Giving me a little-understood syndrome that means I empty my bowels when I see a particular shade of deep, reddish brown is one thing. (And, frankly, a fucking downright unpleasant thing too. I mean, where did you get this reputation for being some kind of benevolent hippy-type? Pure bunkum from where I'm sitting - which is on the crapper with a bowl full of angry water beneath me.)
But why did you have to make that particular shade appear so commonly in advertising aimed at those aspiring to join the upper-middle classes? For instance, organic Regency-period paints. Tweeds. Equestrian fashions. Handmade fireplaces. Handmade Chelsea boots. Handmade sausages. (Actually, anything fucking handmade.) It all carries with it a high chance of inducing what my doctor calls 'explosive and total anal prolapse'.
It's an apt description. The prolapse is indeed explosive and, most times, very total.
I arrived at my agency this morning at 11.45, more or less on time for my 9.30 meeting. I had scheduled a session with Penelope Wilkes-Harvey, a board account director and supposed expert in...something. I had noticed her amongst the barrage of bumph the agency gave me as a 'welcome' pack.
(A strange idea of a welcome, it has to be said. If someone welcomed you to their house, say, with reams of self-obsessed bullshit, some wankily-shot portraits, details of their greatest achievements and pages of unrestrained bragging about their qualifications, would you feel welcomed? Or would you think they were just a big-headed fuck-pipe? What's wrong with a bottle of Scotch and a couple of tickets to the rugger?)
Anyway, I noticed Penelope because of her expertise in...whatever it was, and her apparent talent for having massive bristolas. A meeting of minds was a must.
The name should have given me some warning that Penelope was in the 'brown ad' demographic, I suppose. But I sauntered into her office with my guard down. I usually recce every room, almost unconsciously. Not this time.
I plonked myself in her office and said, 'Alright, Penelope! I'm Dave Knockles. You may call me...any fucking time!'
Before long I had my feet on her desk and was telling her what makes a good ad (bristolas), what makes a good headline (the product name in it - twice if poss), what makes a good oral sex technique (keep the teeth out of the equation!). She was gripped - all wide-eyed and open-mouthed. But then the coffee arrived.
The coffee bird came in and put my cup down on a little table next to me. I glanced down as I reached for it and...ka-fucking-poop.
Some wanky interior design mag was open on an ad for handmade terracotta tagines. Classic brown ad material.
Yes, the prolapse was explosive and total. Everything that was in my bowel suddenly wasn't in my bowel (including last night's chicken tikka balti with extra balti and a slightly, if I'm honest, over-indulgent breakfast of kedgeree, six scrambled eggs, a bacon and sausage baguette and two pints of bloody mary).
It was quite devastatingly powerful, even for me. And because my feet were on Penelope's desk, my trouser legs acted as a sort of gun barrel - a very unpleasant, very volatile gun. She really couldn't have been sitting in a worse place. She got pretty much everything, square in the face, the poor thing. She looked like she'd been swimming in a mixture of oxtail soup, spinach (don't ask me), meatball sauce and chocolate mousse.
Of course, it was very difficult and trying for her. Especially when she started vomiting involuntarily. But for fuck's sake, who's the real victim here? After ten or fifteen very, very hot showers, she'll be smelling normal again. But me? I have to live with this all the fucking time.
So maybe there wasn't any need to throw me onto the street like a leper. I may have been covered in a vast amount of my own half-digested waste, but I am still human.
Some people need to fucking cheer up! I mean, I don't worry about it!
Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!