Put it in your diary

Dear account handlers, when you write a letter to Santa this year, please, please, please put a diary at the top of the list you worthless pieces of fetid shit spawn.

How hard is it plan something in? It’s only a leaflet a client wants, not the Nazis marching through Europe. How much fucking organising does it take?

Here’s an idea. When a client asks for a piece of work, rather than just file it under ‘B’ for ‘bollocks-up’ and forget about it until about 5-minutes before it is wanted, instead just type out a brief, then give it to Creative straight away. I know it’s a mind-numbingly simple thought, which is why you’re having trouble with it. But what this means is that I don’t have to work late while you swan off to do Pilates or whatever other brainless shit you’re doing because it is ‘in’ that week. I hope sticking your puss ridden cock into glass becomes the next big thing. I am sure you'll jump on the bandwagon. I know I will give you a leg up.

And account handlers wonder why I am such a miserable twat. Wankers.

Pitch Bitch

I was in a pitch the other day. What a waste of my fucking precious time that was. I might as well have spent my time wanking against the window. It would have been more productive.

There I was presenting billboards concepts to the clients. OK, they weren’t going to win any D&AD’s – Dave Balls is honest if fuck all else – but they were good solid ideas and the client seemed to like them. So far, so good.

Then, the media bitch stands up. Someone who has got to their position in life through force of character and big tits. And very little else. Unfortunately she is now no longer 21, although she still dresses like she is, and all that remains is her force of character and breastickle saddle-bags around her ankles. So, this loud argumentative ad-slag-whore-a-way-media-lovey stands and gives us her media schedule.

In your mind you’re expecting billboard schedule recommnedations I bet. I know I was. But oh no, that would be far too bastarding simple. Christ on a bike, she recommends the back of car park tickets.

I stared at the pile of work on the table spread around the table. I stared at the thick bitch pointing at the overhead display which was lighting up the room with our incompetence. I stared at the client to see if he had noticed we were fuckwits. Then, I stared out of the window and wished I was wanking against it.

Well, did we get the business? No, obviousy. Because when you’re a client and you’re told your name is going on the back of car park tickets, you smile politely, walk out slowly, then run as fast as your little feet will carry you to the agency who is going to put you on the TV. Now that may be at 3am on the No Fucker’s Watching Channel, but you’re still on TV and not lying in the footwell of someone’s shitting car.