I don't call Friday 'Friday'. I call it 'Achieveday'.
This is because Friday is the day I achieve goals, goals, goals.
Here's how it pans out. (My fellow marketing professionals may appreciate the insight into the working practices of a man once described as 'marketing's answer to the bubonic plague'. Do you know how fucking effective the bubonic plague was? Exactly.)
I arrive at the office early. And I mean cocking early. 10am at the latest - and I'm at my desk immediately. No pre-breakfast wank on a Friday for Dave. No way. Friday is all about getting the job done and done and done.
Next, I start multi-tasking. I eat my breakfast baguette (bacon, egg, sausage, lamb chops, sausage, egg, bacon, tomato, beans, hot dogs, egg and brown sauce) while phoning a couple of adult chat lines and tackling the inevitable mountain of emails. (Some mornings, I have more than fifteen. I fucking know.)
My general protocol with emails is simple: delegate everything except doctor's appointments or stuff that will make me look good.
Delegation is vital to 'Achieveday'. I am, putting it mildly, a fucking genius of delegation. It wouldn't be excessive to say I'm the Pele of delegation. In fact, I'm the Louis the 16th of delegation. In fact in fact, I'm the Leonardo cunting Da Vinci of delegation.
In fact in fact in fact, I'd put it like this: I delegate, therefore I am.
So, up to the hour of 11am, I am a blur of delegation. Forward! Forward! Forward! That's not a motivational chant, that's me dealing with my emails. Forward! Forward! Forward! Bang, bang, bang!
At 11am, I need some management calm. I need space. I need to focus. So down come the office blinds, off go the lights and I have a well-deserved think on the office sofa. Strictly do-not-disturb time, this. You can't work as hard as I do and not need a chance to recharge.
When noon comes, I'm back in the game. Kerwallop! Generally, I'll spend half an hour checking through ads, correcting headlines so the product name is in there, asking for bigger bristolas in the artwork, researching the ads with my mother (she's nearly target audience) - all the usual stuff a good marketeer will do.
Now that my agency is paying me not to get involved in the advertising, however, I'm free from 12. So I get down to the Dog and Hog to start the Friday management lunch meeting early.
This is a hugely important meeting.
The Friday Management Meeting (I came up with that name, by the way) is absolutely pivotal to the smooth running of the company. Over a few glasses of shandy, we discuss, debate and...er...another 'd' word...the issues that face the company.
Then, over a few glasses of claret 'n' WKD, brandy 'n' brandy, lager 'n' Aftershock and so on, we keep discussing, debating and another-d-wording all afternoon. Then we go to Delilaz, my preferred executive gentleman's club and - as a perfectly justifiable reward for our labours - we use company petty cash to pay attractive young girls to frot us.
After that, we really let our hair down.
As my MD, Big Andy Poleman, says: "Slags and booze. Profit and loss. There's no difference."
Now, I don't strictly understand the detail of what he means. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if it didn't make any sense whatsoever. But as God is my witness, I find the practical demonstration utterly inspiring.
The day usually ends somewhere around Sunday morning, when we all wend our way home and prepare our excuses for phoning in sick on Monday.
It's not easy. But it works.
Soon, I will offer more insight into my working life. But right now, there's an 18-year old Latvian with bristolas the size of my head demanding that I pour Krug up her foof.
I will rise to that challenge.
Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!