Wednesday, 9 December 2009

The anatomy of a marketing team

I am aware that some of you aren't fellow marketing professionals. Some of you, it would seem, are agency people, suits, scribblers, account execs and, God forgive me, planners.

So I thought it would be useful to you to get a wider picture of the marketing team you spend your working lives referring to as cunts, wankers, shitheads, idiots, morons, twats, a-holes, no-marks, wastes of space, clueless shitspanners, fuck-ends, fuck-bags, fuck-holes, fuck-pipes, fuck-balls, fuck-pockets, fuck-wits, fuck-wads, fuck-heads and Lord & Lady Fuck-Face.

Obviously, the team is lead by the Marketing Director, a professional of great experience, wisdom, intellect, insight, kindness and girth. By which I mean, girth.

He (or she, but, let's be honest, probably he) is aided by a marketing manager or several marketing managers. The marketing manager's role varies from company to company, but her job (or his job, but, let's be honest, probably her job) is to facilitate the Marketing Director's ongoing strategic board-level business insight, delivery, performance and long-term marketing functionisation. I use my marketing director, Amanda Fookes (I know!) like this. As you can see, without her I'd...find someone with bigger tits! (Just joshing, Mandy - your tits are just fine! Ha ha! Some days, I'm just on fire! God, we have a laugh! I must be fucking great to work for!)

Where was I? Oh, yes - the marketing manager will be assisted by an army of pointless drones with very little to offer beyond being a body and a pair of hands in a seat near a phone and a pen. These are the marketing executives.

Here's a thumbnail of the execs in my department:

Dave/Derek: Never have been sure of his name. He's tall, though. I think he likes...actually, I've no idea what he likes.

Kylie Something-Or-Other: Negligible bristolas, a lisp, a gigantic barrel arse, a moustache like a ball of wire wool and unfathomably bad breath. And then there are her bad points. I think she's been with the company for something like 27 years and for that time she's been medically signed off filing, writing, typing, walking too far, sitting for too long, looking at a screen, using a pencil, thinking and making tea. I think Shit Alan is bending one through her.

The other one: There's this desk in our office at which, occasionally, I see this nebulous, genderless lump. Then when I look again, it's gone. I see it at the back of the room in meetings sometimes, shifting about, bobbing up and down, here and there, lurking. I wonder sometimes whether it actually exists. I don't trouble myself with payroll, or development reviews, or any of that shit, so who knows? Maybe it's a ghost. Mind you, if it is, it's a fucking fat one.

So there it is. Hopefully now you can see that there are sort-of real people behind the roles you so bitterly resent. And you might be assured that they're not deliberately ruining your life, thwarting your ambition to be a movie director or shitting all over your next novel. Far from it.

They are, quite simply, trying to teach you how to produce better ads. Nothing more, nothing less. So you see, there's no reason at all to hate us.

Unless you work for Rupert Abbott, of course. If you hate that cunt-portion, you have my total support.


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