My dear, dear friends.
To take my mind off working with Rupert Abbott, the world's biggest slab of penile gristle (that's an official title pending confirmation from the Guiness Book of World Records), I thought I'd describe unto you one of the few perks of life as a client.
(Few perks is right. These days, with financial prudence so essential, many of the niceties of our professional life have gone. Lunches are now strictly three courses. I work at least 14 hours a week. I can no longer claim my fishing license on expenses. The list goes on and on.)
However, it's nice to know we still get our Christmas bonus.
Not our actual Christmas bonus. Our other Christmas bonus. The one bestowed upon us by our agency partners.
It's an age-old tradition that follows some well-rehearsed phases. It begins in November when we clients begin the 'Murmurings of Aspiration'. We casually drop into conversation with the agency such things as, 'Did I ever mention that I'm a huge fan of very expensive whisky?' and 'I do so adore business class flights to Bangkok' and 'The day I tire of Rolex watches is the day I detach my colostomy bag and walk into the Thames'.
Next come the 'Puzzlings of the Distant Aunt', where we mention in passing all the relatives we haven't bought Christmas presents for because we have next to no fucking clue what women in their seventies want - especially women in their seventies who spend most of their time, as far as we can gather, talking about the vaginal ailments of their friends.
Finally, in the days before Christmas, we begin the 'Hastenings of the Account Director', where we make direct calls to our ADs and suggest things like, 'The very pressing need I'm feeling to put my account up for pitch might go away if the iPod-shaped hole in my desk was suddenly to be filled. Actually - there are fourteen iPod-shaped holes.'
The generosity of agencies, media independents, production companies, photographers and printers is sometimes amazing to behold.
And if it isn't, I fucking have words. Specifically, the words, 'I'm putting the account up for review, you stingy jizzsack.'
I can't stand meanness. Especially at Christmas.
Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!