Bjorn Free

It's safe to say that despite it only being Tuesday evening, this week has been without doubt the most dramatic of my time in PR-adise. It has even surpassed the hold-the-front-page-of-The Sun brilliance of my 'PR wasted at press launch shocker' that surrounded the week of my PR glory days disciplinary action.

At 9am today Bjorn was given a matter of hours to clear his desk and bid his farewells.

Now I like a flutter, and if Bill Hill’s had created a market for gambling on the corporate capers of the beauty industry, I’d have been the first filling out a slip for a ton on Bjorn being out of a job before summer’s end. And whilst I've been casually undermining him and stitching him up to senior management for months, even I found yesterday evening's news of his imminent demise something of a shock.

More shocking still was walking in this morning to be told that by noon he would be out of my life forever. Bjorn free, so was I to be. With spring having well and truly sprung in London town I made the assumption that his long-overdue sacking was a sign of a culmination of sunnier horizons in my life. But once in the C.O.O.'s office, I found there much more juice to the sorry tale of the fall from grace(?) of Captain Incompetent.

It seems that as opposed to low cloud masking a clear view of the business from said C.O.O.'s ivory tower she in fact uses her point of elevation to maintain a really very clear picture of the goings on upon the ground beneath. Bjorn, she informed, was due to be suspended this Friday with a turbo-charged Big Hire consultant primed and ready to assume his role come Monday morning. The C.O.O. had, apparently, no less than 6 counts on which to implicate this; I'm happy to report I've brought to light 2 of these counts. They include: bullying, dodgy expenses, time keeping, pseudo-working from home, all set amidst a glorious backdrop of general inability to perform his mega-buck paying Marketing Director role. All of which, I believe, I've been charting across this particular part of the world wide web.

With all of the afore b(j)orn in mind, the week's main shocker came to the C.O.O. when Bjorn tendered his notice yesterday afternoon. He, quite mystifyingly and if to be believed, has a new role at a principal competitor. Bad news you'd think for the company kingpin who had no doubt carefully prepared her 'you're fired' speech for Friday. Yet au contraire dear readers. For in fact, right now she will be toasting a quite beautiful scenario. Via his resignation, not only has she just been spared the potentially complicated legal wranglings and general mal content of her Marketing Director's dismissal but unbeknown to Bjorn his successor is twiddling her thumbs prior to Monday's planned joining of the company. And the icing on this rather wonderful corporate cake is that in the process, the boss has just offloaded the beauty industry's biggest red herring to said principal competitor.

Never have so many colleagues commented on my overall good humour and laid back demeanor in one day. But where exactly does this leave the Coordinator (Assistant in standard English) to both Bjorn and Trophy_Wife?

In the interim I assume Bjorn's role for the week as I attempt to clear up his trail of spilt milk before it all goes off, with a mop of limited capacity. There's only so much one man can do. Bjorn, in his inimitable manner, seemed baffled by having been put on (uphill) gardening leave. His bewilderment at this (when going to a key competitor durrr???) was perhaps the most amusing part of the whole year long soap opera. He'd already been locked out of all systems this morning and his Out Of Office points correspondents towards my good self. It was with some glee that I received a 'I had no idea [Bjorn] was leaving' email and before I even knew it I'd responded: neither did he semi-colon hyphen close bracket.

But is this really the good news I've been waiting on. Will my days be as amusing? Perhaps not. Will I have a moron signing my expenses form without even looking at it? Unlikely. Is the new Big Hire replacement going to run a tighter, tougher ship than Bjorn? Undoubtedly. And of utmost importance: what now will provide the creative, the incompetence, the anger, the frustration and the real life nuggets of comic gold that fuel this very blog?

Fear not. PR-adise is a fickle, bitter little world. And yet when life is as fruitful, varied, tumultuous and as gratifying as my own, the blog really does write itself.

Not Particularly Sport-ing

Oh dear. It would seem I have been rumbled for my replacement of the Daily Mirror with the Daily Sport on our newspaper order. What was meant to be a one day joke was scuppered by the incompetence of Martin Lavell, our newspaper delivery company who, despite a call and 2 emails, have proceeded to deliver it for the past week or so.

Finally, when opening the morning's press bundle today, Trophy_Wife smelt a rat: "I fail to believe you didn't specifically order this."

It would never come to it, but if it did I'd happily take the disciplinary rap for buying softcore pornography with company money all in the name of horseplay - see disciplinary policy section 9 here. I'd even write the finance director a cheque for the £2.50 I must've cost the company. What I will not do, is tolerate a company fucking up a gag that would only work on a one-day-only basis. Martin Lavell is losing our contract.

Thank heavens our delightful new Italo-American intern wasn't here to witness this porn joke gone wrong car crash. She doesn't start until Monday, at which point I have a whole 10 weeks to work with/on her.

Tabloid-tastic

A week is a long time in press, and what a week it’s been.

Firstly, it’s been a week of great reading across the tabloids courtesy of everyone’s least favourite lionheart John Terry. It really couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. Particular highlights have been the Popbitch ‘Terry’s All Gold’ JT mini-special and the News Of The World I devoured on a train journey at the weekend. Yet things were to get better still.

I missed this morning’s Sun, but mid-morning I received the following email dialogue from my flatmate, who works for one of Britain’s largest publishing houses:

“My office has gone a bit crazy – we’re publishing The Baby Diaries by Tess Daly next week, which is a very sweet book all about her pregnancy and happy home life with Vernon. Presume you’ve seen the Sun this morning...”

Of course, I didn’t need to have read it, to quickly realise that squeaky Vernon had done a JT – another golden scoop for News International. With a tabloid-oriented crisis unfolding over at flatmate’s office, for once I wished I too worked in the sleepy world of book publishing. I broke the news to the girls around the office, who all seemed mystified as to why VK would stray from poor Tess. It took a man to explain to them that living such a squeaky clean wife +2 kids life as VK’s is always going to leave one pining after a the odd bit of Page 3 slapper filth. The voicing of this opinion did little to endear me to said girls in the office.

There’s only been one down-side to the JT affair for me. Yesterday Trophy_Wife said she was so sick of The Mirror that John Terry appeared on the front today we would cancel it form our newspaper order. Unfortunately for me they ran with JT for another day and thus I made the cancellation call and kissed goodbye to my daily gannet-like fill of the 3am Girls etc. I’m blaming News International for this.

What Trophy_Wife will not know until the morning however, is that on our daily newspaper delivery, I replaced the Mirror with the Daily Sport.

PR Poker Part 2: A Royal Flush

Victory can be a hollow thing. D-Day duly came last week and so with it the game of PR Poker I'd been playing with Bjorn and Trophy_Wife drew to a close.

Our final settlement of the pay deal for my new role reached a happy equilibrium, though didn't quite reach the 20% I'd been tabling. My entire list of stipulations has been honoured and I scored back-payment of my new salary for several few months which will provide a tidy little partying bonus come the end of the month. The request for a company car remained in the back pocket having realised over the weekend that I'd be doing myself in the arse in tax for a car that would sit getting dirty and occasionally bomb down to Brighton for the weekend.

So why was this victory so hollow? Hell, I get a payrise mid recession, a promotion on the CV and a new intern to go at. But here lies the crux of it. I have no desire to spend my days doing the job they've given me. I'd put in my request for 2 days off within 10 minutes of leaving the poker room. These were solely dedicated to applying for new jobs at the end of last week.

But I can, of course, end on a positive. This morning at 10am I got to spend half an hour alone in the boardroom tied up with a feisty, 20 year old New Jersey brunette. That's right folks, my new intern put in a sterling interview performance scoring highly on my standard criterion of: cup size, figure and naivety.

It's just as well really. As my relationship with Jewish_Princess came to an end on Sunday night, all that bastardliness that's been suppressed during the last 5 weeks of being a nice chap is quite literally boiling to the surface and waiting to get out.

The Last Out-Post of Financial Stupidity

You might remember my Yuletide Top Ten #2 in which I outlined my favourite company money squanderings of 2009. So it was with great pleasure on Friday that I watched 2010 pick up where 2009 left off.

It was another typical day at our London office, which despite only housing around 25 when it's a full house, seems to have a constant flow of builders/contractors/IT guys etc. servicing it.

Despite the company being in the hole for, literally, tens of millions of pounds, someone had deemed the installation of 2 steel posts in the carpark a necessity. Steel isn't cheap, nor are 2 tradesmen doing nearly a full day's work in central London. The posts were being installed under the guise of creating a clear area outside a (permanently locked) 'fire door.' So it was with great pleasure that whilst having a coffee and a fag with said workmen I garnered the information that they were in fact installing them to prevent our C.O.O. from bumping her BMW X5 into the building. The posts are painted bright yellow.

They seemed as amused as myself when I informed them that, having driven it on many an occasion, the dash has a full screen floorplan of the vehicle, and warning lights indicating any objects that come into its vicinity. So pleased was I at finding out the company had just pointlessly waxed another few grand, I gave them each a bag of goodies for their wives.

PR Poker

When Saturday's return to DJing came it also made way for a long overdue clearout of the record bag. Sadly, having used my heavy duty Technics bag (space for laptop and 30x 12"s) for the first few months in my current role, I finally cracked around 12 months ago and opted for something a little sleeker and more appropriate for the PR industry. The plus side to what would otherwise have been a ball-ache interruption to DJing prep, was that I took a nostalgic trip down 'first 6 months in London' memory lane. Amongst the old fag packets, receipts, empty gak wraps, trade mags, boarding passes and biros, I was overjoyed at discovering the following gem, harking right back to the disciplinary that culminated in my final written warning after a mere 4 months:

The document outlines the company's definition of 'gross misconduct,' yet to this very day I struggle to make the distinction between this document and a description of a typical working week. As such, I took the liberty of highlighting for you the parameters that could come into play should the company at any juncture decide to action my instant dismissal.

With the weekend already long gone, and with previous disciplinary action aside, I came to be unexpectedly summoned for a meeting in Bjorn's office yesterday morning, where he and Trophy_Wife awaited, documents laid out before them. Now of course, all too familiar with the disciplinary procedure, I was anticipating a) a random bollocking relating to my post Christmas Party no-show or b) the sack for one of the aforementioned aspects of 'gross misconduct'.

Yet in a quite unbelievable turn of events, they proceeded to offer me both a promotion and a payrise.

Given the current climate most people would be fairly pleased with what I quickly calculated to equate to a 9.09% payrise. Not myself.

A smirk spread across my face as Bjorn and Trophy_Wife set out the pay offer. Bjorn seemed to read it as a look of achievement/content, whereas in truth, it was a look born more out of contempt at the writhing snake who is attempting to nigh-on double my workload in return for what I genuinely consider to be financial peanuts. I told him I'd have to sleep on it and, as soon as the coast was clear, went for outside for a sharp nicotine intake and a call to father for salary negotiation advice.

All this leaves me with Monday representing career D-Day. At 10am we reconvene our closed office meeting during which I will table a 20% payrise offer or flat refusal to take on the new promotion. It's undoubtedly a situation whereby I'm unzipping the trousers and dangling my bollocks right out; a blind-siding move of the highest order. One which is probably going to slightly shock Bjorn and genuinely scare the shit out of Trophy_Wife. So cocky (/shit-or-bust) am I feeling about this one, I'm even keeping a company car request up my sleeve as a final deal-breaker trump card! I can almost put the behind the scenes words into Bjorn's mouth: "the audacity of him!" Quite.

A Flurry Of Good Fortune

The week back in the office hadn't been nearly as painful as one was expecting on Sunday evening. So having worked from home for 2 days attempting to shake off that pesky man flu, today I was up with the lark ready to face the continually distressing Londinian climatics and head for the office.

Despite the nation's hysteria over the current snowy weather rather amusing me (hell, it took up 15 minutes of the 10 o'clock news last night) there was all but a dusting in my part of zone 1, and as such, it didn't even warrant ruining a dress ensemble with a pair of 'commute trainers' as favoured by far too many people I witness on the tube each day. So you can imagine my delight as I descended to my bedroom from pressing a shirt to find 2 missed calls, 1 text and a voicemail, all informing that today the office would be closed owing to the adverse weather conditions.

As I gloated at the breakfast table my publishing industry flatmate postulated that of course the beauty industry would shut down if an icy, water-mark inducing threat was posed to anyone's Jimmy Choos. For once, I took the beauty industry piss-take on the chin, simply reminding him that whilst he'd be traipsing over to Pimlico for 9-5 fun, I was taking my coffee back to bed.

But that's not quite where the story ends. "And just when I was beginning to think God didn't exist" read my gleeful text message to Fuchsia_Cohen. Yet au contraire, it transpired that she, and plenty of other members of staff, had rolled into HQ. It didn't take me long to piece together the 'office closed' jigsaw. For at times, one just can't fault Bjorn for his sheer work-shy audacity. Faced with the prospect of a commute they may rob him of half an hour of personal time, and with Jack Frost providing all the excuses needed, he instructed myself and Trophy_Wife not to go in so he could do the same. All under the proviso of looking out for his staff and not wanting us to get stranded at the office.

Bjorn, on days like today, I salute you!

And the frosting on top of this wonderful snow day cake? Having been booked for a DJ set this coming Saturday night (see New Year's Resolution 4 here) and with my work email playing up no end, I now have a whole day to plan and practice for my return to the DJing fore. Bliss.

PR-ctic Conditions Not Appreciated

So whilst I thought I'd tear into the new working year today breaking the resolutions outlined below, the day didn't quite pan out as planned.

I woke up chronically late even for me, threw on a belting charcoal pinstripe Crombie suit (always the simplest wardrobe choice when in a hurry) and then took on the Siberian conditions and a TfL nightmare on my tube line. I lasted all of 3 hours in the office with my man flu before chucking in the towel and informing Trophy_Wife I'd be working from home for the rest of day. I am now slightly regretting donning that Crombie with 80 quid's worth of matching Crombie tie, as when disappearing for the afternoon in such a manner, I might as well have set my Out of Office to 'At a job interview'. Whoops.

The time at home has however left me to reflect on 3 key reasons to be cheerful in 2010:

• By June we'll have a Tory government in power
  
• The World Cup begins in June
• By June, I'll definitely have a new job/have been fired and skulked off abroad

Conclusion: Life will be greatly improved in just 6 short months.

A New Decade - A New Dawn?

Despite having numerous reasons to be cheerful about 2010, there's something of a depressive mist hanging over PR towers today. This is the Sunday night feeling XRi Turbo as I can quite honestly say that I've had my best December on record and I'm somewhere in between distraught and despondent at returning to work tomorrow.

The Spanish sejourn was once again everything a boy needed as I balanced a Spanish family Christmas with some serious nightlife which is always much improved when you're in the presence of some of Granada's clubbing royalty. It was five days of perfect food, copious booze, festive cultural discovery and a throat curdling 20 Marlboros a day.

My small selection of gifts is probably fairly telling but I was thrilled with each and every one, which included: a hand blender, a pasta pan, a Kraftwerk documentary, the Steve Coogan 2008 Live Tour DVD, some yellow Ikea slippers, a heftily weighted silk tie (which is nice, though has a few too many stripes than my customary club stripe numbers) and a selection of Spanish charcuterie. Oh, and my sister sent me a hat with corks on from Australia. The joke certainly didn't merit the $11 postage and, frankly, just pissed me off considering I'd sent her Marc Jacobs sandals in effort to provide her with some fashion amidst that cultural void of a country.

Then came my return to London, and despite having spent an 11 hour hungover journey encompassing a taxi, coach, bus, plane, train and tube, I just cracked back on with the usual shenanigans. My first dinner date with new lady went swimmingly leading to a drinks date 2 days later and dinner at my house last night.

But perhaps it's all a bit much too fast. Quite why I have to treat such matters with the same regard as booze and gak I don't know; it just seems that if I like the taste of something I'm unable to refuse more. So now I find myself in bed (with a nice glass of pinot noir and some kind of man-flu/immobilising return to work fear) with long black hairs and make-up strewn on the pillows and little plastic contact lens thingeys by the bed despite having 20-20 vision. Oh how I've missed these joys.

I suppose the mention of the new lady in my life brings me rather nicely onto my New Year's Resolutions. I rarely make the 'giving up' ones but think I've concocted a nice selection of 'taking up' alternatives:

1.) Get a new job that uses more than the 10% of my brain and 5% of my creativity of the current one. In the meantime negotiate higher salary for said current role.
2.) Treat women with the kindness they deserve.
3.) Play football once a week where possible. Already did that today: low point - taking one clean in the bollocks, high point - old gent in the park congratulating me on scoring a bit of a 20 yard belter.
4.) Get back into DJing - may already have this tied down at a new bar in my bit of London.
5.) Do everything in my power to gain as much money as possible. Anyone who says 'money doesn't equal happiness' in 2010 is delusional, lying to themselves or a spoilt little brat.
6.) Refrain from smoking quite so much at work however great the frustration/stress/boredom/despondency may be.
7.) Refrain from pointlessly drinking in the working day with the obvious exceptions of press appointments/client meetings etc.

I suppose that final resolution does constitute a 'giving up' one doesn't it? Though so terrified am I of going back to the office tomorrow there's a high chance I'll have skulked off to the local (alone) by 1pm to break it. Happy New Year all.

F*ck Me I'm Festive!

Excuse the subject title parody of brand David Guetta there but Lord, am I feeling festive this year.

It's a bizarre irony to read the day's press, dominated by travel chaos, whilst in the midst of it yourself in the Gatwick departure lounge. But that's exactly what I'm doing on 3 hours sleep and watching as the hours of delay continue to rack up for my flight to Granada on the board.

But it's not all festive doom and gloom. Whilst my bastard parents have jetted off to Australia to visit my sister, I'm taking myself off for 5 days of lush food and hefty amounts of booze with friends in Andalucia. The flight delay can't spoil my mood.

Bjorn's final act as he parted for Christmas was to take me to one side and announce that he's put in a formal request for my payrise. Then my courier gave me a bottle of Jack for Christmas. My courier! So positively overflowing with festive spirit have I been that I even bought Trophy_Wife a Christmas present.

To top things off the day I return to London I have a date with an absolute delight whom I've had my eye on for a while.

So this is me signing off for Christmas. I hope you're feeling as fucking festive as me dear readers!

PR-mageddon

Whilst parts of this year's office party shall forever remain a mystery to me, there are 3 things I am certainly in a position to confirm from last week's event. Firstly, that everyone from the receptionist to C.O.O. had an excellent evening for which I will lap up the praise. Secondly, that the £100 of D&D restaurant vouchers we'll have issued for the £1000s spent on the event, will go nowhere other than my wallet. And thirdly, that I even surprised myself with the degree to which I got bollocksed this year.

That final point was in some part owing to my attendance of the afternoon's The Magic FM lunch and party which kicked off my day in exactly the manner I had anticipated. Kensington Roof Gardens, Ad Sales losers, Media Buyer tossers and invitees in pretty dresses that don't normally go to Kensington Roof Gardens. Having been subjected to an infuriating morning, but viewing the day as very much a half day, I laid straight into the champagne reception with Bjorn, now under the moniker of Gay_Goose: my unlikely and unwanted wing man. The necessary pleasantries were exchanged with our hosts and in 2 flutes time we were seated for lunch.

No cash had been exchanged between the organiser and myself so I was overjoyed to find myself on the opposite side of the table to Gay_Goose. Then came lunch's saviour: a grumpily demeanered, slightly overweight chap I'd been seated with that came armed with an arsenal of snidey dry wit. I knew that Charlie_Fucker and I were going to hit it off from the moment he belatedly took his seat beside me at dinner. Unashamedly divorced, middle class and middle-aged, Charlie had attended for precisely the same reasons as myself - for the free bar, and to get out of his office to enjoy an afternoon's free bar. We chatted about rugby, hunting, the state of air stewardesses today and worked our way through enough red for him to promise me lunches at all forthcoming Harlequins games.

So far, so good. All that was left was a quick trip back to the office to reply to a few emails and get changed for our own office event via a quick G&T (to maintain momentum) in the pub. Such was my festive merriment I even bought my secret santa gift recipient a nice scarf as opposed to the planned dick in a box.

I arranged a quick champagne reception at the office to the sound of Christmas with the Ratpack - fuck, that album's the best £6.99 of company money I've spent in a while. Then it was on to dinner. Having arranged the seating plan there was one key guest I ensured was on my table: Fairy_Godmother. Our slightly eccentric, single, early 50s, Creative Director didn't fail to deliver and at dinner decided to take me on in some sort of belated "God son" role, as well as drunkenly trying to pair me off with her junior designer. Mission has firmly been accomplished on the Fairy_Godmother front as she's a) the only one with the nouce to tell me I'm "too good to be a PR" and b) the only one with some decent influence in appropriate vocationary circles to do me some favours come the New Year. Which is why she's agreed to let me take her out for lunch soon to let her plot my PR escape route.

Sadly we plotted this escape plan over Fairy_Godmother's choice of port and brandy washed down with Sambuca shots whilst propping up the bar; it signalled the beginning of my sobriety demise. With the restaurant tab already nicely racked up, I was ready to head for home in an effort to salvage some kind of non-wasted reputation. But no. They insisted on moving to the Met Bar and God, do I hate that place. Yet as the organiser and only member of the party with a membership, to the Met Bar I went. To party like it was 1996 :-/

Memories are patchy from there on in. All I know is that I danced with the C.O.O. for the second time in 12 months (no, no, no), shed a tear about Cleopatra leaving the company and fell out of a cab at home to discover I had discarded my flat keys.

Friday morning gave rise to hangover of monumental scale. Not quite sure how I failed to anticipate that one having commenced the booze at 1pm and having then moved through the full spectrum of beer, wine, fortified wine and spirits in no particular order. Going to the office was frankly untenable and as such I hatched a (still) drunken plan feigning having booked the day off. Unless Trophy_Wife covers my arse on this one it'll all come out in the wash.

Yet whilst I'm sure Bjorn will attempt to drag me over the disciplinary coals for the incident, what's also sure is that it will be my own nonchalance and his lack of balls that carry me through. Or perhaps some kind of post-Christmas showdown will go off in his office. The anticipation is already killing me...

Yuletide Top 10 #2

As the 'global economic downturn' - God I hate that phrase - has hit UK retailers hard, it's been fascinating for me to look on from the inside of a beauty powerhouse down on their fiscal luck. You'd be forgiven for thinking it would be the nitty gritty of recession business management from which I'd been garnering useful learnings, but it's been with a somewhat more cynical eye that I've been watching the company operate. It all started way back in December last year. As the MD's back was really beginning to be pushed against the profit level wall by superiors, in a glorious bout of management hypocrisy she had the gall to ban my drinking of filter coffee (as if I'd drink instant) as a cost reduction measure. She failed to remember that later that week I'd be taking delivery of her new top spec X5 at Park Lane BMW. Which leads me rather nicely into my second Yuletide Top Ten...

Top Ten Company Money Squanderings of 2009

1.) Our fleet of Mercs, Jags, Beamers and Audis most of which lose the company further cash as
they pay people way over the odds on their pence per mile reimbursements.
2.) Our averagely plush office is located in a ludicrously exclusive part of London. We could sell it for circa £25m and get some cheap office space in W1 but perhaps that idea will come up with the next bout of redundancies
3.) Bjorn
4.) Bjorn's already well-charted pillaging of cash on ill-conceived, poorly executed advertising campaigns
5.) The spelling mistake. A whole range of products went into production before someone had to point out a spelling mistake on the packaging. I'd estimate the rerun cost spiralled way above $100k, yet still nobody got the sack!
6.) Our new website. The same dyslexic responsible for squandering #5 also waxed over $50k this year on a new website. Which looks shit and doesn't work.
7.) Our air con system. Our crack team of engineers visit so often we now catch up about the football whilst I'm smoking. Nobody had the system serviced since 2002 so we now spend God-only-knows how much attempting to make it pump out an appropriate temperature of air to the season.
8.) The US PR department. Out of touch, incompetent, completely off brand. And fat.
9.) French retail operations. The ultimate in loss making business but the gloriousness of French employment law leaves us struggling to fire anyone. Damnit I love the French.
10.) The monthly courier bill. We pay way over the odds largely because I really like our courier guys and it's their livelihood. The bill isn't helped by me sending personal items across the city; but it has on one occasion helped me avoid that horrible post-break-up meeting to exchange items.

Yuletide Top 10 #1

Whilst not quite John Peel's Festive 50, as we progress through advent and my workload begins to festively diminish, I thought it time for a few end of 2009 top tens.

I have to admit, this year has certainly been one laden with a great deal of both personal and professional development. So kicking things off, here's my

Top Ten Most Clichéd PR Activities/Learnings of 2009

1.) Learning to fiddle my expenses like an ageing tory MP (my father was particularly helpful with this matter, though doesn't sit in the Commons)
2.) Sleeping with my intern (never a bright idea, regardless of cup size)
3.) Fiddling taxis on the company account
4.) Attending fictional press appointments with journalists/publications that don't exist (I am convinced Trophy_Wife actually does this more than me)
5.) Learning that crashing company cars really is to be avoided at all costs (the damage to one's ego is always far superior to that of the vehicle)
6.) Learning to bend your press coverage statistics - if the whole world's doing it...
7.) Learning when it is advisable to, and when it is advisable not to attend a midweek open bar party for something completely insignificant
8.) Learning that it's much better to indirectly curse all day than actually tell one's boss to 'fuck off'
9.) Learning to tactically 'work' from home (again, a leaf from Trophy_Wife's book)
10.) Learning to fiddle one's annual leave allowance and thus facilitate all of Christmas off

Whose (Head)Line Is It Anyway?

Like any good public relations officer (PRO), I'm a hawk for a golden headline. Yet unlike other PROs, the child within me means I regularly cut out the real belters for my own office amusement.

I thought the time had finally come for you to get a little non-verbal window into my working life:

Whilst 'Absolute response to 'twatgate'' continues to adorn the geriatric PC you'll spy (and baffle most members of staff), strangely enough the girls in the office objected to 'I DIDN'T RAPE JORDAN'. Of course, the former is from PR Week and the latter from The Mirror. The whole headline obsession was sparked whilst editing my university newspaper, where I took inspiration from Britain's number one local-rag-with-golden-headlines The Argus.

But when it comes to the nationals, one publication stands head and shoulders above the sub-editing competition, providing this gem with which I instantly adorned Bjorn's office:

Cleopatra of course believes it's more like a PhD, but I just thanked The Daily Mail for providing myself and Trophy_Wife with the shot above that now pops up on our phones whenever Bjorn calls for our advice on his latest cretinous scheme.

A Very Merry Christmas Update

You may remember my glee at developments surrounding the office Christmas Party. Things have however taken a further twist.

Our hideous ad campaign went live on Magic FM (such a travesty is it that I can't bear to reflect further). Following on from this Bjorn has decided to become best friends with them, in a typically whimsical and naive Bjorn fashion, as he genuinely believes developing the relationship to offer something to the business. I've actually come to the conclusion that the only reason he's just spanked tens of thousands on this hideous campaign is that nobody can ever measure its success and thus this is his first project that can't come back to bite him when it inevitably bombs.

I digress. As they're now so chummy, Bjorn is invited to the cash-squandering Magic FM Christmas party at Kensington Roof Gardens. It's no wonder it's a big event when they've got morons like Bjorn keeping the books ticking over. Bjorn has a +1 for the event (really, he doesn't get invited to things) and is quite excited about attending. And of course, with the office showpiece Trophy_Wife away, it falls to me to accompany him.

On paper, this has all the makings of a good 'un:
a) it's an afternoon event
b) the booze will flow freely
c) there are surely sufficient runners/researchers/finance chicks/marketing airheads attending to keep me entertained
and d) once I'm not sharing an office with him and have a drink in my hand, I actually have really quite a good laugh with Bjorn.

The problem: it is the afternoon prior to our evening party, the one that I am supposed to orchestrate. I don't have a hope in hell of ending the evening anything other than wankered, and if I manage to manage any element of it it will be a miracle.

This my friends, is a true recipe for disaster.

Bouncing Back

Neglecting a blog is much like the cowardly approach to a break-up. I've certainly had the same lagging feeling of guilt. Yet the longer you go hors de contact, the easier remaining absent seems, right up until the final all-encompassing bust-up:

Why fuck haven't you been in touch all this time?

Well, to start with, I've hardly been in London for the last month!*

Oh really? And where exactly have you been?

But I really have been enjoying my weekends and work trips away of late, interspersing the weekdays in PR-adise with weekends in beyond-the-M25 paradise.

First up, I took a long weekend in Seville, something that I have categorically decided will become an annual early November jaunt. It's really quite phenomenal how when the weather's just begun to get grim in London you can finish work at 4pm in a trench coat and be sat in a plaza in Seville by 10pm, in a t-shirt, with glass of good quality rioja. It was a divine 30 degrees for the whole weekend and whilst I'd like to say it was a cultural trip it was anything but.

Catching up with my best amigo and brother in booze, culture was predominently soaked up via the bars and andalucian women. That said, when you get up at 1pm, head straight to a bar, take a coffee as a formality and then hit a beer and a plate of squid and garlic for breakfast, perhaps I aclimatised to the culture more than I thought. On top of this I more than I surprised myself with my pan-European linguistic abilities, was warmly embraced by a hen party in a Spaniards only bar (who taught me traditional andalucian dance whilst offering us their daughters) and developed an addiction for the fine Sevillian beer Cruzcampo. Beware of this God foresaken, all consuming, turbo-hangover inducing, yet delicious poison.

After such a shattering Spanish sejourn I scraped my way through a short week in the office and come Friday, there was only one place to spend the weekend; the parents' AKA The Priory Premier. It's 6 years since I moved out for university yet it's only recently that I've begun to appreciate the serenity of the place. Whilst never failing to offer the most relaxing of weekend breaks, such is their joy at my occasional return that mother has even taken to leaving my room set up hotel style (fluffy towels laid out etc.) whilst father delights in providing me a truly gastronomic 48 hours. All this rehab-like detox but with the added bonus of inordinate amounts of booze. There's nothing quite like a weekend of simple pleasures.

There are other reasons why I've been ignoring you. I also spent a weekend at the country pile of some good friends in Sussex, again providing a bizarre paradox of countryside detox come raucous drinking session. And there's been one other significant event my life.

Two weeks ago I rather terrifyingly turned 24. I'm still not quite sure how I feel about this. On the one hand it's utter despair: passing my formative years in Blair's booming Britain, until the age of 15 it didn't so much as cross my mind that at 24 I'd have anything less than a 6 figure salary and E-Type. Nor did I think I'd be single at 24, yet here I am with a lengthy bed post of nigh-on-supermodel notches and well versed in International Relations, yet sleeping alone in a lavish double bed.

On the other hand it's a vague degree of content: I have to comfort myself with the knowledge that earn more than most of my recession graduate peers, have a fairly chic apartment and manage to get myself away for a few holidays a year.

Despite my joy/depression/indifference at the landmark of entering my 25th year (my mood on this subject really does change daily) I of course marked the occasion in my own typical manner. No surprises to anyone that knows me. Big meal at a fine French restaurant for those in the closest circle. Then I threw the greatest party I've ever thrown at home. That certainly threw up more than a few surprises. Alpine_Goddess unexpectedly turned up (complete with OTT uncalled for gift) leaving every chap's jaw on the floor and every girl harrassing me as to why on earth I'd split up with her. Then there was the office temp, who also unexpectedly turned up, hit the booze hard, and proceeded to be all over me all night. I got a lapdance from Office_Temp's friend. My flatmate spent 30 minutes chatting a girl up before swiftly undoing all his hard work with a deft flick of the wrist and a drink all down her dress (how I laughed.)
All in all, a good, wholesome, liver-bashing, septum-rotting occasion for all.

So there you are. It's been a while but as a great man once said, "I've bounced back!" Of course, in the midst of all this Bjorn's been on fine inept song, Trophy_Wife is temporarily out of the picture and Fuchsia_Cohen's treated us to many a mini-skirt Friday. But more that tomorrow afternoon, when I'll be tossing off the hours before the weekend.

*an excuse I actually tried to use with Alpine_Goddess

It's A Kinda, Magic?

From my mother's religious Archers listening, through John Peel in my early teens, to France's astonishing FIP whilst at university, quality radio has always been important to me.

Quality being the operative above, 'how did it come to this?' was the simplistic yet overwhelming feeling as I entered Bauer Media for a marketing meeting with Magic FM last week. Whilst the building also houses FHM and Zoo, even the prospect of bumping into stars from last week's 'Mega Boobs Issue' of the latter failed to lift my spirits as I waited in reception.

Having left us for 10 excrutiating minutes (within which I could only contemplate quite what I was doing within such a tragic arena) our appointment finally descended to greet us. Now I wasn't pinning any hopes on forging friendships at Magic but even I was surprised at the stomach churning awfulness of Mike. A graduate of University Radio Stockport [or insert shit poly here], Mike was wet behind the ears with sickly enthusiasm for all things Magic, sported a stoopid ginger fopp and poorly cut suit combo, all of which seemingly engineered to match his 'I live with my Mum' West London persona. But Mike...oh, he just couldn't wait to show Trophy_Wife and myself around.As our tour moving from one tragedy to the next wore on Trophy_Wife was looking increasingly unimpressed with me as my expression shifted from bewilderment, through to despondancy, finishing up with thinly veiled disdain for being there. But Mike was simply the most intolerable of gimps I've had the displeasure of coming into contact with. The money shot arrived when with great pleasure Mike took us into the 'Live Studio!' Trophy_Wife's well-honed 'pleasure to meet you' face was in stark contrast to my wearing of 'who is this loser?' but nothing could kick any professionalism into me. I just couldn't bear it.

[insert loser 'DJ' here] keenly explained how there wasn't a single record in the studio and how Autopilot on Selector was running his whole show bar his occasional moments of patter. There were but 2 things that amazed me during my 'studio time'. First, that this guy was actually explaining to us that he didn't do anything - why would anyone admit that? - and second, that this was all news to Trophy_Wife, a supposed media professional!

The finale to this excursion was the marketing meeting itself in which Mike and his top-heavy boss rolled out their tired marketing pitch to us as we cosily hung out on the Big Brother house sofas. Trophy_Wife did well at feigning interest and managed not to cut to the financial chase for at least 20 minutes, whilst I looked on scouring the building for eye candy, Katie Price or an open window and parachute.I must've looked like Tom Chaplin on release from a Universal-enforced Priory visit as I departed Bauer and practically ran into the nearest boozer to neck a Guiness, and pretend that this whole torrid incident had never taken place.

Bjorn's First (and foremost) Miracle

Cleopatra is the poor darling that must endure sitting beside me in the office, and whilst a typically reserved character, she's nearly sent me tumbling from my own wanky office chair with two belting assertions in two consecutive work days. Friday's corker, which followed a moment of quintessentially cretinous Bjorn action, was thus:

"[insert my name], we are going straight to heaven you know...because we have paid for all our sins working here."

I absolutely love this poetic, latin embodiment of sweetness, but I love her even more for her misguided faith in how few sins I may have committed.

Yet today's poetry bettered that of last week. There's been a spate of mistakes, oversights and outright balls-ups plaguing the marketing department of late, with the vast majority (including myself at times) going out of their way to shirk the blame. Today's rather stressful paperchain of blunders left me picking up the pieces, and at times taking the flack, as I attempted to coordinate the simplest of tasks with our incompetent Parisian office. Just because I'm the one that speaks the fluent French, it does mean that I am responsible for the 2-hour-lunching, 35-hour-weeking, slack-arsed, French-employment-law-protected losers on the other side of la Manche. Yet they have, in conjunction with my own inimitable marketing manager, spilt the proverbial milk. Now whilst Jesus turned water to wine, it didn't take me long within the company to notice Bjorn's special knack for turning anything to shit.

It fell to Cleopatra to hear of my woes at lunchtime:

"Whenever there is a problem, you only have to dig so far into the shit and you find one person - Bjorn."

And with that nugget of deadpan, prophetic gold, my annoyance with the imbecile that so often leaves me to fix his broken toys, paled into insignificance.

Men That I [Am/Am Not] Jealous Of

However bad life may seem, I can at least be thankful of one thing every Monday morning when scanning the weekend's newspapers: that I am not Alexis Petridis. Not only does this chap have to water down every last thing he writes to fulfil a populist yet faux-edgy opinion former role (it's surely on both the GQ and Guardian contracts) but he also has to do Guardian men's fashion. This appears to translate as Jess Cartner-Morley dressing him up as a twat week in, week out and then shooting him looking terribly uncomfortable for the Guardian Weekend. Alexis, whilst I am of course obscenely jealous of both your GQ and Guardian Music Editor job titles, I'll never let JCM dress me as a 2005 Kaiser Chief/twat:

An Ode To Richard

It's a funny old juncture I've reached; certainly one I had never anticipated. It's now fifteen months since I moved to London for what was intended to be a stop-gap role in the beauty industry that paid the rent with decent change whilst I found my 'ideal' role.

The dream, in everyone's eyes, was being lived. Once again the parents were lavishing me with praise as I excelled against my peers, all caught up in career indecision. I had not but hesitated.

Of course, the parents and peers still look at me wearing the same rose-tinted spectacles. But it's also now fifteen months, since the 'recession' noticeably touched down, and fifteen months since the love of my life decided my time was up, again perhaps, for that lack of hesitation in moving.

All of which now leaves me in the place one could never have envisaged just fifteen short months ago. Riding the job application and dating merry-go-round, a quintessentially lost Londoner perennially weighing up their love and career options.

Constant listening to Coles Corner can't be helping this. But I can't help but think Richard Hawley's epic of loneliness is my little Yorkshire affinity lived out 170 miles further down the M1. Thank you Richard.

Ali G In Da PR Department

It was clearly a slow day through the eyes of the Daily Express news desk who treated the industry to the following last Thursday:



Of course, as is my duty in my PR and Comms role I needed to highlight such key press to those who need to be in the know and took it straight to the boss. Fearing the worst as a mystified look spread accross her (possibly lifted) face, she simply uttered:
"Hmm, Carol...how I got my curves back?"
Never did I expect my C.O.O. to provide an Ali G moment but I think you'll find all the similarities are here at around 5:44.

Elsewhere Bjorn has been bang on the comic money providing me with amusement left, right and centre. Even considering comments made here over his dedication to the corporate card cause, little could prepare me for this Monday morning belter: "I love the new financial year - all that money spend on fun things!" This, all said with the gusto of a lottery-winning chav out Lambourghini shopping and all the financial savviness of a freshers' week poly student tearing through their first student loan cheque. Such was my inner laughter I had to go outside for a fag to stop myself.

It's a strange feeling but, I'm already on route one to the weekend and I really have had one of the best starts to the week I can remember for months. Even my new '2 roles in 1 working week' position isn't going to get in the way of my good mood. Perhaps it's had something to do with this week's new arrivals, but we'll see how they pan out...

Radio Nowhere

Introducing you to Bjorn - my Marketing Manager - has been overdue for quite some time but his performance over the past week means his time has come to finally take PR-adise centre stage. Quite the self-paradox, Bjorn is beauty industry furniture and a gay immigrant who (career-threateningly) let slip to me that he votes BNP. The aforementioned credentials born in mind, I'd be fascinated to see how he went down at his local party meeting.

Bjorn provides me and most of the office with our main source of both amusement and frustration during the working week. Better still, whilst he's always been glaringly incompetent, he's currently becoming more of a Fireman Sam with every day that passes as he whiles away 9-5 chasing around the office attempting to put out the fires he's started.

One of Bjorn's principal talents is wasting terrifying amounts of company money on hair-brained marketing schemes and ill-thought out, plucked-from-the-air, quick fixes. A good example would be the 18k he quite recently decided we needed to spend on a magazine advert with coupon; all hap-hazardly knocked together in 4 days. It delivered 12 redemptions from a circulation of circa 400,000. That equates to a quite spectacular minus ROI returning £1 for every £1,500 pissed up the wall (or a Christmas bonus for every member of staff that won't get one this year, look at it how you will.) Of course, the latest disastrous plan he's hatched hardly blindsided me, nor has it come as any surprise that I'll be managing the project. Yes folks, yours truly has been charged with the creation of...a radio advert! Jesus wept.

Yet with every comic cloud comes a silver lining. As whilst Bjorn can fritter away company money like there's no tomorrow, he's also very keen on cutting corners where he (misguidedly) believes he can save us a few quid. Which is is why he's decided that either Trophy_Wife or Fuchsia_Cohen will be the plummy voice of the brand on commercial radio. I could have framed Trophy_Wife's expression of both exasperation and horror but better still, with the C.O.O. partisan to the idea, she can't say no! The icing on the radio ad cake is that managing the project, I'll be swinging the production work the way of one my friends. Fully aware of quite how cheaply but professionally I can have this thing cut, the big question is thus: do I have the nerve to take a cash bung in return for allowing them to double their hourly production rate?

Dancing...In The Dark

It's fairly apt that the end of one of the strangest weeks of my life coincided with a return to the strange northern town of my birth. Only in this odd conurbation can I spend 20 minutes chatting and dancing with a gorgeous northern belle only for her to turn our conversation towards her kids. You heard me, kids. I hope she'll get over my running away.

A Very Merry Christmas

NEWSFLASH! Just received the best email of day informing me that
a) I'll be organising the office Christmas party again this year, but better still...
b) Trophy_Wife will be on holiday.
It's amazing how such a small piece of html can alleviate such a great degree of fear. Having got smashed, got off with a colleague and got into the beginnings of a scuffle at last year's event, I'm delighted to have carte blanche for a full repeat. All that's left is to find a venue, squeeze the budget up and hope that a certain incompetent manager with an affection for the booze gives his corporate card some (further) abuse.

Playing With Fire

Despite the potential 'bumping into colleagues' minefield of the gallery and Fashion Week closing party, it was with gusto that I threw myself into each event last night. Even my father had suggested I flush the illness out of my system with wine, and who am I to question the great man?

With my flatmate ensuring my wine glass never slipped beneath the halfway mark it wasn't long before I was readily spouting off-the-cuff art bullshit in the pursuit of feigning interest in the exhibition, as opposed to just the booze and laughs. "It reminds me of the time I spent in San Francisco. Time..motion..the portrayal of their relationship." Art idiots the lot of them but I may have got a foot (or at least a toe) into the door of a large broadcasting company.

Later, and I arrived at the Queen of Hoxton around 10pm (annoyingly close to the end of the free bar at the 'Ditch's most Shoreditch of Fashion Week parties). There's certainly something quite gratifying when you care little for Fashion Week but walk past the guestlist queue, and get ushered in via a friend despite your name not being down. It's like stealing fashionistas' thunder from right under their noses.

Things were going swimmingly as I downed the beers with a partner in crime and then I met Betsy; a delightful young kitten with tits as outrageously showy as her name. I'm sad to report that Betsy's name will be added to the long list of attractive women with whom all the ground work was laid and yet for some reason I have just wandered away from.

All in all the event had been enjoyable and suitably poncey; yet none of the faux-philosophical conversing earlier on at the gallery could have prepared me for the 'art' that was to follow. It is with great pleasure that I introduce you to Pandering & The Golddiggers:

Closing Parties: from Ibiza to London

With Trophy_Wife back from Ibiza, today threatened to turn nasty. Yet I've been feeling rather ill this week and as such returned for the afternoon to work from home providing light relief in terms of both health and workload/wedding chat/happiness. Of course, as would always have been the case, as soon as I emerged from the Circle Line I felt fine. Better still after a brief post-lunch nap. So now I'm facing quite the conundrum: both a private gallery view and an end of Fashion Week party are in the offing this evening. Each is likely to proffer women and free booze. Yet I'd hate to get caught with a glass of red in one hand and some floozy in the other by anyone from the office when I'm supposed to be ill.