Friday, 7 December 2012
My friends, I want you to look out of the window. Look out there, across the world, across whatever seething metropolis or bucolic vale or craggy urban pisspot you can now see, and imagine.
Imagine the people of adland as Friday, their day, begins to irresistibly gather momentum towards its triumphant zenith, sometime around 3.30am on Saturday morning.
See down there, in the subsidised bar of a UK top-5 agency, where an account director named Giles is ordering another round of Cosmos for the exec girls to reward 'the bloody good job' they all did during the week, taking calls and...all the other stuff I'm sure they do. Can we imagine which of those execs, come midnight, will be hoiked over the broken bog in some Soho boozer basement as Giles manfully bends his curiously angular wang in and out, all the time singing the old school song in his head and trying not to picture his mother's rueful face?
And look over there, at the brand new digital start-up in Shoreditch. Why, they're having Friday cocktails served in jam jars! It's so cool, this brand-new digital start-up; they have a bold mission statement, a fuck-it attitude, an agency ferret called Berners-Lee, a broken leather barber's chair and an in-house barista! Let's focus on all that and try to ignore the gargantuan elephant in the room - a creature that is getting harder to ignore now that the words WE HAVE NO CLIENTS have been written across its leathery hide in letters five feet high.
Across town, we can see four people in four different agencies reading an email just sent by an agency intermediary. Three of the people read the email, hopefully at first. Then they do the slump, the we-lost-the-pitch slump, and they close the email before picking up their mobile and walking as though through molasses into an empty meeting room where they make a call that will ruin their boss's weekend, will earn an unearned bollocking, will hasten the eager journey to Wankered Parkway. But for one of the four, the victor, the scene is different. Fists are clenched, fists are bumped, whoops are whooped, champagne is decorked and the ecstatic-yet-bitter battle for credit begins. It was definitely my idea that won it, says ABSOLUTELY FUCKING EVERYONE.
What's that noise we hear now? Clatter, clatter, clatter - it's a thousand agency toilet doors slamming shut, shielding the occupants as they break out great blizzards of cocaine and chop fat, generous, adland lines - all of them hoovered with a feeling that it's fucking well deserved. But we thought that kind of thing didn't go on anymore! How wrong we were!
Now then - who's that fellow, shouting and shouting and throwing and shouting? Ah, it's The Creative Director Who Promised Awards. He's just seen another set of award nominations that aren't graced by his name and, by George, he's going to let his creatives know that it's by no means his fault and, what's more, if they weren't all such useless cunt-patches, such fucking awful crumbs of grandad's cock-crust, then life would be so much better and he'd get the recognition he shitting well deserved.
Look all over town now - watch as offices are deserted, as bars begin to fill, as the insider talk grows indiscreet, as egos are burnished, as brave plans are made, as innovations are innovated, as new digital platforms are born and die within the space of a conversation, as another award-winning idea is nubbed into the back of a napkin with all the others, as young ladies do what young men want them to do but not vice versa, as adlife hits the adweekend in adland.
Fuck it. I'm going to join them. They're all going to buy me a drink, after all.
Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!