Campus Safari: Promo Zombie

Tab anthropologist Bob Palmer takes a look at that species that just never seems to die off


The poor Promo Zombie (Haveanother Flyerus) begins its life as an innocent little fresher, easily drawn in by the dazzling prospect of commission-based pocket money and the glitzy club promoter lifestyle perpetuated by TOWIE and Geordie Shore. It doesn’t take long, however, for the poor little lamb to realise that this not the way that life is; by then, it is far too late. The sad truth is that once the Promo Zombie has sold its soul, there is no turning back. Even if it tries to quietly bow out, it will be forever haunted by the huge VOODOO tattoo that its persuasive event manager forced it to get emblazoned across its chest.

From the moment they send in their application email, it’s all go for the Promo Zombie. The flyers arrive, the statuses start and the door-knocking begins. One week into infection, expect the creature’s skin to lose all former colour, the eyes to redden and the hair and skin to gain swathes of grease. This is attributed most often to a diet of energy drinks and foul kebab-shop treats that keep them going through the cold morning hours of handing flyers out to people too wasted to remember what their own name is, let alone read.

The social life dies soon after; friends aren’t likely to stick around for long if your only face-to-face method of communication involves an outstretched hand and ‘Fruity tonight? Fruity tonight!? FRUITY TONIGHT!?” What diversity they lack in person, however, they make up for online – posting so many exuberant statuses and event invitations that you won’t just be deleting them from your friends list, you’ll be deleting your Facebook account itself. Even if their persistence doesn’t make you unfriend them, their loyalty will be soon to go; it’s hard to trust an individual living shadily under two names for the sole purpose of hiding the fact that they’re secretly selling for Taking Liberties and Rough Hill at the same time.

Bitterness is the final symptom that sets in for this unfortunate soul, raising questions that shake the very fabric of their existence; “Why do I only ever get about 20% of my commission?”, for example, or “What’s the fucking point of trying to launch a new Thursday night when Tequila exists?” If that box of flyers they promised to hand out is not soon dumped in the canal, then your friend may soon be lost forever.