution, however, a way out for us all. It requires a little lateral thinking, which of course is our communitys speciality. She paused again. Having planted the seed of hope, it needed several seconds to germinate. According to the Meow Jones Index, which is considered more objective than Dog Jones, the principal rising animals are meerkats and prairie dogs. As one creature falls in human estimation, another rises, and as dogs are more beloved than kats and their kin, the coming creature is the prairie dog.

The audience exchanged glances. Not sceptical. Not bemused. Just hoping that Bella could pull a lifesaving rabbit out of her hat of hope. She already had. Fellow penguins, I believe a rebranding exercise is in order. We should reposition ourselves aspolar prairie dogs. Penguins are pass, sadly. Prairie dogs are primed to top the popularity charts. They look a little like us. They live in large communities like us. They believe in mutual support and animal egalitarianism, like us. Bella knew that was a blatant lie but she also knew that penguins prided themselves on their ethos of equality, of togetherness, of all for one, one for all. In reality, penguin parity didnt exist. The dream did, though. Successful salespersons sell dreams not realities. Bella could sense that the crowd was undecided. They could see the attraction but inertias a powerful force. She was asking them to take a leap in the dark. She had another card to play. It was the riskiest of the lot. It was all or nothing. Theres a downside to prairie dogging, she said calmly. It means removing all tufts. Prairie dogs are tuftless. Even our most extravagantly crested species, such as our beloved macaronis, will have to depilate. This is a heavy price, I know, but the rewards are enormous. There was complete silence for a second. Bella could hear the sea lions barking on the beach beneath Sony Playstation Plateau, as the gathering made up its mind. Suddenly, a huge roar of approval rent the air. No more tufts. No more hairpieces. No more macaronisation. The old order would re-establish itself. Kings could be kings, emperors emperors, royals royals. The blackfoots went bananas. The gentoos jumped for joy. Playful as always, the rockhoppers formed huge penguin pyramids, even though their natural crests would have to go too. Having won over the doubters, Bella explained that prairie dogs were tan coloured, a little like isabellines. Fear not, though, I know someone who can supply prairie-doggish outfits at a very reasonable price. She dropped her cloak to reveal her MuMi body suit, complete with stylish scarab logo. After ten days of enforced dieting and extra-vigorous exercise, she looked incredible. I want my MuMi, the audience shouted. I want my MuMi. I want my MuMi. Mmmm, Bella thought, sounds like Mustaphas got himself a slogan. Victorious, she turned away from the podium. Bristling with rage, Jean-Marie Le Penguin looked daggers at her. Ill get you for this, you isabelline bitch. Not today you wont. Today is my day, asshole. Your despicable band can go back to the boondocks, where you belong. And take your tufts with you. He glared murderously. Every prairie dog has its day. Enjoy it, because Ill be back. They also say that prairie dogs return to their own sick. But with a sick slimeball like you, Ill make an exception. Catch you later, critter. Dont cull us, well cull you.

Chapter Twenty-four

Love the Skin Youre In

The euphoria was wonderful while it lasted. Except it didnt last long. After receiving the congratulations of the Adarctic colony even the emperors deigned to speak with her and after recounting an edited version of her adventures to all who asked, Bella Adlie was left alone on the platform. Alone with her thoughts. Thoughts of her late parents. Thoughts of her dead friend. Thoughts that shed no one to love and care for her. Thoughts that although she was the centre of attention, shed never felt so lonely. The adrenaline that kept her going during the past ten days, was draining away inexorably. For ever. She didnt belong anymore. She never really did, but really didnt now. Still, she had a job to do. Pushing through the prairie dog putsch would take time and effort. It was unnecessary, admittedly, since penguin popularity had never been higher, according to Mr Kipling. Demand was likely to increase rather than decrease. As Orlov once informed her at inordinate length, the 1930s were the golden age of anthropomorphism Cheeta, Rin Tin Tin, Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, King Kong and the great recession of the 21st century was going the same way. Pixar and Dreamworks, mashups and graphic novels, Stuart Little on the one hand, Sean the Sheep on the other. As the great 21st century recession bit deeper and deeper and peoples daily lives got more and more desperate, they would increasingly turn to friendly furry faces. Finny too. Humankind needs to escape from time to time, Orlov had said. Akin to chained animals in their phone- and laptop-equipped cubicles, they dreamed dreams of freedom. Defanged and prettified critters represented freedom for many humans along with lottery wins and the like and astute marketers built brands that promised packaged freedom, be it the iPod, the X-Box or escape movies like Over the Hedge. True, they plundered the animal kingdom to provide this ephemeral promise. The cuter the critter, the more they exploited it. However, the way to cope with this was not to make a fuss about animal rights, trampled on though they were, or to complain about stereotyping, prevalent though pigeonholing was, but to make the most of the marketing opportunity. Where theres muck theres brands. Bella tried to shake off such venal thoughts. Look on the bright side, she told herself. Le Penguins flippers had been temporarily clipped, if not his totemic tufts. The prairie dog craze was unlikely to last, but if it rehabilitated isabellines and helped bond an embittered community a community that had succumbed to the macaronis attempt to exploit recessionary fears for their own foul ends then the PDF (prairie dog fad) would have achieved its purpose. In the meantime, there were MuMis to move. With the aid of Snow Leopard and the remaining Linux technicians, all adlies keen to assist their mottled

deliverer, she Skypied Mustapha, who was hard at work on his furballs. I hope you realise, she chided, that there are forty million penguins down south who are desperate to get hold of MuMi outfits. I hope you realise, Mustapha countered, that there are forty million cats up north, all desperate to cough up furballs for money. And any number of laboratory rats who are happy to work in my factories, since conditions are a lot better than the ones theyre used to. Nice to know youre an enlightened employer, Mustapha. When youve shoved as much dung as I have, Bella, you appreciate that theres got to be a better way. You cant create a brand called MuMi and be a bad boss. Mummies are special. Mummies mean a lot, especially to those without them. Detecting the anguish in his companion penguins voice, Mustapha changed the subject. Ill be needing agents, you know. Theres no way Im freezing my feelers off in Adarctica. I was thinking of hiring isabellines, because they already embody the brand. However, Ill be needing a master franchise holder and a sales territory supervisor, ideally someone with a flair for logistics. Ill be passing on P&G, suffice it to say. Bella immediately thought of Ecstasy, sadly underemployed yet still unsurpassably magnificent. Logistics, many maintain, is the unsung key to business success and a Rolls Royce distribution network was necessary to support the MuMi brand. Ill work on it, Mustapha. Goody! Gotta go, darling. Air kiss, air kiss. Ciao. With a smile of admiration, Bella reached to disconnect her entrepreneurial pal. Hed been in the business less than two days and already he was a preening queen beetle. Laughing, she said her fashionista farewells, thanked the Linux adlies and headed for the edge of the LG Glacier. Sony Playstation Plateau was emptying rapidly as the happy penguins dispersed to their rookeries, gabbling all the while about the days unforgettable events, discussing how ludicrous theyd looked in their macaroni hair extensions and dreaming of their designer MuMis. Bella was all alone. She stared over the edge of the glacier. The sun was low in the sky. Long shadows extended across X-Box Bay. Evening, such as it was, was drawing in. On a whim, Bella decided to pay a visit to her late parents nest. It was likely to be re-occupied by now but there might be a keepsake lying around. Perhaps she could rest up there for a few hours. She had a busy time ahead of her. It was time to pay her final respects, then move on to a bright brand future as a prairie dog proselytiser. She started for the ice-steps to the beach below. The crevasse caught her eye. Was it less than a fortnight since shed launched herself into the chasm, with only Pariss pink bodysuit to protect her? She shook her head, smiling at the strangely distant memory. Actually, the ride was really rather thrilling. She might have enjoyed it if it werent for her panic-stricken desire to beat the emperors to the beach. She checked her MuMi ensemble, wondering if it could withstand a chute shoot. She felt the material with a flipper. Seemed pretty stout. Clothes had to be hard-wearing in Adarctica and, if there were problems with build quality, Mustapha needed to know sooner rather than later. She glanced around. No one was looking. There wasnt a sinner in sight, let alone satanic macaronis.

Weeeeeeeeee. Bella dived head-first into the void. Then instantly regretted her foolhardiness, her death wish. But only for a second. Shed forgotten how fast it was. Shed also forgotten it got faster and faster with every twist and turn and chute and schuss. She hurtled round bends, howling. She corkscrewed like crazy, screaming. She bounced over bumps several times, shrieking with alarmed laughter. She might even have looped the loop on occasion, but was far too fearful to care. Despite her abject terror, punctuated by periods of blind panic, the plummeting penguin couldnt help but notice the sheer beauty of the runaway rollercoaster ride. The kaleidoscopic colours, where the angled sunlight refracted through the layers of compressed ice, were incredible to behold. Just as striking was the ever-deepening shade of blue as she plunged ever-further, ever-faster into the cleated cleft. Pale Tiffany blue to start, it descended through IBM Blue, BMW Blue, Pepsi-cola Blue, Deutsche Bank Blue and Bombay Sapphire Gin Blue, all the way to the dark heritage blues of Zara and Old Navy. Bellas awestruck admiration was short lived. The previous ride was coming back to her. All of a sudden, she remembered the wall of death, the great divide, the precipitous final plunge, the warp-factor slide into the sea, across the bay, past slackjawed, slow-witted leopard seals. Alarm bells ringing, she wondered if MuMis were waterproof. Go faster, unquestionably; water-resistant, no way. Waterlogged, more like. A sheet anchor, more like. A death sentence, if theres snacking seals or peckish orcas around, as there always are. Mustapha had no experience of proper precipitation, apart from that downpour up the jungle, theres no way he aquascutumed his apparel. Struggling desperately to remove her MuMis before hitting the final deepdrop bend, Bella released her voluminous cloak and tried to extract herself from the skin-tight one-piece. She pushed and pushed and pushed. It got caught around her ankles. She tried to kick the thing off, to no avail. Recklessly, she doubled up and reached back and tugged and pulled and levered and heaved and, not looking where she was going, bashed the back of her head on the sheer wall of death, where the chute divided and dived There are worse things in life than death. At least the latter promised a reunion with her loving parents, Isaac and Nina, and a chance to catch up with her better than best friend, Paris. The penguin underworld wasnt quite what she expected, however. Head throbbing, eyes watering, beak aching, Bella lay on her back in a puddle of icy water, moaning and groaning. She could see stars. And those little tweetie birds in Tom and Jerry cartoons. She could also see someone who looked vaguely familiar. Both of them did, in fact. Bella shook her head, trying to focus. The looming twosome merged into one. Izzy. Uncle Izzy. Is that you? Flippers akimbo, Bellas straight-laced relative stared disapprovingly at the sight of his sprawled niece, grubby MuMis wrapped round her ankles. He had a Binge drinking again? look on his reproachful face. You should be ashamed of yourself, young woman, he observed, with a sorrowful expression that said youve let everyone down, yourself especially. Those Salty Dogs will be the death of you. IIIOh, my head hurts.

Uncle Isadore tutted in his puritanical way. Your parents are worried sick about you, you know. Disappearing off like that. Without a by your leave. You owe them an apology, young lady. He had her on are. Bella leapt up, head completely clear, hoping against hope that shed heard him properly. Worried sick, you say? Yes, worried sick, you ungrateful AstoundedexcitedBella grabbed him by the shoulders and shook. Where are they? Where are they? She made to run off somewhere, anywhere only to fall flat on her face. She kicked off the constricting MuMis and, after giving Uncle Izzy an enormous hug, to his delighted consternation, followed his indicative flipper. She hurried past a hive of astonished isabelline onlookers, all distant relatives, and then she saw them, huddled together, heads bent, backs bowed, manifestly in mourning. Mummy, mummy. Daddy, daddy. They looked up. Expressions of unalloyed delight crossed their defeated features. They rushed toward her, she toward them. They hugged and kissed and cried and embraced. They all talked at once. Warned by the adolescent gentoos, whod heard Le Penguins malevolent rant, the entire isabelline community had made for their penguin panic room beneath the crevasse, to one side of the wall of death divide. They couldnt find her. They assumed the worst. They had their hands full with Paris. Paris? Whats Paris got to do with it? Paris is dead, daddy. Bellas father looked at her disbelievingly. Paris is perfectly fine, daughter of mine. She was badly shaken up by a leopard seal. But her outfit saved her. Shed lost a fair bit of blood when we found her. We smuggled her to safety. Theres a bit of scarring, but shell live. Shes alive? Paris is alive? Right over there, dearest. He pointed to a skua feather nest at the edge of the emergency rookery, surrounded by screens. Staggered, Bella scampered across to her best friend. She peeped anxiously over the screen, not knowing what to expect. There the heiress was, looking pale and interesting, sleeping gently. Bellas parents came to join her. Overcome with emotion, she didnt know what to say. So she blurted out the first thing that came into her head. I guess Paris has already arranged a date with her plastic surgeon. Smiling indulgently, Isaac kissed his prodigal daughter. No, no. Shes stopped all that airhead nonsense. Shes happy the way she is. Plans to get a real job, a proper job. Bella wondered if chief brand officer for MuMi constituted a proper job. However, as she was the de facto master franchise holder for Adarctica, it was Bellas decision. The decision was made. Ecstatic, she hugged her parents with all her might. Her father responded with his explain yourself look. So, what have you been doing with yourself, Bella bellissima? Its a long story, daddy. But the good news is that Ive got myself a real job and Le Penguin is history. Miracles never cease. The best news of all is that Im going to be a MuMi, mummy.

What??!! As I said, its a long story. Let me explain.

THE END

The Little Penguin That Could

An Afterword on Mashups and More

A major work will establish a genre or abolish it, and the perfect work will do both. Walter Benjamin Theres a true story told about Jeff Bezos, the ebullient founder of Amazon.com. Way back in the early days of the company, when Amazon was sequestered in the insalubrious suburbs of Seattle, Bezos used to call All Hands Meetings. These were get-togethers for the employees bonding sessions, basically where Jeff responded to their concerns and set everyone straight on the companys performance, prospects, plans and profitability. He did so with the aid of a gigantic fake fireplace, which was hoisted on to the platform as an apt prop for his postmodern fireside chats. Although no topic was taboo, these open-forum feedback sessions soon took on a ritualistic quality. So much so, that at some point in the proceedings, someone would ask the following quirky question: In a fight between a silverback gorilla and a grizzly bear, who would win? And, without fail, Jeff would utter the equally gnomic answer: It depends on the terrain. Needless to say, this customary question and ceremonial answer gave Bezos employees considerable food for thought and more than a moments bemusement. As an Amazon serf explains in his side-splitting account of Jeffs gorilla and bear thing:
We would all laugh very hard and look knowingly at each other, but I have no idea what we were supposed to have known. Thats a good question, Daisey. I have no fucking idea. It feels like it means something am I crazy about that? No it has he gestured vaguely an aura of significance. Like a secret message. Or a plan. Maybe its an allegory. Maybe hes talking about the tactics of being on the web in retailing. Maybe its like everyone is asking, Who will win, Wal-Mart or Amazon? And maybe hes saying that the answer has nothing to do with the question that its a trick. Its not about comparing paw strength and jaw size but location and positioning. Or maybe it means that all that matters is what arena were dealing with the landscape defines the battle, like a Sun Tzu kind of thing only with bears and gorillas. So if one of the bears has a slingshot, for example, then that is one tough bear because he has these ranged attacks, so you think hes going to bite you but instead he chucks a rock at your head, and youre a gorilla and youre like Shit! because its outside your paradigm. This crazy fucking bear is fucking with you from a distance and youre like Damn! because you know that this is how people are going to take care of business, you know, on the web, because we need to be the

armed bears. Bears with guns, the bears who come equipped, or well end up being the gorillas who get their asses kicked. I had proven once more I shouldnt think before a second coffee.1

Amazons silverback and grizzly days may be behind it, but for anthropomorphically-minded marketers like me many pressing questions remain unanswered. In a fight between Cadburys chocolate gorilla and the Hofmeister beer bear, who would win? Which prey does the Firefox fox prefer, Aflac duck, Duracell bunny or Le Coq Sportif? Whos fastest over 400 metres, Jaguars jaguar, Pumas puma, Slazengers panther or Chester, the Cheetos cheetah? Is there any truth in the rumour that Poppin Fresh, the diminutive Pillsbury Doughboy, is the secret lovechild of Betty Crocker and the Michelin Man? Are Uncle Ben and Aunt Jemima related? Does Morris the Cat eat Charlie the Tuna on Fridays? These are some of the questions I set out to answer in The Penguins Progress. Granted, I didnt get round to most of them. But, hey, I made a start on several others. And now that BrandLand exists as a kind of Oz with advertising theres no reason why it cant be revisited from time to time. Im not of course claiming that BrandLand is a Brideshead for advertising icons, albeit Brandhead Revisited has a ring to it, but if Sir Terry Pratchett can return to Discworld on 37 occasions (and counting), reacquainting ourselves with the Big Blue remembered hills of BrandLand cannot be ruled out completely. You have been warned! Rather than speculate on sequels and suchlike, let me use this afterword to explain where TPP came from and where it fits into the great marketing tradition. We begin with a little bit of backstory. Some time ago, I asked a large group of students to read Ted Levitts legendary article Marketing Myopia and write down their reactions to the great gurus words of wisdom. As I was quite interested in literary style at the time, I fully expected the students to respond positively, favourably, enthusiastically. Levitt is generally considered to be one of the greatest writers marketing has ever produced and Marketing Myopia is regarded as his masterpiece, nothing less than a landmark contribution to marketing thought.2 Much to my surprise, the students hated Levitts essay. They found it dull, boring, bombastic and, it pains me to report, a sure fire cure for insomnia. Some students were blown away, admittedly; others learned to love the piece after several close readings; and, interestingly, there were noticeable differences in male and female reactions to Levitts classic article. All things considered, though, Marketing Myopia got an unequivocal thumbs down.3 Taken aback by this reaction, I cast around for excuses. I tried to explain away these aberrant interpretations of a paper I personally adored. Maybe, I mused, todays multi-tasking, short- attention-span students cant cope with lengthy learned articles. Maybe, I surmised, the absence of illustrations is an insurmountable barrier for todays nothing if not visually-literate youngsters. Maybe, I conceded, the case studies in the original railroads, petroleum, buggy whips are just too antiquated for todays i-minded readers. I mean, what are buggy whips when theyre at home? Some kind of sex toy? Geek-speak for a computer programming problem?

Unfortunately, a series of subsequent studies revealed that I was in academic denial.4 An analogous exercise with another group of undergraduates revealed that my students loathing wasnt confined to the works of Theodore Levitt. Mainstream marketing textbooks of the Kotler kidney were equally unpopular. If anything, they were deemed even duller and more boring than Marketing Myopia. They cost an absolute fortune, whats more, and if it werent for the fact that they needed the texts to get through their examinations, students wouldnt dream of buying BBBAMs (Big Boring Books About Marketing), much less reading the wretched things. Once again, I was minded to dismiss my students reactions as mistaken, as an aberration, as a quirk of the Irish, a consequence of our countrys literary/storytelling tradition, which is inherently antipathetic to stick-to-the-facts modes of discourse. But then I noticed something intriguing, a pattern that repeated itself again and again during an extended visit to the United States. When flying around the country, I spent lots of time in airport bookstores. As an inveterate booklover, theres nowhere I would rather be (bar a supersized Barnes & Noble, naturally). Nevertheless, while queuing up for the cash register, I often found myself behind businesspeople who were preparing to purchase not one but two new books. One was the latest management bestseller, bought presumably to keep up to date with the latest bleeding-edge thinking. The second was a Stephen King or a Robert Ludlum or a John Grisham or a Jackie Collins or a Barbara Taylor Bradford or something broadly similar. These were the storytelling sugar that helped the management medicine go down. The antidote, in effect. My students, clearly, werent the only ones bored with what management gurus ordinarily offer. Whether it be academic articles or standard textbooks or allegedly executive-friendly how-to tomes, it seemed to me that we were failing to get our message across in a congenial manner. So I set out to reconnect with our disgruntled readership. I sought a literary form that differed from the standardised academic article and the conventional marketing textbook. My chosen mode was the management thriller, a literary genre that may or may not have been my own invention but which appeared to offer the best of both worlds by combining relevance and readability. There was only one problem. I had never written fiction before. Let alone thrillers. Undeterred, if not undaunted, by the task Id set myself, I did what many novice novelists do. I parodied an acknowledged master of an established genre. In my case, the writing role model was Dan Brown, who was chosen partly on account of his prominence and evident marketing prowess (Da Vinci Code mania was at its height when I started), and partly because we shared a surname (which enabled me to claim, tongue-in-cheek, that I was Dan the Mans twin brother). Between 2005 and 2008, I wrote three full-length 400-page thrillers, The Marketing Code, Agents & Dealers, and The Lost Logo, all of which explored a dark and dastardly conspiracy at the heart of marketing education and practice.5 Dead bodies abounded, secret codes proliferated, apocalyptic threats loomed large and Dan Brown himself had a walk-on part, as did Bono, Marilyn Monroe, Philip Kotler and others too nefarious to mention. You couldnt make it up, as they say. Except that I did.

In retrospect, I realise that my thriller trilogy was deeply flawed. Like any learner, I made grievous mistakes with my plotting, pacing, chronology, characterisation and more besides. However I genuinely felt that each volume exhibited signs of improvement in certain key areas, action sequences especially. The whole process, I suppose, was not dissimilar to doing a degree or a doctorate, inasmuch as it takes time to master the tools, techniques and writing style of academia. The same is true of fiction. No doubt some people have a natural flair for narration born storytellers, as it were but most of us acquire the requisite skills slowly, painfully and with many mistakes along the way. Nowadays, I curl up with embarrassment whenever I think about The Marketing Code, though the same is true of my early academic endeavours. And quite a few of my later ones, if truth be told. Just as the production of my thriller trilogy was flawed, so too the reception of my novels was mixed. The published reviews were reasonably favourable, though I reckon the reviewers were responding more to the novelty of the management thriller than my ability as a novelist. Akin to the legendary talking chimpanzee, the remarkable thing is not what the ape actually says but the very fact that it speaks, full stop. Ditto my fiction. Students, similarly, were divided in their reaction to my trilogy. Yes, the novels made a very pleasant change from dry-asdust textbooks and dull-as-ditchwater articles. However, they lacked the lists of easily-digested facts that students normally memorise and regurgitate in examinations. They also lacked the neat and tidy structure easily-assimilated chapters on branding, consumer behaviour, market research and so on that is the norm in most marketing textbooks. True, real world marketing problems dont come in neat and tidy packages and to that extent my works of fiction are more true to life than traditional textbooks, funnily enough. However many undergraduate students dont see it that way when there are examinations to pass and qualifications to acquire. By far my biggest mistake, though, was that I tried to do too much. I now realise that I was trying to write a thriller and a textbook and a comedy and a parody and a campus novel and an integrated trilogy, where all three stories comprised a seamless whole. Its difficult enough to do one of these well, never mind bring them all together successfully. Like many proper authors Im thinking, say, of William Golding, whose baffling waffle was turned into Lord of the Flies by his astute editor, Charles Monteith I was unable to see the wood for the trees, the kernel for the covering. My original intention was to leave things there. Having produced a threestorey monument to male mid-life madness,6 I felt it was time to get back in the scholarly saddle and try to catch up with the academic caravan that had moved on in my absence. However, a serendipitous encounter with a screenwriter encouraged me to give marketing fiction another go. Id been toying with the idea of an edited book provisionally entitled Just So Stories for Brand and Marketing Managers. Essentially, it was a collection of Kipling-esque fables about anthropomorphic brands (Jaguar cars, Crocs shoes, Stork margarine, Red Bull energy drink, etc.). My intention was to tap into the narrative turn in management thinking while building upon the fable/fairytale foundations that had produced the management bestsellers I alluded to in the Foreword. It seemed like an interesting project and, as it gave me

an opportunity to work with several academic storytellers of my acquaintance, I felt that a neat anthology was on the cards. Id even thought of a crafty framing device that linked the discrete chapters together, not unlike those in the Decameron, Arabian Nights, Canterbury Tales, et al. My brilliant publisher, Pom Somkabcharti, wasnt impressed. So she engineered a meeting with the equally brilliant screenwriter, Rob Williams. Rob cut through the crap. He said that instead of fiddling with fatuous framing devices and so forth I should write a story featuring the brand characters themselves. Let the brand characters be characters, he commanded. Bring the brands to life. Stop writing parodies. Write something original! The scales fell from my eyes. The Penguins Progress was born. Chastened by my screenwriter encounter, I wrote the first draft of the novel in five weeks flat. Writing at warp speed might not be a good thing you, the reader, must be the judge of that but on a personal level it was very fulfilling. As with my first management thriller I felt that I was creating something new. In this case, a work of fictionalised non-fiction. By sticking to the familiar quest narrative, cutting back on the sub-plots and working with characters whose character was already established (by generations of advertisers), I felt that I was overcoming some of the problems that marred TPPs predecessors. Whats more, I didnt have to shoehorn the marketing material into the plot, the way I did before. Marketing conversations arose naturally from the characters. I mean, what else would brand mascots talk about? Authors, admittedly, arent the best judges of their own work quite the opposite, if anything but I do know one thing for certain. The Penguins Progress is very much in keeping with todays mashup mentality. Formally defined as blending data from various online sources into a unique combination, mashups are digital medleys, bits of bytes brought together as books, songs, videos, computer applications et al. In the literary world, Seth Grahame-Smiths recent novels Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter are commendable examples of commercially successful mashups. In television, ratings-grabbing series like Lost and Survivor, which meld a wide variety of formerly separate genres, are exemplary media mashups. In the visual arts, blockbuster exhibitions increasingly bring together several marquee names Turner, Whistler, Monet at the Tate or the recent Saatchi exhibition, Newspeak rather than the solo shows of yore.7 In music, the British comedian Peter Kay released a bestselling charity remix featuring a huge choir of animated characters from childrens television series singing a medley of The Jacksons Can You Feel It, Fleetwood Macs Dont Stop and The Beatles Hey Jude. In movies, meanwhile, many trailers have been recut in an irreverent manner such as the self-explanatory Brokeback to the Future and posted on YouTube, where they vie for viewer attention alongside wicked spoofs of Downfall, a German language movie about Adolf Hitlers final days, which replace the Fhrers climactic rant with fake subtitles on subjects as diverse as Sarah Palin, car parking in Tel Aviv, the breakup of rock band Oasis, the Third Reichs serious iPad shortage and Dominos Pizzas reluctance to deliver to the bunker. How am I going to conquer the world with just Pot Noodle and Oreos?

The Penguins Progress is a management mashup. It gathers together several hundred brand characters. In a shared narrative space. Traditionally advertising animals have appeared in one-beast-one-brand arrangements. Lux the Penguin works for Linux. Leo the Lion hawks MGM movies. Nipper is HMVs perennial pitch-pooch. Elsie isnt just any old cow, shes Borden born and bred. Ronald McDonald wouldnt be seen dead in Kentucky Fried Chicken, let alone Red Lobster. But there is no reason why these critters cant interact. Indeed, it makes perfect sense from a consumer perspective. Consumers are routinely exposed to cavalcades of juxtaposed brand characters in TV advertising breaks, on roadside billboards, between the covers of glossy magazines. Whats more, on the occasions when allsinging-all-dancing advertising mashups are attempted, such as the Mastercard Superbowl ad of 2005 (which featured Mr Clean, Charlie the Tuna, the Morton Salt Girl and many more) or the Comic Relief ad of 2009 (which starred Bertie Bassett, Churchill the Bulldog and the Honey Monster, among others), consumer response has been highly favourable. As Kathryn Braun discovered in her study of consumers memories of Disneyland, which revealed that many people remember meeting Warner Brothers characters like Bugs Bunny in a place exclusively reserved for Walts immortal menagerie, numerous consumers are quite comfortable with the thought of Tony the Tiger stalking the Pillsbury Doughboy, or A Bathing Ape using Dove shampoo and body wash, or indeed Cadburys chocolate gorilla going mano-amano with a gang of grizzly Gummie Bears.8 The fondly remembered Duracell bunny ads, where the little pink drummer bursts into ads for rival products, are an enduring testament to consumers mashup mindedness. It thus seems that BrandLand really does exist, for certain consumers at any rate. Theres an elephant in the room, however. That elephant is called copyright. Brand characters are trademarked, in the main, and companies are understandably protective of their trademarks, their copyrights, their intellectual property. Ask any counterfeiter. True, the brand characters in The Penguins Progress are treated pretty respectfully theyre closer to product placements than piratical misappropriations and of course the books written for educational purposes rather than commercial gain, which makes a big difference in the eyes of the law. That said, there is a long history of creative works circumventing the censure of copyright holders, usually on the grounds of satirical intent and/or fair use. Celebrated examples include American Psycho, which is stuffed with blood-spattered brand name products, Jennifer Government, which claims Nike kills customers for promotional purposes, Pattern Recognition, whose cool hunter heroine is weirdly allergic to the Michelin Man and, of late, the Oscar-winning animated movie Logorama, which features more than 3,000 corporate logos (all used without permission) and a psycho-killer Ronald McDonald for good measure. The vexed issue of copyright law in relation to file sharing, fan fiction, free-ware circulation and user-generated content generally is generating much debate and not a little anguish in legal circles, though a hardline, zero-tolerance stance seems to have the upper hand right now.9 Typified by the much-lamented removal of Downfall spoofs from YouTube, the anti-piracy sentiment that currently prevails is very short-sighted. As one commentator ruefully observes:

To an intellectual property lawyer [the take down] will seem entirely straightforward. To normal human beings, however and especially those who are interested in culture the issue is more complicated. For one thing, theres the awkward fact that all artistic endeavour involves borrowing from other art works. Just think of Handel, who was a notorious borrower. And every song ever written has been informed by music that the composer has absorbed in his or her earlier lifeThe YouTube remix culture is thus a new take on a venerable tradition. And if we allow narrow considerations of intellectual property to stifle this creativity, then we may all, except for the lawyers, live to regret it.10

I cant deny, though, that The Penguins Progress encroaches onto trademarked territory. It does so with satirical intent. The target of my parody is not the brands themselves, but the conventional marketing textbook, the standard academic article, the dreadful how-to tome, all of which are intellectually bankrupt. We academics dont have to write in a dry-as-dust manner or charge students a fortune for recycled hand me down ideas. The management tome doesnt have to be a collection of metoo case studies, ho-hum exhortation and unimaginative mixed metaphors. Our ideas can be communicated in interesting, original, unconventional ways. TPP is an attempt to do just that. This attempt may not be successful, I grant you. Perhaps the traditional templates are too deeply embedded to change. Maybe my mockery will be mocked by mainstream educators and researchers, who cling to the notion that marketing is a proto social science rather than a domain where wild and woolly storytelling obtains. Thats their prerogative. As a critic by inclination, I can hardly complain when Im criticised in turn. Any criticism, however, should be directed at me, the author. The brilliant people who put this book together bear no responsibility for its contents. Im thinking particularly of Pom Somkabcharti, my superlative publisher and indomitable rock of ages; Rob Williams, the genius screenwriter, who refocused my muddled thinking and encouraged me to abandon easy pastiche for the rigours of originality; the Faber Fellowship, who reminded me over a memorable weekend what this book is all about; Alun Richards, my ever-supportive brother-in-law, who read the rough drafts with his customary good humour; and, last but not least, my incredible family Linda, Madison, Holly and Sophie who listened to my blossoming beast fable with a mixture of mild amusement and mounting concern that daddy had finally taken leave of his senses. As if. Let me conclude with a cogent quote from Graeme Gibsons wonderful anthology, The Bedside Book of Beasts, which explores the interdependency of man and animal:
Humans have a complicated relationship with all wild animals, and with dominant predators in particular: we fear and revere the latter while envying their strength and grace. We seek to empower kingdoms, nations, professional sports teams, and products such as beer and automobiles by associating them with lions or sharks, hawks or eagles, bears or tigers; we pulverise their livers and bones, their teeth and genital organs, mixing them into magical or quasi-medicinal potions in the pathetic hope of acquiring some smidgen of their life force. We also resent such carnivores as competitors for food, and because they occasionally eat commercial domesticates. As pastoralists and sport hunters, were inclined to kill them when we can. And yet, and yet we have ceremonially adorned ourselves with their fur,

feathers, and body-parts from the earliest of times, and animal dances and masks have played essential parts in our most ancient and powerful rituals. There has been a long and dynamic association between the great beasts and our gods: Buddha is the Lion of the Shakyas, for example, and Christ the Lion of Judah. Among northern peoples, bears are renowned spirit guides, and the ancestors of humanity. The Celestial Blue Wolf of the Chinese and Mongol dynasties was the mythic ancestor of Genghis Khan. The Malaysian healers said to turn themselves into tigers are only one example of such metamorphoses. As with all symbolic representations, animal-human blends can be either good or wicked, helpful or destructive, or a deceptive mixture of the two.

The Penguins Progress is a deceptive mixture. Thank you for reading this far. You glutton for punishment, you! If you have any comments on the novel, dont hesitate to get in touch via my website: www.sfxbrown.com

Notes and References 1.Mike Daisey, Twenty-one Dog Years: Doing Time @Amazon.com (Fourth Estate, London, 2002), pp. 9899. 2. When it comes to Levitts masterpiece, a strong case can also be made for The Globalization of Markets. Its very widely cited. However, Marketing Myopia has been republished on so many occasions at least five times in HBR alone that it must be considered his signature paper. Both, incidentally, are available in his excellent anthology, The Marketing Imagination (Free Press, New York, 1986). 3. See Stephen Brown, Theodore Levitt: the ultimate writing machine, Marketing Theory 4 (3), 2004, pp. 209-238. 4. Here comes another shameless plug: Stephen Brown, Writing Marketing: Literary Lessons from Academic Authorities (Sage, London, 2005). You may be wondering why Im writing a book when todays youngsters are increasingly reluctant to read and Google is allegedly adversely affecting the limited reading skills they possess. Speaking personally, Im not convinced that the cant read-wont read argument holds water. The younger generations are prepared to read, as the stunning success of Harry Potter and Twilight attests, but only if the reading material is engaging and exciting. The basic problem is that our academic articles and me-too textbooks arent remotely readable. Yes, we need to explore other platforms, such as iPhone apps, computer games and videography. But a bit of spit and polish on our prose wouldnt go amiss. 5. Still available from all good charity shops, remainder bins and second-hand bookstores everywhere. Dont all rush at once. 6. Im acutely conscious that, as a card-carrying academic, writing novels n stuff is a wee bit aberrant, arguably a symptom of the male menopause. This may well be so. My only defence is that, compared to some mid-life crises, mine has been reasonably productive. 7. Consider the following apt comments on the Newspeak exhibition: This clash of new and old, scientific and irrational, experiment and belief, is typical of the shows prevailing mood. As a group, the artists gathered here are nowhere near as united by shared times and values as the Brit Artists were. Nothing here constitutes anything as coherent as a new movement. But most of the exhibitors can be described as samplers, or scavengers, whose art takes from then and now, from Claude and the comic book, from the cabinet of curiosities and the science journal, in what seems to be a search

for missing meanings (Waldemar Januszczak, Entering a whole new head space, The Sunday Times, Culture Magazine, 5 June, 2010, pp. 6-7). 8. Kathryn A. Braun, Rhiannon Ellis and Elizabeth F. Loftus, Make my memory: how advertising can change our memories of the past, Psychology and Marketing, 19 (1), 2002, pp. 1-23. 9. On the on-going copyright debate, check out Lawrence Lessig, Free Culture: The Nature and Future of Creativity (Penguin, London, 2005) and his more recent polemic, Remix: Making Art and Commerce Thrive in the Hybrid Economy (Bloomsbury, London, 2008). Adrian Johns Piracy: The Intellectual Property Wars From Gutenberg to Gates, is a thorough historical overview thats well worth reading (University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 2009), as is David Shields Reality Hunger, an invigorating rant on the iniquities of copyright thats made up of 618 unattributed quotations (Hamish Hamilton, London, 2010). Also useful is media guru Henry Jenkins Convergence Culture: Where Old and New Media Collide (New York University Press, New York, 2008). 10. John Naughton, Will this be the Downfall of remix culture? Dont bet on it, The Observer, Sunday 25 April, 2010, p. 21.

Appendix
The Great Chain of Branding

Animal species are chosen not because they are good to eat but because they are good to think. Claude Levi-Strauss In chapter 22, I refer to the Great Chain of Branding. This concept an admittedly glib adaptation of the medieval belief that all living beings are arranged in accordance with their distance from god is not a figment of my imagination.1 Well, not entirely. Its based on a modicum of empirical research. Prior to writing The Penguins Progress, I developed a database of brand animals (though database is rather a grand word for a pen and paper exercise). After trawling through websites, culling anthologies of brand icons and making personal visits to brand museums, my dataset comprised 1,151 individual entries, all told. Of this total, less than 10% of the brand animals are actually mentioned in the novel. Most of these mentions, moreover, are made in passing, whether it be A Bathing Ape, the super-cool brand of exclusive Japanese apparel, the Pets.com sock puppet, which enjoyed fifteen minutes of fame during the millennial dotcom boom, the Mytag repair man, a famously underemployed employee of the household appliance manufacturer, the Vlasic stork, the Groucho Marx-style icon of an American brand of pickles, the Hofmeister beer bear, a shades-wearing, way-cool character who was big in the 1980s, or the Noid, a nasty red-suited mascot for Dominos Pizza, who sported devilish rabbit ears and revelled in a dont-mess-with-me slogan: Avoid the Noid. Rather than provide potted biographies of the mascots mentioned herein since they are easily tracked down online let me use this appendix to make a couple of broader points. As my Great Chain analogy indicates, brand animal popularity is directly related to species physiological and psychological distance from humankind. The most popular creatures in my database (21% of the total) are real and stylised human beings: the Marlboro Man, the Michelin Man, Pillsbury Doughboy, Bertie Bassett, Captain Birdseye, Colonel Saunders, Ronald McDonald, Johnnie Walkers Strider, Monopolys Mr Moneybags, Hondas Mr Opportunity, the Coppertone Girl, the Morton Salt Girl, the Burger King, Veritably Clean, Uncle Ben, Aunt Jemima, Joe Isuzu, Crazy Eddy, Fido Dido, Johnny English, Howard Brown, J.R. Hartley, Julius Pringles, the Gold Blend couple, the Bisto family, assorted Scottish Widows and many, many more. Anthropomorphically speaking, this is as it should be because We are people. We know a lot about ourselves. And we often make sense of other things by viewing them as people too.2 It follows, perhaps inevitably, that the second most common brand characters are domesticated animals (16%), such as Hello Kitty, Morris the Cat, Nipper, the HMV dog, Cheeka, the Vodaphone pug, Elsie, the Borden cow, the Bon Ami

chickens, Le Coq Sportif, the Aflac duck, the Dodge ram, the Calvin Klein polo pony, the Merrill Lynch bull and Burts ever-industrious Bees. Wild animals are rather less popular, unsurprisingly, though a distinction can be drawn between large carnivorous creatures like Tony the Tiger, the Lacoste crocodile, the Airness panther and the MGM lion (12%), and smaller herbivorous animals like the Playboy and Duracell bunnies, the Monster.com and Bell Canada beavers, the Glenfiddich and Deere deer, the Firefox and Fox Head foxes and the Quantas and Cushelle koalas (9%). Aquatic creatures and amphibians are less popular still. However, dolphins, seahorses, whales, turtles and lizards, such as Budweisers much-loved Louie, are striking exceptions to the cold fish rule (7%). Insects, needless to say, bring up the rear, albeit butterflies, ladybirds, caterpillars, fireflies and, perhaps surprisingly, spiders, snails and scorpions are not without their supporters (4%), as are personified fruits, vegetables and plants (e.g. Mr Peanut, Chiquita Banana, Californian Raisins, Tom Tomato). Despite the inadequacies of my data set, the overall pattern is fairly straightforward and makes intuitive sense. Nevertheless it contains a number of oddities, marketing quirks that are worthy of mention. The first of these involves national animals. As you might expect, lions and bulldogs figure prominently in Britain, eagles and horses are popular in America, France is fond of roosters, Australia of kangaroos, South Africa of springboks, India of elephants and so forth. Birds, furthermore, feature more prominently than might be expected in strictly physiological terms (19%, no less). This is due to the very strong symbolical and religious resonances that adhere to birds in general (flight, freedom, fecundity, foretelling the future) and certain avian species in particular (doves mean peace, storks bring children, owls impart wisdom, cuckoos cause trouble, etc).3 A secular trend is evident too, insofar as technological or social developments are reflected in the rise and fall of certain brand beasts. Aliens, for instance, were extremely popular in the 1960s and 1970s, when the space race, close encounters and Star Wars frenzy was at its height. Dinosaurs were all the rage during the 1990s, thanks to Steven Spielberg, Michael Crichton and the mass extinction controversies. More recently, anthropomorphic mobile phones, laptop computers and Transformers-type creatures have come to the fore and no doubt all sorts of blue-skinned avatars are waiting in the wings. In addition to the overall pattern, my database reveals several significant variations in brand managers behaviour. In some cases, animal ambassadors are embraced wholeheartedly to the extent of renaming the company after them, as in the cases of the Honey Monster and Jolly Green Giant whereas in other cases the critter connection is curiously unclear. Broadly speaking, four mascot strategies can be identified: match, mix, mystify, multiply. The match model is characterised by congruence, whereby the brand name, the logo, the mascot and the product or service are essentially one and the same. Jaguar cars, Mr Clean, Cobra beer, Betty Crocker, Camel cigarettes, Dove deodorant, Toilet Duck, Kangaroos sneakers, Mr Kipling cakes, Woodpecker cider, Crocs shoes, Penguin books, Puma sportswear, Shell petrol, Capn Crunch cereal, Red Bull energy drink and its antithesis, Slow Cow anti-energy drink, brilliantly succeed in bringing name, icon and offer together as a seamless whole. This is very much in keeping

with Ries and Trouts classic marketing precepts of positioning and single-minded mindshare.4 The mix model is rather less focussed insofar as the spokescreature endorses the product rather than embodies it. Geoffrey, the Toys R Us giraffe, Chester, the Cheetos cheetah, Leo, the MGM lion, Willie, the Kool cigarettes penguin, Morris, the 9Lives spokescat, the Hush Puppies basset hound, the Airwick ostrich, the Lacoste crocodile, the Trix rabbit, the Budweiser Clydesdales, Cokes Christmastime polar bears and Cheeka, Vodaphone Indias indomitable pug, basically speak on behalf of the brand. In effect, they are the animal equivalents of celebrity endorsers, except that they work for free, dont complain, rarely go off the rails and, all things considered, are much less trouble than their human counterparts. Multiply, by contrast, epitomises marketings more-more-more mentality, the belief that if one critter is good, two critters are better and a swarm of brandcritters is best of all. The Raid Bugs have exploded exponentially, albeit not quite to Biblical plague proportions. Hello Kittys prodigious plush litter includes Keroppi the frog, My Melody the rabbit and Badtz Mary, the penguin. There are currently six M&M spokescandies, each with their own colourful personality. At one stage, Elsie the Borden cow was part of a cartoon herd Beulah, Beauregard, Larabee, Lobelia and Elmer the Bull before a cull was sensibly commanded. Since 1994, similarly, Toucan Sam has starred alongside his Froot Loops-loving nephews, to say nothing of Lil Doggie, Rhino Rapper and the Ostrich sisters. Congenital critter creep is one thing, but the mystify strategy is something else again. Its not simply a missed opportunity, where a potential link between brand name and animal mascot is ignored, as in the case of Marmot apparel or Gatorade energy drink or, indeed, Unilevers Lynx range of manly requisites. Its a situation where the connection is sufficiently incongruous to intrigue potential customers and thereby attract them to the brand. The logo of Hot Tuna clothing company is a snarling piranha. How come? Wolf Blass wine features a fearsome eagle on the label. Why not a big bad wolf? Agips 4,000-plus petrol stations in Italy boast a big, black, fire-breathing dog with six legs. Whats that all about? Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it doesnt do brands any harm. That said, animal mascots are not immortal. Branding is red in tooth and claw and an icon life cycle is clearly discernible. The introductory phase usually involves a Darwinian struggle for survival against competing brand animals or non mascotbased marketing strategies (the Aflac duck was adopted with reluctance and, way back when, Tony the Tiger won a brand beauty parade against several rival spokescritters including Katy the Kangaroo, Elmo the Elephant and Newt the Gnu). The take-off phase is often accompanied by a dramatic increase in the physical dimensions of the chosen icon (consider the gigantic, glowering, bull-shaped billboards for Osborne Brandy that stand sentinel on innumerable Spanish hillsides or Ralph Laurens sporty polo pony, which seems to get bigger with every passing year). Maturity is marked by multiplication, where the original is joined by an extended family of allegedly close relatives (the Jolly Green Giant spawned Little Sprout, Nipper, the HMV dog, begat Chipper, the Pillsbury Doughboys dog and cat are called Flapjack and Biscuit respectively, Tony the Tiger has a son and heir, whose name youll never ever guess, believe me). The fourth stage, though, is perhaps the

most fascinating of all, insofar as it doesnt involve decrepitude and decline. The brand character, if anything, gets younger, more cherubic, more cuddly, more childlike, more and more cute with the passing of the years (the Michelin Man and Mickey Mouse are classic examples of this Peter Pan propensity, as the late great biologist Stephen Jay Gould famously explained in an essay on neoteny).5 Just as all art aspires to the condition of music, so too brand icons converge on the cuteness of Hello Kitty. Brand animals may come and brand animals may go but the urge to anthropomorphise is always with us, like death, taxes and Woody Allen movies (one of which features unforgettably personified spermatozoa). Le Penguin notwithstanding, the current socio-economic ecosystem is conducive to the continuing rise of advertising icons. Apart from the obvious multiplication of communications channels, which increases opportunities to view, and the creaturefriendly character of Web 2.0 cf. Facebooks phenomenally successful Farmville it has long been recognised that humankinds anthropomorphic propensity increases at times of stress, uncertainty and rapid technological change. Just as the golden age of advertising (early 1960s) was an age of great global anxiety (not least the thermonuclear threat), so too todays terrorist outrages, wars of attrition and apocalyptic economic aftershocks are the postmodern breeding grounds of guiding animal spirits. Pace Goya, the sleep of reason produces mascots. Todays rising tide of critters is also attributable to the much-maligned infantalisation of contemporary consumer culture. Childhood is a time when animism runs riot and if consumers are becoming increasingly child-like in their buying behaviour then the cult of kidulthood is a blessing in disguise for animal brand managers, as is the closely associated nostalgia boom. Ive described that at length elsewhere, so Ill spare you the golden oldie gory details.6 Be that as it may, perhaps the most important factor behind the fantastic future for brand characters in all their furry finny feathery finery is the fact that it is still permissible to stereotype animal species. Whereas interpersonal slurs involving ethnicity, gender, age, religion, social class, sexual orientation, body-shape or nationality are all-but impermissible these days, the same is not true of animals. Their characters, their personalities, their natures, continue to be caricatured and vilified. We are quite happy to talk about obstinate mules, cheeky monkeys, wise owls, sly foxes, stupid cows, promiscuous rabbits etc, etc, etc. A daffy duck or lazy lion or irritating chipmunk or thieving magpie is perfectly acceptable in a TV commercial but a stupid Polak or idle Irishman or infuriating mother-in-law or lightfingered gypsy is almost unimaginable nowadays. True, fat cat bankers are western societys permissible hate figures and Joe Camels capital punishment proves that laundering questionable behaviour through endearing spokesungulates is socially unacceptable. In general terms, nevertheless, animals remain fair game. As humankind becomes an ever more protected species, brand managers are bagging wild animals with impunity. In this regard, it is noteworthy that the single most striking evocation of the recent banking crisis was Rolling Stones unforgettable description of Goldman Sachs as a giant vampire squid wrapped around the face of humanity, relentlessly jamming its blood funnel into anything that smells of money.7 Whatever else is

said, in years to come, about our great economic cataclysm, Rolling Stones arresting image will surely rank alongside muckraker Ira Tarbells analogous 1904 depiction of Standard Oil as a giant grasping octopus. The more things change in western capitalism, the more things stay the same. Anthropomorphically, at any rate. It thus seems that fifty years after the renowned anthropologist Claude LviStrauss famously contended that animals are good to think with its evident that animals are equally good to brand with.8

Notes and References 1.This worldview, which held sway for hundreds of years prior to the Enlightenment, is brilliantly described in Arthur O. Lovejoy, The Great Chain of Being: A Study of the History of an Idea (Harvard University Press, Cambridge, 1936). 2. Stewart Guthrie, Faces in the Clouds: A New Theory of Religion (Oxford University Press, Oxford, 1995), p. 129. 3. Theres a great quote to this effect in Graeme Gibsons Bedside Book of Beasts, Whereas birds are associated with creativity, longing and imagination with spiritual matters rather than earthly ones beasts are overwhelmingly physical (Bloomsbury, London, 2009), p. xi. My database, incidentally, includes a fair number of mythical creatures (7% of the total), many of which can fly (dragons, phoenixes, griffins, Pegasus and so on). 4. See Al Ries and Jack Trout, Positioning: The Battle for Your Mind, twentieth anniversary edition (McGraw-Hill, New York, 2000). A useful critique of this model is found in Doug Holts How Brands Become Icons (Harvard Business School Press, Cambridge, 2004). 5. Stephen J. Gould, Mickey Mouse meets Konrad Lorenz, Natural History, 88 (1), 1979, pp. 30-36. Note, however, that this neoteny tendency is not confined to cartoon critters. Domesticated animals demonstrate it too. As Graeme Gibson (op cit, p. 89) explains, domesticates are plumper and more roundedmore docile, more submissive, far less hardy, and complex behaviours (such as courtship) are greatly simplified. The sum effect is arrested development, which is to say that domesticated animals have been infantilized. Tony the Tigers only son, BTW, is called get this Tony Junior! 6. It only seems like yesterday that I was writing about retromarketing. Not that Im feeling nostalgic or anything. If you want to suffer further, check out Stephen Brown, Marketing The Retro Revolution (Sage, London, 2001). 7. Matt Taibbi, The great American bubble machine, Rolling Stone (1082-1083), 13 July, 2009, www.rollingstone.com, accessed 4 May 2010. 8. Claude Lvi-Strauss, Totemism, trans. Rodney Needham (Merlin Press, London, 1964, [original 1962], p. 89). As the epigraph of this appendix indicates, the famous line animals are good to think with is a misquotation. Cest la vie.