Monday, 30 November 2009

Oooh, the creatives are all upset, boo-fucking-hoo.

First meeting today to discuss the Cleanavia launch campaign which, as you may know, I've already come up with. (And, frankly, it's mind-blowing.)

It came to me as a dove came to Jesus and told him to consider the lilies. It came to me as an apple fell onto Darwin's head, as the helicopter came to James Dyson and as the hamburger came to Ronald fucking McDonald.

Now, you would have thought, would you not, that if you worked at an agency that had just won a new client and that this new client had gone to the great trouble of devising a genius ad campaign for you SO YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO, that you would be pleased. Grateful, even. Maybe - I don't mind saying it - in awe.

Well, you obviously don't work in the creative department of my new agency. (And if you do, up your fadge-funnel with a sideways pole.)

Here's what happened.

I arrived at about noon, all prepared for my 10.30 meeting. Raring to go, I was. I said to the receptionist with the muchas bristolas 'Good morning, petal! Are you a spanner, because every time I look at you my nuts tighten!' (A compliment can never do you any harm, I always say.) I was in a great mood!

However, the minute I walked into the a room called 'The Left Bank', that joie de bon viveur had gone, like an erection when Crimewatch comes on.

Gathered before me were the creative cream of the place, all wearing faces like Myra Hindley's nastier sister. 'Cheer up!' I said. 'I might never happen!'

'It nearly didn't,' someone muttered.

Oh, right. I'm a bit late. Very fucking funny.

Look. Sometimes, in the world of marketing, breakfast meetings at the Dog & Hog drag on. Sometimes, bacon is inexplicably 'off' and bacon has to be bought in from a butchers in Kent because some customers have very discerning tastes. That's life at the cutting edge. Live it or lose it.

So, I go through the intimate details of the campaign. What the TV spot should look like, what the posters should look like, what the press ads should look like - all the way down to the leaflet that comes in the box with your consumer durable. All there, done - and brilliant. All these fuckers have to do is...do it. Twiddle those knobs, push those computer buttons, make ads appear. Are they happy? Are they shite.

'We had some other ideas about how we can take your brand forward,' one of them said.

'Well, I'll be happy to talk about that,' I countered. 'But right now I'd like to flog some fucking Cleanavia 1100s. So let's crack on, get this done and we can talk about...whatever you said when the campaign's over.'

'Would you like to see some of our ideas?' another one chirped.

'Er...not right now,' I said. 'I'll tell you why: a) I'm absolutely desperate for a shit, and b) I've got a really important meeting with the girls I've cast for the campaign. Next time, though!'

It was the truth! I was desperate for a shit and I was going to Delilaz. (The girls didn't strictly know there was a meeting happening, but...well, is that important?)

The upshot is that I want to deal with account directors and execs from now on. I thought speaking to the creatives would be a good short-cut but, frankly, I didn't like it. They obviously didn't 'get' me because they didn't laugh at my jokes like account people do and they didn't just say 'yes' like account people.

Well, never mind. I asked for all the work to be done by Thursday (MORE fucking groans - what's with these people?) so we'll see how it goes.

My guess is: brilliantly!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Sunday, 29 November 2009

Rupert Abbott is still a cast-iron fuckwanking shithead

You may remember that I have certain issues with the wanker known as Rupert Abbott, my opposite number at our main rival. They're the market leader and, essentially, he thinks the sun shines right out of his back-funnel because he's into all this online bollocks, none of which seems to have anything to do with proper ads.

(For instance, I've never seen an ad of his featuring a big shot of the product, or a bird with big bristolas. Work that out, if you can.)

Not only does the fuckbag do all these pointless seminars on how to market consumer durables (like I need to know how to do that!) but he also has a tedious and irrelevant column in our trade mag.

(Oh - he also poached my marketing manager, Sally Pearson-Wright, the shit-felching cunt-portion.)

Well, this column is the fucking problem. It's less interesting than watching very, very dull paint dry and, just when it looks like the paint has dried, some cunt comes along and gives it another coat of an even more tedious shade of post-industrial grey which dries even more slowly.

But now he's started using it to SLAG ME OFF!

Last week, the dirty great fadge-pipe said, 'While some of our rivals are content to patronise their consumers with a traditional, even offensive, view of women, we're finding great success in building a rapport with those same consumers through online channels.'

FUCKING WHAT? TRADITIONAL? OFFENSIVE? HEY, RUPERT! WHAT'S SO FUCKING OFFENSIVE ABOUT SHOWING WOMEN WHO ARE NICE TO FUCKING LOOK AT? EH? IS IT PATRONISING TO SUGGEST THAT WOMEN WANT TO LOOK 20 YEARS YOUNGER AND HAVE BIGGER BRISTOLAS?

HA! NO ANSWER TO THAT IS THERE, YOU MUG!

What a colossal shit-crack. What a fucking cuntwedge. What an absolute dangle bag.

Well, I'm not even bothered. Couldn't give a fuck. I don't even bother reading it, really. Well, I read it every week, but I hate it. Anyway, I couldn't care less.

Let's see if he's still pissing on about online channels (whatever the fuck they are) when my new campaign breaks and sales go through the fucking roof and into the cunting Daveosphere.

Idiot.



Shithead.



Fucking...flap-hole.






I'll sort him out, one day.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Friday, 27 November 2009

Christmas campaigns. The secrets revealed.

Well, it's here again.

Merry fucking Christmas and a happy fucking new fucking year.

We in the consumer durables market relating to, or directly involving, cleaning clothes and or soft furnishings and or other fabrics have to get festive pretty early in the year.

June, actually.

That's when we start to plan our Christmas promotions. You might think that nobody in their right mind would consider buying a consumer durable for Chrimbo, and you'd be right. Luckily, the world is full of people who aren't in their right mind, so we shift more stock at this time of year than Big Alan Cockson eats mince pies. And let me tell you, Big Alan Cockson once ate so many mince pies, he died for 4 minutes. (Seriously. The only way they could revive him was by waving another mince pie under his nose. The greedy cunt woke straight up and ate that one too.)

Anyway, there we are in flaming June, trying to think of ways to make our Chrimbles promotion different.

And guess what. We can't. Even I, Dave Knockles, marketing frigging legend, can't start getting excited about Christmas in June. So, over to the agency boys it goes!

And guess what. They can't do it either. They come back with the same three ideas every fucking time:

A gift tag on the product.

The product as a gift, half unwrapped.

The product with a mince pie and a glass of sherry on top.

This will be accompanied by the line 'Make Christmas extra special this year with 20% off the Hackysacky Fucking 5000'.

So the big secret about Christmas campaigns is that there's no earthly way to make them anything other than complete shit because you're working on them in fucking summer! Who feels Christmasy in summer? I'll tell you - Shit Alan. He does all his Christmas shopping in June - and that's one of the many reasons he's known as Shit Alan.

My advice, then, fellow marketing professionals is to bite the bullet, forget trying to do anything other than the usual rubbish and look forward to the one thing about Christmas that actually matters: the office party.

This year, we're starting at Radish Bar, moving on to Dog Bar, then God Bar, then into Mexicaniac for a giant nosh. I'll be hosting this year's Tequila Queens contest. It's a ladies-only competition, in which ladies drink tequila slammers until...well, until they start falling over, taking their clothes off and doing things with Marketing Directors that they say they regret the next day - even though we both know that's not true. How could it be - I'm Dave Knockles!

Anyway, look out for our Christmas promo this year. It's got the product as a gift, half unwrapped, with a gift tag on it, and a mince pie and a glass of sherry on the top. The line says 'Make Christmas extra special this year with 20% off the Spintabula 1250'. Who gives a fuck? Not me!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Thursday, 26 November 2009

The new AOL logo. My thoughts.

The creative industries are abuzz with talk of AOL's new branding.

If you haven't heard, they've changed AOL to Aol. and are using lots of different background images instead of...whatever was there before.

I thought I'd give the client's perspective on this whole episode, seeing as how the debate so far has been limited to designers bitching because they didn't get to work on it.

The work was produced by Wolff Olins in New York. Their reputation would have been a big draw for the client but so would: a) a receptionist with big bristolas, b) nice offices close to their offices and, c) the size of the lunch they laid on at the first meeting.

Let me tell you, as a client, when all those three are in place, you just pin back your ears, take a sip of single malt and let them bullshit you as much as they want. Unless the work features images of disabled children, rape victims, war crimes or Madonna, you sign it off and schedule another lunch pretty fucking soon.

Clearly, the bullshit would have been flying thick and fast as the agency sold in this work. I mean, it's not a logo. It's loads of logos. This places you outside the comfort zone of common practice, so you'd need to be bullshitted into a pretty comprehensive state of confusion before you signed it off. I'd guess the client was still digesting a nice lunch (probably something heavy like pasta, so as to increase wooziness and susceptibility to lies, bollocks and nonsense) so was open to something different.

Then there's the issue of AOL becoming Aol. Here I have to take my hat off to the agency. Sometimes, the sheer balls they show in selling that kind of thing with a straight face deserves respect.

Finally, the bill. This has all the hallmarks of a marketing department desperate to empty the budget before next year's is fixed. 'If you don't spend it, you don't get it next year' is the financial rule of marketing departments the world over. A great way of doing it is to shout 'rebrand!' at a board meeting and everybody starts getting all excited at the impending lunches.

In short, then, designers should stop bitching and whining and criticising Wolff Olins for being bare-faced conmen with balls so big they'd need to book a separate seat for them when they fly. Look at your own approach to work. Do you get the client half drunk, stuffed fool of rich food and befuddled by women with cracking jugs before you sell the work?

No? Thought not. That's why you're you and agencies like Wolff Olins aren't. That said, I'd have asked them to change it all once my mother had a look at it (she's nearly target audience). I mean, come on. It's fucking horrible, isn't it? And I know my logos.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Agency characters, no 4 - The Account Executive

In my experience (which is extensive and deep and probably unrivalled in the entire marketing world) there are two types of Account Executive.

Attractive posh girls and unattractive posh girls.

In the world of London agencies, you see, posh girls are like fluffers. Their job is to get everybody all excited and happy, without actually making a tangible contribution to the overall process, allowing the big agency shaggers and the client to get on with the money shot.

(They usually have a pretty spectacular blowjob technique too, seeing as that activity forms a signifcant part of their professional life.)

Let's imagine an Account Exec at a big London agency. She's called Ophelia, her mother used to be a model, her father is big in something like phosphates, and she's got a little flat 'in town'. (How people refer to London is a good guage of just how posh they are. Calling it 'town' means they are very, very posh in-fucking-deed.)

She got a job through her father, who's soul-destroyingly tedious business-to-business account was with the agency she now works at.

Her day consists of being shouted at by the client, taking that message to the account director who, being an account director and therefore a workshy cunt, sends her to the creative director to pass on the message. The CD then shouts at her and tells her to say 'no' to the client. She phones the client and the whole thing starts again.

Occasionally, she may be asked to attend a briefing or pitch and make sure she's got her two top buttons undone. If necessary, the account director may ask her to fellate him, the client or both. She may also be required to fellate the creative director, the director of any TV spot she may be involved with, the celebrity the agency may be using and, of course, any member of the board.

She will not, however, under any circumstances, fellate a mere account manager. Nor will she fellate everyday creatives, or anyone from media. They're just nobodies. (That principle may change, however, if the person in question has cocaine.)

Naturally, the attractive posh girls rise to the top while the unattractive posh girls get frustrated and leave for a business that's less focused on tits, teeth, asses and blowjobs. Law, for instance. Every solicitor I've ever met has been an absolute road smash. (Some of them didn't even wear make-up, if you can fucking believe that!)

It may seem like a thankless, lowly position with few rewards. And that's because it is. But they're usually posh and rich, so don't feel to bad for them. I don't.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Tuesday, 24 November 2009

A new day. A new agency. Lucky fuckers!

I got out of bed feeling so perky, I could have hung a week's laundry off my stalk-on. GOOD DAY TO YOU, WORLD!

Why such expansive morning wood?

Because today was my first day with my new agency. And I was so excited about telling them what the first campaign is going to be, I almost dry-humped the postman!

So, I breezed into the agency at 11am, virtually bang on time for my 10am meeting.

I clicked my finger guns at the fantastic receptionist (muchas bristolas, chaps!) and said, 'Morning, gorgeous! I'm Dave Knockles! Why can't I see stars because you are fucking knock-out!'

She smiled...sort of...and I was soon squidged softly into some seriously sumptuous sofas feeling like the King of cunting Soho. Two minutes later, I was walking into a room full of my new agency team! The table was laden with champers (a proper fucking agency, see) and only the very finest, leggiest, bristolas-nearly-falling-outiest account execs were on hand to keep my glass topped up (again - proper fucking agency).

'Right!' I said above the hubbub. 'Get your creatives - I'm about to give them the job of the century!' Cue more excitement, bustling and hurriedly fetching some...well, you know the sort. Creatives.

'Gather round, boys!' I said. 'This is the creative opportunity you've been waiting a lifetime for.' They gathered closer. Then I let them have it.

'You. Are. Going. To. DO. MY. IDEA!' I crescendoed. I was excited. I even stood up!

The poor fuckers couldn't believe their luck because there was nothing but silence. I downed another glass (or three) of champers quickly and gave them what I call 'The Davegasm'. It's my full presentation fireworks display and it has been known to make people physically sick, such is its power.

I told them at length about my idea. I announced the campaign line ('Cleanavia cleans cleaner than cleaners that aren't Cleanavia' - fucking genius). And I showed them shots of the girls I'd personally cast at Delilaz.

At the end, just more silence. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the power of a fucking massive idea. It can often induce total awe. It happens to me a lot. The creatives were just standing there, open-mouthed. 'It's alright,' I said, patting them on the heads. 'It's alright. I know.' Bless them.

Before I got too embarrassed by the silent adulation, the MD hurried everybody back to work and took me for a little lunch. Nothing fussy, just a bit of pasta, osso buco, risotto milanese, risotto di funghi, fruta di mare, agnello, linguine all' astice, coniglio, branzino, bistecca fiorentina, lasagne, pizza carne, pizza di pesce, pizza pollo and four or five ice creams.

'Your idea,' he said at one point. 'How long were you working on it?'

'It was virtually instant,' I replied. 'I have ideas in no time at all. It's almost like I'm thinking without thinking.'

'Wow,' he said, slowly. Then he seemed to brighten. 'Can we talk money?'

In short, it was a brilliant day - for them! I can't wait to see how the Cleanavia campaign pans out. I don't want to rush things, but I can smell awards! And I fucking deserve them!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!


Monday, 23 November 2009

You're hired! Congratu-fucking-lations!

It's been a long, painful search. One that tested all my reserves of determination, marketing wisdom and patience with planners. A bit like Hercules' long quest for...whatever it was he was after. A fucking bird, probably. Or a planner that makes sense! (I just thought of that! Fucking good, wasn't it?)

Anyway, I have an agency.

Naturally, I can't tell you the name. They'll want to do that when they announce it in Campaign with the obligatory budget figure they plucked from thin air and multiplied by ten.

But, for you, my millions of followers around the globe, the winner is...


















...I'm spinning it out, like they do on X-Factor...













Agency number 1!

Yes, they're the boys for me! And not just because they know how to have a proper night on the sizzle. They also demonstrated, by presenting some utterly shit work at the pitch, that they're in high demand and, therefore, really good. (I gave them 48 hours to ready their pitch - only really shit agencies have so little to do that they can do anything good in that time.)

Pretty much everyone else on the panel (which was a big panel, I'll confess) voted for agency 2 because their work was very, very good. But, as I've argued, that means they're shit.

Anyway, Big Andy Poleman (my CEO) and I had a chat afterwards.

'That first lot - the shit ones - do they have a New York office?' asked Andy.

'Yes' I replied.

'Right. Hire them - I'm having a little domestic difficulty and that would smooth things nicely.'

'Oh?'

'Yeah, that bird I bang of a Tuesday and Thursday...'

'Shaniqua?'

'Nah - she's Monday and Wednesday - this is Candy-Joy. Well, she's threatening to tell the wife and all this, but she's always fancied working in NY. She might be persuaded to fuck off nicely if you can wangle a job for her in their office over there. Which you will. Because if you don't I'll hit you so hard you'll grow a cunt.'

'Consider it done!'

Now, some may suggest that this is not a good reason to hire an agency. But I'd made my mind up anyway. (I had. I FUCKING HAD!)

So, I called their MD and told him the good news. 'You lucky boy,' I said. 'You're going to be working with Dave Knockles!' He was so chuffed he went quiet for a good minute.

'Now, when can I come over to tell you what the first campaign's going to be?' I added. 'I've got a fucking brilliant idea! Don't bother with the creatives - I've saved them the hassle!'

By the time he put the phone down, he was weeping with joy. And why wouldn't he? He's the luckiest fucker in Adland!

Why? Because I AM HIS CLIENT!

Saturday, 21 November 2009

Newsflash! My mother delivers her verdict!

Just a quick note to say that my mother has viewed all three videos from yesterday's pitch day.

Her verdict is now in.

(The following is a direct transcript of her comments.)

Agency 1: 'They all look like whores and simpletons, David! Whores! Look at that one there, the one with the blouse undone to God knows where! Does she have a husband, David? Did she make that clear before she began this striptease? She looks just like that slut your father ran off with, and I hope they both die in a lot of pain. People like that shouldn't be allowed to live past the age of five. I can't bear it anymore - move on! I don't know why you put me through this, David, I really don't. Now come on - get the next one on quick...'

Agency 2: '(After five minutes of engrossed silence) Why are they speaking in French, David?' (I explain that the planner was speaking, in English.) Lord above! And do people pay him to say these awful things? I think the boy needs help, David. Is he gay, do you think? I've heard of gay people - Joan at the club talks about them and she says they're in a terrible state of confusion. Is this boy confused? Is he gay, David? Oh, Jesus! Look at that one - he looks like he's been painted orange! (I explain that the account director has stood up.) These people, David. It's like Sodom and Gomorrah! Get them away!'

Agency 3: 'Now that girl I like. She looks very, very nice indeed. She has a very simple, honest blouse and very unfussy haircut, David. No jewellery, nothing whorish. Very simple, girl. (I explain it's a male account manager.) Oh, sweet Lord, David. Who are you mixing with? Are YOU gay? Tell me now, boy? Are you gay? It wouldn't surprise me. The only girls you ever seem to bring home are dirty little whores with next to nothing on and great big...'

I think that's enough. You get the idea. She's very hard to please - which is why I value her orders so highly.

(Not orders, obviously - opinions.)

Anyway, the news is this: IT'S STILL A CLOSE-RUN THING!

Tune in on Monday (or Tuesday, depending on how much thinking I need to do) to hear what happens next.

You know you fucking want to.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Friday, 20 November 2009

Life's a pitch! Pitch battle! Pitch-er this! The Pitches of Eastwick! Perfect Pitch! Fever Pitch! Pitching In! Pitch A No Hitter! Scratch That Pitch!

Pitch day!

Today, at our offices, three of the nation's most...available ad shops came to convince us that they should be our agency of record.

I'd given them only 48 hours to devise their pitches. I'd been to a chemistry meeting with each of them (here, here and here) and I was ready to roll!

I gathered just a close team of marketing experts to help me reach a decision. My marketing manager, Mandy Fookes, my marketing execs...er...Dave...Derek...not sure...Kylie something or other and...the other one. I also invited, out of courtesy, Big Andy Poleman (CEO), Big Brian Humpage (Sales Director) and Big Alan Cockson (FD), as well as Sharon, Corinne, Lela, Daphne, Michaela, Clare, Jasmine, Beverley, Deirdre, Yvonne, Samantha, Jerina, Lequisha, Alex, Alexa, Alexis, Alexiss, Alexandra and Alexandria. (Basically, at some point or other over the last 6 months, I've told anyone with decent bristolas that they can come to the pitch. Call me an old-fashioned romantic if you will, but that's what I did.)

I also had the pitches filmed so my mother could watch them. She is nearly target audience after all.

I'll give a brief synopsis of my take on each agency's work.

Agency 1. Boring but rich.

Agency 2. Boring but poor.

Agency 3. Boring but confusing.

The problem with agency 2 was that they clearly didn't have a lot of work on because they'd produced a really impressive pitch. Now, if an agency has 48 hours to do something and they do it well, they clearly don't have anything better to do, so they're not in demand, so they're no good, so I don't want them.

Agency 1's work was absolutely horrendous! So they must be dead busy, so they must be in demand, so they must be good! (This insight is free to you, fellow marketeers, but it should cost you - because it's fucking gold!)

The third agency had two planners on the team. Now, I haven't worked out what planners do yet, but one always spells some kind of long-term ice-cream headache for me. Two...well, let's just say that I took a series of very important phone calls during that presentation. (Timed it perfectly too - got back in from the bog to here the words 'Any questions?' Absolute fucking music!)

So, once they'd wrapped up and buggered off, it was decision time. Luckily, that's what I do best. I'm the Marketing Director. This is my patch, my game. And it's down to nobody but me who I choose to be our agency.

So, I put it to a vote. (My mother gets a vote too - but a bigger one than the others because, well, she is nearly target audience.)

Find out the results on Monday, Knockles fans! And I know you will!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!


Thursday, 19 November 2009

The client vs deadline vs agency conundrum

Deadlines. They're nobody's friend. They're like slugs, or non-porn, real-life lesbians - there's probably some need for them, but nobody actually likes them.

For we clients, they can be a massive headache, what with ads to approve in time to go back to the agency with, I'll be honest, lots of amends. Sometimes (by which I mean most of the time) I ask for the ad to be rewritten completely. Can I help it if I keep coming up with genius ideas that are better than the agency's?

The 'try again' phone call usually follows researching the ads. I use my mother as my sole focus group. She's nearly target audience, and she's a shrewd old bird, so she lets me know whether the agency boys have landed a hole-in-one or shanked the ball into the face of the club chairman's wife, then attempted to play the next shot off her blood-spattered chin where the ball had come to rest, misjudged the grip on the driver, smashed the club right into the old dear's windpipe, broken the club and called her a cunt for getting in the way in the first place. (This didn't happen to me, by the way. It didn't.)

Here's a tip, fellow marketeers: make up a completely fake deadline.

Tell the agency you need the ads back ASAP for a board meeting. (Tell agency boys that the board are seeing their ads and they get all excited AND very nervous. It's brilliant to watch.)

Now, the account director, being a seasoned pro, will also have this trick up his sleeve. He won't trust the scribblers (that's what I call creatives - they love it!) to do the ad on time because he thinks they're all on crack, or working on their portfolios, or on Facebook (which they are!) so he lies to them.

This pushes all the pressure in the right direction: away from you and towards the people doing the actual work. (I know - it's fucking brilliant, isn't it?) That gives you the space you need to do important stuff, like attend the board's Sausages & Solutions meetings - where you brainstorm answers to your company's problems fuelled only by three or four dozen of Kevin Scagg's handmade pork, beef, bacon, lamb, turkey, duck, squirrel and cheese bangers.

Anyway, I'm glad to be back to doing what I do best: dispensing nuggets of pure marketing gold!

With the pitch tomorrow, I feel a definite Dave Knockles spring in my Dave Knockles step. I'll soon have an agency again - and I can't wait to tell them that I've already come up with their first campaign! They'll be delighted!

Anyway, I have to keep it brief. Tonight is LadyBoy Night at Delilaz. Not sure what it means, but they're ladies and I'm a boy, so I think it'll be a blast! Whatever it is, I'll grab it by the horns!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Wednesday, 18 November 2009

Friday is pitch day

Enough effing about - I've set the pitch date for the 3 agencies left on my pitch list.

This Friday!

Why muck about, eh? I mean, some people might say two days isn't enough to prepare for a major pitch, but they didn't sound that cheesed off. In fact, they all sounded pretty much okay with it, once they'd sorted out the phone. It was weird - every agency seemed to have a problem with their lines which happened after I said, 'The pitch is this Friday'. Every time there was a massive crackle, a load of muffled noises, some banging and then a sort of high pitched screaming. Fucking BT, eh? Or whatever it is now. Fucking them.

Now, the clear question is, 'Hey, Dave! You're a bit of a marketing genius and you've come up with brilliant concepts like the Cleanavia 1100, the big drive to suck the gay market dry and some seriously forward-thinking stuff like the X-Factor product placement idea. How come you've only given agencies 48 hours to sort their pitch out?'

My answer is this: Dave Knockles marches to a different drum. Actually, I'm playing the fucking drum. I'm the drummer. I'm Keith fucking Moon. So stand back while I smash this hotel room to pieces and bang the gaggle of birds who've been sleeping in the corridor for a week.

Er...by which I mean, I'm in charge. And I ask you: 'How long does it take to have an idea?' A second. The agency boys know this. I know this. So by pitch o'clock, they should have had...hang on...open calculator...shit...fucking thing...1,728,000 ideas. I have ideas in no time at all - so they should be even quicker! I mean, I do it and I hardly seem to need to engage my brain in any way. They're meant to be the professionals!

Also, this Friday works for me. The one after doesn't. Or the one after. (Delilaz is hosting a couple of special nights: Tits, Ass & Chips (to celebrate the new deep fat frier they've bought) and A Cucumber Down Oxford Street (at which every dancer has had at least two children). So, this Friday it is! And it has to be a Friday. I can't sit through three presentations in one day and not take some time out afterwards to have a serious discussion with my marketing team (possibly at Chez Chicken, then Dog Bar, Radish Bar, The Fallen Angel, God Bar and, of course, Delilaz).

So, anyway, this is my advice to my fellow marketing professionals. You are the client. You are the boss. Do it your way. Even if your way might seem, on the surface of things, so self-defeatingly fucking stupid it shouldn't even be worth considering let alone actually doing.

That's the way it is! And that's the way I work!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!




Tuesday, 17 November 2009

Just what the fuck has happened to ad agencies?

Chemistry meeting: 9.30 am.

(There's your first problem: 9.30am. Is there any excuse for starting a meeting at that time? How's a chap supposed to have a decent breakfast by that time? Plus it takes a good 2 hours to digest a decent breakfast and have a good, honest, man's dump.)

I arrived at the fourth company on the list of those hoping to be my new agency, then into what was labelled 'Pod 4 - The Inventorium' hoping to see a boardroom table groaning with pork-based breakfast products. It was, instead, groaning with fucking fruit, fucking water and double-fucking green tea.

And just to twist the knife that had been stuck sideways up my fudge-pipe, sitting opposite me with a MASSIVE haircut, a piercing in his gums (in his fucking gums!) and his own special bottle of Japanese water, was a cunting planner.

I won't bore you with the details because...well, I don't remember any. All I remember is watching the ironic retro clock ticking onwards, onwards, onwards while the planner showed me yet another slide that looked like a frantic four-way gangbang between a pie chart, a map of the moon, a parallelogram and a violent sex offender with a marker pen and Parkinson's.

So, as soon as I was released from that horror show, I called the fifth agency on my list.

'What will you be serving at the chemistry meeting?' I asked.

'We really believe in good diet helping good thinking', came the reply, 'so it'll be water, fruit and green tea. It's brilliant for conceptualising.'

'Right', I said. 'Then will you kindly fucking do one.'

So that's it. Five chemistry meetings and all I get is one proper tear up. The other one I had to do myself. One proper old-fashioned roister that fully cemented the client-agency relationship. (I believe so very firmly in cementing that relationship regularly. Ideally every Friday.)

What has happened to ad agencies? When did everyone decide that fucking fruit is good for you? FRUIT! It's fucking awful! And eating it makes you look like a total fucking cunt-pole.

AND GREEN FUCKING TEA? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? It tastes like grass mixed with sick - and I should know! (I once mistook an ornamental lawn for a salad bar. It had been a very long day.)

The upshot is I've got three agencies left on the list and I can't stand the sight of two of them.

I need to make a decision. Luckily that's what I do best. I don't even need to think or anything!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Monday, 16 November 2009

I've been at a conference. Honestly.

It's what every philandering husband tells his wife: "I'll be at a conference over the weekend, darling - it'll be terribly boring and I'll spend the entire time wishing I was here, with you, watching you mouth-breathe your way through the soaps."

Of course, he'll be up to his nuts in the fat girl from accounts whose insecurity is so deep, she's even prepared to let a scumbag like him stick his withered old wink-wonk up her foof.

But I was genuinely at a conference - a real, actual conference rather than the cover story for a sexual encounter that leaves everyone involved with a bad taste in their mouth.

(Naturally, while I was there, I made several heroic attempts at staging exactly that type of sexual encounter - of which, more at a later date.)

Primarily, I was there at THE INTERNATIONAL MARCOMMS SUMMIT & PRO-CELEBRITY MATCHPLAY TOURNAMENT '09 to deliver a seminar. (I know! About fucking time!) The title they asked me to work to was "Is the age of Madmen over?"

Now, for those who don't know, Madmen is a Yank TV drama set in an ad agency in the 50s and 60s and portrays a life of drinking, smoking and copywriting genius in a world where men were men and women were secretaries / things you banged after a Scotch or seven.

Madmen.

Of course, I know that now.

Before the conference, during it and, crucially, all the way through my seminar, I thought Madmen meant mad men. You know, like men who are mad. I assumed (because everyone says I'm hilarious - especially my staff and my agency) that I was the light relief to break up the tedium.

So I started with ten minutes on Charles Manson, then moved onto Ted Bundy and Fred West. Before I could get to the Washington Sniper, the Unabomber and George Bush, there was an undeniable physical reaction happening in the audience. It started with laughter, moved onto a kind of hushed awe and descended into heckling (some of which was very graphic indeed).

I think most of them liked it, actually, but the event was ruined by a minority of no more that 80-85%. Sad, really, because my bit on Genghis Khan was brilliant - I'd made a prop of a head on a spike out of a spike and a cabbage wearing swimming goggles. Motivating stuff, I can fucking tell you.

Anyway, it's their loss - I'm just waiting for the phone to ring to book Davey Knockles for the next public speaking engagement! Nothing yet - but it can't be long, surely!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Thursday, 12 November 2009

I fail chemistry

Oops.

Dave Knockles done a naughty.

The third chemistry meeting of my hunt for a new agency took place today but I think I may just have ruined it just a teensy little bit a lot.

Here's what happened.

Last night, I got locked in my BMW motor car. Now, ignore that joke bit at the end! Dave Knockles is NOT scared of the dark and he did NOT do a wee because the shadows looked like they were moving and he heard a scraping noise and the trees looked like giant monsters. NO WAY!

Anyway, Shit Alan, the security guard helped me get out. (Shit Alan is called Shit Alan because there are two Alans: Good Alan and Shit Alan. Shit Alan is just a bit...well, shit.)

So, after being locked in my car, I needed a bit of rest and relaxation. Of course, I headed for Delilaz, my favourite lap-dance-based facility. It was Wednesday night, which means it's Five Pints & A Pie Night. You buy five pints and get a free pie. Of the hairy variety. Naturally, I made the most of such a generous offer and when I came out, the morning rush hour was well under way.

Suffice to say, such a night of lavish enjoyment took its toll. I was slightly jaded and in need of a bit of shut eye - which I got when I blacked out while pissing up someone's Vauxhall Vectra.

Now, sleeping under a Vauxhall Vectra isn't as restful as it sounds, so when the owner found me and booted me awake, I was still quite tired. With an important chemistry meeting ahead of me, I did what any time-poor executive would do and bought 24 cans of Red Bull.

Once I'd polished those off, I felt pretty fucking special, so I drove back into work, had a shave, fell asleep on the bog for a bit, woke up, fell asleep in a meeting for a bit, had a couple of inches of scotch to clear my noggin and headed straight for the meeting. In the cab, I may have emptied my hip flask, and I think I stopped on the way for a quick livener (or two) in the Bull & Bush, Dog Bar, God Bar, Radish Bar and the Fallen Angel.

On arrival, it seems, I greeted the account director (a lady) with a full and sincere embrace that, I hear, she didn't much appreciate. I thought I was shaking her hand, turns out I was grabbing her tits.

Some might consider that the high point of the meeting.

I called the planner a cunt, I threw sushi at the creative director, I dry-humped the account execs (all three of them), I stood on the table and tried to piss into a wine bottle ten feet away and I finished lunch by vomiting so copiously that I got puke on people in the next room.

The agency, I am told, were disappointed by my behaviour and considered it unprofessional.

But, fucking hell, come on! It was a chemistry meeting! What did they expect? I thought agencies were supposed to enjoy that sort of thing.

Anyway, the upshot is that there's one less agency on the pitch list - so it's a double win! One less presentation to sit through AND I've set a new record: I've been fired by an agency BEFORE I've started working with them! I call that a result!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Wednesday, 11 November 2009

Fucking BMWs

Help! HELP! FUCKING HEEEELLLLLP!

Ah, bollocks. I'll keep this brief. My BMW motor car has punched me right in the butt, balls and bell-end.

I'm locked in it. Now. Here - right now. I'm doing this on my laptop, sitting in the back seat.

I was working late again (didn't get out of the office until 4.50pm - I'm a martyr, I tell you) and got into my stylish black BMW motor car. Pulled the door shut, went to start the engine and realised I didn't have my keys. Tried to get out. Couldn't. Everything fucking locked. Windows locked, doors locked, sunroof...er...I haven't got one.

Anyway, I then noticed my keys on the floor just outside the car. I'd obviously dropped them as I got in.

So, there I am, stuck in my motor, banging the windows and screaming like a spastic on crystal meth...sorry, that's not very nice...like a spastic on scotch, and nobody - NOBODY - comes to help me.

About 200 people must have passed within 20 feet of my car, and not one of them came to help - some of them were even from my own fucking department!

It's almost like people don't like me or something.

Could it be that I'm despised? That people would rather leave me in a car, yelping like an abandoned dog, than simply open a door?

NAAAAHHH! Of course not! People fucking love me, don't they? I'm Dave Knockles! It's just dark what with the early nights - and the car's black. Just couldn't see me. That's all it is.

Just couldn't see me.

All 200 of them.

Couldn't see me.






I hope somebody comes.

Why? Because I am the client. And I don't like the dark.






I think I just did a wee.

Tuesday, 10 November 2009

I thought hell would be less boring

So I'm currently looking for a new agency (see why here). And today was the chemistry meeting with agency number 2 on my pitch list.

To say I was a little unimpressed is like saying Big Brian Humpage is a little bit flatulent. He's our Sales Director and he once farted so hard he blew someone's wig off.

Agency 2 weren't like the agencies I know. There was no account director with a nice suit and a healthy tan. No mucky-looking account exec with DD cups balanced on 18-inch heels. No creative with a funny haircut and statement trousers.

This bunch all looked the same. I couldn't tell who did what. I like to know who does what by looking at them. Otherwise...how do you know who does what?

Anyway, that wasn't even a tenth of the problem.

We had the chemistry meeting, get this, in their fucking offices. Can you believe that? In. Their. Fucking. Offices. What kind of shitcake-baking cuntpile has a chemistry meeting in their own fucking offices?

And if the fact that we were in some red-walled 'space' in Soho with big windows and confusing furniture weren't bad enough, I could see perfectly clearly a very agreeable restaurant RIGHT OVER THE ROAD!

So not only had they chosen to have a chemistry meeting in their own fucking office, but they'd chosen it knowing that a 20-second walk from their big, wanky glass front doors IS A PLACE WHERE CHEMISTRY MEETINGS ARE MEANT TO FUCKING HAPPEN!

'Never mind, Dave', I thought, 'They'll break out the champers in a minute and everything will get back on track.'

Not a fucking bit of it.

Water. Green tea. Bran muffins. Smoothies. I don't think I've ever been so insulted. And I've been fucking insulted.

The next 3 hours were spent talking about many, many things. All they seemed interested in doing was telling me how I could sell more consumer durables. I know how to sell more consumer durables! You just change the number on the monthly sales figures and, bingo bango, you've sold more consumer durables! I was only there to get wankered and, if I'm blunt, see if I could bend one through one of the...well, anything. IN OTHER WORDS, I WAS THERE FOR A COCKING CHEMISTRY MEETING!

So, my scores. You won't be surprised.

Bristolas: 5 (Credit where it's due - one of the...well, who knows what she was...had a pretty decent pair. She should change agency.)
Beerz: -1,000,000
Bloody Good Blokes: 0 (I couldn't identify one golfer in the whole place.)
Bollocks: 367,987 (That's the number of times they used a word I didn't understand - remember, you want to score low in this category.)

Not a good score. Not a good day. Not a good omen if the rest are like that. Still, I managed to make my excuses and leg it to Delilaz where, like a man lost in the desert who finds the oasis, I dived right in and got myself soaking wet!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Monday, 9 November 2009

What the fuck is planning - the answer!

I've finally figured out what planning is!

I sat down this morning for a very long, very chilled, very meditative poo and the answer just popped into my head - almost as soon as the last torpedo had been fired by HMS Bot-bot.

Let's look at the evidence:

1. It's pseudo-scientific.

2. It uses a lot of mysterious charts and symbols.

3. It makes assertions that are sort of hard to pin down.

4. A lot of people believe it without really being able to say why.

IT'S FUCKING ASTROLOGY!

Yeah! It's like your stars in the paper, innit? Every paper, no matter how high-brow, absolutely HAS to have an astrology page. Nobody knows why!

I imagine it works in a similar way. Planners, like astrologers, consult a lot of very complex information that only they understand, they disappear off to spend a lot of time thinking about stuff, then they unveil the truth - which absolutely nobody comprehends, believes or really remembers.

Then everyone draws his or her own heartwarming conclusion, and toddles off thinking that everything's going to be alright.

That's it, isn't it? I mean, tell me I'm wrong - this is a Dave Knockles first because I'm not sure what the fuck I'm talking about!

Are you a planner? Do you plan? Have you planned? Will you plan in the future?

Then tell me what the fucking hell it is you do. And tell me how you make Powerpoint charts that look like Stephen Hawking, a thought bubble and a hand grenade had a threesome in a pot of paint while angry toddlers ran amok with spray cans and a dictionary of confusing nouns.

I'll master planning, just like I mastered marketing! Nothing is beyond Dave Knockles (apart from fisting - I just don't know how people do that).

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Sunday, 8 November 2009

Unreasonable behaviour - the truth behind my divorce

I mentioned in one of my first posts on this blog that I am divorced.

Well, as it's the weekend following Guy Fawkes Night here in the UK and everyone's letting off whole Desert Storms of fireworks, I've been reminded of my marriage.

For many years, I've bottled up what happened, sharing the details only with family, close friends and a series of women I've met in bars who I thought might be persuaded to sleep with me out of sympathy.

Somehow, I feel this is the right time to get it all out and tell the full story.

When I was in my twenties, I met a beautiful girl called Charlotte Bronson. She was a humble administrative assistant, I was a marketing executive on a meteoric rise to the top (it was only 17 years later that I became Marketing Director).

I admit I fell for her pretty smile, her gigantic bristolas, her enchanting eyes and her gigantic bristolas. A whirlwind romance followed and, against the angry protests of my mother, her family and many, many of her friends, we were married.

We hadn't felt the need to 'try' living together before the wedding, so after the honeymoon (spent in a Travelodge in Sheffield - just me, my new bride and my mother) we moved straight into my house. Well, my mother's house. Anyway, it was our new home.

It was blissful. I went to work while two women did all my ironing and cooking and cleaning and stuff. And they had a great time. Charlotte was so happy that she spent much of the time in tears.

Anyway, the cracks eventually began to show. The passion that had made the start of our relationship so intense began to thaw - she began to reject my advances, and even suggested I was 'unromantic'. Seriously, ladies, if a marketing executive like Davey Knockles is offering to 'bend one through you', 'bang your back teeth out' or 'rattle your ovaries' three or four times a day, you are being romanced. Right?

Finally, she left, taking the few clothes my mother had chosen for her in a single carrier bag (my mother got rid of all her other stuff, saying it was dirty and only fit for a whore - she's harsh but fair, the old girl!) and I received the divorce papers shortly afterwards.

Now here's the really fucking sickening part. She'd cited 'unreasonable behaviour' as the reason for divorce, then gave 'just being Dave Knockles' as an example.

In other words, she was suggesting that simply by existing, I was being unreasonable. AND THE JUDGE FUCKING AGREED!

All it took was 10 minutes in court (I represented myself because, even then, I knew I could do it better than any other fucker) and she was banging her little hammer like Keith cunting Moon! 'Silence, Mr Knockles! Enough! This divorce is granted!'

I ask you - is that justice?

Well, that's what happened. And thank God! Why do I need to get married? I'm a fucking babe magnet - especially in lapdancing bars. They seriously love me in those places - but who can blame them. I love me too!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!


Friday, 6 November 2009

Agency characters, no 3 - The Creative Director

Oh, the Creative Director! Isn't he just crazy? Isn't he just so unpredictable? It's almost like he's not doing advertising. It's like he's doing art.

Did you see that exhibition of photography he did? And have you read that novel he's writing? And have you seen that film he directed? And have you seen his website? And have you seen any fucking ads he's done?

No. You haven't - BECAUSE EVERYBODY ELSE DOES THEM WHILE HE'S THUMBING HIS BALLBAG AND THINKING ABOUT JACQUES FUCKING DERRIDA! Whoever he fucking is.

Here we have the central problem with Creative Directors. The creative they like directing is actually their own. Ask them to make an ad with a consumer durable and a fucking big price on it and they start squealing like a hairdresser who's been asked to do the buzzcuts down at the Army recruiting office.

He (or even she but, let's be honest, probably he) may have enjoyed advertising at some point. But a decade or so down the line, he hates it more than he hates clients (and he hates them A LOT). He hates advertising because he's so very far above it, you see. He outgrew it years ago when he shot a commercial with a director who'd worked with Tarrantino and they'd chuckled knowingly to each other about the stupid fucking client and their stupid fucking shampoo / nappies / breakfast cereal / car / beer / cheese / whatever.

So, now he loathes everything about his job - except, of course, the fucking gigantic salary, which is the only thing stopping him jacking it all in and making a moving documentary about Balkan design collectives. That, and the fact that he hasn't got anything like the balls.

Of course, Creative Directors absolutely hate it when you change their ads - even though they never do any. This has lead to more than one frosty / violent confrontation with me, especially when I tell them that my mother didn't like the ads because the blue is all wrong, or the headline reminds her of dead babies, or any of the other constructive comments she makes.

(My mother is nearly target audience, though. I'd be mad not to consult her - so I consult her on everything! I don't do it because I can't have an opinion of my own - no fucking way.)

I always change the ads. Because I can always make them better! And that's the problem with Creative Directors - they hate it when someone is better at their job than they are. And I am!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Thursday, 5 November 2009

The morning after the chemistry meeting before

I felt slightly delicate this morning.

But, it must have been a good chemistry meeting because I woke up in my bed.

And when I say 'in my bed', I mean literally in my bed. Somehow, I'd cut a giant slit in the side of my mattress and crawled inside, a bit like Luke Skywalker does with that big white camel thing in The Empire Strikes Back.

Explain that one to me, if you would. No women were to be found, so I'm guessing I wanted a cuddle and that was what I came up with. Fucking ingenious, actually.

Anyway, the morning after a chemistry meeting demands two things. First, a simple, galvanising breakfast of sausage, egg, bacon, beans, black pudding,white pudding, hash browns, fried mushrooms, chips, lamp chops, 5 toast, 5 fried bread, fried tomatoes, fried potatoes, a pot of tea for 6 and a colossal, explosive dump.

Second, it demands the scoring of last night's agency. Let's call them...er...Agency 1.

(This, by the way, is the first time the patented Dave Knockles Agency-on-Agency Battle Royale League Table Scoring System has been revealed. These, fellow marketing professionals, are the criteria that really count. All scores are out of 10.)

Bristolas: 7.
Not a bad display from the account executives, and even one of the planners had a nice pair. Total mark let down, however, by a way of dressing that, personally, I didn't think was quite pornographic enough.

Beerz: 8.
Excellent display by the account director, who flourished the gold card with enviable style. He also thoughtfully sent the waitress with the biggest juggles to my table again and again and again and again (which she actually really enjoyed, even though she didn't say so and seemed to have been given some bad news at the end of the night that made her cry a lot and do a lot of yelling about wanting to resign).

Brilliant jokes: 10.
Because I was there!!!! (Just joshing - brilliantly, again! That one isn't a real Dave Knockles benchmarking tool.)

Bloody good blokes: 7.
Mostly the agency boys were a good bunch who thought I was brilliant company - even when I accidentally punched one of them because I thought he had my wallet. (He didn't - he had HIS wallet! We / I laughed and laughed at that one!)

Bollocks: 7
You want to score low in this category. Sadly, the planners and the 'insight technologist' had the jargoniser turned up to 10 and had me reaching for the double Tequila Motherfuckers (3 shots tequila, 4 shots vodka, 2 shots pink gin - gets you so pissed you'd fuck your...well, you get the point).

So, not a bad show from Agency 1. Agency 2 has their turn soon. Right now, though, I need a lie-down. And that's exactly what I'll have when I get back from Delilaz! Thursday night is 'All The Lapdances You Can Eat' night! I can't miss that!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Wednesday, 4 November 2009

All over town like a mad dog's shit!

WA-HAY!

WOOOOOHOOOOO!

Good fucking evening! I'm coming to you live from...I dunno! Some fucking place! There's a very attractive account executive sitting comfortably uncomfortably close on one side of me, an account director with a positively gargantuan credit card on the other side and a table groaning with...let me count...16 different types of booze!

You guessed it! I'M AT A CHEMISTRY MEETING!

The hunt for an agency has begun with this, the first of five similar meetings when I will find out if my prospective agency of record share my philosophy on marketing, communication and, most important, getting so smashed gravity stops working.

This agency is...I dunno! Some fucking agency! And they definitely share my philosophy on the getting smashed bit. And, what's more, they really like me! They get my jokes (of which there have been many, of the usual high standard) and the girls especially think I'm pretty good company, so we're off to a flying start. (Basically, I think they all fancy me - so no news there! I told you I was on form!)

I'm typing this on this bloke's laptop - he's called...I dunno! Some fucking name! Anyway, he's a planner, and a fucking nice chap. I can't understand most of what he says because he talks more jargon than the Chief Executive of United Jargon Ltd at the Annual International Jargon Conference. But what I have gleaned is that planning is about more than making Powerpoint slides so confusing they overload the synapses to the point of instant sleep and incontinence.

It turns out that planning is about...oh, fuck. I've forgotten what he said now. Shit. Er...is it like research but without the research? I can't remember. It sounded pretty straightforward-ish, anyway.

Oooh - I also met someone called an Insight Technologist. He had a really strange haircut, and these trousers that were incredibly tight at the bottom and then incredibly baggy at the top - sort of like he was wearing an upturned wine bottle on each leg - and I had genuinely no fucking clue what he was talking about. But what a nice chap!

The creative director was there too. He said something weird (there's a surprise!) like 'Are you going to be the kind of client who makes my portfolio want to cry?' and I said, 'No way - I'm going to make your portfolio look fucking amazing!' He seemed pretty pleased but wandered off before I could add that I'll be rewriting every headline, changing every visual and generally fucking about with every layout - and THAT'S why his portfolio will look amazing. Still, he'll find out in time, if they win!

AAAAGH! Must dash! The account exec has started chewing my earlobe! Back, back, you terrible woman - BACK TO MY PLACE!

HA HA! I'm on fire!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Sunday, 1 November 2009

Agency characters, no 2 - The Account Director

Next in my series on the life forms you'll find in agencies is this walking zero - The Account Director.

This chap is in a curious spot. He's reached a senior position, but not the most senior. So he doesn't actually do anything that actually resembles work. And he doesn't have the authority to make anything like big decisions.

That leaves him with the two roles that have come to define him: being shouted at and getting the client smashed.

Yes, when the shit hits the fan, it's too easy to yell at the little people (and the boss obviously isn't going to take the flak) so they wheel out this suited scapegoat and you let him have it. Then, when you've calmed down and he's crawled out from under the boardroom table, he is fully expected to take you to the boozer and pay for anything and everything you want.

In short, then, he is a punchbag with a credit card.

That's why he finds importance in things that define his status. His car, for example, is of such massive consequence that he spends a good percentage of his working week having it serviced, valeted or both.

His phone, too, must be significantly better than those of his team. Same goes for his laptop, despite the fact that he has no idea what the fuck it does.

He also tries to escape the meaningless of his existence by lording it over creative people, believing that because they work in a different field, they might be impressed by the word 'director' in his job title.

They aren't. Nobody is.

I love Account Directors, though. It's their job to bring the beerz - and that's alright with me!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!


Meet the stars of my new campaign

Say hello to Lizzi, Suzzi, Mizzi and Dizzi - the new faces (and other bits) of my new Cleanavia 1100 launch campaign.

These girls are going to help me shift BILLIONS of our new consumer durable, and make me so rich, I'll be able to pay Shakespeare to come back from the dead to write my blog. (Not that he'd be any better at it than me! Ha ha! I'm on fire today!)

As professional lapdancers (or lapologists, as their business cards say) they are the most convincing brand spokesladies imaginable. Why? Because they are filthy, dirty people. And filthy, dirty people need the very best in cleansing performance. Just imagine the stains they have to deal with.

I personally cast these girls myself. They happened to be at my own favoured executive's convenience, Delilaz.

How lucky is that? The perfect spokesbirds for my brand were right there under my nose (and I mean just millimetres under my nose at times). You couldn't make it up.

Of course, when I mentioned the idea of them being in my new ads, they were overcome with gratitude. In fact, I didn't pay for a dance all night! And Mizzi (or was it Dizzi?) did this thing with her feet that, well...it's quite hard to describe, actually...that I found touchingly expressive of her thanks.

Couple these girls with my new line 'Cleanavia cleans cleaner than cleaners that aren't Cleanavia' and you've got marketing fucking gold.

My first TV script features Lizzi (or is it Suzzi?) coming back home from a long shift, all dressed in lingerie and a fur coat, getting her kit off (tastefully, like - no slot shots or anything daft) and looking all saucy at the camera. 'Clothes this dirty need a special kind of clean', she says. (I know - it's brilliant, isn't it?) Then she says, 'The Cleanavia 1100 offers a supreme level of cleansing performance and can remove any stain (blood, egg, sodium hypochlorite and soil not included). It's a product that will guarantee your consumer delight - just like I do.'

Cut to end frame, Martin Clunes delivers the campaign line and, bingo bango, it's a fucking award winner.

Honestly, my new agency (whoever they are) are going to be so fucking chuffed that I've not only written the campaign line, the first TV ads and the press ads - but I've found the fucking faces too!

I think I might be some kind of gift from God!

Actually, he's a gift from me!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Holy shit, I'm a genius. Again!

Sometimes, usually while lying beneath satin sheets in my luxurious executive shagpad, I wonder: just what is the true definition of genius?

Sure, genius means being really brilliant at something (often something really boring, like maths or art or physics or chemistry or all the other things I failed at school because I was too cool to, like, bother.)

But there is also a quality that connects Einstein, Copernicus, Hawking and the bloke from Coldplay (brilliant songs - so brilliant, you can't remember anything about them when they've finished). That quality is also present in a certain David Knockles. What is it?

Rebounditude.

The ability to rebound. The innate power to respond to rejection from less intellectually enabled contemporaries with an even bolder, broader vision.

So, while my board has knocked back several of my great ideas (see here and here), I simply refuse to be beaten back.

And so it is with my latest breakthrough: a campaign for the launch of our new consumer durable, the Cleanavia 1100.

(I can't wait to choose an agency just so I can tell them what the first campaign is going to be! I reckon they'll be pretty chuffed I've done it for them! What a fantastic client I am!)

My new campaign line is this: Cleanavia cleans cleaner than cleaners that aren't Cleanavia.

It's fucking poetry! And, what's more, it's true! (Well, if you accept the research findings released by our own research department. And ignore the fact that the research was only carried out by people who we paid to be researched. Only a really picky cunt would have a problem with that though, eh?)

Anyway, that brilliant line isn't the end of it, even though that could quite comfortably be considered a fucking massive day's work.

All the ads are going to feature the most believable brand ambassadors - people who need to be clean. And who needs to be clean? Dirty people, right? And who could that be? Miners? Yes, but not sexy. Builders? Yes, but not sexy. Farmers? Yes, but not sexy. Lapdancers? BINGO!

That's right. I'm thinking outside the box that's outside the box. My new campaign will be fronted by lapologists. It's simple, it's brilliant and it's never been done. I'd like to the see the board reject this one! More details tomorrow, marketing fans!

See? Rebounditude! I've got it - and I'm keeping it!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!