A Family Outing to the Beach: There’s a Gap in the Market, But Is There a Market in the Gap?

'I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.’
John Masefield, ‘Sea Fever'

All through the school holidays we’d been pestering Dad to take us to the beach. He was somewhat reluctant, I suspect because he regarded summer as a time to be watching cricket on TV. 

And then one day, out of the blue, he announced:

‘It could be a good day to go to the seaside.’

I was a little confused. It was not the blistering hot day I had imagined. Rather it was overcast and blustery outside. Perhaps he’d been studying the weather forecasts and knew something we didn’t.

Mum packed some cheese and pickle sandwiches into the blue tartan picnic basket and prepared a Thermos of sweet tea. Dad ensured he had a supply of roll-ups to sustain him. We four kids picked up a few buckets and spades, and crammed into the back of the ageing Austin Cambridge (no seatbelts back then, of course). 

And so we all set off down the Arterial Road to the coast. The thrill of it all!

My friends at school had entertained me with stories of days out in Southend. I could expect a crooked house and a carousel at the Kursaal amusement park; candyfloss and kiss-me-quick hats on the pier. There would be crowds of carefree holidaymakers, abundant fish and chip shops, seagulls soaring up above. The town would be teeming with life.

When we’d been on the road for some time, Dad announced that we were not in fact heading for Southend, but nearby Walton-on-the-Naze. 

‘It won’t be so busy.’

He took us to a rather secluded part of the coast. It wasn’t really a beach - more rocks and pebbles than golden sand. And there was no one else there. 

This didn’t seem to trouble Mum, who made herself happy poking around among the shallow pools for elegant rocks and ancient fossils; nor Dad, who just stood there, admiring the view and puffing on his roll-ups.

‘I’ve always found water very relaxing,’ he sighed.

There’s a tatty old photograph of the family on the deserted beach at Walton-on-the-Naze that day. I used to keep it pinned to my desk at work.

Martin and I wear home-knit sweaters and school shorts, and Martin has adopted the confident squatting pose of a footballer from the Soccer Stars sticker album. Sarah and Anne are wrapped up in neat anoraks, and Anne seems to be carrying a Filofax 10 years ahead of her time. We’re all sporting sandals. Mum gives Sarah a tender embrace. 

Dad was probably happier taking the shot than appearing in it. He tended to avoid crowds and he had naturally shunned the hustle and bustle of Southend. No doubt he had calculated that a pebble beach on an overcast day would be more peaceful than a sandy shore on a sunny afternoon.

Of course, he was right. It was certainly tranquil. But to me as a child he seemed to have got it all wrong. This certainly wasn’t the day out at the seaside that I had envisaged.

There’s an old marketing saying: ‘There may be a gap in the market, but is there a market in the gap?’

The aphorism is designed to remind us that the existence of an empty space in a sector does not necessarily entail commercial opportunity. That space may be deserted for a reason.

We spend a good deal of time seeking out the roads less travelled; the unusual, uncommon and unfamiliar. We like to discover new territory, to pioneer new frontiers. But we must always ask ourselves: is there a good reason for this absence, this inaction, this stillness?

A year or so after our trip to Walton-on-the-Naze, one of Dad’s mates from the pub took Martin and me to Southend. We rode on the dodgems and ate candyfloss. We gambled on the slot machines and tottered around the crooked house. That day I had my first hamburger. It was at a Wimpy, and was washed down with an extravagant milkshake.

It was bliss.

'Somewhere beyond the sea,
Somewhere, waiting for me,
My lover stands on golden sands
And watches the ships that go sailin’.
Somewhere beyond the sea
She's there watching for me.
If I could fly like birds on high,
Then straight to her arms,
I'd go sailing.’

Bobby Darin, ‘Beyond the Sea’ (A Lasry / C Trenet / J Lawrence)

No. 323

The Dog Under The Telly: Don't Distract Attention, Find The Centre Of It

When I was a child we had a Springer Spaniel called Dillon. Springer Spaniels are somewhat eccentric dogs with inexhaustible energy and passionate loyalty. Dillon’s coat was liver and white and he salivated liberally. He had long shaggy ears that required a special tall bowl to eat from so he didn’t get them caught in his food. In the long hot ‘70s summers I had many happy reflective moments sat with Dillon in the back garden watching birds. But for the most part he was rather a disruptive influence around the house: scratching paintwork, scavenging for unattended Garibaldi biscuits, barking at passers by on Heath Park Road from his elevated vantage point in Sarah’s bedroom. I always imagined Dillon was something of a class warrior as his absolute favourite activity was disturbing the peace at Haynes Park Bowling Club.

As it was the '70s, my family spent most evenings in the over-lit living room, sat on the three-piece suite, watching TV. To prolong its life the three-piece suite was covered in a loud orange-brown floral stretch-cover that Dad had bought from his mate Barry on Romford Market. There we were, five kids, Dad and my sainted Mother ranged in front of The Two Ronnies, The Likely Lads and Tommy Cooper. (I always imagined Dad had commissioned five children as he had not foreseen the advent of the TV remote control.) Dad would be smoking endless Embassy cigarettes; the rest of us consuming endless mugs of sweet tea and toasted Sunblest. ‘To be young was very heaven.’

Despite the general domestic reverie, Dillon was none too happy with this arrangement: he was being ignored. He had discovered that the traditional canine method for attracting attention precipitated a rather gruff response from Dad. In this particular environment he would have to be the dog that didn’t bark.

Eventually Dillon worked out that the best remedy was to position himself under the telly itself, looking out at the Carroll family. Thus he could at least imagine that it was him we were looking at. He could watch us, watching him. He had found proximity to the action. He was involved. And he was back where he belonged: the centre of attention.

Thinking back on Dillon’s idiosyncratic behaviour, I now understand that he was teaching us a fundamental lesson in strategy: don’t seek to distract attention; seek to be at the centre of it. Find your own way of participating in culture. Find relevance, join in, get involved, contribute.

Over the years working with Clients in many different sectors, I noticed that often there was a kind of melancholy amongst those who managed brands that were not in some way part of the zeitgeist. Their fellow Marketers were having so much fun working with mobile phones, tablets, craft beers and yogurty drinks. They could gleefully contribute to trend presentations on connectivity, the wisdom of crowds, artisanal craft and holistic health. They were being lauded at black tie functions in luxury hotels. Their brands were being shot in the Evening Standard with Cara, Rita, Taylor and Ellie. But what if you worked with a hot beverage or a biscuit, a bank or a breakfast cereal?  What if you were operating at the margins of culture? What if no one cared?

And yet we have seen in years gone by how gravy can be at the heart of the reconfigured British family, detergent can encourage child development and whisky can redefine aspiration and success. We’ve seen how soap and sanpro brands can speak out for gender equality, knitwear for diversity, yellow fats for the old folk. And I can easily imagine an instant coffee brand creating social networks, a tea brand inspiring mindfulness, a bank reviving local high streets and a shaving brand saving us from hipsters. Finding cultural relevance doesn't have to be difficult. 

I have come to conclude that it’s possible for almost any brand to have cultural currency. Any brand can find a way of participating in the broader social conversation of the day. Indeed I believe this is consistently the optimal positioning strategy: identify relevant cultural change and locate your brand within it. Contemporary brands need to contribute to contemporary life. They need to commentate on it, participate with it, shape it. Because if you can't make yourself relevant, you're irrelevant.

There are too many introverted businesses nowadays: talking to their own heavy users, about their own sector, on their own terms, within their own conventions. I’ve lost count of the number of Clients who consider themselves converts to the new religion of growth-through-penetration. But if we are to take the penetration arguments seriously, then we ought to be reaching out to new communities and new audiences, and locating ourselves around social and cultural change.

As John Bartle used to say, ‘you’ve got to decide whether you’re in the vanguard or in the guard’s van.’

When Dillon passed away, Dad buried him at the end of the back garden by the rockery. Mum wept for days. I always imagined that Dillon found his way to Dog Heaven. He’d had his day. He’d chased his tail. He’d howled at the moon. And he’d made his own very significant contribution to Carroll family culture. He’d found the centre of our attention.

No. 48