I have only once stood for elected office.

I guess I’m wary of exposing myself to the court of public opinion, to the unforgiving judgement of the ballot box. I’m reluctant to be rejected.

I was however very keen to become Pembroke College Juke Box Rep.

I loved the College Juke Box. It was an admirably robust, coin-operated, mechanical affair, and it boasted a compelling menu of classic 45s: ‘Ghost Town,’ ’Going Underground’ and ‘The Killing Moon’; ’Teenage Kicks’, ‘Tainted Love’ and ‘This Charming Man.’ There was a sprinkling of venerable obscurities like The Clash’s ‘Armagideon Time.’ And, when Chaka Khan’s ‘I Feel For You’ came on, we would all mimic the scratch, in time, as one.

The College Juke Box kept us entertained on grim, wet winter’s evenings, when there was no money to spend and nothing to spend it on. We nodded to the beat, sang along with the chorus, swayed to the rhythm. We vied with each other to select the most apposite tunes. And as last orders approached, we took to the beer-sodden floor in our heavy tweed overcoats, Holsten Pils in hand, and broke into joyously uninhibited dancing.

'And all my friends just might ask me,
They say, "Martin, maybe one day you'll find true love."
And I say, "Maybe there must be a solution to
The one thing, the one thing we can't find."
That's the look, that's the look.
The look of love.’
ABC, ‘The Look of Love’ (D Palmer / M Fry / M White / S Singleton)

This is not to say that the College Juke Box was perfect. There were a few discs that grated. Someone kept programming the monotonous drone of ‘Riders on the Storm.’ (I’d happily have shown that tune the door.) Perhaps there was a little too much ‘80s Tina Turner. (Let’s not stay together.) And I’d tentatively suggest that Billy Bragg’s ‘Between the Wars’ - a worthy political statement in the midst of the Miners’ Strike - was played a few more times than it merited musically.

More to the point, coming from Essex, the home of suburban soul, I felt the College Juke Box was somewhat lacking in contemporary R&B, funk and disco. Where were Maze and Anita Baker, Dennis Edwards and Evelyn ‘Champagne’ King? Why no D Train or Patrice Rushen?

'We love so strong and so unselfishly.
And I tell you now that I made a vow,
I'm giving you the best that I got.’
Anita Baker, 'Giving You the Best That I Got’ (Bricklebank / Kenric / Clarke / Bricklebank)

And so I hatched a plan.

I had in mind a velvet revolution, a covert coup. There was a student role, Juke Box Representative, which entailed managing the maintenance of the equipment and overseeing the replenishment of records. If I were to acquire this responsibility, I could, by stealth, introduce more soulful grooves, more funky floor-fillers, more bass-heavy boogie. I could purge the repertoire of any tedious hippiedom and shallow pop bluster. It would be a quiet storm. All I had to do was put myself forward for election at the forthcoming Student Meeting.

The College Student Meetings were rumbustious affairs. Held on a Sunday evening, their critical component was a barrel of free beer. Consequently attendance was high, voices were loud and debate was vibrant. We voted to boycott lectures and to have hooks placed on toilet doors. We passed motions expressing our disapproval – of nuclear missiles, Margaret Thatcher and plastic lids on Marmite jars.

Nervously, at the appointed slot on the agenda, I took to the floor and proclaimed my credentials for Juke Box Representative. I described my catholic tastes, my diverse musical enthusiasms, my willingness to take requests, my profound sense of social responsibility.

I thought it probably wise not to make too much reference to soul at this stage. The truth was I had a sweet tooth musically, and I was not convinced the broader student community was quite ready for full-on Luther Vandross.

'I still remember in the days when I was scared to touch you,
How I spent my day dreaming, planning how to say I love you.
You must have known that I had feelings deep enough to swim in.
That's when you opened up your heart and you told me to come in.
Oh, my love
A thousand kisses from you is never too much.
I just don't wanna stop.’
Luther Vandross, ‘Never Too Much'

It all seemed to be progressing to plan. I could tell I had a sympathetic audience.

But my housemate Jez had other ideas. Unbeknown to me, he had prepared a tape of typical Jim tunes from my record collection back at St Thomas Street. And his edit had a particular focus on the more syrupy soul, the more sensuous sounds.

‘If you elect this man as Juke Box Rep, this is a sample of what you’ll be in for.’

And so from his portable boom box he broadcast a medley of Teddy Pendergrass, Barry White and Alexander O’Neil; of ‘Sexual Healing,’ ‘Juicy Fruit’ and ‘Gotta Get You Home Tonight.’

'Kick off you shoes
And lay back and let me soothe you.
I wanna take my time and do you right.
A bottle of Dom Perignon
To get us in the groove,
And an atmosphere
That's sure to please you.
Ooh baby,
I gotta get you home with me tonight.’
Eugene Wilde, 'Gotta Get You Home Tonight’ (J Horton / R Broomfield)

Now these tunes were indeed dear to my heart. But I’m not sure they’re the ones I’d have chosen to promote my tastes to a broader audience. Nor did they seem to chime with the more earnest, indie-loving elements of the student body.

And so the night was lost. I can’t recall by how much I was defeated - just the crushing sense of rejection.

Geoffrey Crowther, the Editor of the Economist from 1938 to 1956 was renowned for giving young journalists a particular piece of advice: ‘Simplify, then exaggerate.’

This sentiment should certainly resonate with advertising people. Ours is a craft that at its heart has two skills: we must first distil and compress a brand’s essential truth, reduce it to its most compelling core; and then we must amplify and expand on that truth, express it with irresistible force.

My mate Jez had instinctively followed Crowther’s advice and developed a classic advertising campaign. He had simplified my true musical tastes and then exaggerated them. It was unquestionably effective.

After my unsuccessful election bid, I took the short walk back to St Thomas Street alone, huddled up in my heavy tweed overcoat. When I got home I put on a Bobby Womack album.

‘You know life is funny
When you look at It.
Everybody wants love
But everybody’s afraid of love.
You know I’m a true believer
That if you get anything out of life
You've got to put up with
The toils and strife.
Think it over. Think it over, girl. That’s the way I feel about cha.’

Bobby Womack, ’That’s the Way I Feel about Cha'

No. 314