May 6, 2009

Maybe it's because I already feel tetchy.

Or maybe it's because they're really winding me up today.

I've taken upwards of thirty calls - and counting - from wankers in the PR industry this morning "chasing up" "promises" we've "made" to product place their shite.

The fact we don't promise anything to anyone, swerve wildly away from such crap unless the companies are paying for it to appear in the paper, matters not a jot to the likes of Amber and Omega.

Answering the phone to these media "degree" post-grad tossers is like listening to the shriek of hungry seagulls squawking in a trawler's wake.

Oh, for a shotgun.

Nothing of worth to say, nothing of substance to offer me, but pecking away at my patience and being very loud, for very long, excitedly expecting me to be enthused.

But I'm clearly not, am I?

I never will be. And you know this.

If I was interested, I'd say so.

I'd ring you, return your emails, show a glimmer of desire to know more.

But I haven't, have I?

I've skimmed over your offering, made a rapid judgement call based on experience, and dismissed it as the worthless tat it is.

Now ask yourselves why I've ignored your hard-sell?

Dawning on you?

Yes - it's because I don't care, I'm not interested, I don't want to waste another moment's thought upon it.

Because I do, in fact, have much more and better things to do.

But you still have to ring to double-double check, don't you?

And then try to circumvent me by sneakily ringing one of my colleagues' phones five minutes later - only to be rather startled when I'm the one who picks it up.

"Oh, I must have dialled incorrectly...."

Look, Toby, you cock.

Get this into your tiny skull.

One, I'm at least a zillion times smarter than you.

Two, you are indeed a cock.

The next one of you to ring me is getting the fullest fucking character reading of your snotty little lives.

And it's going to be taped, and YouTubed, and embedded here, with the offender and their PR agency named.

PR people - phone spam tossers.