Tag Archives: chatsaboutworkplaces

Werk werk werk

Creepy Colleague and me sitting in hearing distance of two women talking idiotically loudly.

Woman 1: …I mean really, if you can’t use your hands then just use your mouth.
Creepy Colleague’s face starts to light up in dirty, beaming smile.

Woman 2: Seriously. It took him so long! I was so tired of waiting! When he finally popped it, I nearly fell to my knees.
Creepy Colleague’s torso has now turned 180 degrees to see these women. BKS Iyengar would be ashamed.

Woman 1: God yeah. When will men learn? Jeez. And I was so thirsty too.
Creepy Colleague’s torso whips back – he stares at me in confusion.

Woman 2: SERIOUSLY! I still can’t believe it took him TEN minutes to open that Coke bottle. Pah. Why didn’t he just twist the cap off with his teeth? Idiot.

Two hours later, Creepy Colleague is still sulking.

No country for young women

Big agencies always have Big Daddies coming over. Why, no one knows. Presumably they must do something to fill their time. And skipping from office to office commenting on loo hygiene and the peeling paint on the walls satisfies their life’s purpose.
Note: This entire post is based in reality fictional. 

10 am, Monday in a fictional ad agency in a made-up galaxy far, far away

Servicing hottie: tra la la! Another day of tormenting creative people! Wheeee!
Art Director, smoking, watching her go: if that bitch comes near me before lunch, I’ll cut her.
Copywriter: fuck, really? Wait, I’ll call her now only.
Racuous laughter. The day has begun.

2 pm, Monday, during Creative Director’s siesta, two female copywriters are discussing their love lives brand strategy
Copywriter: servicing cow has sent another mail…FUCK.
Other female copywriter (OFC): what now? The client wants my fucking uterus in the script?
1st Copywriter: NO! BIG DADDY IS COMING TOMORROW.

OFC: WTF?? WHY??? SHIT I DON’T HAVE ANYTHING TO WEAR! FFFUCCCCK! I HATE MY DHOBI!!
1st Copywriter reading mail out loud: Ladies, Heard through the Glassvine that Big Daddy will be in town tomorrow. Please take appropriate action.
OFC: has she marked everyone necessary?
1st Copywriter: YES. Bless her, she always does. Okay, we need to leave early and shop.

Male Art Director: haan! Finally! Stop wearing these old things. Go sexy! We need something to look at!
The combined gaze of the women reduces him to ashes which are wafted towards his computer. His mouse now moves like in an Ouija board.

10 am, Tuesday
Bright and sunny morning. The Branch Head steps out.
“Good morning!” is chirped out at everyone. Cleaners are gently reminded that if any dust is seen, their heads will be parted from their bodies. Secretaries are told to please polish the fucking china and get coffee from a decent restaurant this time.

The office is on time. The punctuality KRA of the quarter has been met with this one day alone.
Branch Head stops short in his journey towards the Creative Dept. Where are the women?
He bounds back in. And stops. ALL the women are in Indian clothes. With dupattas almost swaddling them.
He clutches his hair and almost wails. WHAT IS WRONG WITH THESE FUCKING PEOPLE? Why do they roam around almost naked on most days and look like they’re attending a funeral TODAY of all days?
A secretary walks past with some possibly chipped cups and his attention is diverted.

11:30 am, Tuesday
Big Daddy enters.
A welcoming committee comprising the Branch Head, Sycophant 1, Sycophant 2 and the new hire, an Account Director in her 30s – is stationed at the door.

Big Daddy walks in: hello, hello, hello all. How are you all?
Handshakes happen, flattery happens and then, Big Daddy smiles: Oh helllooo. You’re new. What’s your lovely name?
He asks New Hire’s boobs, both of whom seem shocked speechless at this level of unprecedented attention.
New Hire’s mouth kicks into action: f-f-f-fine, thank you. Er.
Her boobs are confused. Weren’t they being talked to? Why was Mouth answering?

Glances and bets are exchanged amongst the rest of the (male) party as to how long New Hire will last post this trauma.

12:30 pm, Tuesday
After an hour closeted with the Branch Head, Big Daddy is ready to explore virgin territories. Literally.
Servicing Saviour dials 1st Copywriter on extension: ALERT! ALERT! The Vulture has landed! ALERRRRRT!
Dupattas are stapled into shoulders, hair is scraped back – every woman now looks like she works in an NGO.

Big Daddy enters with welcoming committee, minus the New Hire who’s been sent home for rest and recuperation.
Big Daddy: hello, hello, hello, so nice to be here again!
He speaks from his heart, to the region around he women’s.

Assorted raggedy bunch: hiiiummhgfgh.
Branch Head, maniacally nodding: SUCH a pleasure to have you with us!
Big Daddy surveys the range of dupatta-swaddling: very….PLEASURABLE to be here.
Mentally, every woman throws up.
Lips are stretched, rictus-like.
Beads of sweat start to appear.
Big Daddy is engrossed in a distance evaluation of thick South Indian cotton. What lies beneath indeed.

Branch Head, cracking under the pressure, brightly: Lunch?
Big Daddy: Ah, yes. Great idea.
He points at the youngest sacrificial virgin servicing girl’s boobs: why don’t you come along? I can find out what your seniors are up to.
Strained laughter is heard. German prisons have more joie de vivre.
The Youngest smiles uncertainly. First her boss told her to dress conservatively and then piled an extra dupatta on her. Now she had to go for lunch?

The other women tearfully watched her go.
Servicing girl: poor thing. We should have put a third duppatta.
1st Copywriter: or locked her in the bathroom.
They nod and sigh.
Life goes on.
The duppattas were put into storage till the next quarter.

Servicing – a day in the life.

Dedicated to Hiroshima, Bonsai and all my servicing friends.
You know who you are, I’ve yelled at and threatened you enough.

The players:
Hiroshima: loud, explosive with long-lasting after effects that leave ears ringing and head whirling, and sometimes faces stinging. One of the two intelligent humans in the agency’s servicing dept. Strangely, in this post, she came out as the silent one.
Bonsai: tiny, but nonetheless more beautiful in brain and spirit than your normal sized specimens. The other intelligent human.

God: the head of the office. We all look to him for help or answers, but never actually get any.
Jack: Last name Ass. Servicing head. Possesses disturbing tendency towards inappropriate comments.

10 am
Hiroshima and Bonsai walk in.
Jack: why so late? Client called. I told him he can have anything he wants.
Hiroshima: he wants an ad on NASA’s next flight shuttle. How is that going to happen?
God: (impassive silence)
Jack: you’re the AE, you tell me. Anyway, meeting at 10:30.

Bonsai: what? Why?
Jack: for that thing I didn’t tell you about that’s gone wrong. After that meeting from last week that I didn’t tell you about either. Hiroshima, you come too. We’ll have a group orgy. Hahahaha. Get it? Group ORGY! Woo hoo!
Bonsai: whatever. (Eye roll.)
Hiroshima: sulky silence.

11 am. Client’s office. 
Client:…and even though WE sat on our collective asses for four weeks, we feel you should churn out the final product in 2 days, even though it normally takes 10 days.
God: (looking impassively on, offering of biscuits is slid before him)
Jack: oh yes yes yes. Geddit? Yes YES YES. Ahahahaha

Bonsai & Hiroshima (whispering to God and Jack): THREE days? Creative will kill us. HOW?
Jack: you’re the AEs, you tell me.
Bonsai: Whatever. (Eye roll.)
Hiroshima: Sulky silence.

1 pm. In the creative section.
Bonsai and Hiroshima begging two separate art directors.
Bonsai: please! We have to deliver.
Art director 1: no.

Hiroshima: I’ll name my first child after you.
Art director 2: I don’t like children. Fuck off.

Bonsai (threateningly): God says you have to do this.
Art director 1: tell your boss to tell the boss to talk to our boss. We’re off for lunch.
The art directors swan off, leaving behind two shaking Japanese themed servicing people.

Bonsai: Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Why the FUCK did I get into advertising?
Hiroshima: Why the fuck was I born? Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Beleaguered copywriter working through lunch: what an adaptable word fuck is.
Bonsai: whatever. (Eye roll.)
Hiroshima: sulky silence.

2 pm. In studio.
Hiroshima and Bonsai begging studio boss.
H: please!
B: double please!
H: triple please!
B: quadruple!

Studio Boss: yes yes ok, but what do you WANT?
Hiroshima & Bonsai: oh. Didn’t we say? There is this job that normally needs four art directors and 10 days – and we need your 2 boys who’re doing 3 other things to do it in 2 days.

Studio Boss: please, continue begging. It will pass your time for 20 days, which is how long it will take to do this job.
Bonsai: whatever. (Eye roll.)
Hiroshima: sulky silence.

2:30 pm. Back to bosses.
Hiroshima and Bonsai to Jack and God: it can’t be done. Creative is refusing, studio is refusing. So HOW?
Jack: you’re the AEs, you tell me.

Hiroshima: fine. Lets hire temp workers.
Jack: no.
God: (stoic silence)

Bonsai: let’s outsource.
Jack: no.
God: (stoic silence)

Hiroshima: let’s ask other offices to help.
Jack: no.
God: (stoic silence)

Bonsai: let’s ask client to ask his other agency to handle the artworks, we’ll squeeze out the design.
Jack: no.
God: (stoic silence)

Hiroshima and Bonsai: *#%#$&%$#%???
Jack: you’re the AEs, you tell me.
God: (stoic silence)

Bonsai: whatever. (Eye roll.)
Hiroshima: sulky silence.

3 pm. Back to creative.
Hiroshima: okay, just do the initial work. 2 layouts, that’s all.
Art director 2: No.

Bonsai: okay just do a rough design. I’ll have it adapted.
Art director 1: No.

Hiroshima: PLEASE! I’ll marry my first daughter to you.
Art director 2: I don’t like girls either, dude. Gross.

Bonsai: I’ll chop your balls off.
Art director 1: too late, my wife already did that.

Hiroshima: okay. Drinks. Unlimited. During the time it takes you to do 2 layouts.
Art director 2: NOW you’re talking!
Art director 1 looks at Bonsai: wanna offer me pot?

Bonsai: fucking do it now or I’ll call your wife and tell her where you actually are every night.
Art director 1 considers for a moment: well, when you put it that way…

Bonsai: whatever. (Eye roll.)
Hiroshima: sulky silence.

5 pm. Layouts are ready. Time for copy.
Hiroshima and Bonsai: we need copy.
Beleaguered copywriter cowering: okay, okay. Anything you want, just don’t hit me anymore.
Bonsai: whatever. (Eye roll.)
Hiroshima: sulky silence.

5.30 pm. Layouts with copy ready.
Hiroshima: okay. So we’ve got layouts. Adapts in studio will still take 3 days.
Bonsai: bloody client. If only he’d TALKED to us first….
They look at each other, stunned.

Hiroshima and Bonsai on phone to respective clients: listen you, postpone the date.
Clients: WHAT? No way! God promised me!

Hiroshima & Bonsai: Do you WANT to bring up how I covered your ass last week? And will do it again the next time you screw up? Or do you want me to not help you out the next time you screw up?
Clients: No hurry man. Take five days, no issues. You guys are awesome.

Bonsai: whatever. (Eye roll.)
Hiroshima: sulky silence.

8:30 pm. Trudging out of office, after three hours in studio, two and a half hours of yelling and a half hour of holding head in hands at colossal stupidity of entire mankind.
Jack: Going already? Half day? We all worked all night, every day. Because we guys “got lucky” every night. Ahahahaha.
God: (impassive silence, hand raised in silent goodbye)

Bonsai: whatever. (Eye roll.)
Hiroshima: sulky silence.

Copywriter in empty, echoing office: hello? Anybody there? Should I stop writing now?

TMI

#throwbacktime #tbt

Angry colleague:…and then my husband and I fought. Again. At 3 am. So I’m not speaking to him now. I’m NEVER going to speak to him again.

Me: gosh…you know, that’s unjustified. 

Angry colleague, even angrier: WHAT? Whose side are you on? I cook, clean and bore his children. Do I HAVE to roll over at 3 am so he can get his jollies? Am I a machine?

Me (very awkwardly): No, I meant that paragraph…isn’t justified. Like left justified….I mean, aligned. Like in the layout. Er. I. Er. 

Colleague: (angry silence)

Work-wear-y?

#chatswithpeople #chatswithflatmate #chatsaboutworkplaces #24

9 am
Me (bleary-eyed, surprised): oh hello. You’re wearing trackpants. Going to the gym?
Flatmate: no, I’m going to work.
Me: clients making you do push-ups before signing contracts again?
Flatmate: it’s theme day in the office.
Me: you what?

Flatmate: Theme day. We have to all dress according to a theme. We’ve had nineties’ Bollywood, beachwear, cops and robbers, noughties’ Bollywood, pimps and hos…
Me (fascinated): what about eighties’ Bollywood?
Flatmate: SHHH. Not so loud. I can’t take much more.
Me: I want pictures.
Flatmate: Absolutely not.

12 pm
Flatmate: sob. Help me.
Me: show pichar and I will listen to everything.
Flatmate sends pics. Many. Many. Pics.

12.04 pm
Me: HOLY MOTHER OF GOD HE WORE THOSE SHORTS TO WORK?
Flatmate: Sob. My eyes.
Me: but I can see his-
Flatmate: we all can see it. And clearly he couldn’t find a razor.
Me: well, it might have become blunt just looking at him. Next!

Me: HOMYGORD.
Flatmate: Sob.
Me: Wow, that top is tight. So, so tight. And your office air conditioning is strong. So, so strong.
Flatmate: Sob. She stood next to me for 25 minutes. My eyes.
Me: we’ll buy you a guide dog. Next.

Me: is…she…wearing a VELVET tracksuit?? Omg was there ‘juicy’ written on the back?
Flatmate: No. ‘bebe’. sob.
Me: And the one next to her? Isn’t this the rich one who only eats at five-star hotels?
Flatmate: she’s wearing denim.
Me: but there are flowers on it.
Flatmate: floral cutouts on either side.
Me: sob.
Flatmate: and loud, kitchsy patchwork pockets.
Me: but why?
Flatmate: sob.

Me: wait. This guy is in a three-piece suit.
Flatmate: yes.
Me: oh he didn’t theme. He wore regular work wear.
Flatmate: no
Me: so he…I…okay.
Flatmate: yes. Buy booze ok.
Me: ordering now.