This story was told to me in confidence many years ago. It occurred at an ad agency in Sydney where some friends of mine worked, and the series of events that led to the disturbing climax achieved an almost mythical status amongst ad agencies during the late 1980s. I can’t guarantee that every detail is 100% accurate, but the essential information is, I believe, to be true. I can’t reveal the name of the culprit -when you read what happened, you’ll understand that it’s probably for the best.   

The establishment in question was a small, city-based creative ad agency, owned by three partners who were, it has to be said, not universally admired by the staff. The creative department particularly disliked the crusty, older Account Director partner who had a reputation for verbosity and a penchant for pipe-smoking. Apparently, he rarely appeared to have much to do, so would spend hours of the day boring the creative department to tears with his dull conversation, while filling their offices with smoke as he ‘puffed’ away on one of his beloved pipes.   

Then, one day, the account director noticed that his most prized pipe, the expensive one he had found on a trip to Europe, had disappeared. At first, he assumed he had probably left it somewhere in the agency and searched the offices and questioned the staff, with no luck.

After a day or two, he became increasingly foul-tempered and began interrogating some likely pipe thieves. He made it clear that there would be hell to pay when he discovered who the culprit was.   

At the end of the week, he put up a large statement on the agency notice board (this was before emails) declaring that he would overlook the theft and not pursue the matter further if his beloved pipe was returned to his pipe rack. Days went by and still there was no response and, with considerable sadness, he told his secretary that he had resigned himself to its permanent disappearance.   

A week or so later, he entered his office one morning and, much to his delight, there sat his lost pipe, in its rightful place in the pipe rack on his desk. Such was his joy at its surprise return that he reportedly had a radiant smile on his face for the rest of the day, as he contently puffed away on the pipe. In fact, he was so pleased he made it clear to all and sundry that his thoughts of recrimination were now forgotten.   

Later that day, he noticed there was a commotion in the corridor and saw that a small crowd had gathered around the agency notice board. He went to see what all the fuss was about.   

There on the board was a Polaroid photograph - it was a picture of his beloved pipe stuck in an unknown anus. 

Anyone who’s been watching the TV Series ‘Madmen’, based in an advertising agency on Madison Avenue in the sixties, might well imagine it’s a little over the top. Well, I wasn’t there, but if my own experiences of the London ad agency scene during the seventies is anything to go by, it’s probably close to reality. I can recall many memorable moments and personalities; the following is just one story.

When rumours began circulating about a new copywriter who was about to join our advertising agency, the more experienced ‘creatives’ appeared to be unusually expectant. “Phil Maclean (not his real name) has a reputation for being really creative.” confided one.  ”Phil’s going to really shake things up around here.” said another.

 When D-Day arrived, I was disappointed to see not the blue-eyed boy himself, but a scruffy-looking workman, carrying rolls of wallpaper, cans of paint, brushes and a ladder. The workman seemed to disappear inside the office for the rest of the week. 

 It wasn’t until the following Monday that I learned that the workman was actually Phil Maclean, who had informed management that his office wasn’t sufficiently inspiring for him to produce his usual pearls of wisdom. Along with the rest of the other ‘regular’ creatives, I gazed inside his office and was left awe-struck at the transformation. The once all white interior was covered in a fetching funky brown wallpaper, with matching deep pile carpet, low-lighting and hi-fi(!) sound system. Phil’s mind obviously required constant visual and aural stimulation. Why hadn’t the rest of us demanded more inspiring environments?

 While we all gazed admiringly at Phil’s palatial pad, he said he wanted to make an announcement:

 “I can’t think properly with me trousers on, can I? So, I woncha all to know I’m gonna be taking ‘em off when I’m at work.”

 This left us all a little speechless and feeling decidedly like hapless lackeys in the presence of our demanding and uncompromising new colleague. Curiously, senior management didn’t think to tell Phil that he should shut up, put his trousers on and start working. Nor did they seem to mind him re-decorating for a week instead of writing. Perhaps it was just accepted that a few foibles were the price of creativity.

 When clients visited our offices, the Creative Director’s secretary was dispatched to tell Phil to stay in his office until they left. Heaven forbid, he should put them on and restrict blood flow to his fertile mind. Pretty soon, everyone just got used to him wandering around in his t-shirt and underwear as if it was normal behaviour.

 But the funny thing was, Phil turned out to be a pretty ordinary copywriter, his work proved to be no more inspired than his fully-trousered compatriots. The only difference being that I’ve long forgotten their names, but I’ll never forget ‘creative’ Phil Maclean.