Thursday, 12 February 2009


Wearing the tightest trousers since Sandra Dee, Adam gives a Creative presentation to the rest of
the company whose eyes embarrassingly transfix on his groin where the exact size and shape of
his chipolata’s helmet can easily be identified. His presentation reminds the company of a
rambling Judy Finnigan. With smaller cock.
With the big pitch brief coming in this afternoon, Adam escapes to another unknown meeting and
returns 3 and a half hours later smelling of pickled eggs and Hoegarden.


Another D&AD annual arrives for the so called creative director. Adam places them proudly on his
shelf near his obligatory others. It’s probably the last time he’ll ever touch it.
Whilst asking the sweaty IT guy how to ‘switch on’ his new powerbook, this cuntlapper of biblical
proportions cringes as the sweaty ‘live with mum’ computer geek almost clicks on his looping
MPEG of Myleene Klass showering in the jungle.
After eating a breakfast bagel from a post modernistic bullshit deli, the director treats his puzzled
department to an i-Tune powered concoction of what can only be described as whales screaming
before two dozen South Korean fisherman sink spears into its soap giving carcass.


Adam visits a new bar in Leeds with a barely readable name that panders to the whims of the
most despicable thundercunts in town. Ordering the gourmet burger for the price of a night out,
he chooses to eat only 8 chunky chips and leave the rest. Subsequently he drinks 7 pints of cider
to smell as much like a homeless piss head as he looks like one.
Reviewing the creative work for an important pitch, Adam blunders through repeating word for
word what his creative groups head’s have already said. And internally prays that he can have
another holiday whilst the pitch is on.
For the rest of the afternoon Adam scours e-bay for the most obscure shirt he can find. He settles
for one made out of Yak’s hair and Cambodian schoolgirls pubes.


Adam arrives at work precisely 7 minutes after the majority of the creative department to ensure
maximum exposure. Walking into the department with a carefully rehearsed mobile phone soliloquy
about media budgets and digital opportunities, this wannabe Soho shitcreep begins the day.
Reviewing a team’s book fresh from college, Adam flicks through their folio with calculated
nonchalance and begins an unprompted lecture on the clients he claims to have worked on whilst
simultaneously glancing down one of their tops. He stores the image in his mind’s ‘wank bank’ for
his 11am cubical knuckle shuffle.


Adam the Creative Director returns from holiday. After regaling the department with tall tales of
his New York pilgrimage, he writes an e-mail to his wife thanking her for a nice holiday in
Skegness with the kids. And makes an attempt to apologise for his ‘little problem’.
Adam tells a placement team the most mundane anecdote in the history of cunt-kind and is
swiftly rewarded with a gale of sycophantic laughter. He walks gingerly to his desk to disguise the
semi-on he feels approaching.
Dinner time. After reading a pub review in a glossy fashion magazine bordering on wank mag,
Adam invites his odious companions to an over-priced under-furnished pub. Looking for the most
obscure titled real ale in the place, he settles for ‘speckled goat sphincter ‘and pays the barman
£4.50. Standing in a circle with other self appointed creative elite, they begin a verbal circle jerk.
In the afternoon, after a 3 hour liquid lunch, without anything to actually do, this creative charlatan
desperately searches through ads from the Far East to pick as his own in the near future.