e Squared Read Free Page B

(bought for a song from Herne Bay Council) are intended as creative retreats. Enter and tell the world to fuck off.
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    The new basement Romper Room is solely for your use. I give you Wii, PS3 and good old-fashioned Lego. And give the ball pit a whirl. It’s wicked—you can see why preschoolers are hooked. I promise you, an hour in there will give you an excellent cardiovascular workout as well as inspire some boundary-free thinking.

    PS (mostly for Harvey): the “grass” on the floor of the creative conference room ISN’T REAL. It’s plastic. So please don’t bring your rabbit in to graze. It’ll fucking die.
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    From: Sally Wilton
    To: All Staff
    Sent: 5 January 2009, 09.31
    Subject: New Facilities
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    I am pleased to announce that the office refurbishment is now complete. To ensure the smooth and efficient operation of the new facilities, the following guidelines should be noted.
    1. Kitchen: wet clothing should not be placed on the new Aga for the purposes of drying as this represents a fire hazard and will invalidate any insurance claim. Also, various health and safety directives prohibit the proving and baking of bread and other yeast-based foodstuffs.
    2. Sessions in the SenzDep Think Tanks™ situated beside the post room must be booked with reception. Swimwear must be worn. Strictly no “skinny dipping.”
    Thank you for your cooperation.

    From: Liam O’Keefe
    To: Brett Topolski
    Sent: 5 January 2009, 09.38
    Subject: Happy New Year, Rag Head
    Q What smells like Diego Maradona’s septic tank and sounds like a compilation CD of Balkan funeral music?
    A Meerkat360 on the first day of term.
    Ted has returned from the Andes, pissed that Beattie jammed his pole in the summit first and he’s taking it out on us with a potent mix of world music and the stench of the pampas.
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    Times have changed. In the olden days, Simon Horne would make do with shouting at us in poor French. (I wonder what he’s up to. Any sightings?) Mind you, this is getting more like the olden days in some respects. I told you Crutton is now at the helm, flailing about like a dad trying to body pop at the school disco. He carries a permanent look of incomprehension and a small leather cosh to beat off street hawkers and the weirder creatives. Actually, I haven’t seen him resort to violence once since he got here. He does seem a lot calmer. Maybe he’s discovered God. Or Ritalin.
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    Continuing the theme of Twats Reunited, another Miller Shanks refugee joined in December. Tell Vince to brace himself: Susi is Ted’s new PA. She hasn’t changed much except that now she’s triple-barreled-Susi Judge-Davis-Gaultier. She married a Frenchy, a very distant relative of the fashion queen himself. She’s predictably vocal about the connection, though I don’t suppose Jean Paul has registered that he now has a total fuckwit dangling from the family tree like a label-dressed gibbon. Her skirts are shorter than ever. Her gyno needn’t bother getting her in for an exam any more. He just has to sit opposite her on the tube.
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    Final Miller Shanks link: remember Nigel Godley? Four-eyed Godbotherer in accounts, used e-mail as a prototype eBay. No, he’s not here. But Neil, his identical twin, is. The two of them are indistinguishable. Exactly like Mary-Kate and Ashley. Only you wouldn’t want to fuck them. No, really you wouldn’t.
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    So how am I, you ask? How am I doing in the agency that’s so cutting-edge you slice your finger on the lift button? So love-struck with postmodernism that several meeting rooms have been laid with turf? I hate it, if you must know. I have no idea what the job is anymore. We’re not allowed to just do ads these days. Everything has to be viral-guerrilla-left-field-pushing-the-envelope-out-of-the-box-and-up-the-shitter-of-convention different.
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    A for instance: just before Christmas we brainstormed a