Thursday, 14 October 2010

Eat my balls, agency motherfuckers!

My fellow marketing professionals, I have news.

I am finally free of the creative shackles placed upon me by my agency! (You may remember that they requested that I stay away from my advertising and let them, the 'experts', do it all.)

They also offered me a very attractive remuneration package and as many girls as I could fit into my trousers.

(Now, I am a man of integrity so I took that bri...incentive because I knew it was better for the development of that agency. They'd get nowhere with me always showing them how to tear down the walls of their minds with all kinds of crazy creative shitbombs. They'd learn nothing! No - better to let them figure it out themselves and donate the massive monthly bonus they gave me to charity. Which I will definitely do, once I've decided which one to give it to. Serious. Also, I have to pay off the swimming pool I'm having put into my front garden.)

Well, that was how it was. But that is not how it is. Not since today when happenings happened, and occurrences occurred.

I was in the agency for a regular update meeting, of the sort where they try to tell me things about sales and profit and all that shittage, and I just tear the room to pieces by dropping mental depth charges like, 'Don't tell me about sales. Tell me about smiles' and 'Where does my reputation begin and my brand end?' and 'Where the fuck are the croissants I like, you useless cuntburgers?'

It was all going as it always did. So when the planner stood up, I made my usual sprint for the shitter, where I intended to stay until I thought it safe to return.

I am so very glad that I did. Because when I booted open the trap door and prepared to walk in I beheld a wonderful sight.

There, sitting on the throne, wearing an expression of blameless rapture, was the agency's chief executive. (Yes - that one! The one who suggested I fuck off out of the creative.)

And there he was.

Being fellated.

By a very young account executive.

And not a female one.

Now, Dave Knockles is no homophobe. What two people do with their own fists in the privacy of their own home is their business. But I happen to know that this particular Soho toffee-bonce has a wife and two kids called something like Fudgey-Mint and Apple Mac.

So, after he'd pulled his bespoke trousers up, and sent the young Charles or Henry or Oliver on his tearful way, and said 'Fuck' several times, and stopped crying, I thought it only fair to say, 'Dear oh dear oh dear, my old mate. Now I'm no planner, but that looks to me like the kind of demographic cross-pollination your missus definitely wouldn't approve of. Or is that just evidence of agency integration?'

At first, he just called me a cunt. But finally, he said, 'What do you want?' (Then he called me a cunt again.)

'Well, I'm struggling to make ends meet on that measly bung you're giving me,' I said. 'I've got a fucking swimming pool to pay for - so you'll need to double the dosh.'

'Fine,' he said. (And called me a cunt.)

'And I'll need to approve the creative work from now on,' I added.

This time, he really called me a cunt. And a fuckface, a shit-eating cock, a stupid prick-end, an idiot bastard and a moron. But in the end, what could he do? (Apart from call me a cunt again.)

I walked back into the meeting and, do you know, I actually enjoyed the planner's presentation. Particularly the bit on...actually, I tell a lie. It was still so tedious and confusing I wanted to shit my own liver. I just had a big smile on my face.