Christmas in adland. My analysis.

Christmas, the most wonderful time of the year, is over. Thank fuck.

You may now have a fresh set of wonderful memories to take to your grave (perhaps of your children's disbelieving faces as they opened that special surprise present you saved 'til last) but I have a fresh set of memories of my mother saying things like 'you really do buy the worst presents, David', 'turkey is meant to be dry, David - it doesn't live in water you idiot boy' and 'put more emollient on my hemorrhoids, David, before one of them pustulates again'. (She speaks her mind, the old girl!)

But it's not just me having a shit old time. Advertisers seem to be having a right fucking nightmare too - thanks to their agencies.

It seems to me that when the word 'Christmas' appears on a brief, agencies either a) come over all misty-eyed and rediscover their inner child, or b) they give the brief to the most mawkish, cheese-munching shmaltz-face in the place and say 'Remember last year? Give it more corn.' Any guesses which?

Hence the toe-curling cock-splot of M&S, Morrisons and Asda, all laying on the Christmas stilton with a fucking trowel. And even I thought Iceland's effort was a total fucking disaster - mainly because they removed the busty charms of Katona and replaced them with Jason Donavon and, I think, his Nan.

Anyway, I have a solution for next year.

Every celeb in Britain willing to whore themselves in a TV ad puts their name in a hat. Every advertiser willing to use a celeb in their ad puts their name into a different hat. Finally, every musician willing to let the above bum-rape their art for cash goes into a third hat.

A name from each hat is put together (for instance, 'Jeremy Clarkson', 'Pampers' and 'All The Young Dudes'). Then, instead of us having to sit through the fucking agony of watching Jeremy Clarkson jaw his way through a Pampers ad to the tune of All The Young Dudes, we just get a 10 second title in simple, clear type.

It says 'Jeremy Clarkson. Pampers. All The Young Dudes.' Blam. Done. Next one might say 'Alan Carr. Smeg. Every Rose Has Its Thorn.' And so on.

It'd save a lot of time, money and pain.

Nobody will have the balls to do it, mind. Just like nobody seems to want to go with my idea of having Mrs Claus as the face of our Christmas ads - only she's a blonde with big bristolas! (She could say stuff like 'Ho ho ho! The Cleanavia 1100 guarantees consumer delight through superior cleansing performance (some fabrics not included)!' Fucking festive, innit?)

Anyway, that's my take on Christmas ads: they're a load of back-flow. Personally, I'd rather get drunk and eat turkey legs dipped in dripping. So I do!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

I AM THE CLIENT AND I FUCKING WELL AM ONE HUNDRED!

Right.

In my last post, I claimed to be one hundred posts old.

El_Propheto, however, commented that I had cocked up and was actually 92 posts old.

What are the missing 8? Was it, as El_Propheto suggested, that I had been counting the drafts in my Blogger account...thing?

Or is the truth so mysterious, troubling and daunting that I just didn't go into it?

The answer, fellow marketing professionals, is yes. To the second bit.

But the truth, like a closet gay man after a night of martinis and karaoke, will out.

The truth is that I have posted 100 times, but on 8 occasions, the 'people' of powerful celebrities, business figures and political leaders have ordered me to remove what they called 'deeply offensive bullshit', 'libelous, erroneous, moronic wank' and 'the ramblings of a complete and utter cock-shank'.

Well, they would say that, wouldn't they?

With my honour called into question, fellow marketing professionals, I feel compelled to reveal the subject matter of those missing posts (as far as is legally advisable) over the coming days.

(Incidentally, if I don't reveal them, it's because I actually did reveal them, but the people who originally got pissed off at me revealing them the first time got pissed off again and made me remove them for a second time, so they'll only have been revealed for a short amount of time. Again.)

Revelation 1.

Back in November, I posted about how creatives can, on occasion, be temperamental pricks, dicks, cocks and fucks. In the course of that post, I suggested that brilliant artists such as Picasso, Da Vinci, Van Gogh and Bono have resorted to foul language, violence, torture and very detailed sketches of despicable acts of sexual brutality upon animals.

Now, I made all that up. I have no idea what those artists did when they got testy, but that didn't stop the representatives of one of the above contacting me and asking me to remove the post or they'd 'sue you so hard, your balls will end up on the back of your head and you'll be shitting money like you got dysentery in Ferrari showroom.'

Is that any way to treat someone who had simply made up a lie about you? It's not like I wasn't using it to prove a point! I was constructing a very persuasive argument - one that would have fallen down had I not made something up. What was I supposed to do?

Anyway, it seems you can't just make shit up and put it on the internet! Which begs the question, 'What can you fucking do?'

But that's enough philosophy for one day. I've got a box set of 'When Wild Animals Attack!' to get through, plus a 3-litre bottle of Scotch. I'll have it done by 3am!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

I AM THE CLIENT. AND I AM ONE HUNDRED.

This, my fellow marketing professionals, is my one hundredth post.

I feel this would be a good time to take a look back at that century of total fucking genius, as well as looking forward into the medium-term, the medium-to-long term, the early long-term, the long term itself and then into the longer-term long term.

From relatively humble beginnings through strokes of utter genius, other strokes of utter genius and more strokes of utter genius, all the way to serious strokes of utter genius - it's been a really fantastic experience. And it hasn't been bad for me, either!

(Ha ha! I am so on fire today, I made Mandy Fookes cry with laughter by calling her Stupid Fook-head all day! She was literally in tears! Had to go to the loo for ages to calm down! When she came back she gave me a really nasty look - probably for making her nearly wee or something! Brilliant.)

Anyway, I've enjoyed sharing with you my wisdom, my insight, my tips, my advice and, yes, my feelings.

Not really! I'm not fucking gay! What, feelings? Yeah, right! Feelings. Yeah. I mean, no.

Big, scary feelings.

No.

Not me.

Woah! Where the fuck was I? Oh, yeah - this is my one hundredth post! My favourite, I think, was...well, all of them. Except some of the shit ones, obviously. But you can't knock them too hard - I write about 70-75% of this stuff after a generous lunch, a lengthy spell in the Dog & Hog or a marathon sesh in Delilaz. So, you know, fuck off.

Overall, I think I'd sum up my first 100 posts as being like the starters in one of my favourite nosh-stops, El Mexicaniac. Massive, juicy, hot enough to make your teeth itch and highly likely to cause an urgent trip to the crapper - yet stimulating a winky-rousing urge for more, more, more, keep it coming, more, more, yes please, more, where's my beer, more, bring another one only bigger, more, I haven't finished that yet you cunt, more, more, bring the really hot habanero sauce Pablo I don't care if I spend tomorrow shitting my spine out I'm on a fucking mission, more.

So, though I'm now winding down my insane schedule for Christmas (for instance - only two rounds of golf this week) and may post a little less frequently for a while, I hope you don't mind me carrying on for a few more beyond number 100.

What do I mean, 'I hope you don't mind'? Of course you fucking don't!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Christmas? Absolute crapples.

Ding dong merrily on your ballbag, that's what I say. Jingle bells, jingle bells, shove it up your fadge. O come all ye faithful, stick it down your bell-end.

I hate Christmas, because it's shit, rubbish, wank, toss and shit.

Rupert fucking Abbott, that complete and total cunt-wipe, has YET AGAIN proved what a fucking cockcheese-munching crack-hole he is by running a - get this - 'Festive Facebook Price Fight' with MY FUCKING BRAND!

He's started some Facebook group where people tell each other where his consumer durables are CHEAPER THAN MINE! THE CUNT! THE CUNT-HEEL! THE CUNT-BAG! And all he's offering is some rubbish 'Christmas is on us - for life' prize thing. Who wants that? All your presents and food paid for every year, forever? HA!

Try again, Abbott! People don't want that shit! People want 10% off their next purchase when purchased in conjunction with a second consumer durable when purchased on a Wednesday morning with our approved finance package. (I can prove it too - I did a load of research with my mother and her friend, Joan Mince.)

What the FUCK happened to the good old days where you didn't mention your competitor in your marketing? I don't go on about the obvious flaw with his entire range of consumer durables, do I?

WELL, I FUCKING WILL NOW!

Are you ready, Abbott? Here goes: HIS CONSUMER DURABLES DON'T HAVE A PRE-PLANNED LIFESPAN! HA HA! WHAT AN AMATEUR!

That's right! His shitty consumer durables could conceivably last forever! HOW ARE YOU MEANT TO ENCOURAGE REPEAT PURCHASE LIKE THAT? OURS DEGRADE COMPLETELY WITHIN FIVE YEARS - SO YOU HAVE TO BUY A NEW ONE! That, Abbott, is what's called 'business acumen'! You should try it sometime, you fucking toolpipe!

Anyway, I'm not rattled by some shitty Facebook group. Even if it does have 133,908 members. What does that mean? Women are our target audience and everyone knows women don't use the fucking internet. How many women have got time to go on Facebook? What, and do all the ironing, washing, cleaning, cooking, baby stuff and giving their husband a lift to the pub? Not likely. Abbott just doesn't understand women like I do.

Anyway, I've got my response sorted. I'll be running an ad - with a fucking coupon*! How do you like that, Abbott? What's that? I can't hear you! See? He's running scared - and he always will!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

* 10% off your next purchase when purchased in conjunction with a second consumer durable when purchased on a Wednesday morning with our approved finance package.

The office Christmas party. A Dave Knockles perspective.

Next to binge drinking, casual violence and bad dancing, the office Christmas party is one of Britain's finest achievements. (Possibly because it contains binge drinking, casual violence and bad dancing.)

I love our office Christmas party.

I love the way Big Alan Cockson, our Finance Director, always breaks his own record for eating the most pork pies and pickled onions in a minute. He's broken his own record every year for the last 14 years. He can now eat 15.5 pork pies and 35 pickled onions in 60 seconds. And he always rounds it off with a minor heart attack. We've taken to calling the ambulance at the start of the night. The paramedics love it. They just have a couple of cheeky scoops and fire up the defibrillators before he starts. (His secret, by the way, is to blend the pies and onions into a kind of soup before he starts - it's like a pork and onion smoothie.)

I love the way Big Andy Poleman, our MD, bangs at least 3 admin girls. 'Never two together, though,' he says. 'That would be disrespectful. I go to whores for that.' That kind of old-fashioned gallantry really sums up Christmas for me.

I love the way Big Brian Humpage, our Sales Director, arrives in his new car (he always gets a new one for Christmas - it's company policy) pulling a trailer made up like a sleigh, full of presents - all of which turn out to be crates of beer, boxes of pork pies, black puddings, pig roasts, sides of beef, a dozen turkeys, barrels of port and a vicar: his mate, the Reverend Dicky Lyckes. The Reverend is there to remind us what Christmas is really all about. Then he gets plastered and tries to grope the lesbian who runs security. Nobody has the heart to tell him he's wasting his time, the poor old sex-pest.

I love the way Shit Alan gets dressed up and makes a real effort to get on with everyone, then starts throwing pint glasses at passers-by because nobody appreciates his idea of making an effort. (Generally, he grabs you by the balls / tits and says, 'Merry fucking Christmas, you dirty cunt!' To be fair, he's usually been at the own-label gin before he arrives. I mean, so have I, but I seem to carry off sexual harassment with a little less menace.)

I love the way the fat woman from accounts (they're all fat in accounts - I mean the really fat one) can never quite drink enough to pluck up the courage to ask out the fat man in accounts (again - the really fat one) because, being so huge, it takes gallons to get her pissed. And the irony is that if she lost some weight so she could drink enough to ask out the fat man from accounts, she wouldn't look twice at him.

I especially love the way everyone leaves on good terms with everyone else, as though work is a good thing and not a bitter chore. And watching my colleagues leave, one by one, laughing red-faced into the night, I think this really is a special time of the year.

With that thought, I usually walk thoughtfully to Delilaz where every year it's XXXmas Night, and the girls wear Santa hats and fuck-all else. And when a young lady, one of Santa's Little Helpers, demonstrates how to open a Christmas cracker without using her hands, it is finally Christmas for Dave Knockles. It's magical. And I wouldn't change it for the world.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Planning - I'm getting the fucking hang of it!

Look at this image.

It is not, as you might suspect, the web of an OCD spider with a set square and a massive stash of LSD.

It's from something called The Account Planning Group, which is a group of account planners. (Fucking imaginative, that, eh? I imagine the founders' children are called things like 'Child', 'Infant 1', 'Young Human', 'A', 'B' and fucking 'C'.)

Anyway, this is from the Swedish wing of the APG. And, fair enough, the Swedish bit of it doesn't make a lot of sense. But even if it did, would that diagram / mindmap / visual-representation-of-a-catastrophic-mental-breakdown make any more sense?

Realistically, could that chart make any sense to anyone other than the autistic boy who created it? Of course not.

And that was my problem with planners - that and all the bullshit - but I think I've made another breakthrough. (I've already uncovered the truth that planning is like astrology. Argue with that if you can. Anyway, you can't.)

Well, after reading the APG site a lot (well, as much as you really can without wanting to slice off your own balls), I see that there are account planners, comms planners, media planners, digital planners, channel planners, DM planners.

Then there are things called communications strategists, insight strategists, market strategists, 360 strategists, 360 strategic planners, 360 insight strategists, insight technologists, planning technologists and so on and so on and so on.

They are all engaged, in a million different ways, in 'strategy'. Also, 'insight', 'thinking' and more 'strategy'.

So, basically, there a baffling array of job titles, doing a lot of baffling things, in an industry that leads humankind's journey into bafflement. And that thought led me to my discovery.

Whisper it. Because if they know you know, they might kill you or something. Here it is:

Planners. Don't. Exist.

Think about it! Have you ever seen a tangible something that a planner has produced? No! Me neither! I mean, sure, there are things written on paper, and powerpoint slides that look like Jackson Pollock got gang-raped by seven pie-charts and a calculator, but anything actually real? Never!

They aren't real! It all adds up! They aren't fucking real! They're just people who got together and worked out a way of using their very expensive degrees for something nobody can hold them to!

When you sit back and look at it, it's fucking genius! Imagine: your entire professional existence boils down to absolutely nothing because you've made yourself up!

It's sensational! What balls! What absolutely colossal balls! Bravo, planners! Bra-fucking-vo! I'm jealous. I'm jealous because I thought I'd created a job for myself that meant I could do what I wanted, when I wanted to do it and get lots of nice lunches along the way.

But you've beaten me! You've beaten me fair and fucking square!

Planners? YOU ARE THE CLIENT!

A brief message from my doctor

Come in, Mr Knockles - have a seat. Crikey! It's a cold snap we're having, isn't it? Freezing! That's it - just sit yourself there.

Now! Thanks for coming in, I know you must be very busy at work...oh. Really? Just golf? Oh...and lunch at El Mexicaniac. Of course. Well, thank you anyway.

Look, I wanted to have a chat with you about your blood test results. You remember my colleague, Doctor Emeny, and I....no, no Mr Knockles, not Doctor Enema - Doctor Emeny. Yes, that would be a funny name for a doctor, wouldn't it! Anyway, we were both a smidge concerned about your lifestyle. It seemed to us...yes, I'm sure you are very fit, Mr Knockles. Indeed...strong like an ox. But the amount you eat and drink did worry us.

We think that your rare explosive prolapse disorder might be part of a much wider syndrome, rather than a syndrome in itself. Yes...I know, it is bad enough in itself. As you say, 'fucking diabolical'...and, I'm sure, 'a real turnoff for the tarts'. Absolutely.

Well, it's my duty to tell you, Mr Knockles, that you appear to be suffering from a massive and irregular hormone imbalance. Quite a major one which...yes, I have heard the one about how you make a whore moan...a major imbalance...yes, you don't pay her...a major imbalance which drives unpredictable amounts of testosterone through your system. No....lots of testosterone isn't always a good thing. No...no...it's not what makes you strong like an ox.

It seems to randomnly speed up your metabolism, which explains why you can eat so much, as well as somehow protecting your liver from the...amazing amounts of alcohol you consume.

It also...how to put this...it also seems to be affecting your brain. Certain areas of the frontal lobe seem to be thrown into regular chaos by these hormonal surges which mean that...you can be prone to challenging behaviour.

Er...what does that mean...good question. Erm...it means you sometimes behave in ways some people might find distasteful? Does that help?

Well...yes. You could put it that way. It means you act like a twat.

You are, I'm afraid to say, a clinically-proven twat, to use your word! Or a dick, yes. Or, as you say, a wanker. I don't think there is a name for it, no. My colleague and I were thinking of calling it 'Knockles Syndrome'.

So, to be serious for a moment, you will need many more tests and the basic truth is that you have a syndrome which causes you to be now, and forever, a complete...fuck-bag, yes, thank you.

Well, that's all for now, Mr Knockles. No, no...we shouldn't just call you 'the cunt'! We'll call you Mr Knockles...that's very funny...yes, 'the cunt', very good...see you soon. Goodbye. Alright...'the cunt'...yes...'here comes the cunt'...thank you...I have other patients I need to...they're not cunts, no. No, you're not a cunt, Mr Knockles.

Okay, go now, please.

Did you hear that? I've got a fucking SYNDROME NAMED AFTER ME! I'M FUCKING FAMOUS! AND FUCKING COOL! Surely now, I really will go down in history - more than I thought I would! And God knows, I deserve to!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

The Cleanavia Campaign - we're nearly there!

The incident with Penelope Wilkes-Harvey has created a slightly frosty atmosphere between my new agency and me, so it was important that today's meeting to discuss the Cleanavia campaign went well.

(Most phone calls between the agency and me over the last couple of days have tended to involve the words 'she may never be the same again' and 'what's wrong with you?'. Talk about taking it personally! Sheesh!)

So, I bowled into reception at 11am sharp, revved up and ready to go for our 8.30 breakfast summit. The croissants were a bit crusty by the time I got there, and the coffee was fucking horrible and cold, but I let them off and we got down to business.

'So. We worked over a weekend to make the amends you asked for,' began the account director, sitting alongside the creatives who, as usual, looked really pissed off. 'The campaign now looks exactly as you want it to.' (He stressed the word 'you' quite heavily, for some reason.)

'You've had several days to mull it over, Dave. What do you think?'

I considered my next move carefully. The truth was, I'd had a bit of a change of heart about the Cleanavia ads. I know I pretty much dictated the headlines, the images and...well...everything. But they didn't turn out as well as I'd expected.

Now, fellow marketing professionals, we should pause here and examine the facts. My idea was undeniably brilliant, right? More brilliant than a Dairylea sandwich. More brilliant than a one-wipe poo. More brilliant than Fur Burger Night at Delilaz (it's a BBQ in aid of PETA). So it must have been the agency's fault, right?

Right.

However, a Berlin Wall of disgruntled mugs was looking back at me. Simply launching right into a bollocking wasn't going to help matters - especially with the whole shit explosion thing still, as it were, hanging in the air.

So, I called on all my years of dealing with agencies diplomatically.

'Well, the ads are pretty much there!' I said. 'We're nearly, nearly there.'

I noticed a slight thawing of the atmosphere.

'Millimetres away! We're so close I can almost taste it!'

A few half-smiles.

'Just a couple of things need to change. Very small things.'

Visible relief from the creatives.

'All the headlines - ALL of them - need to be more...like...zingier. Just zing them up for me. Without changing them much. And the images need to be done again, only more sexier and...cooler...like a car ad or something. Only I'm not paying for a reshoot - I'm not a fucking mug. So it's just the words and pictures! And that's it! Am I the fucking dream client or what?'

I thought people would react badly, but I should have trusted my talent for tact. Everyone just stared a bit, and a few of them put their heads on the table (tired, probably). And that was that!

So, today's lesson, fellow marketing professionals, is that if you are going to change your mind because your agency didn't make your idea look as good as it did in your head, for goodness sake, show some sensitivity when you tell them.

On the way out, I added, 'And do it by fucking Friday morning - I've got a round of golf in the afternoon.'

They must have had builders in because I heard things smashing as I walked out into the Soho mist, ready for breakfast. (Well, another breakfast.)

There will be more marketing insight tomorrow! And it will be fucking tremendous!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

A beginner's guide to cunnilingus

I have decided that, perhaps, I should offer my fellow marketing professionals more than my insights into marketing. After all, there are many areas in life where I reach paradigm-changing levels of excellence. Success is success is success.

I am, for example, a sexual performer of undeniable talent. So I would like, if I may, to share with you some of the tricks that have helped me satisfy many, many women - even the ones I've had to pay, but who definitely enjoyed it, because they told me how amazing it was.

I turn my attention today to cunnilingus - a weapon any a true pleasurer of ladies will always have in his armoury.

Let me recount a tale that demonstrates this point perfectly.

I was, for a while, squiring a dirty muck-bag who I found in Delilaz. One special evening, I had her in the back of my BMW motor car (her mother didn't approve of romantic liaisons that weren't sanctified by marriage. No - hang on. My mother didn't approve) and I suggested that I might 'order something from the specials board - perhaps the fish'.

(I find approaching the subject with a romantic euphemism only heightens the pleasure.)

I employed may tried-and-tested technique: flobble your tongue about a bit, suck a bit, moan a bit and relax. Repeat until physically sick.

It works a treat - as it did there in my BMW. On this occasion, however, my young lady had neglected to tell me that this was her special time of the month. So I was a little surprised when I discovered a string amongst the usual bits, bobs and hairs.

Now, being unprepared for this, I inadvertently drew the string into my mouth when I reached the 'suck a bit' phase of my tried-and-tested technique. This was something of a surprise, as you can possibly imagine, so I pulled away slightly.

That movement must have been what caused the string to become very, very firmly stuck between my two front teeth.

Now, at this point I had no idea what was going on and, for a brief second, I imagined that I had been snagged by a serial killer who captured her victims with a mutant vagina. (Come on - what would you have thought?)

So, I pulled away sharply, yanking with me the string and, naturally, its accompanying sanitary product.

There was a certain amount of spatter, yes. But more shocking, to her certainly, was the fact that in the half-light of that McDonald's car park, it looked like I had found a rat, caught it with my bare teeth, skinned it and was now whipping it about by the tail as though showing off the proof of my hunting prowess.

For me, it felt like I had accidentally caught a pube and somehow performed an instant hysterectomy.

All in all, harrowing for us both.

Now, you'd be forgiven for thinking that this was a disaster. But thanks to the solidity of my technique, that young lady remembered me for my oral skills. As she told all the girls at Delilaz, 'Dave did something with his mouth that I can't even talk about.' Now that, fellow sexual dynamos, is fucking praise!

As an amusing finale to the evening, I arrived home to find my mother waiting for me 'worried sick' (like she always is if I stay out after dark - mothers, eh?). She looked at me, horrified, and said, 'David! Where have you been, boy?'

'McDonald's', I replied.

'Well, you obviously need to go easy on the ketchup,' she said. 'It's all over your face - now come here and let me clean that off.'

She did that mum thing where she kept licking her handkerchief and wiping, licking and wiping, licking and wiping. 'It doesn't taste like ketchup,' she remarked.

Aah, good times. And there'll be more, you can bet!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

How I'll revolutionise social media

The above image shows the full social media landscape. It clearly demonstrates the staggering breadth of possibility that exists online for building conversations with your consumers - rather than just repeating the tired old one-way message-based paradigm of traditional advertising. Here we see just how much scope there is to engage with your consumers in a truly personal way. It's a quite amazing diagram.

It's also a colossal torrent of the purest bullshit you'll ever find anywhere on God's green earth, and that includes inside the anuses of bulls.

I know this to be true because Rupert fucking Abbott came up with it. True to form, it's the usual pile of wank about conversations and blogs. I mean, fucking blogs. Seriously. What kind of a cunt reads a blog?

Anyway, reading Rupert's pile of wank in his latest column (which is always always always a pile of wank) I was suddenly struck by an idea that, without wanting to boast (though why fight it!), could change the way consumer durables are marketed forever. And, of course, it makes all Abbott's widdly efforts thus far look about as appealing as sandpaper bogroll or Madonna.

All his efforts are tedious attempts to sign people up to e-stuff, engage them in competitions to win a fucking holiday to Australia (like anyone wants to go there), gather extensive data about their lives / habits and use it to mount highly targeted, personal campaigns. Just rubbish. Nobody is interested.

I'm going to do what I always do: give people what they really fucking want.

So, let's look at our target audience: women. Women do nothing but shop for clothes, look at magazines, buy beauty products and generally crap on about how they look. Right? Right. In other words, they care about their appearance. Central to that is the fact that they love looking at, assessing, and slagging off, other women.

Now, what do women also care about? Correct - their bristolas. Are they big enough? Are they nippley enough? Do they have the correct degree of jigglage?

My idea is this: Cleanavia's Breast In Class.

Take a moment to take that in. Then take a look at Rate My Rack. It has pictures of bristolas which you can mark out of 10! Brilliant! I'm going to nick it!

I'm going to get Cleanavia consumers to submit pics of their bristolas, then have them rated by other consumers to find Cleanavia's Breast In Class. The winner gets a proper nude photoshoot, a trip to London's West End (it's a strip bar in Peckham) and £250 in consumer durables vouchers.

It's going to blow the world of consumer durables marketing apart. And how can it not? Women love looking at and critically assessing women (as I've proved above) and they really care about their bristolas. Combine those two and - bang. You've got red hot mustard all over your face.

Social. Fucking. Media. That's how you use it, Abbott. You shit-egg.

Sometimes, I almost amaze myself. But not quite - I know I'm a genius!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

News from the doctor

After yesterday's slightly humbling expulsive happening, I thought I'd better pop over to the doctor and see whether any lasting damage had been done.

After all, the force of the ejection was, I imagine, similar to that of a small bore rifle. It's a wonder poor old Penelope Wilkes-Harvey wasn't seriously injured.

(I'm told, via a series of very angry and, frankly, personal answerphone messages, that she's alive. However, she has apparently been involuntarily vomiting ever since, has been having a series of scalding baths, looks like 'she's had the shit kicked out of her' (which I thought was a rather insensitive way of putting it) and has taken to clutching a small, well-thumbed bible. So, good news - she's alive!)

The doctor, for some reason, never looks that pleased to see me. I think it's because I only visit him after I've had a prolapsive explosion and, while examining me, there is always the chance of what I call 'aftershocks' - smaller-yet-more-unpredictable spatterings that are as surprising as they are vilely odourous. But he's a fucking doctor! Surely he's used to that kind of stuff by now.

So, he backed away a little as I sat down. He initially declined my offer of having a good look, but conceded that 'Well, I'll probably get struck off if I don't, so drop your trousers.'

He got away with very little in the way of brown shrapnel. Just a couple of little eruptions when the speculum went in, but that's normal.

After he'd disinfected his face, he started to ask me about my lifestyle (as though that's got anything to do with it!).

'What did you have for breakfast today?' he asked.

'Er...porridge,' I replied.

'Well, that's a good start...'

'Then bacon, egg, sausage, black pudding, cheese, beans, mushrooms, four toast, hash browns, a croissant (no butter though), three lamb chops, a kipper, another kipper, a pot of tea and a pot of coffee.'

'Right. How about lunch?'

'Nothing, really. Just the carvery at the Dog & Hog.'

'And what's that?'

'Er...just the usual. Lamb, beef, chicken, pork, turkey, Yorkshire puds, all the trimmings and a couple of apple pies for afters.'

'How about dinner?'

'No dinner tonight - I'm at a function.'

'Where?'

'Delilaz - it's Wham, Clam, Thank You, Ma'am Night. They do a big clam bake, buffet, barbecue, that sort of thing. I hardly touch it, really - apart from the clams, and the buffet. And a bit of barbecue.'

'And what about alcohol?'

'Yes, that too.'

'No, how much do you drink?'

It took a while to add that up, but when I told him, he seemed to be distracted because he just stared at me. I told him again and he reached for the phone. Another doctor came in quickly, they had a whispered conversation and then they both just stared at me. For ages.

Finally, one of them said, 'You urgently need to cut down on your eating and drinking, Mr Knockles. A lot. Could you come back tomorrow for some blood tests? You'll need to consume nothing at all from now until then. Is that okay?'

'No problem!' I said. It won't be either. Nothing will pass my lips from now until then. Like he said.

Right! I'm off to Delilaz - the minute I finish this glass of Scotch, this pint of Chardonnay and these fantastic deep-fried mini-pork pies my chippy has started doing.

Being on a health kick is a piece of piss!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT.

The brown ad strikes again

Come on, God. Come on. Really. Let's be sensible, eh?

Giving me a little-understood syndrome that means I empty my bowels when I see a particular shade of deep, reddish brown is one thing. (And, frankly, a fucking downright unpleasant thing too. I mean, where did you get this reputation for being some kind of benevolent hippy-type? Pure bunkum from where I'm sitting - which is on the crapper with a bowl full of angry water beneath me.)

But why did you have to make that particular shade appear so commonly in advertising aimed at those aspiring to join the upper-middle classes? For instance, organic Regency-period paints. Tweeds. Equestrian fashions. Handmade fireplaces. Handmade Chelsea boots. Handmade sausages. (Actually, anything fucking handmade.) It all carries with it a high chance of inducing what my doctor calls 'explosive and total anal prolapse'.

It's an apt description. The prolapse is indeed explosive and, most times, very total.

For example.

I arrived at my agency this morning at 11.45, more or less on time for my 9.30 meeting. I had scheduled a session with Penelope Wilkes-Harvey, a board account director and supposed expert in...something. I had noticed her amongst the barrage of bumph the agency gave me as a 'welcome' pack.

(A strange idea of a welcome, it has to be said. If someone welcomed you to their house, say, with reams of self-obsessed bullshit, some wankily-shot portraits, details of their greatest achievements and pages of unrestrained bragging about their qualifications, would you feel welcomed? Or would you think they were just a big-headed fuck-pipe? What's wrong with a bottle of Scotch and a couple of tickets to the rugger?)

Anyway, I noticed Penelope because of her expertise in...whatever it was, and her apparent talent for having massive bristolas. A meeting of minds was a must.

The name should have given me some warning that Penelope was in the 'brown ad' demographic, I suppose. But I sauntered into her office with my guard down. I usually recce every room, almost unconsciously. Not this time.

I plonked myself in her office and said, 'Alright, Penelope! I'm Dave Knockles. You may call me...any fucking time!'

Before long I had my feet on her desk and was telling her what makes a good ad (bristolas), what makes a good headline (the product name in it - twice if poss), what makes a good oral sex technique (keep the teeth out of the equation!). She was gripped - all wide-eyed and open-mouthed. But then the coffee arrived.

The coffee bird came in and put my cup down on a little table next to me. I glanced down as I reached for it and...ka-fucking-poop.

Some wanky interior design mag was open on an ad for handmade terracotta tagines. Classic brown ad material.

Yes, the prolapse was explosive and total. Everything that was in my bowel suddenly wasn't in my bowel (including last night's chicken tikka balti with extra balti and a slightly, if I'm honest, over-indulgent breakfast of kedgeree, six scrambled eggs, a bacon and sausage baguette and two pints of bloody mary).

It was quite devastatingly powerful, even for me. And because my feet were on Penelope's desk, my trouser legs acted as a sort of gun barrel - a very unpleasant, very volatile gun. She really couldn't have been sitting in a worse place. She got pretty much everything, square in the face, the poor thing. She looked like she'd been swimming in a mixture of oxtail soup, spinach (don't ask me), meatball sauce and chocolate mousse.

Of course, it was very difficult and trying for her. Especially when she started vomiting involuntarily. But for fuck's sake, who's the real victim here? After ten or fifteen very, very hot showers, she'll be smelling normal again. But me? I have to live with this all the fucking time.

So maybe there wasn't any need to throw me onto the street like a leper. I may have been covered in a vast amount of my own half-digested waste, but I am still human.

Some people need to fucking cheer up! I mean, I don't worry about it!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

The anatomy of a marketing team

I am aware that some of you aren't fellow marketing professionals. Some of you, it would seem, are agency people, suits, scribblers, account execs and, God forgive me, planners.

So I thought it would be useful to you to get a wider picture of the marketing team you spend your working lives referring to as cunts, wankers, shitheads, idiots, morons, twats, a-holes, no-marks, wastes of space, clueless shitspanners, fuck-ends, fuck-bags, fuck-holes, fuck-pipes, fuck-balls, fuck-pockets, fuck-wits, fuck-wads, fuck-heads and Lord & Lady Fuck-Face.

Obviously, the team is lead by the Marketing Director, a professional of great experience, wisdom, intellect, insight, kindness and girth. By which I mean, girth.

He (or she, but, let's be honest, probably he) is aided by a marketing manager or several marketing managers. The marketing manager's role varies from company to company, but her job (or his job, but, let's be honest, probably her job) is to facilitate the Marketing Director's ongoing strategic board-level business insight, delivery, performance and long-term marketing functionisation. I use my marketing director, Amanda Fookes (I know!) like this. As you can see, without her I'd...find someone with bigger tits! (Just joshing, Mandy - your tits are just fine! Ha ha! Some days, I'm just on fire! God, we have a laugh! I must be fucking great to work for!)

Where was I? Oh, yes - the marketing manager will be assisted by an army of pointless drones with very little to offer beyond being a body and a pair of hands in a seat near a phone and a pen. These are the marketing executives.

Here's a thumbnail of the execs in my department:

Dave/Derek: Never have been sure of his name. He's tall, though. I think he likes...actually, I've no idea what he likes.

Kylie Something-Or-Other: Negligible bristolas, a lisp, a gigantic barrel arse, a moustache like a ball of wire wool and unfathomably bad breath. And then there are her bad points. I think she's been with the company for something like 27 years and for that time she's been medically signed off filing, writing, typing, walking too far, sitting for too long, looking at a screen, using a pencil, thinking and making tea. I think Shit Alan is bending one through her.

The other one: There's this desk in our office at which, occasionally, I see this nebulous, genderless lump. Then when I look again, it's gone. I see it at the back of the room in meetings sometimes, shifting about, bobbing up and down, here and there, lurking. I wonder sometimes whether it actually exists. I don't trouble myself with payroll, or development reviews, or any of that shit, so who knows? Maybe it's a ghost. Mind you, if it is, it's a fucking fat one.

So there it is. Hopefully now you can see that there are sort-of real people behind the roles you so bitterly resent. And you might be assured that they're not deliberately ruining your life, thwarting your ambition to be a movie director or shitting all over your next novel. Far from it.

They are, quite simply, trying to teach you how to produce better ads. Nothing more, nothing less. So you see, there's no reason at all to hate us.

Unless you work for Rupert Abbott, of course. If you hate that cunt-portion, you have my total support.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT! And HE IS A COCK-DOLLOP!

The Golden Rules of PR

Many people say to me, 'Hey Dave - you're a marketing genius. But is there more to marketing than advertising?'

And I say, 'Not really - but there is PR.'

PR, you see, or 'Pointless Rhetoric' is the weaker, more backward, less interesting, uglier, fatter, more hated, less well-endowed, stupider sibling of advertising.

(Not if you're Kate Moss, mind. Not if you're a premium-priced luxury product. Not if you're Jordan's beaver. In those cases, PR is all the fun of the fair, plus the fun of a lot of free booze, international travel and blowjobs in limos. I imagine.)

The rest of the PR world, however, is less fun than getting your dangle-bag waxed while sitting in a bath of lemon juice. To ease the pain of their existence, PR practitioners have devised a series of shortcuts that let them produce work for their clients with minimum effort so they can focus on drinking white wine, smoking and dieting.

1. Use a celebrity.

Ever see Ruth Madoc launch Enema Awareness Week? Ever see Dane Bowers front the campaign to Save Our Semi-Colon? Ever see David Hasselhoff appear as the face of The British Fungal Infection Society? Of course.

Why? Because the kneejerkiest kneejerk of any tired PR pro is to get a celeb (any fucking celeb) to exhange their time and dignity for free booze, a new conservatory or use of the client's villa in Lanzarote for a fortnight.

They promise A-list stars to win the business then, would you believe, everyone is unavailable except the blonde one who came 187th in the Big Brother from 1843. Or Dane Bowers.

2. Make it big.

Find a prop (a cheque, a hat, a dildo - whatever) and make it big.

Make it a big cheque and have the client hand it to someone else. Take a photo. Make it a big hat. Have the client wear it, even if they're the 78-year old author of a new study into the evolution of the gerund clause in Middle English. Take a photo. Make it a big dildo. Have a group of over-70s women to grab it for the launch of Pensioners: Get Wanking, Get Healthy week. Take a photo.

Unless something is big, you see, journalists aren't interested. Possibly because they're drunker than me and simply can't see anything smaller than a horse.

3. Invent your own day.

Did you know that July 17th is National Lip Balm Day? Or that March 12th is National Vaginismus Day? Or that September 3rd is National Hold Hands For Badgers Day? Or that December 9th is National Things That Look Big When You're Far Away But Turn Out To Be Small When You Get To Them Day?

Today, in Britain, every single 24-hours is the National Day of 57,983 causes and counting. The number shows no sign of stopping. To bring the horror of this situation to the public's attention, and to capture the imagination of the press, I propose to name today, December 8th, as No More Fucking National Days Or I'll Make You Eat Your Own Feculence Day.

Easy, innit?

That's PR done. Maybe next time I'll sort direct mail out. It'll be a piece of piss.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

The Cleanavia campaign - my mother delivers her verdict

After my new agency worked so hard to get my new campaign done by last Thursday, I thought I should probably have a look at what they produced. They did work their fucking ballbags off, so I made reviewing the work a priority for today.

After just a light breakfast at Creamy Dollops Cafe, a nice long think in my office with the blinds down and the light off, a brief 2-hour lunch at El Mexicaniac, a chat with Mandy Fookes about what colour suit I should buy next (blue, or other blue - it's a fucking tough one), an hour to tidy up my desk, a game of Hide Shit Alan's Stuff and a couple of doughnuts, I was on it.

My mother joined me to give me the benefit of her opinion. She's nearly target audience, so I trust her verdict almost totally. (Well, totally totally, in truth.)

Generally speaking, she thought the girls in the ads looked like 'the worst kind of Godless whores, worse than any other whore, the worst whores I've ever seen' and that the headlines were 'nonsense, just nonsense, just awful, poisonous nonsense' and, overall, 'they shouldn't ever be allowed before the eyes of the public - just think of the children, David'.

Then I told her that they were all my idea.

'Well, why didn't you say?' she said. 'I was being polite! It doesn't surprise me that this is your work, David, because it's something a dyslexic toddler with learning difficulties and a paedophile for a father would come up with. You've never been anything more than a walking catastrophe, David. Honestly. David. Oh, now come on. Come on, David. Stop crying. Stop it, you silly boy. Yes, mummy loves you. There, there. I know...I know. Dry your eyes. There we go. Mummy has to be honest, doesn't she? Or how will you ever know you're doing it wrong? Hmm? That's better. Now do it again, and take out all those nasty bits.'

She's harsh, the old girl, but she's nearly target audience - so what can you say?

I called the agency and told them the bad news. Unlike my old agency, the account director just said 'Sure! No problem!' and got on with it, even though my brief was possibly a little sketchy. (I think I said, 'Can you leave in the girls, and the headlines, but make them less whorish and less shit, respectively?')

He called back later to say the creatives were on the case. I think he was in the creative department because there was the usual mayhem going on! I even heard a couple of people shouting 'Go fuck yourself, you yes-man cunt!' in the background. They really are absolutely nuts, the scribblers!

So, there we go. The nearly target audience has spoken and I listened. That is my advice, fellow marketing professionals: always listen to your nearly target audience. And never, EVER, conduct research with more than one person. You'll just end up with lots of opinions you have to write down, instead of one. That's not effective management of your temporal resource. Remember: time is money. And my time is worth more than yours!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

It's been a long Friday night

I'll be brutally very honest, alright? Because I really love you, right? Seriously, I fucking do. I love you.

Anyway, Friday night was a teensy bit very totally excessive. So much so that it has turned, some fucking how, into Saturday night. (This has surprised nobody more than me, let me tell you. I opened my front door and sat on my sofa expecting to see some 5am repeat of a Dutch football match - FC Shavenhaven against Sporting Club Anal Sex or something - but fucking X-Factor was starting! WOW!)

The night has made me feel more philosophical than usual. (Actually, the night, then the day, then a bit of night again!) Now, I know that may surprise some of you who know that if I am anything, I am a really, really philosophical bloke. I am totally philosophical. I am! I'm a right philosophical cunt.

Where was I? I dunno. Oh yeah - philosophy. I've been thinking lately that, you know, maybe I'm not cut out for marketing. Maybe I should just knock it on the head. Maybe I should just...I dunno...look for something else to do.

I mean, Rupert Abbott gets all this attention for being a clever cunt, and I just seem to attract ridicule and derision. Even my mother, who loves me more than anyone in the world, said to me the other day, 'David. You really are the biggest mistake of my life - and that includes the shoulder pads I had surgically implanted in 1987.'

So...I've been thinking. Maybe this is as far as I can take things. Maybe it's time to say I AM THE CLIENT one last time.

So...here it is.

HA HA HA HA HA! NO FUCKING CHANCE! I'M A FUCKING GENIUS! I COULD KEEP THIS SHIT UP FOR FUCKING YEARS AND YEARS AND YEARS! I'M AN UNSTOPPABLE FORCE! LIKE A FUCKING HEN PARTY! UNSTOPPABLE! I'M A MARKETING HEN PARTY AND THE ONLY WAY I'M STOPPING IS IF THE BRIDE STARTS HAVING LAST MINUTE REGRETS!

So...like...I'm not going to...like...stop...or...I feel like I've lost control of this analogy a bit. The hen party thing. It sounds better if you shout it without really thinking. I think I need to got to bed.

Why? Because I AM THE fuck me I'm tired.

The scribblers have produced the goods!

Well, after asking my new agency on Monday to get my Cleanavia campaign ready for Thursday, they've only gone and done it! They must have worked day and night!

I've been dead busy today, though, so I haven't had a chance to look at it. I might get a moment tomorrow after the management breakfast and Friday lunch at the Dog & Hog, so I might be able to bring you my verdict then! (Then again, will it really matter if it waits until Monday? I mean, what's the rush?)

Stay tuned! It'll be exciting! And it'll probably involved multiple amends!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Why I became a marketing man

Many people have asked me, 'Dave - why did you get into marketing? A guy like you could have done anything.'

It's an obvious questions to ask because I'm something of a genius in my field. But why would I choose a profession like marketing? Why not law, or politics, or medicine, or professional sport - all of which I was told I could have achieved. (It was me telling me that - that's how confident I was. And I wouldn't have been that confident without good reason, would I?)

Well, the truth is that I always wanted to be a marketeer because of our old next door neighbour, Barry Boner (pronounced Bonner). Barry was a marketing professional.

I can trace my marketing awakening to a specific moment.

One day, when I was 8, my father left us. Over a normal Sunday lunch (roast beef, obviously) he told my mother and I that he was running away with the postman's wife. (Ironic, isn't it!)

(It was fine - no drama. My mother just cleared the lunch things away, put the radio on (really loud, actually!) and began peeling potatoes for dinner. She must have been planning on having people over or something because she just stood there peeling potatoes for hours! She was literally up to her knees in peelings by the time she went up to bed with a bottle of gin and a hot water bottle.)

So, between my father getting up from the lunch table and walking out of the house, I followed him around. I didn't really say anything. I just followed him around, hoping that he might give me a hug, or ruffle my hair, or acknowledge me in any shape or form at all.

Well, I didn't need to hope - because my Dad gave me a big pat on the back as he walked down the stairs and out of the house. I say a pat, it was more a big, loving shove - sort of helping me out of the way. He was great like that, my Dad.

Anyway, I stood at the front door and watched as my father walked out of our front gate, turned left and strode away with his brown suitcase and a framed picture of Winston Churchill. He didn't wave, or turn around, or break his stride, or look back, or show any sign of wavering. (He was brilliant like that, my Dad - very decisive.)

After a spell of standing there in the doorway (just a couple of hours or so, nothing more) Barry Boner (pronounced Bonner) pulled up in his Jaguar XJS. He got out, staggering slightly, and opened the passenger door for a blonde girl with thigh-length white boots and pink mini-skirt.

As they walked to Barry's front door, giggling and grabbing each other, I realised they were just coming back from a Saturday night out. As he walked past, Barry looked at me and said, 'Why so down, Davey son? Here, this'll cheer you up - give me half an hour and you can have a go on her.'

The girl gasped with mock outrage and whacked his arm. The door slammed behind them and two minutes later, I could hear Babs or Fizz or Pauline making a noise like a police siren in heavy fog.

Something in my immature mind changed that day. Something made me want to be a marketing man. I've never been able to place my finger on what, but that's when my marketing career truly began.

I'll share more about my life, ideals and vision for a better Britain in future posts. And they'll be fucking dynamite.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Great fiction of our time: Agency time sheets

I'd like to tell you a story.

Once upon a time, there was a client. He was very, very well hung, was widely considered a genius, and had a very nice BMW motor car.

He employed an advertising agency to do his...advertising, obviously...and at the end of every month, he was shown a record of the time the agency's staff had been spending on his account. This came in the form of time sheets.

They were written in tartan ink, on paper made from clouds, and bound in folders hand-crafted by Bilbo Baggins, Superman and Dora The fucking Explorer.

The client, being a shrewd and, it was agreed, very attractive man, inspected the time sheets closely. Some would say 'Ad concept, 2 days.' Some would say 'Ad concept, 3 days.' Some would even say 'Ad amend, 4 hours.'

Though the client was kind and patient he....aah, fuck it. I can't keep this shit up.

Let me cut right to the chase: how the FUCK do you agency boys fill in time sheets? Do you get trained to pick a number, add ten and double it? Or does it come naturally? Because, for the life of me, I can't make the connection between what you do and what appears on these tissues of falsehoods, these great tomes of hogwash, these fucking bibles of bullshit.

Take ad concepts, for starters. I came up with the Cleanavia campaign in almost no time at all. Literally. One second the idea wasn't in my head, the next IT WAS! How is it different for you? Surely it goes: haven't got the idea, haven't got the idea, haven't got the idea, haven't the idea, GOT THE IDEA!

Why should I be paying for you to not have the idea? What, because you're 'thinking about it'? Jesus! I don't pay the girls at Delilaz to not do the thing where they get their ankles right up...you know...round the back there and...sort of...do that thing with their lower back that...you know...just behind the...thing. Of course I don't! And I don't pay them to 'think about it'! I pay them to do it. Why are you any different to 20-quid-a-go lapdancers?

And as for amends, don't get me fucking started. (Except you have, so tough balls.) Why should I pay you to amend an ad I HAVE MADE BETTER?

An example. My last agency did an ad which, after consulting with my mother, I rejected, on the grounds that the headline was 'the kind of thing a whore would say'. (My mother makes some harsh judgements on ads, but she's nearly target audience, so what can you say?) I proposed a couple of changes (you know, 'Try making the headline less whorish - and be quick about it', that sort of thing) which they did - and the ad got signed off!

So, we went from an ad being rejected, through Dave Knockles-inspired changes, to an ad being signed off. AND I'M EXPECTED TO PAY FOR IT! Clearly, without my improvements, the ad wouldn't have been signed off! It's a fucking joke!

So, my advice to you, fellow marketing professional, is to police these timesheets closely or, even better, do what I did: agree to pay a monthly retainer plus amends charges - then change your mind a week later once they can't do without your income and make them do amends for free!

It's a win-win, really. You get to fuck about with the ads until they look the way you want, and the agency learns how advertising is done properly.

That's the way I like it. And that's the way it is!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Agency characters, no 5 - The Planner

Right. This is the big one.

I've struggled with concept of planning and planners for some time now. (To boil my issue down to a single line: I don't have a fucking clue what they're for.)

Well, I've looked into it. I sat today with Saul, Esme and Giles, my agency's planners. (The planning director, some Yank called Cyrus Anacronista, was away at a 4-day 'Inspiromation Lab'.)

So, I came right out and said, 'Look, people. Right now, you are like my nipples. They look like they should be there, and I don't really mind them, but I have literally no clue what the fuck they do.' They laughed a little.

I continued. 'Of course, the difference between you and my nipples is that my nipolas don't cost me a bollock-wrangling amount of money.'

Slightly less laughter.

'So maybe you could explain why I, Dave Knockles, should pay big wodges of spendola for your services when, as far as I can see, you are less use than a McSalad.'

Zero laughter.

Esme spoke first. 'Well, Dave, planning is all about building a platform for the creatives to work from. We deal in information - any information - that surrounds the client's market, consumers and the world in general. Anything that can be used to form an insightful advertising strategy, that's what we deal with.'

Giles tried next. 'We make sure that the consumer is at the forefront of the creative's mind when he or she is creating the ads - and we help them get a clear picture of the consumer through understanding information, research, data.'

Saul went last. 'We write the briefs.'

'Ah! Got you!' I said. And I countered with a supposition I've long held.

'Briefs,' I posited, 'Are a complete cunting waste of time. I don't even bother with them - and you've seen the Cleanavia campaign I've come up with, right?'

They nodded slowly. (Still in awe, then! Bless those kids.) I went on.

'Well, that's genius, right? And at no point was a brief involved - nor any information, research, thought or insight. That entire idea came to me literally in nano-seconds. I barely fucking noticed it happen. It just appeared in my head when I was in Delilaz getting a Double Ingratiation. What have you got to say about that?'

And there they sat, silently, in their variously ill-conceived trousers (one pair of which, Saul's I think, looked for all the world like the kind a fucking homeless potwasher would wear on his day off while just bumming around his cardboard box taking crystal meth and shooting own-label vodka into his eyeballs).

What could they say to the truth? Nothing. They looked sheepishly at the floor, beaten.

They shouldn't feel so bad. Many an agency boy has tested Dave Knockles and been defeated. And many more will go the same way. This is the gift, and the burden, of genius.

So. Planners. If I'm brutally honest, I still have no idea what they do. But I do know that they write briefs.

Here, then, is my sketch of planners: people writing briefs in strange trousers.

Naturally, I've asked their MD to wipe their hours the fuck off my account, right fucking yesterday.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!