thursday 17 | August | 1997| Killallon Fitzpatrick

I had some changes to make to a storyboard
which basically meant going back to brief the
studio manager yet again. Admittedly there
had been quite a few changes already but
it was the client's fault not mine. To soften
the fact that I‘d been back there three times
already I approached the guy sheepishly.
"You’re not going to believe this...’ but
as soon as he realised I was making more
changes he started to get all pissy with me,
sighing and rolling his eyes. I couldn’t believe
a guy in a comp studio was giving me lip about
changes. This would never have happened in
London. Say what you like about the Brits but
they respected rank. If a studio manager at Saatchi's
was unhappy about something he might, after fifteen
years, tell his superior but only before promptly killing
himself. This though, was America where every fucker
and his son had to heard. An ordinary yes or no answer
would routinely turn into a full scale board meeting.
An idiot-magnet like Aaron had only to stand
mute in my office for seconds before attracting
four to five fellow fuckups from the throng in
the corridor.