This is Florian Haller, chief exec of Serviceplan Group (yeah, me neither).
You may not be familiar with him, but I came across him in this week’s Campaign supplement, ‘The world’s leading independent agencies 2011’ (by the way, I’m sure you know this, but just in case you don’t, these supplements include whichever companies are prepared to pay for a full-page ad and a full-page faux-editorial, which they write themselves. They are not an objectively selected group of the world’s leading independent agencies/post production houses/integrated direct business-to-business whorehouses).
Anyway, Florian says he can’t imagine anything better or more exciting than being an advertiser in this day and age.
Well, on the assumption that he actually meant that seriously, I thought it might be an interesting statement to ponder.
Better than being an advertiser in this day and age:
Finding the cure for AIDS/Cancer
Playing centre forward for Barcelona
Being one of those people who makes sure models’ clothes are on straight at fashion shows.
Contributing to people’s wellbeing and happiness rather than their urge to consume things they don’t need, thus using up the planet’s resources unnecessarily.
Caring for the mentally ill.
Caring for the elderly.
Being a great chef.
Sitting in a hammock drinking margaritas.
A really good one-wipe dump.
Spending an afternoon with a vertical flight of Chateau Latour.
Helping Florian get some perspective on his life.
Running with the bulls.
Being Charlie Sheen’s therapist.
Attaching jump leads to your nipples.
So this bloke comes up to you, right? And he says, ‘I’m gonna bum you’ and you’re all like ‘Whoa, I don’t fancy that’ (nothing against people who do, though), so you run off and he’s in hot pursuit with a bread knife in his hand shouting ‘IMMMAGONNABUMMMYOUUUUUUUUUU!!!’ and you’re all like, ‘Fuck that.’ So you run into a boozer and grab some guy’s pint glass to use as a weapon. Then the bummer comes in and he’s got this look in his eyes like he’ll eat your pint glass and look forward to taking a shit afterwards. So you run again. Outside there’s a copper on a motorbike so you go up to him and tell him this man’s after you and wants to give you a bumming, but the copper doesn’t buy it. He’s all like ‘Bullshit, mate’. Then the bummer comes slamming out of the pub and the policeman’s all like, ‘Oh shit’, and you’re all like ‘I fucking told you’. So you nick the motorbike and you’re off, weaving in and out of the stalls and people on Berwick Street. ‘GEDOUTOFTHEFUCKINWAY! THERESABUMMERONTHELOOSE’. But one old lady’s too slow, so you have to skid to avoid her and the bike hits the kerb and flips, spinning through the air like a tossed coin, and you’re all like ‘Jesus. How did the day end up like this?’ and even though you’re worried that you might smash your brains on the pavement outside William Hill, you kind of like the moment of peace, accepting that it’s a couple of seconds where you’re actually safe. Then you hit the ground and the crash is so loud you don’t even notice the pain in your leg. Looking down you see the blood and you wonder which part of you it came from. But before you have a chance to check yourself out, the sound comes again, the sound that makes you realise that no matter how badly hurt you are, you’re going to have to run again: ‘IMMMGONNNABUMMMYOUUUUUUUU!’.
Getting a couple of mates, sticking some dynamite up your noses, lighting the fuse and seeing who can go the longest before putting it out.
All of the above, but on crack.
Going into the offices of Serviceplan Group, drinking a bottle of scotch and seeing how fast you can drive a Ferrari into the coffee machine.
Any other suggestions?