Mad Old Men

By Neil Chalmers

Chris Mason is a reluctantly retired adman. He decides to head for the safety on the shores of a superannuated adfolks retreat, managing a successful beaching, without mishap, to become the bad influence everyone has been waiting for. Chris however hadn’t allowed for enemies from a past life and the coterie of like- minded folk he collects suffer serious frustrations when making any attempts at enjoyable independence. Until, they hit on a unique idea…to start an old farts ad agency. This crazy concept only works and the agency rapidly becomes a huge success. Cue interest from the US where a ghastly crew from a Chicago try to hustle them into selling by blackmailing Chris and his aged, but still particularly sharp partners. The encounter proves remarkably testing for the Americans, resulting in a final victory for the elderly Brits.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9780244641870

Book preview

Mad Old Men

Mad Old Men

A Novel by Neil Chalmers

Copyright © 2017 Neil Chalmers

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-0-244-64187-0

For Dan Levin and Paul Arden, whose charm,

wit and wisdom are greatly missed.

Preface

In a palatial corner office in Suite 3960 in the John Hancock Building, Chicago Illinois, Carl Vogel legendary eminence grise of the American advertising world and President Emeritus of Morrow, Katz and Cole is interrogating his C.E.O. Chuck Morrow. This isn’t a comfortable time for an exceedingly embarrassed and travel stained Morrow. He’s struggling to explain how he’s just arrived back from London looking like he’s spent the last few weeks as a guest of the Tower of London. His appearance is thrown into higher profile by his not bearing the eagerly awaited signed contract for ownership of the reason he’d just spent such an unexpectedly appalling, career changing two weeks in England.

So Chuck, let’s get this story straight for Chrissake? You were run out of London on a rail, tarred and feathered by the bunch of guys whose agency you were supposed to be buying? Things must be getting real tough over in London, or aren’t you the go-getting ball buster I took you for? You look like shit. Go freshen up in my washroom while I get some more coffee. It looks like we’re in for quite a session.

Chuck Morrow felt better, after a shower and some Alka-Seltzer and more able to deal with the effects of the Martinis he’d downed on the flight back from London. Unfortunately, the Chicago City Bell phone directory was too thick to fit down his trousers to protect against the fast approaching arse kicking. As he returned to the office and sat down, Carl Vogel returned to his interview with a steely glint in his eye.

Refreshed? OK Chuck, now it’s truth time. Your text messages and emails didn’t tell me the depths of screw up you’ve gotten us into, so tell me the whole story and don’t spare your blushes.

Chuck Morrow had never seen Carl in such a cold and contained rage; it was clear the tone of the meeting wasn’t going to be forgiving. Even before he’d got into his stride, he could feel sweat starting to trickle down his back and moisten his palms.

OK Carl, you already know we wanted a London partner who’d fit into our European growth plans. It had to be a shit hot creative agency in the Brit style and we wanted to own it 100%, to avoid being jerked off by another culture. We shortlisted three candidates, then watched them real close for a year to make sure we’d got it right.

Vogel was looking bored already and played with a paperweight on his vast desk.

All this is history Chuck, I signed off on it over a year ago. So what the hell went wrong with your master plan and who’s to blame? I want to have my arse covered when the stockholders get to hear about this fuck up.

Sweat had now made Morrow feel he was swimming inside his suit and was trickling down his face as well as his back.

Well, the best candidate we found had an amazing run from a standing start, picking up account after account. Their clients rated them real high, their new business effort was right on the button every time and their creative work won all the goddamned awards as well as ‘Young Agency of the Year’ from Advertising Magazine…

Vogel hadn’t engaged with the explanation and was still playing with the paperweight as he stared out at the skyline view through his panoramic office window.

Yeah, yeah, you’re not telling me anything I don’t already know Chuck. Get to the pastrami in the fucking sandwich.

OK Carl, we go nap on the guys, making sure it’s as good as it looks by putting them under surveillance. We searched their garbage, we bugged their conference rooms, we got access to bank accounts and we tailed the principles. We were goddamned thorough.

Looking unimpressed, the hoary old adman began the process of unpicking the cover up that Chuck Morrow was intent on selling him.

So let me get this right, after an exhaustive search you come up with a great prospect for us to buy. You then find this prospect in fact has a wrinkle or two. How did I let you talk me into all this?

OK Carl, remember you signed off on our strategy leaving us to do all the due diligence crap. Once we were sure everything checked out, we went to London to tie down the deal. Goddamn it Carl, ageing backers snapping up young hopefuls to bring in new blood is nothing new: you brought us in here after all.

Vogel looked distinctly unamused at this familiarity.

You’re losing me Chuck and calling me old to boot. You assured me this operation was to be the cornerstone of our business expansion into Europe.

A very small chink of light had appeared and Morrow thankfully grabbed it with both, by now sweaty, hands.

Sure. But then they said they wouldn’t sell at any price, so tried to force them into the sale.

Whoa there Chuck, say again.

We made it clear if they wouldn’t sell, we’d have to disclose what we knew about the agency.

Shit, that’s real devious. But there’s nothing wrong with that, as long as you pull it off; which you didn’t. So how’d they manage to sucker you?

I’d taken Bob Goldblatt and Eric Chomsky to ride shotgun on the financial side and we’d put together a sweet, cast iron proposition to be able to close the deal. We believed we’d got irresistible leverage to give us a real good shop to base our expansion on.

Au contraire my friend. Seems to me, once you knew the detail of how the agency worked, pushing on with the deal regardless only ensured you stuck your head right up your arse.

Morrow, with his head still somewhere up his arse in mid Atlantic, couldn’t come to terms even then with how everything had gone so wrong.

But we had ’em Carl. The deal delivered not only a great agency, but with what we knew, they‘d have no option but to toe our line.

Morrow’s stubborn denial of the reality of his failure was beginning to annoy Vogel.

Sure. But what went wrong enough so that you all got shipped back stateside, like some plague virus?

Still shaking his head in bewilderment, Chuck Morrow summarised the final events of the abortive London mission.

I still can’t believe how cute they were and how it was they pulled off getting us out of their hair so well. Our feet never touched the ground until we hit the seats on the plane home.

Never underestimate how cunning us old folks can be, Chuck. Why do you think I’m still here, combing over my grey toupee and sipping Martinis at my personal table in Alinea? Experience is why, years and years of the fucking stuff. I thought you and your guys were bright and knew how the world turned. Then, you get sandbagged by some smart arsed old Brits. Well, I’ve listened patiently, so I guess you want to know what happens now.

Vogel was a man, as Chuck Morrow was well aware, who didn’t believe anyone should get more than one chance to fail. It came as no surprise, therefore, when he reminded his befuddled CEO that while the names on the door might be his and his team’s, they still didn’t actually own the business. If their shafting by the Brits were ever to hit the trade press, the major stockholders, including one Carl Vogel, would see a pile of money wiped off the share price. He wasn’t prepared to countenance such a disaster on his watch and so immediately put the whole management team on permanent gardening leave. As a not too subtle additional sideswipe he asked for the phone number of the head man at the London agency, as he felt like congratulating him on his victory and thought he might even offer to buy him a drink when he made his annual Christmas shopping trip to Mayfair that December.

Chapter 1

Drayson Mews, London W8, some years earlier. The trudge to the door to collect the post was normally rewarded with a pile of circulars and the occasional letter from the NHS telling Chris Mason to turn up for an eye or a bowel screening. An invite to a screening at a viewing theatre or some other centre of advertising creativity in Soho with a fine lunch attached would’ve been preferred. This particular morning saw the usual death of a Swedish Forest on behalf of vitamin supplements, pizza delivery shysters, double glazing outfits and a fist full of other crap. But amongst the dross, nestled a proper letter with Christopher Mason's name typed neatly, in full and correctly spelt on the envelope. Ditching the rubbish, he went back to the kitchen to the remains of his Spartan breakfast of coffee and more coffee, to open the letter. It was from the Horniblow Foundation and concerned his application for an apartment in their Buxted Hall retirement home for aged adfolk in East Sussex.

The Horniblow Retirement Home for Advertising Practitioners had appeared on his radar after the departure of Moira, the last of his four failed attempts at marriage. These failures were in stark contrast to the virtually uninterrupted success he’d experienced as one of the tyros of London’s advertising scene, where his acumen for the business far outstripped his inter personal skills. With Moira’s departure, Chris realised he was going to have to survive on his own, and shouting at the walls would be much less rewarding than shouting at someone else. This meant he’d had to find an alternative to the otherwise solo existence he’d be faced with and the Horniblow lot had seemed to be his best bet.

The relationships with each of his wives had started out well, but for some reason the itch seemed to come far earlier than seven years and by that magic tipping year, his tolerance of the needs of whichever significant other had already been worn to wafer thinness. They’d been a varied bunch, with the first, Gill, a perennially available secretary who only lasted a couple of years. The second, Jenny, had been a colleague in an agency whose ambitions far exceeded her talents. With Chris’s developing success, she became irrationally jealous, departed in high dudgeon, raising the average marriage length marginally, while conveniently leaving a space for number three. Fiona was Chris’s attempt at cosying up to the aristocracy. She certainly knocked some of the rougher edges off him, especially in the areas of personal tailoring and an understanding of fine art. But culture was no substitute for warmth and her glacial sexuality had driven Chris into the arms of Moira, wife number four, who did show considerable staying power in all senses of the description. In fact, she was the wife with whom Chris had got on most successfully; with a great sense of humour and a tolerance of his determined tendency towards excess. None of these four liaisons had resulted in any offspring, fortunately, as this had allowed for a continuity in his dedication to excess. However, by his early seventies and only having completely stopped work a few years before, both he and Moira had discovered sharing a small house just didn’t cut it for them anymore. Losing the metier of working in advertising, which in its latter years had meant limitless deference and palatial offices, undermined Chris’s rock solid certainties and resulted in disparate views of what life was really about. So, when Moira opted for fun, frivolity and a series of Botox injections, he had to settle, yet again, for an empty bank account and an empty house.

Chris concluded he’d better do some serious thinking about how to fill the days stretching out ahead in a potentially lonely continuum. As he and Moira had drifted slowly apart into emotional separateness, he’d already begun to establish a solo routine, frequenting his club more often and taking any chance to relive old battles and victories from his years in advertising. To do so, he attended far too many reunions, made plaintive phone calls to revive old friendships he’d let go and frequented too many blockbuster art exhibitions in the hope of attracting the attentions of the better turned out matrons. He felt a bit like the Banquo’s ghost of the advertising business and despite all his efforts, cut a rather diminished and lonely figure. He began to find this increasingly solitary life tricky to deal with, as he believed he was still rather dashing despite the advancing years. Then, at an all too regular reunion lunch for one of the several agencies he’d worked at over the years, he sat next to an old colleague, whose success owed much to Chris’s influence and was a board member of a couple of advertising charities, one being the Horniblow Foundation.

After several loosening glasses, the conversation turned to Chris's circumstances and how there might be a place at the Buxted Hall retirement home for clapped out ad folk, possibly offering a welcome alternative to his growing sense of isolation. The atmosphere was, apparently, relaxed and might just suit his now partner-less situation. His initial low level of interest was boosted when his lunch companion told him Hugh O’Driscoll and Dan Segal were already living there and were apparently happy, thriving even. This pair had been close friends with Chris when they’d all worked together many years before, in the high achieving years of their youth, but had lost touch. Chris asked if they were both much diminished and in their dotage, expecting to hear they were both staggering around on Zimmer frames. Very much the opposite turned out to be the case and in fact it seemed they’d been given a new lease on life, having taken up residence at Buxted after the deaths, very close together, of both their wives. Hugh was still his elegant and charming self, trying slightly too hard to make everyone believe they were the most important person in his immediate orbit. His blond locks, famously tossed back when confronted with a beautiful face had turned silvery and while his willowy figure was a little bent with back trouble, he certainly believed he remained an impressive schmoozer. Chris fondly recalled his two long neglected friends.

I was always fond of Hugh, but it does come back to me how all that effortless charm could grate. No one could possibly be so charming all the time and his frustration punch bag in the attic must have taken a serious beating from time to time. We’d a bit of a falling out and I lost touch with him. But what about Dan? He and I stayed in touch till some time later, but again we drifted apart. In fact when we were all in the same agency in the 70’s, we were such close friends that we earned the title of The Three Musketeers.

Dan it appeared was in similarly good form, still removing money effortlessly from others’ pockets at backgammon, his slightly hooded eyes never missing a thing and he remained a most insightful reader of character. The immaculately coiffed hair had turned grey, and he’d also developed something of a stoop, while still committed to being the height of Jermyn Street elegance in his habitual blue blazer, grey flannels and Gucci shoes. The lunch companion had, in fact, seen both of them the previous week and Chris’s name, for one reason or another had come up in the conversation, with the time they’d all worked together being recalled very fondly indeed. They’d both asked to be remembered to him and had offered encouragement for him to consider the possibility of reuniting The Three Musketeers at Buxted Hall.

This gave Chris serious reason to think a bit harder about the retirement home option, rather than continuing to shift for himself in an increasingly unsatisfactory way. His lunch companion offered to fight Chris’s corner at the next selection committee, should he wish him to. After much subsequent agonising and consulting a few friends whose opinion he valued, Chris decided he’d take up this offer of support and apply. He was interviewed along with another couple of candidates, but with the promised support and thanks to a most impressive reputation in the industry, he outshone the competition. After taking up references and some rather intrusive questions on his financial status, the letter of acceptance was the one which had arrived that very morning.

Chris was keen to find out the details of what was entailed in making the move down to Sussex and how to get the ball rolling. Although his health was in reasonably good shape, his doctor had warned him about how a major move at seventy two would certainly prove more stressful than he might imagine. Reading the letter, it appeared there weren't too many hurdles to negotiate. By far the most serious was having to sell his house, as the Horniblow Foundation rule was that their apartment at Buxted Hall must be the only personal accommodation any resident owned and occupied, although investment or rental properties were permissible. This was to ensure residents weren't just holidaymakers, hoofing it off to their homes in London, or elsewhere, whenever the fancy took them, as Buxted Hall wasn’t intended to be an occasional stopover to ease temporary loneliness, or to provide weekend respite care.

With no children to leave his house to, and no inclination towards generosity to any of his ex-wives, Chris decided he’d sell the place and use the money to make the remainder of his life as effortlessly comfortable as possible, despite his already very healthy pension and a number of investments which had paid off handsomely over the years. With the sale of the house, there’d be a considerable pool of cash to indulge his fondest fantasies, as long as the Horniblow Foundation didn't have any other rules that might interfere with his natural tendency to serious excess.

The sale of the Drayson Mews house, which Chris had kept because it was a comfortable and practical London base, near the services of High Street Kensington and convenient for the West End, presented no problem. Throughout the various marriages, he’d always managed to attract partners who’d no inclination towards either weekend cottages or commuting from country residences, complementing his loathing for golf and most other country pursuits. Despite the ravages of his divorces, he’d managed to hang on to the house somehow and had lavished considerable sums on it over the years, ensuring it was always well maintained and up to date in the kitchen and bathroom departments. As a result the agent from one of the snootier London firms didn't have to lift a finger. Ladies who lunched, driving their school run Range Rovers as weapons of mass destruction, fought each other with Mulberry handbags for the privilege of outbidding one another for the ‘oh so charming’ mews cottage. Chris strolled away with what he considered to be an obscene amount of loot, slightly nauseated by the antics of the younger urban rich, but pleased with the amount this new sack of cash would add to his planned self-indulgence fund.

Next on his agenda had been sorting out the house contents. The detritus of many years spent in the same house combined with a lifetime of memories was an unwelcome, but unavoidable emotional trap. Chris had been steeling himself to start the clearing out process, as completion day loomed ever closer, but sitting among the half-filled boxes with only a couple of days to the move, packing up his entire life was surprisingly demanding.

The morning had been spent looking through old photograph albums, seldom opened, but in all conscience, difficult to consign to the rubbish pile. While idly leafing through them, delaying having to start anything more purposeful, it came as a welcome diversion to hear the doorbell ring. Standing on the doorstep, shifting rather self-consciously from foot to foot, wearing a wide grin, was Chris's nephew Andrew, a regular visitor and the only relative he’d allow houseroom to; although he occasionally felt there could be another agenda for his visits, with his half-starved look and habitual grin.

'Morning Uncle. You're looking particularly down in the dumps, if you don't mind me saying?

Chris breathed a sigh of relief that it was Andrew rather than anyone else and welcomed a young pair of hands.

Ah, my most indolent nephew. Tomorrow’s the completion day on the house sale and I head off for Stalag Luft Oldie to have my arse wiped and baby food rammed down me by Nurse Ratchett for my remaining time on the planet. I'm trying to finalise the selection of favourite stuff to accompany me on my journey into the valley of death. This must be how the pharaohs felt as they chose the clutter to accompany them into their burial chamber. Can I inveigle you into giving me a hand?

Chris’s relationship with his nephew was a warm one, in contrast to the rest of his family and had a lot to do with Andrew being a struggling actor and therefore something of a project, in the absence of any children of his own. While charming and level headed, he was broke most of the time, but nevertheless, very seldom poled up with too needy a look on his face or his pockets turned inside out, in complete contrast to the rest of the other young relatives. Considering his nephew's chosen profession, his appearing destitute on the doorstep wasn’t as regular an occurrence as Chris had feared it might be and he’d become perfectly happy to dole out the occasional slap up dinner and a tenner for the electric to accommodate the ever threatening wolf at Andrew’s door. Chris had learnt early on in the relationship that Andrew was always full of enthusiasm for some scheme or other to supplement his meagre earnings from acting, but any involvement in these sure fire disaster projects had to be avoided at all costs. His periodic generosity to his nephew, towards whom Moira had never felt any similar charitable instincts, had caused her considerable distress, not least in the area she considered her personal domain: Chris’s wallet. Her resentment of money heading anywhere but in her direction had been one of the stronger influences on Chris finally deciding life would be richer in every way with Moira outside rather than inside his bank account.

Andrew was the only one of the family’s younger generation to try a career showing even the smallest spark of imaginative self-assertion, regardless of what anyone might think of the acting profession. Nevertheless, much of his working life had been spent waiting by the phone to hear from some useless agent whether the latest fashionable director rated him above several hundred other hopefuls. It almost always rang to inform him he hadn’t got the part, while the fridge was empty and the gas bill was on a red warning. Once the regularity and inevitability of this tedious scenario was established and given Andrew was clearly no O'Toole or Redford, Chris took to supporting him in a number of practical ways. Generally this took the form of cheerful encouragement, free meals at reasonably good restaurants, bungs to help with the rent for squalid short term accommodation and the occasional visit to his tailor. Andrew in return was a regular visitor, especially after Moira’s departure, staying over and taking it upon himself to sing for his supper. He was unfailingly cheerful, irreverent and the provider of scurrilous gossip.

He and members of his circle of actor friends increasingly propped up Chris's morale, as energy, drive and enthusiasm became increasingly tough for him to generate on his own. He felt Andrew and his friends kept him up to the mark, or at least in touch with younger trends. They, in their turn, appreciated his keeping their financial wolves at bay; a highly satisfactory arrangement all round. If nothing else, Andrew's mob of mates developed abilities as willing painters and decorators, ensuring the house was kept in pretty good decorative nick. So, Chris was delighted he’d turned up this particular morning, although not wanting to show him how much he appreciated his nephew’s presence.

OK you idle young bastard, there's a pile of shit here in the sitting room I just can't get in the right frame of mind to sort out. Take me in hand and help me bin the bulk of it won’t you?

Over his last few visits, Andrew had already tried to convince Chris to get rid of a lot of what now awaited him on the sitting room floor, without any success.

Look, I’ve already told you it's not a matter of deciding what to throw away. It's all about deciding what you simply have to keep and then all the rest of the stuff is a natural discard. Anyway, most of the historical baggage gets put somewhere and never looked at, until you're clearing out to move again. As this is your last move, the right resting place for the ‘Ooh, I haven't seen this for years’ category, is straight in that black bin bag.

Inwardly, Chris was relieved to hear the voice of reason and landed Andrew with the responsibility for acting on it.

Oh cruel and heartless youth, would you have me carelessly discard an adult lifetime's joys and tribulations? Of course you would and I completely agree with you. Bin the bloody lot and as you do, give a passing thought to dear Moira, who, if she thought you were consigning her to a black bin bag and the municipal dump, would be spitting small change.

From then on, the sorting process became much easier. Chris’s inability to purge his wardrobe over the years of suits, ties, shirts and other clothes, which had become inexplicably tight, gave Andrew the chance to select the items of real quality to grace his own wardrobe. The rest, courtesy of the nearest charity shop, would give the worthy urban poor of the neighbourhood ample opportunity to strut their stuff in some pretty spiffy garments. Furniture, pictures and sundry other stuff to go to Buxted, to auction or elsewhere were soon marked with day-glow stickers of various colours. What had looked to be an insurmountable task, soon became an orderly set of rooms, all labelled and ready to go. Relieved uncle and exhausted nephew sat down in the kitchen to share the last ½ bottle of champagne in the fridge and celebrate a job well done.

Andrew, my boy, despite being a feckless and limp wristed member of an impractical profession, I have to give credit where it's due; I couldn't have managed without you. I'd begun to panic and when I do that, there's no bloody hope of my getting anywhere. So many, many thanks. You're wasted as an actor, at the beck and call of a bunch of nose bleeding thespian wankers. You really need something more productive and rewarding to get your teeth into.

Andrew regretted his complete failure to come up with an alternative metier which did anything other than swallow whatever spare pennies he might’ve had floating around. He confessed both he and a number of his friends were all hurtling at breakneck speed towards their thirties and needed to get a firmer grip on their futures. The trouble was, the acting game was on its uppers, but then worthwhile jobs anywhere were as rare as rocking horse shit.

If you know where I could find gainful employment, Uncle Chris, please do spit it out. The traditional standbys of commercials, the catering and bar trades, life guarding, holiday repping, teaching in prep schools, selling blood and pleasuring old ladies or even old gentlemen, have all been tried and found wanting. Bit of a wits end situation I'm afraid. Anyway, as you well know, all of us are so skint, we could never take up any worthwhile business opportunity, even if it was the greatest of sure fire propositions.

Chris acknowledged that worthwhile options weren't exactly thick on the ground and he wasn’t able, at that point, to offer anything more than rather bland and obvious comment.

Isn't there perhaps something you and your group of friends could do together, beyond becoming a painting and decorating co-operative? What I can offer is only a smallish sticking plaster for you in the short term and it’s you who’s got to get a grip on what happens in the longer term.

Having sold his house so unexpectedly well and discounted giving a bung to any of the women whose memories now occupied the bin liners, Chris had already decided that Andrew was by far the most worthy recipient of a financial lifebelt. The only problem was, while he might be happy to accept the occasional pourboir, would he be up for serious support? Once the plan had been outlined, the response to his uncle’s offer showed he’d a more down to earth view of life than Chris had imagined.

I'm way past the point of being too proud to accept help, charity or even the odd food parcel. Being told to never darken my parents’ doorstep again from the moment I destroyed their ambitions for me to become a barrister, started the rot. Not achieving immediate stardom on stage or screen added to my woes. So, in the event of a storm, such as the one raging right now, it appears you’re the only possible port and a very welcome one, believe me.

In Chris’s view, the first imperative was to ensure Andrew had a roof over his head. Then he needed a basic level of income to prevent the circling wolves from effecting an entry, although he’d still have to continue earning from other work, including the occasional foray