My parents sent me to a prestigious private school in Perth called Scotch College, which is the type of school attended by today's leaders of tomorrow and where boys become men. I never saw myself as one of tomorrow's leaders. Here's a story that sums up my school experience. (Brace yourself: it's a good one.)
My mother (oh god, I'm already talking about Mum and I haven't even started the book) had what can only be described as a laissez-faire approach to parenting. I was pretty much a free-range kid with very few boundaries. I didn't wear shoes and never changed my clothes. I'd wear the same outfit for weeks on end. Yes, I slept, went to school, slept, went to school in the same clothes. Bath night was the first night of the month. ‘Kids don't get dirty,' my mum would say, even as my skin became progressively darker as the month went on. When I came home from school, I ate cereal or a big bowl of defrosted frozen peas. I didn't do any homework. During my years at primary school, I was always in trouble because I did my own thing. My parents loved me, but my home life was somewhat unconventional. (If you're wondering why such laidback parents sent me to Scotch, my theory is it came down to the ‘price placebo effect' – the more you pay, the better you think it will be.)
Scotch College had a uniform, including a tie and shoes. Socks had to be pulled up, shirt tucked in, all of that. None of which worked for me. My uniform was a hand-me-down with buttons missing, my shirt was always out, and my tie would never do up properly. I looked incredibly dishevelled, which accurately reflected my attitude at school. I was the classic rebel without a cause, constantly in trouble and always at odds with the teachers and other students. I was smart enough, but my grades suffered — considerably.
Even though I loved sport and drama, I wasn't very good at either. If you did drama classes at Scotch, you were committing yourself to years of bullying hell. Asthma made me a poor runner. A lack of self-discipline meant I couldn't stick at anything. In year 10 I made the tennis team but was kicked off for fighting with another team member.
You should be getting a picture of someone who was not at their best at school. Throughout this tumultuous period in my life, most of the teachers were blasé about my performance. Thirty other kids in the class needed attention. I don't think the teachers enjoyed watching my pain, but they were certainly indifferent. And then, after five years of this mayhem (in my mind), something odd and rather cruel happened. It was the last day of school — muck-up day.
For the final assembly, all 140 boys in our house squashed into a crowded science lab — that's 140 boys sitting, standing, sweating — a coliseum of testosterone. The housemaster was a nice enough guy, a well-known former squash champion and diligent teacher. I always found him to be reasonable, and the other students loved him. He was very athletic and sported a thick, macho moustache. On this last day of school, for reasons I'll never know, he began the final homeroom meeting by saying, ‘Adam Ferrier, could you please come down here and stand next to me?' As I made my way to the front of the class, I wondered if I'd done something worthy of merit. When I got to the front of the room, he ushered me to stand right next to him. He then placed one hand on my shoulder and in front of a silent room, he said, ‘Everyone look at Adam Ferrier. Don't forget him. Adam is the perfect example of someone whose parents have wasted their money sending their son to a school like Scotch.'
Standing there, no doubt with my shirt hanging out and socks down, I felt embarrassed and confused — although I'm sure I managed to put a stupid smirk on my face. I don't remember if the other boys laughed at this; after his opening remarks, the rest was a bit of a blur. Perhaps they were just as shocked as I was at the teacher's brutality. Why did he do this? Maybe he was using me to motivate the other boys. It hurt because it was clear he assumed I was completely useless. He thought that because I didn't fit in with the school system I had wasted my opportunities, and that, because I didn't conform and demonstrate my leadership potential, my parents had wasted their money.
Although I didn't enjoy high school one bit, it solidified my character and conviction. I distrust authority and structure, and value forging my own path. These values are neither good nor bad, right nor wrong. But they sit nicely with me. My parents didn't waste their money sending me to Scotch; not fitting in was, and remains, my virtue. It just took time for me to realise this.
Fast forward to many years after finishing school. By now, I've achieved some success in advertising. I've won awards and recognition, and regularly speak at conferences and in the media — becoming (some might say) an industry expert. I'm also happily married to a wonderful woman, Anna, and we have two amazing boys, Asterix and Arturo. So, you could say in some respects I've got my shit together. Recently, I was the keynote speaker at an advertising conference, and my presentation went well. The following day I received an email in my inbox that read:
Hi Adam,
I was at the talk last night and what you said really touched me. You are obviously a really awkward guy but have somehow turned awkward into awesome.
As a somewhat awkward art director myself, I'm wondering what advice you might have for me and my career in advertising?
I love this email. It was an external validation of something I worked out years ago. My housemaster was wrong. Sure, I didn't fit in and couldn't be contained. But I didn't waste my opportunities at Scotch. I'm still dishevelled, and I still have terrible organisational and management skills. But I've done my own thing, trodden my scrappy path and, as that lovely chap put it, turned awkward into awesome (if not humble!).
What's the usual advice to outsiders? Fit in and conform. Be like everyone else. This is terrible advice for people and, as I'll argue in this book, terrible advice for brands too. Unfortunately, the more opinions we gather, the more voices we listen to, the stronger the inexorable force drawing us towards mediocrity and away from what makes us unique. There is an alternative. In addition to accepting who you are, I reckon you should dial up your difference and your distinctiveness.
Allow me to switch our focus now to brands and business. For some time now, there's been an obsession with asking the customer what they want. In my view, customers shouldn't be your driving force. Instead, you should focus on defining a clearly articulated brand that sets you apart. If you listen to the customer, the brand will become like other brands. Generic.
I've always prided myself on holding different and unconventional ideas. However, it's difficult to swim against the strong currents of conformity. At its heart, this book makes a case for ignoring others' opinions and following your path.
Adam Ferrier
January 2020