M is for Media

It is 1988. Marty McFly is the epitome of white cool. It is Ireland. White is pretty much the only colour there is, unless you work in Montrose, in which case there is a panoply of greys to choose from.

Downstairs in the agency there is a room with four people in it. This is The Media Department. Off this room there is another, smaller room with one person in it. This is the Media Director. He is without any shadow of a doubt a man. You can tell this by the well seasoned combination of stale Rothmans stubs and stale men’s cologne that pervades the room. He drives a car from the upper end of the range that the agency makes ads for. Probably coincidence. The other four can be male or female, and can pretty much choose their jobs titles themselves, as long as they pick either Media Planner or Media Buyer. If they find themselves dealing with unhappy people in Montrose quite a lot then they are probably Media Buyers. Otherwise they are Media Planners. Or just plain, generic Media. Nobody else particularly cares. This is not 2008.

Spreadsheets exist. They are sheets that can be spread. That accounts for their demonstrative titles. There are cork noticeboards. These will have polaroids and also proper photos from last Christmas’s party in Leopardstown and the agency do in Tullamore when Nuala shifted Gary from Traffic. There are Remington typewriters, rotary phone number files and always, always there are large, hardbacked RTE diaries. (If you were born in the eighties read Blackberries.)

There is also a very small room in the corner with a young man in it. It is stuffed to the low ceiling with newspapers. This is Vouchers. The young man will be from Inchicore or possibly Finglas and will be responsible for the upkeep of Vouchers. This essentially means that he will cut ads from newspapers and sometimes from magazines. But mostly newspapers. This young man, going by either the formal Bernard or Stephen while at work, will work in a fire hazard zone without complaint, sticking the ads he’s tirelessly cut out into big log books for the perusal of client. Client will never peruse them. When the couriers are looking for Benjy or Steo the rest of the staff just stare blankly. Media do not especially claim him, but there is really nowhere else for him to go, so Media get to keep him. Ten years from 1988 they will similarly get to keep the IT guy. Twenty years from 1988 Media and the IT guy will unite, hatch the most unlikely of plans and stride forth to capture the world.

But this is 1988. There is no Facebook. Nobody has a mobile phone. A blue tooth is a cause for concern. You won’t find panini in the sandwich shop. Hi-tech is the plastic that O’Brien’s puts on its ham and cheese toasties that doesn’t melt off under the grill! O’Brien’s is a pub. There are no O’Brien’s Sandwich Bars. There are no O’Brien Wines. There is no Dennis O’Brien (although he’s certainly coming). For now there is just a pub. On Leeson Street. And that’s where the four Media Planners/Buyers and the Media Director will be on Friday evening after work. There is a continuum with the future however, although people cannot know this. Pat Kenny. Things haven’t changed much since RTE was founded in 1955, the date that Patacakes was yeasted in the underground lab, and they probably never will.