Let's face it, being the managing director of an agency has very little to do with marketing prowess and an awful lot more to do with egos and suntans.
Who has the loudest voice, carries the biggest stick, the shortest arms and the deepest pockets? Who arrives late, leaves early and has the most holidays? The managing director.
Who expects delivery times to be small and invoices large? Who knows a lot about everything but even more about nothing? And who manages somehow to take the credit for everything and the blame for absolutely nothing. Well, I think we all know the answer to that one.
That's the thing about the managing director, it's all about the car you drive. It's really quite astonishing how the person holding this esteemed post always seems to have a car that's worth more than the annual salary of most, if not all, of the other staff.
How does that work then?
Is there a standard agency contractual obligation that says all vehicular transport provided for the questionable gratification of the managing director has to begin with "Por...", or "Fer..." and end in "...sche" or "...arri". Err... in fact, yes there is. Certainly I know we always insist on that one at Birddog.
And how come the suntan is so permanent? The great unwashed of the agency have to make do with two weeks in their back gardens and a pustulous red and peeling nose for their troubles.
The managing director, on the other hand, appears in the agency every third Wednesday in a crisp white linen shirt unbuttoned to the ever-expanding navel ("Armani dahling") looking like the long-lost, twin brother of George Hamilton.
When does the work get done, that's what I want to know? It seems like one big meal to me. There are the "working breakfasts", which are barely concealed metaphors for "had one too many last night and couldn't face the cornflakes". These are followed (usually within an hour of late arrival at the office) by "the client lunch" and if there is actually any of the day left, that time is usually employed arranging "pre-dinner drinks" before a "client dinner" in the evening.
The reality is then that the work doesn't ever get done. That's what there's agency staff for. Someone has to do the work -- and that is not the managing director. Someone has to eat -- that is the managing director.
There's usually time, however, to fit a characteristic rant and rave into the day about the performance, targets and profitability. There's no one specifically singled out for this abuse, it's just a general thing that managing directors feel they have to share with everyone whether they're listening or not. Still, on a good day the managing director will be out of breath by about 4.30pm leaving the rest of the day and most of the night for the real workers to actually get the job done without fear of further interruption.
Which brings us on to the ego thing. All agency managing directors have one and they tend to be visibly larger and louder than the combined egos of the rest of the agency. But it's probably also his or her single biggest attribute.
Someone has to be right all the time. Someone has to have all the best ideas and someone has to have the vision to lead the company down more dark alleyways than it really needs or wants to go.
Without the ego, he or she would just be a rational, personable and experienced marketing professional -- and gawd knows there are plenty enough of them already.
So are there any redeeming features of the agency managing director? Actually, no, because by the time you reach the exalted position of agency boss, all hope of saving your soul has been lost for eternity.
You are dammed to walk the earth with nothing but the chink of the ice cubes in the gin and tonic and the jangle of the keys to the 911 to console yourself with. I suppose life could be worse.
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