Dave and Daisy are visiting the Mountain Beverage Company on the planet Kalista-mm. Daisy, who works for a whisky firm back in Scotland, discusses the ethics of marketing alcohol with Tick, their host, while Dave samples the local drinks at the company bar. Now read on...
Back in the highland village of Frough, Tick had taken her honoured alien visitors to the company bar. This was an attractive and well-appointed area, used by employees and their guests, which showcased the MBC brands in a prestigious yet relaxed setting.
Dave sat at the bar counter opposite the company’s resident drinks mixologist who juggled bottles like a demented version of Tom Cruise in Cocktail. He examined the cocktail menu and decided to start at the top.
‘I’ll try a Mud Bucket, please.’
The bartender began his alchemy using a huge array of bottles, syrups, fruits and garnishes. He added crushed ice, made a bit of a show about shaking the ingredients together and delivered the ordered drink in a frosted, conical glass with a shelled ijijik on a cocktail stick.
‘I quite like that,’ said Dave, ‘except perhaps the baby crab on the stick. It’s still alive.’
Meanwhile, the women, on high bar toadstools nearby, were comparing notes on the social issues involved in marketing such a potent substance as alcohol on their respective planets.
‘Drinks manufacturers are really in the firing line these days. We seem to get the blame for so many of society’s ills,’ said Daisy.
‘That is so true. Here in Nation 2 it seems that every promplem in the community is somehow down to us.’
‘This is very exciting; I’m so glad we met, Tick. We could definitely learn from each other. Let’s go through all the issues.’
‘OK,’ said Tick. ‘First and foremost is overage drinking.’
‘You’re so right,’ enthused Daisy, ‘only on Earth we call it underage drinking.’
Bored by the women’s conversation, Dave studied his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, smoothed his hair, finished his cocktail, consulted the menu earnestly again and ordered a Scud Missile from the bartender. That cocktail was green and came with a dack, slit and balanced on the rim of the glass.
‘Really?’ asked Tick. ‘I suppose I can kind of see a reason for that. Anyway, here in the Mountain Fortress we call it overage drinking because it’s illegal to sell soft drinks to anyone over the age of 60. But of course the old dears get hold of alcohol anyway; their children buy it for them. This can create all sorts of promplems. Being doddery anyway, when they’ve had a few bracers they forget their appointments at the clinic, leave their teeth on the bus and drive their codger-carts over cliffs. And of course we get the blame. Is it the same on Earth?’
‘It’s similar,’ admitted Daisy hesitantly, ‘except we get blamed when children drink. In most countries on Earth, you’re not allowed to buy drink under the age of about 18.’
‘Really?’ said Tick, surprised. ‘How odd. I don’t think my 12-year old could make it through the school day without a couple of powerful snifters at breakfast.’
‘But our old people are allowed to drink as much as they like,’ continued Daisy.
‘So there’s no law to protect the old folks? Huh! And they call us irresponsible!’
Further along the bar, Dave was getting into his stride: ‘These cocktails are excellent, really very tasty. You have a good man here, Tick. You hear that? You’re a good man, Bartenderman. Next, I think I’m going to go for a Splitting Headache.’ The mixologist began his work.
‘Perhaps our markets aren’t quite as similar as we thought,’ mused Daisy. ‘What about another issue? Take drink-driving, for example. That’s always a hot topic on Earth and puts us in the firing line yet again.’
‘Now that issue is exactly the same here. Don’t talk to me about drink-driving. As a company we do accept that a golf ball can be a lethal projectile, and when a few friends from work meet up for 18 holes on a Sentiflax morning they do tend to get thoroughly wasted in the clubhouse first. But, when the neighbours start complaining in letters to their local papers about broken panes in their greenhouses and dents in their nice new cars, all of a sudden it’s our fault, which we don’t accept at all.
‘Do the papers blame irresponsible golfers driving down the fairways? No, it’s the poor old drinks industry again. But how is it our fault? We’re not forcing them to drink any more than a dynamite salesman forces terrorists to let off bombs.’
‘When you’re ready there, my good man, I’ll have a Diesel Locomotive,’ Dave called to the barman. ‘Thish time, make it a bubble. Bubble! Ha ha ha. I mean double, make it a double. Daisy, I said bubble!’
‘Actually, I wasn’t really thinking about driving on a golf course. I was actually going to tell you about the problems we have on Earth with people driving cars while drunk, but I’ve just remembered that your cars don’t have drivers,’ said Daisy weakly.
‘Right, cars aren’t a promplem for us at all. As a matter of fact, most of them come with a cocktail cabinet as standard so they’re a great sales opportunity.’
‘On Earth we have strict rules about how alcohol is marketed. We mustn’t suggest that it might increase a consumer’s sexual attractiveness, for example. Do you have similar restrictions here?’
‘Oh yes, tell me about it,’ said Tick, ‘but, come on, get real! You’re never going to sell a single bottle of hooch if people don’t think it does something for them. Take our easy-drinking but lethally strong club brand, ‘Big Boy’ snoffratan. We don’t say that it enhances your libido, improves your attractiveness or puts a couple of inches on to your trouser sausage.’
‘That would be irresponsible,’ said Daisy.
‘Yes, but the point is that it’s unnecessary. We put so many male hormones into that drink we don’t have to advertise the fact; the guys discover that after the first gulp! Stand back, girls. Watch those fly-buttons pop!’
Daisy was wondering if she had anything in common with her Kalistan-mm opposite number at all. But she’d come a long way, and she was determined to learn all she could.
‘On Earth we like to push the blame on to the consumer,’ she said. ‘The problems are their fault for being irresponsible. So how do you tell your customers to wise up and adopt a responsible attitude to drinking?’
‘We advertise a lot. We find responsibility advertisements promote our brands very effectively and make us look like the good guys. As an example, our Stalin’s Gulag vodka brand has a very successful campaign running at the moment with golfers. We gave out golf bags printed with ‘DON’T DRINK STALIN’S GULAG VODKA AND DRIVE’. They’ve become the must-have accessory on most of the courses around the country. We printed the word ‘DON’T’ in very flaky ink, so that after a couple of weeks and a spot of rain, it washes off, leaving a very effective promotional tool.’
‘Very clever,’ said Daisy.
‘Now I think I’ll go over to the other side of the menu,’ Dave told the bartender as he struggled to get the card the right way up. ‘Whassis? A Claw Habber. Gimme a Claw Habber, my good man. Ha ha ha.’
‘Dave, you’re just supposed to be tasting the brands, not necking a skinful,’ Daisy chided his colleague.
‘Oh, I’m fine,’ said Dave as he missed the bar with his elbow and slipped off his toadstool on to the floor where he thrashed about uselessly. Daisy and Tick helped him to his feet.
‘I think the drinks here must be a lot stronger than we’re used to,’ Daisy remarked.
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Tick. ‘I mean, alcohol is alcohol isn’t it? You can’t get stronger than 100%.’
Back in the highland village of Frough, Tick had taken her honoured alien visitors to the company bar. This was an attractive and well-appointed area, used by employees and their guests, which showcased the MBC brands in a prestigious yet relaxed setting.
Dave sat at the bar counter opposite the company’s resident drinks mixologist who juggled bottles like a demented version of Tom Cruise in Cocktail. He examined the cocktail menu and decided to start at the top.
‘I’ll try a Mud Bucket, please.’
The bartender began his alchemy using a huge array of bottles, syrups, fruits and garnishes. He added crushed ice, made a bit of a show about shaking the ingredients together and delivered the ordered drink in a frosted, conical glass with a shelled ijijik on a cocktail stick.
‘I quite like that,’ said Dave, ‘except perhaps the baby crab on the stick. It’s still alive.’
Meanwhile, the women, on high bar toadstools nearby, were comparing notes on the social issues involved in marketing such a potent substance as alcohol on their respective planets.
‘Drinks manufacturers are really in the firing line these days. We seem to get the blame for so many of society’s ills,’ said Daisy.
‘That is so true. Here in Nation 2 it seems that every promplem in the community is somehow down to us.’
‘This is very exciting; I’m so glad we met, Tick. We could definitely learn from each other. Let’s go through all the issues.’
‘OK,’ said Tick. ‘First and foremost is overage drinking.’
‘You’re so right,’ enthused Daisy, ‘only on Earth we call it underage drinking.’
Bored by the women’s conversation, Dave studied his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, smoothed his hair, finished his cocktail, consulted the menu earnestly again and ordered a Scud Missile from the bartender. That cocktail was green and came with a dack, slit and balanced on the rim of the glass.
‘Really?’ asked Tick. ‘I suppose I can kind of see a reason for that. Anyway, here in the Mountain Fortress we call it overage drinking because it’s illegal to sell soft drinks to anyone over the age of 60. But of course the old dears get hold of alcohol anyway; their children buy it for them. This can create all sorts of promplems. Being doddery anyway, when they’ve had a few bracers they forget their appointments at the clinic, leave their teeth on the bus and drive their codger-carts over cliffs. And of course we get the blame. Is it the same on Earth?’
‘It’s similar,’ admitted Daisy hesitantly, ‘except we get blamed when children drink. In most countries on Earth, you’re not allowed to buy drink under the age of about 18.’
‘Really?’ said Tick, surprised. ‘How odd. I don’t think my 12-year old could make it through the school day without a couple of powerful snifters at breakfast.’
‘But our old people are allowed to drink as much as they like,’ continued Daisy.
‘So there’s no law to protect the old folks? Huh! And they call us irresponsible!’
Further along the bar, Dave was getting into his stride: ‘These cocktails are excellent, really very tasty. You have a good man here, Tick. You hear that? You’re a good man, Bartenderman. Next, I think I’m going to go for a Splitting Headache.’ The mixologist began his work.
‘Perhaps our markets aren’t quite as similar as we thought,’ mused Daisy. ‘What about another issue? Take drink-driving, for example. That’s always a hot topic on Earth and puts us in the firing line yet again.’
‘Now that issue is exactly the same here. Don’t talk to me about drink-driving. As a company we do accept that a golf ball can be a lethal projectile, and when a few friends from work meet up for 18 holes on a Sentiflax morning they do tend to get thoroughly wasted in the clubhouse first. But, when the neighbours start complaining in letters to their local papers about broken panes in their greenhouses and dents in their nice new cars, all of a sudden it’s our fault, which we don’t accept at all.
‘Do the papers blame irresponsible golfers driving down the fairways? No, it’s the poor old drinks industry again. But how is it our fault? We’re not forcing them to drink any more than a dynamite salesman forces terrorists to let off bombs.’
‘When you’re ready there, my good man, I’ll have a Diesel Locomotive,’ Dave called to the barman. ‘Thish time, make it a bubble. Bubble! Ha ha ha. I mean double, make it a double. Daisy, I said bubble!’
‘Actually, I wasn’t really thinking about driving on a golf course. I was actually going to tell you about the problems we have on Earth with people driving cars while drunk, but I’ve just remembered that your cars don’t have drivers,’ said Daisy weakly.
‘Right, cars aren’t a promplem for us at all. As a matter of fact, most of them come with a cocktail cabinet as standard so they’re a great sales opportunity.’
‘On Earth we have strict rules about how alcohol is marketed. We mustn’t suggest that it might increase a consumer’s sexual attractiveness, for example. Do you have similar restrictions here?’
‘Oh yes, tell me about it,’ said Tick, ‘but, come on, get real! You’re never going to sell a single bottle of hooch if people don’t think it does something for them. Take our easy-drinking but lethally strong club brand, ‘Big Boy’ snoffratan. We don’t say that it enhances your libido, improves your attractiveness or puts a couple of inches on to your trouser sausage.’
‘That would be irresponsible,’ said Daisy.
‘Yes, but the point is that it’s unnecessary. We put so many male hormones into that drink we don’t have to advertise the fact; the guys discover that after the first gulp! Stand back, girls. Watch those fly-buttons pop!’
Daisy was wondering if she had anything in common with her Kalistan-mm opposite number at all. But she’d come a long way, and she was determined to learn all she could.
‘On Earth we like to push the blame on to the consumer,’ she said. ‘The problems are their fault for being irresponsible. So how do you tell your customers to wise up and adopt a responsible attitude to drinking?’
‘We advertise a lot. We find responsibility advertisements promote our brands very effectively and make us look like the good guys. As an example, our Stalin’s Gulag vodka brand has a very successful campaign running at the moment with golfers. We gave out golf bags printed with ‘DON’T DRINK STALIN’S GULAG VODKA AND DRIVE’. They’ve become the must-have accessory on most of the courses around the country. We printed the word ‘DON’T’ in very flaky ink, so that after a couple of weeks and a spot of rain, it washes off, leaving a very effective promotional tool.’
‘Very clever,’ said Daisy.
‘Now I think I’ll go over to the other side of the menu,’ Dave told the bartender as he struggled to get the card the right way up. ‘Whassis? A Claw Habber. Gimme a Claw Habber, my good man. Ha ha ha.’
‘Dave, you’re just supposed to be tasting the brands, not necking a skinful,’ Daisy chided his colleague.
‘Oh, I’m fine,’ said Dave as he missed the bar with his elbow and slipped off his toadstool on to the floor where he thrashed about uselessly. Daisy and Tick helped him to his feet.
‘I think the drinks here must be a lot stronger than we’re used to,’ Daisy remarked.
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Tick. ‘I mean, alcohol is alcohol isn’t it? You can’t get stronger than 100%.’
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