I had a really weird dream last night…
I was walking through (London?) when I heard someone shouting at me from a roof top,
“Oi, Morgan. The fuck happened this week? Lukaku and Sigurdsson? You donut…”
It was, atop a large office block, Pete Kane slagging off my poor performance in fantasy football this week. I mean, he’s not wrong, I dropped 4 places in the league and far underperformed, but still, shouting of a roof top seemed a bit much.
But he invited me in, so I got the lift up to the top floor where I was greeted by a pretty decent Christmas party in an office that can only be described as overtly lavish. With huge panoramic floor to ceiling windows looking out onto a lit up roof garden (complete with pool…and pool girls….), elaborate chrome detailing across the walls, and generally well paid and attractive staff, this was akin to the headquarters of an obscure, potentially illegal, trading company. Yet on the walls was a massive black “K”, and Mr Kane himself was strutting around like the cock of the walk, so I assume it was his agency or something like that.
Anyway, after again slagging off my decision to have both Everton and Southampton defenders on my starting line-up this week, we started talking. I wanted to start an agency, and wanted to know if he on board. Now, despite clearly being in a positon of great power and wealth in this scenario, Pete was apparently board and had a potential buyer lined up, so he sold (I’m going to call it Kane and Kane) and we went off to find the other partners. By the time we were ready to find an office, the founding team consisted of Pete (co founder maybe?) Bryan Birch (head of Strategy?), Steve Henry (I assume CD) Bill Gates (head of sales – I honestly don’t know where this one came from), that bloke we met at Havas who seemed pretty decent (Account director) – he was known as Mitch in this dream – and Casey, the guy from Saatchi and Saatchi I met yesterday, although I don’t know what his job was.
We bought an old department store for the offices, primarily to keep the massive golden staircase that went through the middle, and after what seemed like just over a week, we were opening the doors to a thrall of reporters and film crews, all super excited to see what the hell was going on.
I mean, I guess this was an ad agency or something, but that’s purely based on the founding partners, because we didn’t appear to actually do anything. There were lots of graphs on the walls about money going up, some stuff about being creative and large piles of cocaine around the place, but no work actually ever took place. We just sort of walked about, drinking whiskey, commenting on where the scar face esk piles of cocaine had come from and at one point Bryan replaced all the lightbulbs in his office with the top half of tanning beds, so he could bronze up at the desk.
The one argument I can remember is Bill Gates challenging my leadership position, asking what it was I even did there, to which I replied “What do I do? I’m the guy who hired Bill fucking Gates!” and that seemed to do the trick.
I don’t really know what the point of all this is, probably that if I’m on holiday, abroad, less the 36 hours away from Christmas and dreaming about advertising stuff I need to get out more. Or maybe that my constant issues with my laptop is starting to push me too far, and subconsciously I get off on the idea of subjecting Mr Gates. Or maybe its as simple as I really need to sort out my fantasy team in the January transfer window if I’m ever going to knock Pete of his god damn high horse.
I dunno, but either way, it means I have one less SCAB to write this holiday.
So Merry Christmas Marc, I’m counting this as one, even if you don’t.