And I need coffee. Not bloody decaf. I can tell the difference.
Thursday
Mood: turkey
From: David Crutton
To: Ted Berry, Caroline Zitter
Sent: 25 December 2008, 14.44
Subject: 2009
I trust you’re both having excellent Christmas days. I know I am. There’s nothing better for one’s concentration than a deserted office in a deserted West End. That being the case, I decided to come in to gather my thoughts on the year ahead.
There is no doubt that Meerkat360 is an exciting young company. The two of you have pooled your considerable talents to found a visionary agency, fully tooled up to provide highly creative, Web 2.0-enabled marketing services.
I sense your continued resistance to my appointment, but as owners of 75% of your venture, Aspire Invest has a right to protect its stake in any way it sees fit. In their wisdom, they see me as that protection. Boring as it must seem, we need to focus on the bottom line. If we don‘t, come Christmas ’09, Meerkat360 will be but an entry on our respective CVs. It is that serious. Dazzled as your backers are by your creativity, Aspire is in the business of profit, not arts subsidy, and they will pull the plug. We are in the worst recession in living memory and they will not suffer financial runts. There is genuine hope. We have a solid base upon which to build. Our existing clients signed up because of your credentials as box-free thinkers. Unfortunately, to date, not one of these accounts has been run at a profit. We must turn this situation around.
To this end, the winning of Esmée Éloge marks a new dawn. This is an A-list cosmetics brand and I intend to take a hands-on approach with this client, thus demonstrating the meaning of profit-oriented account management.
Also, early in the New Year, I hope to be able to reveal the identity of another new client, one with a marketing budget that closely resembles a bottomless pit. If I succeed in signing them up, our problems will ease considerably.
In the meantime, may I suggest that you consider some simple New Year’s resolutions that will assist the move into credit?
Caroline, as the partner responsible for strategic thinking, perhaps you can illuminate me on the stratagem behind Primordial Ooze Therapy. Call me old-fashioned, but I question the wisdom of taking ten key employees to Iceland to wallow in mud during a period of global financial meltdown.
And, Ted, far be it from me to fathom the creative mind, but I do wonder at some of your appointments. Does the Creative Department really need a hairdresser? Since I see no legal way of passing on the cost of highlights and pageboy bobs to our clients, I recommend you stick to hiring designers, art directors and writers who can produce billable items of work.
Finally, I must put my foot down. The completion of the office refurb (which, I feel obliged to remind you, was commissioned before my arrival) will mark the start of a moratorium on cap ex. Until we have turned the financial corner, such items as pinball tables and sensory-deprivation think tanks are luxuries we can ill afford.
I apologize for my bluntness, but I would be doing both you and Aspire Invest a disservice if I failed to speak as I found. And if we’re honest with one another, we can turn this around: 2009 is a new year—Year Zero, in fact.
For now, a happy Christmas to you both.
PS: One other change I would like to institute in January is a transition to more conventional job titles.
From: Caroline Zitter
To: David Crutton
Sent: 25 December 2008, 14.45
Subject: Out of Office AutoReply
I am attending the Jesus: The Original Sales Wiz seminar in Bethlehem. I will return on Monday 5th January.
From: Ted Berry
To: David Crutton
Sent: 25 December 2008, 14.59
Subject: Re: 2009
I’m having a smashing Christmas, thanks, big dude. Testing the reach of my iPhone on the foothills of Aconcagua! Christmas dinner here means a can of chickpeas and a few gasps on the oxygen cylinder.
I take exception to the hairdresser jibe. Kirsten has made a significant contribution to my department’s output. The human brain is an amazing organ and there’s strong anecdotal evidence that if you wrap it in a cutting-edge barnet, its left-side performance is enhanced significantly. It’s no coincidence that during his most fertile period, Bowie sported some of the wackiest hairdos in pop history. As soon as he got the bank-clerk cut in the 80s he went right off the boil.
Fair play on the other thing though. Caroline’s solution to every problem is a self-awareness awayday.
So who’s this new super-rich client? Do tell. Don’t worry about me blabbing. I’ve only got a monosyllabic Argie Sherpa and some stray llamas for company.
Gotta go. Paco tells me Trevor Beattie has broken camp at 4000 meters. If that cunt beats me to the top of this motherfucker, I’ll never be able to show my face in Shoreditch House again.
Sent from my iPhone
From: Janice Crutton
To: David Crutton
Sent: 25 December 2008, 15.17
Subject: Christmas dinner
Tamara, Noah and I have gone to your sister’s. Your turkey’s on the ceiling.
Monday
Mood: resolute
From: David Crutton
To: Dotty Podidra
Sent: 5 January 2009, 08.58
Subject:
Switch that fucking iPod off, get your arse in here and push down the plunger on my French press. Every time I try, it sends up a scalding jet of coffee. And would you mind disposing of the tinsel vomit around your workstation? In case you haven’t got there yet, it’s January.
From: Róisín O’Hooligan
To: All Staff
Sent: 5 January 2009, 09.00
Subject: It’s not bloody Christmas anymore ...
... so is anyone going to take down the tree in reception? It’s dropping needles like a bastard, and isn’t it bad luck for it still to be up?
Róisín
Reception
From: Ted Berry
To: Susi Judge-Davis-Gaultier
Sent: 5 January 2009, 09.04
Subject: help
yo sooz get in here do me e cant type frostbite a fucker
From: Susi Judge-Davis-Gaultier
To: Ted Berry
Sent: 5 January 2009, 09.05
Subject: Re: help
Be right in, sweetz. Just preparing your hot poultice. (Is Ilama poo microwavable?!)
From: Ted Berry
To: All Staff
Sent: 5 January 2009, 09.15
Subject: New Face
Welcome back to the glamour factory, guys. And now you’re here, say hello to a new boy. He’s called Yossi and he joins us as our in-house musician. He’s a lovely bloke, full of energy, enthusiasm and top tunes. I’m sure he’ll be a massive asset to the Creative Department.
Click below to see his online CV.
BORN TO AN ISRAELI MOTHER AND A PERUVIAN FATHER, YOSSI’S MUSICAL TRAINING BEGAN IN THE WOMB, WHERE HIS MOTHER PLAYED HIM BLUES, NORTHERN SOUL AND BAROQUE MADRIGALS.
HE OWNS A LARGE COLLECTION OF INSTRUMENTS, INCLUDING VIOLIN, HARP, GLOCKENSPIEL, BANJO, FENDER STRATOCASTER, NOSE FLUTE AND THE ACTUAL HARMONICA USED BY LARRY ADLER TO PLEASURE PRINCESS MARGARET ABOARD THE ROYAL YACHT BRITANNIA.
YOSSI CAN TURN HIS HAND TO COMPOSITIONS IN ANY GENRE FROM LIGHT OPERA TO HIP-HOP. HE HAS CREATED EPIC SYMPHONIES AND MOOD-DRENCHED SOUNDSCAPES FOR EXHIBITIONS, CORPORATE VIDEOS AND WEDDINGS. HE ALSO FINDS THE TIME TO WORK WITH EDUCATIONALLY CHALLENGED TEENAGERS, RUNNING THE ACCLAIMED BAVARIAN DOMPAH WORKSHOP IN BRIXTON.
YOSSI’S ULTIMATE AMBITION? TO CREATE AN EPIPHANIC FUSION OF SCHONBERGIAN TWELVE-TONE COMPOSITION AND SCANDINAVIAN DEATH METAL.
From: Liam O’Keefe
To: Bill Geddes
Sent: 5 January 2009, 09.18
Subject: what’s that stench?
You let one off again?
From: Bill Geddes
To: Liam O’Keefe
Subject: Re: what’s that stench?
It’s llama cack. Just caught Susi in the kitchen heating it up on the new Aga. She says Ted’s come back from the Andes with both frostbite and a traditional Argentinian remedy. But she assured me it’s 100% organic, so that’s OK, then. We can safely warm up our spaghetti hoops at lunchtime.
You seen Ted’s all-staffer?
From: Liam O’Keefe
To: Bill Geddes
Sent: 5 January 2009, 09.24
Subject: Re: what’s that stench?
Just read it. Exactly what we need, eh? A strolling minstrel, wandering the corridors, soothing our creative birthing pains with song...
Oh, hang on, can I hear the fucker? Is that a fucking nose flute?
From: Ted Berry
To: Creative Department
Sent: 5 January 2009, 09.30
Subject: New Facilities
As you’ll have noticed, a bunch of hairy-arsed Poles have spent their Christmases getting scabby knees and calloused hands on your behalf. I hope you appreciate their efforts and think of them as you enjoy your fully reconfigured and radicalized Creative Department.
The three beach huts (bought for a song from Herne Bay Council) are intended as creative retreats. Enter and tell the world to fuck off.
The new basement Romper Room is solely for your use. I give you Wii, PS3 and good old-fashioned Lego. And give the ball pit a whirl. It’s wicked—you can see why preschoolers are hooked. I promise you, an hour in there will give you an excellent cardiovascular workout as well as inspire some boundary-free thinking.
PS (mostly for Harvey): the “grass” on the floor of the creative conference room ISN’T REAL. It’s plastic. So please don’t bring your rabbit in to graze. It’ll fucking die.
From: Sally Wilton
To: All Staff
Sent: 5 January 2009, 09.31
Subject: New Facilities
I am pleased to announce that the office refurbishment is now complete. To ensure the smooth and efficient operation of the new facilities, the following guidelines should be noted.
1. Kitchen: wet clothing should not be placed on the new Aga for the purposes of drying as this represents a fire hazard and will invalidate any insurance claim. Also, various health and safety directives prohibit the proving and baking of bread and other yeast-based foodstuffs.
2. Sessions in the SenzDep Think Tanks™ situated beside the post room must be booked with reception. Swimwear must be worn. Strictly no “skinny dipping.”
Thank you for your cooperation.
From: Liam O’Keefe
To: Brett Topolski
Sent: 5 January 2009, 09.38
Subject: Happy New Year, Rag Head
Q What smells like Diego Maradona’s septic tank and sounds like a compilation CD of Balkan funeral music?
A Meerkat360 on the first day of term.
Ted has returned from the Andes, pissed that Beattie jammed his pole in the summit first and he’s taking it out on us with a potent mix of world music and the stench of the pampas.
Times have changed. In the olden days, Simon Horne would make do with shouting at us in poor French. (I wonder what he’s up to. Any sightings?) Mind you, this is getting more like the olden days in some respects. I told you Crutton is now at the helm, flailing about like a dad trying to body pop at the school disco. He carries a permanent look of incomprehension and a small leather cosh to beat off street hawkers and the weirder creatives. Actually, I haven’t seen him resort to violence once since he got here. He does seem a lot calmer. Maybe he’s discovered God. Or Ritalin.
Continuing the theme of Twats Reunited, another Miller Shanks refugee joined in December. Tell Vince to brace himself: Susi is Ted’s new PA. She hasn’t changed much except that now she’s triple-barreled-Susi Judge-Davis-Gaultier. She married a Frenchy, a very distant relative of the fashion queen himself. She’s predictably vocal about the connection, though I don’t suppose Jean Paul has registered that he now has a total fuckwit dangling from the family tree like a label-dressed gibbon. Her skirts are shorter than ever. Her gyno needn’t bother getting her in for an exam any more. He just has to sit opposite her on the tube.
Final Miller Shanks link: remember Nigel Godley? Four-eyed Godbotherer in accounts, used e-mail as a prototype eBay. No, he’s not here. But Neil, his identical twin, is. The two of them are indistinguishable. Exactly like Mary-Kate and Ashley. Only you wouldn’t want to fuck them. No, really you wouldn’t.
So how am I, you ask? How am I doing in the agency that’s so cutting-edge you slice your finger on the lift button? So love-struck with postmodernism that several meeting rooms have been laid with turf? I hate it, if you must know. I have no idea what the job is anymore. We’re not allowed to just do ads these days. Everything has to be viral-guerrilla-left-field-pushing-the-envelope-out-of-the-box-and-up-the-shitter-of-convention different.
A for instance: just before Christmas we brainstormed a list of celebs for some new perfumes. We flicked through Nuts and heat and came up with the usual suspects, plus Helen Mirren and Glenn Close to add a bit of class. Ted took a look and said, “Bollocks. Too fucking predictable. Gimme something different ... Gimme Margaret Thatcher.”
Margaret Thatcher? She wasn’t hot when she was twenty-one. These days she dribbles out of the side of her mouth, for fuck’s sake. What’s she going to smell of? Piss and meals on wheels? What next? Eva Braun and Eau de Zyklon B?
But as I write, Maggie’s stroke-skewed mug adorns an A1 board and is on its way to Rotterdam for presentation.
I should be happier, really I should. The office was done up over the break with the design brief of taking it as far away from Dilbert-style cubes as possible. A Good Thing, you’ll agree. But coming in this morning was like the big reveal at the end of Changing Rooms. You walk in to see your front room transformed into an MDF Persian whorehouse when all you wanted was a bit of beige and a nice tartan throw for the sofa.
There’s barely any room in my office now that the company-issue pinball machine is in here. I hate pinball. I put in for a one-armed bandit (making the sound business argument that, given my luck on the wheels of fruit, it would turn a handsome profit), but I was told we’d need a gambling license. Their point being...?
I’m only thirty-seven, but I’m too old for this. I’ve come to realize that, actually, I just want a Dilbert-style cube. And a brief I can get my head around. And some workmates from the same planet—or at least from one in the same solar system. Weary of convention, Ted no longer hires on the strength of portfolios of fresh and original ideas. No, he’s wowed by offbeat haircuts and interesting psychiatric reports (on which topic, someday I’ll tell you about Harvey Harvey). And the average age of this lot must be fifteen. They look at me funny because I can actually draw a layout—you know, with a pen, like it’s a fucking goose quill. The next time one of the spotty gobshites asks me if I remember the days when Whitney Houston wasn’t a crack whore I’ll floor him. Or her. I don’t care.
You know it’s come to something when your only mate is a suit. He’s called Bill. He’s thirty-six and we reminisce about Tiffany, Salt-N-Pepa and smoking in pubs. Give us rocking chairs and pipes, I say. Though obviously you’d have to put the rockers in a field fifty miles from the nearest human settlement on account of the FUCKING SMOKING BAN.
Jesus, I’m ranting now.
How are you? I still can’t believe you shipped out. I know we’ve got the congestion charge and Harpo Marx for mayor while you’ve got 24/7 sunshine and half the Chelsea team for neighbors, but Miller Shanks Dubai? What were you thinking? Anyway, give me news. Has Vince had a fatwa declared on him yet? Write soon. If there’s any consolation to being thirty-seven, it’s that I’m now mature enough to admit I miss you.
Liam
From: Susi Judge-Davis-Gaultier
To: Ted Berry
Sent: 5 January 2009, 09.39
Subject: Fwd: Please tell Ted I�
��m very, very sorry but I won’t be able to come in
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