As I think I've proved over the duration of my long, illustrious and much-envied career, I know everything there is to know about advertising, marketing, PR, design and thinking outside the box in the blue sky while breaking ground and changing the game. In fact, anything you think you know, I knew by 1985. And anything you may think you've done, I'd done by 1987. And anything you may think you've come up with, I'd come up with by 1988. I think we can all agree on that.
But there are some things about agencies that I don't get, can't get and may never get.
I'm the biggest fan of receptionists who look like pornstars, French models or hookers. I couldn't imagine (and wouldn't hire) an agency without them. But what the fuck is in it for them? I mean, apart from the occasional visit from me, what? They sit there day in, day out, while a succession of ludicrously-quaffed agency boys file in and out looking at their tits and blushing. Then they answer the phone. Then they have lunch. Is there nothing better for these girls to do? That said, I hope there isn't.
The industry-wide self-delusion that they aren't salespeople.
Come on, folks. Let's the two of us have a heart-to-heart here. Nobody else - just us. Let me be honest, because I like you / you buy me beerz.
The only difference between you and a car salesman is an ironic T-shirt.
The constant fucking 'offerings'.
What is it with you fucking people? Why does everything you do have to have a name? Why do you have to call two account executives trawling the internet for second hand research 'The Truth Laboratories'? Why is your planning department 'The Disrupterference Unit'?
And why must you have a fucking 'system'? Because whether you call it '360 Insightification', 'Mirage-Busting' or 'Gorgeouslogicmakesideasgrow', I know that your 'offering' involves an account man giving a brief to some one-time film-makers/novelists who will do everything they can to produce work that turns them back into film-makers/novelists. And you know it too, you fucking con artists.
I walk into my agency. The sofas are beautiful. The reception desk is like something from a spaceship. The flooring has the reassuring feel of real wood. The sculpted fittings and furniture are sleek and beautiful. There are grand plasma screens, a stunning sculpture and, for real impact, one of the Minis from The Italian Job.
THAT'S MY FUCKING FEE, YOU CUNT-FORKS!
Jesus wept. It's like a mugger popping round the next day to show you what he spent your cash on. 'Look, I got this nice watch - and I sold your phone for this jacket. Fucking nice, eh? Same time tomorrow, you fucking twonk?'
I could go on. But I'll save that for another post. I have to sign off. I'm helping my mother with her bikini wax. It's a tough job, but someone's got to do it! And that someone is me!
Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!