Together Again

A brief respite today from flogging my reluctant brain to think up ways of blowing 8 million on a TV ad, and yanked onto a crisis job with... the MAM. Hurrah! How I had missed him. Not really.

I can report that his mucous membranes are more irritated (and irritating) than ever. Violent coughs now wrack his entire gin-sodden frame. He blames the office air conditioning. Certainly, air conditioning is a greater menace to the lungs than tobacco and crack fumes.

10.45pm

Come on brain, for God's sake.

Eight Miiiillion Rand TV Ad

Advertising; it's a funny old business. Last week I was doing a lowly retail newspaper insert, festooned at the client's behest with a quite amazing quantity of 'FREE!' and 'SAVE!' stars & badges.

This week, I need to think of an idea for a big brand TV commercial with a budget of 8 million. We have carte blanche to come up with an epic, awe-inspiring work of art!

Nothing's springing to mind yet, I have to admit.

The daily review process begins to tomorrow. My formidable brain will no doubt kick into gear shortly.

I love the smell of burning teeth in the morning.

We heard nothing about our new business pitch on Friday last week. Apparently our CEO had got the date wrong, and the decision was not to be announced until the end of the month.

Today though, we were summoned together to be told that our agency has lost its biggest account. It has to be said that this did not come as a complete surprise. They've been with our agency since the dawn of time and must be sick of the sight of us by now. I know I'm heartily sick of them.

It seems our superiors had known that the account was lost on Thursday last week, but withheld the news for fear of spoiling the Christmas party. In my opinion, it's debatable whether any news could have made that party less of a success. Even the news that a rogue meteor was on a collision course for Earth.

This ill-omened day also featured a trip to the dentist, where I underwent a very painful filling while the substitute dentist (my regular's away) tutted and fretted over the state of my teeth, discovering previously unsuspected areas of decay.

I am bitterly resentful about this because I practically live at the fucking dentist. I must have been there at least eight times this year. Could there be something wrong with the X-ray equipment? At first I stared wide-eyed up at the ceiling in terror, body rigid as a plank on the sinister black leather recliner. But I quickly realised that keeping my eyes shut would go a long way towards keeping more powdered teeth from flying into my eyes as the heavy-duty drilling continued.

Another appointment with this sadist has been scheduled in ten days' time. Perhaps a meteor strike will save me.

Partied out.

My hopes for the Miami Beach Party were not high, and yet it still managed to fall short of my modest expectations.

The party venue was a smallholding an hour's drive away from town, complete with dogs, sheep, and ducks which happily floated (and defecated) in the swimming pool.

Deafeningly loud and awful music prevented any conversation on arrival. A welcoming platter of polony sandwiches waited on each table, condensation forming on the clingfilm that covered them as they festered in the sun.

A waiter/farm labourer regularly scooped the empty plastic cocktail beakers from our table into the giant bin-bag he carried with him (the mark of a fine establishment).

I suffered through the obligatory boring speech by the CEO, and the awarding of endless hilarious joke awards to various staff members. Fortunately, many years ago I established this golden rule: Never go to a party without your own transport, no matter how far away it is. This enabled me to sneak off and spend the rest of the afternoon splashing out payday bounty at the shops.

As long as the duck's enjoying itself.

Note:
Credit must go to the MAM, who really went the extra mile with his party costume. He arrived resplendent in a Panama hat, mirrored shades, beaded necklace, loud Hawiian shirt unbuttoned right down to the bulging waistband, and checked Bermuda shorts revealing pale hairy legs that ended in white slip-on shoes.

New career low

I may have scraped rock bottom today, and that's saying something.

We were 'debriefed' by a representative of the client service department to re-work a campaign created by another team. This briefing was something of an ordeal. The client service woman involved is an especially tedious specimen, vacant of expression and monotonous of tone. Although heavily pregnant, she seems to regard warnings about the danger posed by smoking to your unborn child as unsubstantiated rumour, and is often to be found indulging in a cigarette break outside.

This birdbrain passed on the news that the client had dismissed the agency's clean & restrained design offerings as 'unprofessional-looking', and not sufficiently 'hard-sell'.

She then handed over a sheet of paper on which the client had thoughtfully provided their own Powerpoint(!) artwork as a guide for us. This insult to the eye depicted a photo of the product they wish us to flog to the unsuspecting consumer, surrounded by a great many multi-coloured FREE! and SAVE! graphics vying for attention.

Our client is clearly unaware of the principal that when everything stands out, nothing stands out.

Accordingly, I have designed an ad crammed full of shiny buttons with misleading promises of big savings and free stuff.
Dignity, where art thou?

iMood

Ages ago I heard about a conspiracy theory claiming that the iTunes 'shuffle' feature is not as random as you might suppose. How very true.

There you'll be, listening to Roberta Flack's 'The first time ever I saw your face' in a quietly introspective mood. Perhaps reflecting on tender memories and associations, and feeling pleasantly melancholic. The last soft notes die hauntingly away into silence, only to be followed by 'FLASH! AA-AAAAH! SAVIOUR OF THE UNIVERSE!'.

It works the other way round, too. A joyful session of bopping along to 'Good Thing' by the Fine young Cannibals was brought to an abrupt end by the unwelcome appearance of 'Eleanor Rigby - died in the church and was buried along with her name. Nobody came.'

A malevolent intelligence is at work within my iPod.

Friday on my mind

Friday the 25th is payday! An event eagerly awaited by me for at least the last 28 days.

Friday is also the day of the not-so-eagerly-awaited Company Christmas Party (theme: Miami), and it's on Friday that we find out whether or not our recent new business pitch was successful (a potential party buzz-killer).

I plan to stay focused on the aforementioned PAYDAY aspect however, and so will remain unaffected by any drama in Miami.

Trouble in the hood

A couple of weeks ago, some new neighbours moved into the house on my left. I'm not sure of the exact number as they appear to be an ever-changing population. At least three adults and two children, I estimate.

Although the clan carried their possessions into the house in armfuls as opposed to neatly packed boxes, and one of the women sported a wailing baby strapped to her back with a towel, I tried not to give in to a faint sense of apprehension.

To their credit, they have kept a fairly low profile until now. Only some pungent cooking smells, penetratingly loud conversations, and muffled howling from the infant have given away their presence.

However. This morning I decided to eat a bowl of muesli on my patio. This position gave me a good view of the neighbours' kitchen door as a rather matronly-looking woman, completely naked from the waist up, stepped calmly out onto the back porch to take in the morning air. I can't help feeling that a line has been crossed...

How I miss that nice quiet brothel.

PowerPoint, the Revenge

Just when you though it was safe to go back in the water.

My plan to learn as little as possible about PowerPoint in order to avoid being given assignments appears to be backfiring. Far from discouraging the awarding of such assignments, I end up doing them anyway, but in an incredibly slow and laborious manner. 

Today I created one hundred and thirty-three slides, with a squadron of people crowding around my humble little workstation to issue commands. There was a harassed moment or two when the desire to shriek EVERYBODY GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY DESK was almost overwhelming. But eventually the ordeal was over, and I admit to a sneaking sense of satisfaction (oh dear).

12.45am

Just had a slice of burnt toast for dinner. The agency is working on a new business pitch at the moment which has caused a drop in standards of relaxation, entertainment, nutrition and general well-being. But not in the standards of hygiene. Oh no. When the standards of hygiene are allowed to drop, where are we then? In the shoes of the MAM, that's where.

In fact, the lateness of the hour could be attributed to my need to wallow in the bath for at least an hour before actually getting on with any work.

Hmm...er

I hate it when people drive around these understated mystery vehicles. What is it, and where can I get one?

The Kids are Not Alright.

The ease with which I am drifting into a state of cantankerous old maid-ness is really quite alarming. Returning from a shopping trip today, I flung open the patio doors in order to enjoy the balmy air, then flung them closed again when assaulted by the din from the nearby communal swimming pool.

I can't believe kids are still listening to ravey-dance crap. Have there been no developments in the field of music during the last decade or so? With this discordant thudding row going on, there's no way I can do my VERY IMPORTANT WORK (for the benefit of anybody from the office who might be reading this). 

I got out the trusty binoculars and surveyed the area, noting a sign which specifically forbids the playing of music at the pool area. I then phoned security, and watched gleefully from a distance as the plug was pulled on the teen festivities. Mwahahaha!

All I need now are lace curtains to twitch aside, a child to throw a ball onto my porch so that I can confiscate it, and twenty five cats to consume my decaying corpse after I collapse in the bath from an embolism.
Oh, God.

Pep talk

Still in a state of euphoria about the departure of the Red Queen after four painful years to pursue her new (and hopefully doomed) business opportunity.

Unable to keep this exuberance to myself, I have been informing anyone who will listen about my delight with the new status quo.

I couldn't resist unburdening myself to the Human Resources manager when I spotted her in the canteen, but this was a mistake as I had to endure a mini motivational speech about how I had been holding back my full potential under the reign of the Red Queen, and it was now time for me to really step up and start applying myself.

In my view, this is the equivalent of being the ward of a feckless single mother who marries a notorious child abuser, looking on indulgently as your stepfather screws you nightly for four years. When he finally buggers off, your mother informs you that it's time you got over the whole thing and started doing a few more chores around the house.

Okay, maybe it's not the exact equivalent. But it's a bit like that.

Blood work

Two colleagues and I bravely ventured into the local hospital today for a free 'Healthy Heart Awareness' assessment, promoted by the Agency who apparently would prefer us not to suffer inconvenient coronary thromboses on their premises.

I just wonder why, when drawing blood, the cruel pin has to be stabbed into the nerve-filled tip of your finger. Surely there are meatier, less sensitive places on your person to choose from. Nonetheless, I am happy to report that my begrudgingly-given claret reveals a less than 1% chance of dying due to cardiac disease in the next 10 years.

The MAM elected not to take advantage of this free offer, which may be for the best. His advanced cirrhosis, heavy smoking and pie consumption would probably result in a 'Deceased' outcome in the blood test, causing distress for the hospital staff.

Who you gonna call?

Spotted this epic slogan on the van in front of me while driving home this evening. Risked life and limb getting close enough for a photo.

that sinking feeling

What, I wonder, is the earliest possible age for the onset of senility? Last night I started a bath running, then went to do a quick bit of tidying up in the kitchen.

About half an hour later, once the clanging of pots and pans and general splashing had subsided, I realised I could still hear the sound of running water coming from somewhere.

I had no idea what a vast array of ugly old towels were in my possession until I had to fling armfuls of them onto a waterlogged carpet. The bathroom was on its way to becoming a bijou tiled swimming pool, and the warm water lagoon was steadily encroaching across the threshold, making a swamp of the bedroom carpet.

The remainder of Saturday night was devoted to trampling on absorbent fragments of cloth in an attempt to soak up the flood waters. A fan is currently blasting the affected area. These counter-measures are vital. According to the internet, if black mold starts to breed in the carpet I will DIE.

Mayday!

The MAM went rogue on us today. We'd shown our client a cut of their commercial with music track (a) and they'd loved it. But then we came up with music track (b), which we considered to be an improvement. It only remained to convince the client of this, which presented a challenge as they were pretty much married to track (a).

While the sound engineer fiddled about putting the finishing touches on our preferred track, the client waited outside the studio ready for the big reveal.  It was at this point that the MAM wandered outside unsupervised (in a gin trance) and declared to the client, contrary to what we'd all agreed, that his preference was actually for the original track (a).

A scene ensued, during which he was threatened with a kick in the balls should he ever open his big mouth again. I think we managed to salvage the situation though, by the time the client departed we'd talked them round to track (b) being the more pacy and contemporary of the two.
The MAM had better pray that this is the case.

Temptations

Poor MAM. There was a big departmental lunch today, but he is skating on ice thinner than a sheet of recycled toilet paper regarding his alcohol consumption at work.

With so many witnesses on hand, he was forced to stick to ginger beer while those on either side of him guzzled down Tanqueray & tonic in a company-sponsored binge. Imagine his agony.

LATE BREAKING NEWS:
A colleague informs me he was surreptitiously pouring Vodka into his ginger beer. The bastard.





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sensory challenges

Screening of new car commercial for client approval today.
Eagle-eyed client calls attention to a giant steel camera arm which can be seen in the shot of the car.
Client makes this keen observation straight after the director's preliminary speech emphasising that the footage is not yet a finished product, and all booms, arms and other camera paraphernalia will be removed by the magic of special effects.

Out on a limb

A one-armed man has beaten me in a Badminton match. In fact, not only had he got no right arm but also, interestingly, no right shoulder. From the right side of his neck, his body just kind of tapered down to his waist. This was, however, absolutely no impediment to his decisive victory.
The only time it was possible to get a point was when he had to coordinate throwing the shuttle up into the air using the hand that was already holding the racquet, then serve it.
Probably it would have been courteous to let him try again. But to hell with that, frankly.