Covert Bullshit In Adland

I've mentioned on here before how much I hate my job, you may have read that at some point. If I were to go into a little more detail I would say that the job in itself wasn't really what I hated, it is the people that I have to converse with that make it such a soul expunging day to day existence. As time has gone on I have found myself automatically adjusting so that I can wheedle myself into some little corner of my mind that allows me to approach the situation and retain some sense of dignity. Not easy. Now I mainly hate myself during the week.

There is one part of my job that makes it a more bearable way to earn money. We are constantly entertaining clients. That can mean taking them to football matches in Spain to watch Real Madrid play at the Bernebeu, or getting tickets to the biggest gigs in town. VIP. Taking their entire team of 50 to the pub for a huge piss up. That kind of thing. We always pick up the tab. All my boss gives a fuck about is that they have fun with us and we forge relationships with them.

It all sounds like great fun right there doesn't it? Only problem is, the people you will be watching football with, visiting movie premieres with, getting fucking hammered with, are all fucking massive cunts. To a fucking man. I've been doing this for 3 years now and have had a huge internal tussle with where I sit in amongst all of this. I tried playing their game and couldn't keep up the pretence for too long. I'm not fucking interested in your iphone. I'm not interested in hearing about how you really know banksy and sniffed coke with him. Your trendy beard nauseates me, and so does your face. It is offensive to me how you put countless creams and lotions on your face and hair just so that it looks "naturally untended".

That didn't work. So I backed off, puzzled and questioning if I could really do this. The director asks me why I am spending less of his cash getting fucked with my clients. I tell him they are all cunts and hate myself when I am with them. He laughs conspiratorially and agrees with me, shrugs his shoulders as if to say "What can you do?". Bit of a shock really as he would be well up there in the final three if the BBC ever decide to make my proposition to them of "Cunt Idol".

I eventually came to the conclusion, not so long ago, that I would just be completely and totally me. The next time you flash your new trendy gadget at me I am going to theatrically yawn in your fucking face, and then laugh. I'm going to tell you that your beard looks like a spider crawled all over your face after jogging around in an ink pot if you ask me my opinion. It offended some and surprisingly intrigued others. Strange developments were afoot and although I am forever trying to kerb myself, and feeling guilty when I fail, it seemed to have the opposite effect and drove me on.

Imagine my fucking heart singing arias written by angels, both fallen and exalted, when I am at lunch with an entire media agency team (one of the big ones) including three board directors. Swapping meaningless words with their main man and then finding myself getting carried away simulating sucking a dogs cock, while telling him why he is such a daft cunt, to such an extent that two of the directors choke on their food with laughter. The other director is snorting ridiculously expensive sherry from a spoon and two of the girls start kissing.

I'm winning the battle and beating these motherfuckers from the inside.