Teflon Dave’s Guide to The Blame Game

21 Feb

I’ve been a marketing guru / marketing legend / marketing node / marketing pioneer / marketing trailblazer / marketing powerhouse for many, many years. I’ve see them come, and I’ve seen them go. I’ve been around the block, bought the T-shirt, seen the sights, written the book, broken the mould and paid my dues – usually by direct debit from my account at the Bank of Get Fucking Stuck In And Do It This Is Real Life Not A Fucking Rehearsal.

Obviously, I haven’t made it this far by being a useless cunt, or a pointless cackspanner, or a talentless dickpipe. I’ve got the skills to pay the bills. I’ve got the brains to clear the drains (I made that one up myself). I’ve got the right stuff.

Occasionally, however (saaay, twice a week), the proverbial shit hits the proverbial fan. Things happen, problems arise, shit goes down, I forget a meeting, I lose an entire year’s sales figures, and entire campaign is wasted because I’m up to my neck in slags and lunch and let it go to air with the words ‘angry clitoris’ in the voiceover – the usual stuff that befalls us all.

And when that happens, Teflon Dave comes out to play and makes sure that shit doesn’t stick. (Except the time when I did suffer an explosive anal prolapse, as I am prone to do, and their was an air conditioning unit behind me. That time, the shit really did hit the fan and then, to my lasting regret, hit everybody within 40 feet. Which was a lot of people. It was in the canteen. Weirdly, though, none hit me! People didn’t really see that as a silver lining, no matter how much I tried to explain. They were, I suppose, more interested in picking the fecal matter out of their yoghurt.)

Is there a blame egg coming your way? Develop a teflon coating and it'll slide right off you, and slap bang into someone else's full-English of fuck.

Where was I?

Ah! Yes – Teflon Dave. I have developed a number of strategies that help me evade any unwarranted aprobation, criticism or disciplinary action. Here are a few.

The Look of Disappointment

Something’s gone horribly wrong. Perhaps someone, naming no names, has had a little too much Pernod and scotch over lunch and done a sick in the office microwave. And turned it on, filling the entire building with the oppressive, stomach-churning stench of cooked puke. Naturally, there’ll be the usual inquisition. If the head witchfinder asks ANYONE whether they did it, you must seize the moment. Look at them with an expression that says, ‘Oh, Sharon. I tried so hard for you. You have broken my heart’ while shaking your head. You might also mutter under your breath, ‘I did wonder, but I just didn’t want to believe it.’

Of course, don’t do this if it’s YOU being accused. You’ll just look mad. If that happens, try this…

The Sarcastic Confession

It goes, ‘Yes, Jason. Yes. It was me. Of course it was. I did it. It was me who left the top secret new product reports in a boozer right next to the offices of our local rivals. I did. Yes. Absolutely. Pfft.’

If you’re withering enough (and I can be fucking withering) then your inquisitor will fuck right off and hassle someone else. Also, technically you’ve confessed and they’ve done nothing about it – something worth remembering when you get grassed up and it’s tribunal time.

What about those fuck-ups that you realise you’ve made before anyone else does? Try this…

The Hospital Pass

You know you accidentally deleted an entire year’s worth of sales data. But nobody else does. So, quick as you can, fire off an email to an underling you don’t like. (Or, even better, one you got pregnant, dumped by text and have been avoiding like the plague because she’s been threatening to go rogue on you.) Keep it simple. ‘I need all last year’s sales data printed, bound and on my desk asap.’ Inside two minutes, the sacrificial lamb will be in your office saying that the data’s all gone. ‘WHAT?’ you roar. ‘IT WAS THERE FIVE MINUTES AGO! WHAT HAVE YOU FUCKING DONE? DON’T YOU KNOW HOW IMPORTANT THAT DATA IS TO THE ONGOING AMELIORATION OF OUR BOTTOM LINE SCENARIO?’

A week later they’re a distant memory and you’re sitting in a bath of water that went cold hours ago with an empty bottle of scotch, whimpering ‘That was too close’ again and again and again, trying to convince yourself that you’re not hopelessly, desperately, irredeemably out of your depth and that the gaping chasm of dread and insecurity that opens in you the second you get to work will somehow fade if you, like, do some exams or something.

That’s what YOU’D do. It’s not what I do. No way. Obviously.

I am Dave Knockles! And I am forged from teflon!

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One Response to “Teflon Dave’s Guide to The Blame Game”

  1. Scoothamilton February 22, 2011 at 2:38 pm #

    Your focusing of the shit barrage will not stick on me. I have a Teflon shield. And if any of it gets close, I have a Teflon shit-shovel at hand with which to pass the buck(et load). Not a sword mind you, swords can’t do shit against shit, you need a snow plough sized shovel.

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