Friday, 25 November 2011

Life under Abbott

My friends, fellow marketing professionals and all you other cunts.

My life at the moment is, putting it gently, about as much fun as being gang-fisted by an army of massive-handed psychotic sex criminals with deep-seated anger issues.

Why? Because Rupert Abbott is now my colleague. So what is a working day with this insufferable cock-pipe like? I describe it below. Read, learn, drop your jaw in shock, feel extreme sympathy for the DK then mobilise yourselves as a fearsome, vengeful army of brutal killers and wipe him from the planet.

1. Morning meetings.

Yes. You read that right. Abbott, the speck of dog-flob that he is, insists on a 'catch-up' every fucking morning, 'before the guys get in'. BEFORE THE GUYS GET IN. In other words, he expects ME to arrive before the fucking drones! I don't get paid more than those twonks to do more work. I get paid more because I can do amazing things between the hours of 11am and 12.30pm. Or 12 noon, if it's a Friday, Wednesday, Tuesday or Monday.

2. Reports.

While I was in a coma, Abbott started writing reports for the board. Reports full of figures and facts and boring shit that only non-creative dullbollocks are into. There isn't a single culture-fisting idea in any of his reports. It's all projected sales and campaign results and metrics and...God, I'm getting a fucking headache.

3. Water.

The cunt only drinks water. Fucking gallons of it. His bladder must work harder than Simon Cowell's fucking girdle.

4. He talks to the drones.

He moved his desk out into what I call 'Mordor' - the open-plan bit where Yvonne and Julie and whatever-the-fuck-they're-all-called sit. He gave up his office! What a fucking dope! Now he has to sit amongst them and soak up the intellectual spatter as they waste air with talk of their tampons and their babies and their hopes and their dreams.

I see them through the shutters of my office. Laughing. But the laughing stops when I walk out there - because they know authority when they see it. The pointless cunts.

That lot is just the start of it. But the combined effect of having Lord Shitfister as a colleague is something almost intangible - it's created a change in the workplace that I struggle to define.

Put it this way - I saw...what's her name, the fat one, face like apricot yoghurt, can't remember...I saw her smile the other day.

Do they like Rupert Abbott more than me?


Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!


  1. Wonderful to have you back Dave.

  2. It's wonderful to BE back. Except for the shit bits, obviously. Nobody made THEM less shit while I was away.