So, dear readers, I bet you can’t wait to hear all the gossip from the DMA Awards can you? (See, I am even allowed to mention the name now.) The good, the bad and the ugly of direct marketing all gathered in one room…surely there must have been plenty of shenanigans?Well, if there were, sadly I must have missed them. Gone are the days of punch-ups on the dance floor, lecherous old men looking for some poor innocent to grab hold of, and list-brokers behaving badly. Rather annoyingly – for me, at least – after shelling out over £400 each, everyone appeared to be on their best behaviour. Even McKelvey was sober(ish). It was all, dare I say, a bit too professional.
Now while that might make a great night for the organisers, it meant that I had to spend most of the evening looking at annoyingly excited award winners trooping up on to the stage…33 TIMES. By 10:30 I was losing the will to live and wondering why on earth I had been been so hurt at being NFI’d. Maybe Tim “001½” Bond had actually been doing me a favour by snubbing me.
Even Nicky Bullard seemed a little subdued. Maybe it was on account of the fact that this year’s compere – the spectacularly unfunny David Mitchell – was not a patch on Jimmy Nesbitt and she didn’t get a single shout out. Or maybe it was the fact that her agency didn’t pick up a single gold. Personally, I reckon it was because a certain truculent Scotsman was there, but hey, that’s only my opinion.
Not that it was all bad – hilariously Psona came back from the dead to scoop Co-op Funeralcare, and Lida managed to rub a gold in the faces of their outgoing Ikea client.
And luckily, just as I was about to give up the night as a dead loss, I bumped into the gorgeously handsome and rich Dropshadow Dickie, who swept me off my feet and took me back to his plush hotel.
Never mind Karmarama, I definitely got my hands on the biggest gong of the night, and to borrow the awards strapline, Dickie was “rewardingly hard” all night long.
Roll on next year…
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