MARCUS BOWMAN, managing partner of HFW, paces a meeting room in the firm's London office.

Suddenly, an axe smashes through the meeting room door. Poking through the hole appears the snarling face of none other than adman extraordinaire and part-time neck-wrangler CHUCK SAATCHI, the marketing legend who rescued Dentons and fieldfisher and Herbert Smith Freehills at vast expense.

SAATCHI: HEEEEEERE'S SAATCHI!

BOWMAN: Hell's bells, what are you doing?

SAATCHI: Making an entrance, libtard. What are you doing?

BOWMAN: I'm-

SAATCHI: Wetting yourself, that is what.

Saatchi retracts his head, cutting his neck badly on the splintered wood, and enters the room. 

BOWMAN: As you know we've just rebranded Holman Fenwick Willan as HFW. Where's our new logo? It's overdue.

SAATCHI: Suck it you muppet.

BOWMAN: You can't talk to me like that.

SAATCHI: Poor snowflake, are you scared of my lit ass?

BOWMAN: I don't...we just want the logo.

SAATCHI: Here you go.




BOWMAN: That's the BHS logo.

SAATCHI: It has become available.

BOWMAN: But we're called HFW.

SAATCHI: How quickly can you change it to BHS? I can guarantee that BHS has greater brand penetration with women over 65.

BOWMAN: BHS sells clothes and went bankrupt.

SAATCHI: Come on man. Solutions not pollutions.

BOWMAN: You'd better have something else.

SAATCHI: I do. 



BOWMAN: That's a sandwich.

SAATCHI: EAT is unable to compete with Pret because it does not have the money to lease more space for on-site kitchens. Which means it cannot promote its food as made fresh on-site. 

BOWMAN: So?

SAATCHI: A little birdy told me that if you play your cards right, EAT would be prepared to share its brand with you in exchange for a large cash injection.

BOWMAN: You've lost it mate.

SAATCHI: Have I? 

BOWMAN: You're also bleeding badly from the neck. Do you want me to call an ambulance?

SAATCHI: Do not dare. My blood likes to take in the air. Listen to what I am saying. Instead of making money from one thing - law - you could be making money from two things - law and sandwiches. And hot soups. Three things. Hello? It is a no-brainer.

BOWMAN. It certainly is. Listen, we are not renaming HFW as EAT or anything else.

SAATCHI: Fine. Here.



BOWMAN: That's H&M's logo.

SAATCHI: Who? 

BOWMAN: H&M. It's a clothing label. That's its logo. 

SAATCHI: Do you like it? 

BOWMAN: It doesn't matter if I like it. It's for a different business that, like BHS, sells clothes. 

SAATCHI: What if it was not their logo. 

BOWMAN: Well it is, and it has different letters to HFW. It's two thirds wrong.

SAATCHI: An ampersand is not a letter, so in fact it has only got one letter different to HFW. Cuck.

BOWMAN: Are you high?

SAATCHI: What if I told you I was joking, and also, yes? 

BOWMAN: I'd be relieved and annoyed.

SAATCHI: Well relax and get angry, because I WAS joking! I am not proposing you use the H&M logo.

BOWMAN: Thank goodness.

SAATCHI: I am proposing we rip it off!



BOWMAN: No way, that is very dodgy.

In a fit of rage Saatchi seizes up his axe and beheads a potplant. He lurches towards Bowman with his weapon, his face is beaded with sweat, his neck squirting blood. He has gone quite pale and is frothing at the mouth.

BOWMAN: I love it!

SAATCHI: Do you? Do you really? You said it was dodgy.

BOWMAN (breaking down): Please, just tell me what you want me to want.

SAATCHI: Will you be satisfied if I change the colour, like this?




BOWMAN: Yes! Yes. Perfect.

SAATCHI: Why?

BOWMAN: It's...trendy?

SAATCHI: Go on.

BOWMAN: Unstuffy! Down with the kids. Looks like a logo for an upstart estate agent which thinks it's a disruptor.

SAATCHI (lowering the axe): Correct. It is woke. That colour change will cost you an extra 50p, though.

BOWMAN: No problem, absolutely.

SAATCHI: Where 'p' stands for pounds! No backsies!

Cackling wildly, Saatchi knocks Bowman to the ground and straddles his chest. He rifles through Bowman's pockets until he finds the terrified partner's wallet. Plucking out £50, he also removes Bowman's driving licence. Saatchi stares deep into Bowman's eyes.

SAATCHI: What do you want to be?

BOWMAN: W...what?

SAATCHI: What would you be? If you could be anything in the world?

BOWMAN: The...the UK's leading shipping firm?

SAATCHI: I have your licence. I know who you are. I know where you live. I am keeping your licence, and I am going to check on you, mister Marcus Bowman. In three months, and then six months, and then a year, and if you are not the leading shipping firm or on your way to it, you will be seeing me again.

BOWMAN (eyes closed, whispering): Fuuudge.

SAATCHI: Marcus Bowman, your dinner is going to taste better than any meal you've ever eaten, and tomorrow will be the most beautiful day of your life.

Wincing, Saatchi rises. He staggers out the door, weakened by massive blood loss from his neck wounds.

BOWMAN: I'm calling the police!

SAATCHI: It's LORD Saatchi! 

Saatchi weaves across the car park to the disabled bay where he has parked his hoverboard. His attempt to mount it goes poorly and he ends up with a photography column in the Evening Standard. The HFW launch is a huge success.