Thursday, April 20, 2006


'Someone' beat me to it. Perhaps we have awakened a sense of mutual wrath in each other. Stuff it. Wasn't the best story anyway. Nor is this.


Many years ago, I worked in Media Sales. I know. I became quite important, to the extent that publication editors would buy me drinks - stuff the appreciation of publishers: this was the true watermark of success. Everyone in the empire loved me - credit control, journalists, page-planning, subs ... the lot. Even ad-design, and those fuckers love no-one (three years at university to essentially learn how to use PhotoShop and then get a job where they would utilise one-tenth of that meagre skill only to be talked-down-to by twats like me. For four quid an hour).

Everyone in town new my name. Everyone that mattered. By that I mean motor dealers, estate agents and the owners of divan-, soft-furnishing- and carpet-emporiums. I know.

I work in an office populated by more-than-averagely attractive women. They also love me. My suits are 100% wool (aside from a rather natty linen job I save for the summer to really devastate them with my total amazingness), designer, and cost far in excess of the weekly (and I suspected monthly) salary of the excellent ladies on our reception. My ties are Italian, pure silk. Shirts are Yves Saint Laurant. All-in-all, I wear more than the data-inputter earns in about ten years.


One morning on the way into work, I stagger out of the taxi that I get into work instead of the bus ( I could get the bus for one hundredth of the cost but when you're SUCH A FUCKING BIG DEAL you don't really like to do these things) I decide to - in an ironic manner - dash into the Somerfields near my place of work to purchase some hilarious things-that-normal-people-eat goods for our morning snack.

Whilst I examine shelves full of Kelloggs cereal bars (whatever the hell they are), some slack-jawed cretin asks me where the bleach is. As if I, who with a single copy-writing error can alter the financial status of one of the regions most highly-regarded restaurants (Tureen of Dick if you must know. It's right next to 'u' on the keyboard, could of happened to anyone. They proofed it) would care one jot about such things.

Then it hit me.

To the casual observer, the Omnipotent Master of all Businesses Within his Publication's Footprint and the Regional Somerfield Store Manager were totally indistinguishable.

As they should very well be. To this day, I have no idea where the tampons are. Or anything else for that matter. Information probably far more important than anything I learnt in advertising sales.



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