Duff by Name, Duff by Nature

Sometimes you have to call a cunt a cunt. Sometimes they are a cunting cunt. Into the latter category basically falls Ian Duff, the man who killed Scamp, the best magazine about regional marketing ever. Ian had been basically jibbed by Wilimington and was a bit on his uppers when he came over to talk to me about Scamp. He was on the verge of cocking up his marriage – after about a week – and I was in no state to sell issue 2. Frankly I wanted to sit under a stool, drink rioja and listen to Pink Floyd for the rest of my life. Glory days.
Ian supposedly took over sales for issue 2. After one meeting with him the printers said they wouldn’t support  issue 2 – reneging on the initial agreement. But who could blame them? Slimy, unreliable and unconvincing – and those were Ian’s good points.
Back in the office he then tried to con me in to paying him two grand for issue one, which he was not even a part of. He spent most of his time in the office trying to make up with his bride of seven days and asking me for the number of a girl at Adline he’d had a very brief affair with. She was far too good for him.Predictably we parted company.
Obviously even more broke than I was – which was an achievement – he took to calling me under various guises, he pretended to be his lawyer on one occasion. He then took to calling me and telling me I had offended various “strong forces” and was “in for it”.
Avoid. A complete and utter twat.