Oh shit where am I

My name is FishNChimps. I had an accident with a tea trolley and woke up in a 1973 ad agency. Am I mad, in a coma, or back in time? Whatever's happened, it's like I've landed on a different planet. Now, maybe if I can work out the reason, I can get home.
But there’s a big man wearing flares, poking me in the chest. “Where the fuck have you been? I need those numbers for my copy.”
It’s a mock-up for a press ad for breath mints. There’s a laughing girl in a bikini. “What numbers are those?” I enquire, confused.
“Stats, you fucking numpty. I need to know whether girls who like breath mints have big tits.”
“Er, haven’t you asked the planner?”
“What’s a fucking planner? Just fuck off and ask one of your girls.” Ah, I see a Newton’s cradle before a wall-full of posters for cigarettes, vermouth, pharmaceuticals and large cars. They all have girls in bikinis. He must be the creative director. “And don’t bother looking for an account man, they’re still on Friday’s lunch break.”
The Pirelli calendar shows it’s Wednesday.