Take a look at the title of this post.
If you're thinking, 'It says 'The Union of Advertising Professionals', well fucking done, genius. What else do you do? Walk upright? Breathe? Ingest food and pass it through your rectum as fecal waste? Here, have a medal, you dopey cunt.
If, however, you're thinking 'That makes absolutely no fucking sense whatsoever, Dave, because such a union doesn't exist', then you're onto something. I mean, you're not as sharp as me, obviously, but you're not a total Murs.
The question is, why doesn't such a union exist? After all, these are days of mass action, united protest, the 99% standing against...er...like, banks and stuff and being poor. (Is it? Is that what's happening? I really try to avoid learning anything about other people, really. Mostly, I find, other people are far less interesting than me.)
Anyway, why isn't there a Union of Advertising Professionals? The answer is simple: ARE YOU FUCKING MENTAL, AGENCIES ARE DIRTIER HOOKERS THAN THAT THING YOU ENDED UP WITH IN BERLIN WHO COULD OPEN TINS OF BEANS WITH HER FOOF.
It's what I love most about agencies. Like hookers, there will always be one out there desperate enough to grip the sheets, bend over and, to the sound of the surgical gloves mm-popping on, sob 'Okay. I'll do it.'
I have spent many hours trying to think of a request so ridiculous, barefaced, unimaginable and downright offensive that no agency, anywhere, would agree to it.
So far, I've come up with one: Will you join a Union of Advertising Professionals?
None of them would touch it. Not with a barge pole. Not even with my barge pole, which is a fucking doozy.
Over the years, agencies have meekly handed over control of the work they do, they way they operate, the way they're paid, their ownership of the work they produce - it's all ours, baby! What's left for a union to protect?
I could call my agency up right now and say, 'Change the headline and the picture, change the structure of my account team so I only talk to Account Directors, I'll pay you after nine months and when I put the account up for review on a whim I expect you to pay me for the privilege of pitching - and all I'd hear is the furious scribbling of the dollop on the end of the phone taking notes before repeating it all back to me to make sure they'd got it right.
It's fucking great! And now you fucking twonks have handed over the family jewels, the shirt off your back and your Nan's ashes, YOU AIN'T GETTING THEM BACK!
Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!