Statutory Warning: This blog may contain objectionable and adult content.

But it is the truth. It is something that actually happened.

My entry into the mad world of advertising was a crazy adventure. And only after I got into it and started enjoying myself did I realise that I was naturally equipped with the skills required for advertising (ok, ok…I am kind of boasting, but allow me that privilege).

I was a good writer. I had a incisive mind and a marketing instinct. I had an affable persona. And I was an actor, director, producer with some experience.

I must admit that this realisation took a few years, but one of my first encounters with an unknown skill had interesting dimensions.

You see, I have always been a closet poet. To the extent that I came out in the open only after my 50th birthday when my children collected all the scraps of paper I had scribbled on over the years…and painstakingly typed them out…and then presented me a bound copy of my poems.

Otherwise, only a few close friends knew that I dabbled in poetry.

But the point was, that since I was what I thought, a natural poet…and one who used to make up the lyrics of most songs I tried to sing…I kind of knew that I’d be good with Advertising Jingles.

Hyderabad unfortunately did not give me an opportunity in those days to try my hand at writing jingles. I had to wait till I shifted to Chennai…and of course after that there has been no looking back. I crossed the 100 jingle mark quite a few years back, and then stopped keeping count.

I have written in English, Hindi and Telugu…yes Telugu.

But Hyderabad did introduce me to jingles in a very strange way.

There was a client that the agency had who had a weakness for women. And I was told that in the interest of making sure monies were collected efficiently, this Accountant Fellow used to be regularly entertained.

Needless to say, we ‘children’ were not invited for these soirees. But colourful reports would be given the next day.

And that is when I heard that this fellow…boring, insignificant accountant that he was…had a knack of creating interesting and effective jingles.

Since he was interested only in the wining and womanising, his mantra was…wait for it…

Drink a little…Govinda.
Fuck a little…Govinda.

And this was repeated ad nauseam in a tune that still haunts me.

When a few months later I read Ogilvy who used to believe that only those people who had nothing substantial to say, would resort to meaningless tunes…I of course, begged to disagree.

The jingle had given Govinda exactly what he wanted!

I have never written such a jingle, but I have had many a jingle succeed in the market place.

So no thanks Mr. Ogilvy…I’m still on song. And hell yes, I write against a black background…in reverse