Everyone’s talking shite. I’m just breathing it in.

The client’s conference room smells faintly of cold coffee and desperation.

They beam, clasping their hands like a preacher.

“I think we have the best minds in the room. Together, we can create something truly great.”

I look around. I know the truth — they’re furious they couldn’t host this at the tier-one agency’s kitsch/hipster office. No free food. No quinoa bowls or overpriced spreads to hide the canteen’s mediocrity. No early dart. No night out in Soho. Just this beige box and a tray of stale biscuits.

Everyone smiles. Everyone nods. No one really believes it. Everyone’s sharpening elbows, waiting for their turn to shove – and the inevitable bun fight over budget.

The first agency slides in with their deck. Big budget. Bigger ego. Buzzwords tumble: synergy, optimization, multi-platform, engagement. They ask for money as though asking is the same as creating.

Never once do they talk actual customers. Never once do they seem to know the product. Never once do they question the brief.

It’s spectacle — a slideshow of framework and process, zero soul. Slick graphics, slicker hair. Salesmen dressed as strategists.

The second agency follows. Same pattern. Louder slides, more swagger, more desperate posture. It’s all theater. Who has the flashiest slides? Who can shout “storytelling” hardest? Same hollow bullshit. London agency bingo with applause tracks and “look at us, Cannes” winks.

Everyone’s performing for the same invisible trophy: who’s got the biggest ego in the room. Volume, budget, bravado — those are the metrics now. There are no standards, no tests, no truths — just louder voices and bigger spreadsheets.

Our turn. The lead agency swivels their chair toward the client. I know what’s coming. 

“Shall we run this while we eat lunch? We’re a little behind schedule.”

And the classic: “Could you guys condense your part? So we can get back on track and ‘explore the brief’?”

I fake the smile. Crack a line about being a team player. And start.

Twenty years in, and I still carry the nerves and that sliver of imposter syndrome — the voice saying I don’t belong, that I’m never enough. I pray I don’t lose the thread. 

The nerves give me… adrenaline.

Adrenaline gives me confidence’s cheap cousin — conviction.

When I sit down, I can feel it — the ripple. I talked about customers, product, reality. It caused a stir. That ripple unsettled the placid surface.

Then the client speaks. Their tone tightens. They drop the figure — the budget. I laugh, softly. That’s it. That’s the decider. Not the thinking. Not the craft. Just the spend.

The meeting dissolves into polite chatter, back-slaps, “looking forward to next steps.” Everyone pretending something real happened. Somewhere invisible, the customer gets lost. Unseen. Unheard. Irrelevant.

This meeting? £15-20k, maybe. For what could’ve been resolved in an honest email — if someone had had the guts to write a real brief, declare the budget, see the customer, lead with truth.

The pantomime of agency life.

— Tom Kite.