Friday, 26 February 2010

Hello. I have Tourette's.

Good cunting evening. How the fuck-piping shithole are you? I hope the cack-gobbling weather hasn't been too fuck-holing bad for you.

Now, some of you may be wondering why I've launched into a volley of regrettable language. (And some of you will have read my blog before! HA HA! I'm a funny cunt, me!)

If any of you have been fortunate enough to follow my Twitticisms? (Yes - that's fucking good. Copyright me: Twitticism. Done before? Oh.)

Anyway, if you've followed my Twitticisms, you'll be aware that during Mandy Fookes's appraisal, I told her to do more of what I fucking told her to do. I also told her to pull her shitting finger out, show a bit more cunting Dunkerque spirit and stop being such a fucking dishmop.

For some reason, this upset her and she ran to HR. Some minutes later, the HR director issued a swearing ban against me and had my team - MY TEAM! - record any instances of fucking, shitting, crapping, wanking or cunting.

Honestly. The world has turned upside fucking down.

Anyway, a shrewd young man called Lotan Bubba (according to his Twitter page - I think that means he's called Henry Sweatington-Ballbag or something) suggested I plead Tourette's.

(You should follow this kid - he's here. And he's obviously very sharp indeed.)

Well, at about 4.30 this afternoon (I know - another late one for Dave Knockles) I strode purposefully into the HR Director's office and said, 'Do you want to shitstabbing know why I anusing swear so titting much, you motherfucker? I've got Tour-wanking-ette's!'

After a brief pause (I think he was distracted by the sign I'd printed up which read 'You are from Planet Cunt') he just sighed and said, 'Dave, go away. I'm a busy man. If I wanted to sack you, I'd have 186 reasons to do so before the issue of your foul mouth came up. How about you bugger off and I tell everyone you've got learning difficulties?'

'Ha! Victory!' I said. 'You don't like it up you, do you, you turdwick?'

Needless to say, he had no retort, apart from giving me an official warning, shouting at me a lot, throwing a cup at me and making it clear that if I went too far again he'd have me beaten up.



Thursday, 25 February 2010

More things I don't understand about agencies

A couple of days ago, I conveyed unto you some of the things I don't get about agencies, having been an envelope-pushing marketing genius for some time.

Then I was interrupted by having to help my mother with her bikini wax. (I know that sounds traumatic, but the more you do it, the easier it gets. I just do the hard-to-reach underneath bits anyway. It's not like I do the whole thing. That would be awful.)

Well, here are some more things about agencies that confuse my cock off.

The presentations
I've admitted several times that planners and their powerpoint slides turn my mind into bum-gravy, but they're by no means alone. Over the years, agencies have made many and varied attempts to present me into my fucking grave.

On one occasion, an agency MD gave me 30 slides on the agency's long and celebrated history, the account director gave me 40 slides on their 'brand eruption methodology', a planner gave me the usual 50 slides on whatever the fuck it is they do and the media buyer gave me 60 slides on audience segmentation, reach, 'the media day' and his manifesto on 'owning the media worldscape'.

Then the creative director showed me a half-page ad, a flyer and an insert for the Northampton cunting Trumpet.

The haircuts
There was a time when the agency boys had hair you could trust, hair that, at one time, had probably been in the army. Hair with dignity, self-respect and pyjamas. Nowadays...fuck me. The tonsorial disasters are usually confined to the planning and creative departments but, to be honest, I have no idea which department is which these days.

Anyway, at my last meeting, a person of indeterminate gender came in under the auspices of 'mobile strategism' (fuck knows) and had hair that looked like a badger had been bum-banged by a taser-wielding member of Mad Max's most aggressive corps of sheep-shearers. Tell me: would it be so wrong to have a word?

The agency barista
I am a prolific consumer of coffee (especially in the morning, when I like to make a smoothie with coffee, bacon, fried bread, black pudding, eggs, ham, lamb tikka bhuna and sausages) but even I can't fathom why agencies need a fully-fledged coffee emporium inside their building. Some of you agency hamshanks even have some desperate intern as a barista, making little ferns in the milk of your skinny latte while he dreams of being allowed to blow the creative director's assistant's dog-walker's fucking builder.

Do you know how many coffee shops there are in Soho? Exactly 7,434. There are branches of Starbucks in supermarkets, petrol stations, funeral parlours, strip joints, municipal dumps, drains, the trousers of people who stand still too long - you fucking name it. I came down to my car one morning and there was one in the fucking boot! There's more coffee than rain in Britain! Just go out and get some!

The names
It used to be Surname & Surname. Then Surname would get a call from this other Surname - and his very good friend, Surname. They'd do some lunching and, a bit later, merge into Surname, Surname, Surname & Surname. Then Surname would leave, but Acronym & Surname would come along - creating Acronym, Surname, Surname & Surname. By this time, agencies had rebelled against that old-fashioned naming protocol and were going for Dark & Esoteric or Edgy & Cool. So when Acronym, Surname, Surname & Surname acquired an up-and-coming agency to compensate for fact that they'd grown too rich to be bothered, they became Acronym, Surname, Surname & Surname / Edgy & Cool.

Now, agencies are called things like UnCulture or MeLikeYouLikeHappyTime, and I honestly can't decide which is fucking worse.

Oh, Jesus. I have to stop again. Thankfully not my mother's bikini wax this time - just an enema. Why she hasn't learned to get the fucking tube in herself, I don't know.

Anyway, there will be more! And it will be su-fucking-perb!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Tuesday, 23 February 2010

How do you solve a problem like my genius?

There are occasions when, as someone whose business thinking is patently far ahead of its time, you have to accept that your colleagues and contemporaries simply can't keep up with you.

Today, yet again, the finely-honed arrows of my marketing insight came up against a wall of outmoded thinking in a tidal wave of ignorance.

During a short meeting with the board (following Big Brian Humpage's scandalously over-ambitious sales projections - he's going to sell a consumer durable to every human and monkey in the world, apparently) I was asked for an outline of the next quarter's marketing strategy.

"I'm going to be focusing my efforts on cloudvertising," I told them. "But first I have to invent it. When I do, though, it will be, quite simply, the most effective form of marketing communications ever devised. I predict profits from media sales alone in the billions."

The response? Open mouths, slack jaws and the cold wind of incredulity blowing across the fountain of conservatism.

(Cloudvertising actually is my invention. I was having a quite explosive, traumatic dump the other day and was forced, almost literally, to open a window. As I gazed out, slightly frantically gasping for breath, I saw a cloud that looked like a pair of bristolas. And you know what every good ad has, don't you? Correct - bristolas. Anyway, it gave me an idea. Basically, I'm going to invent a way of putting ads on clouds. Imagine the fuck out of that. And don't fucking try nicking cloudvertising or I'll send Mick The Cunt round. A clue: he didn't get his name because he has a face like a fanny. Though he does, which can lead to confusion.)

Well, after that meeting I looked for what I thought would be like minds and went to my agency.

"Good afternoon, darling!" I chirruped to the receptionist. "You remind me of a George Foreman grill, you do."

"Why?" she replied.

"Because you look like you know what to do with meat," I fired back. I looked coquettishly over my shoulder as I headed for the lift, but she seemed to have been distracted by some bad news because she was just looking out of the window, shaking her head.

Several floors up, I addressed the agency boys. "CLOUDVERTISING!" I roared.

Again, a sea of furrowed brows in a web of confusion. Again, the usual comments, the usual sneers. What is it? Does it exist? Is it even possible? Are you serious? Are you pissed? Are you a fucking idiot? Are you stoned? Are you from a different planet? Blah, blah, blah - all the kind of stone-throwing and hate-mongering that Jesus had to deal with.

Well, I've developed a thick skin over the years of bearing the burden of my intellect, and I parted with a pithy response that I hope made my point.

"You are all scat-gobbling cuntpoles with fuck-gravy for brains and unless you buy me several dozen beerz NOW my account will be at a different agency before you can pull your inbred thumbs out of your crusty fucking bang-holes."

Cloudvertising is genius. And it will have its day.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Monday, 22 February 2010

Golf in the afternoon. Where management gets its mojo.

This morning, I woke up naked in my office. I'd been there since Friday afternoon and I have no idea what happened. There was a half-eaten tub of Pot Noodle in one of my shoes, and someone had maliciously opened the case of Scotch from my drawer, emptied the bottles and scattered them about the place, along with a selection of my pornographic magazines and my pictures of Cutella, some of which were daubed with the words 'WHY?' and 'MRS KNOCKLES'. Complete and utter mystery.

Now, many of you (probably the ones who aren't executive material) may well be asking 'How do you recover from such a traumatic event, Dave, and still begin the working week with drive, dynamism and an ongoing passion for developing long-term strategies for success and consumer delight?'

The answer, my fellow marketing professionals, is golf in the after-fucking-noon.

To non-management non-executives (or 'menials', as I call them), golf is considered a jolly, a piss-up, a piss-take, a get-out, a privilege.

Let me shatter those illusions here and now with a deadly serious hammer of management.

Golf is to executives what pasta is to Tour De France cyclists, what sunlight was to Van Gogh (or whoever), what spooting on intern's dresses was to Willy Clinton. It's the wind beneath our wings, it's the fire in our bellies, it's the compost on our roots.

Golf, you see, sharpens our competitive edge. It also gives us space and time to strategise. So when you hear that your board is playing golf while you graft away unnoticed, breathe a sigh of relief. It means they're doing some serious fucking work.

Imagine a board that didn't golf. Imagine a board that worked all its hours in the office alongside its employees. Are you imagining it? No, you're not - because it's cunting unimaginable.

What, they're going to miraculously develop paradigm-shifting business visions sitting quietly and soberly behind a desk, or through the inclusive consultation of colleagues or inspiring consultants and advisers? Never. It has never happened in the history of business - and if you think it has, you're imagining the unimaginable again.

Today, for example, I took to the range with my 5-iron, a bucket of balls and an open mind. After two hours, I had developed a water-tight strategy.

It's my follow-through, you see. I need to really concentrate after I hit the ball, not before. Definitely. See, when I was relaxed for the first few balls, it was perfect. But then I tried to develop a nice smooth draw, you know, like the pros, and I started over-thinking. I hit one into my shin, another into a pensioner's neck, another through the clubhouse window, causing a member to puke up his French onion soup. But I left with a clear plan: sort your follow-through, Knockles!

See? Breakthrough. Would I have managed that in the office? Of course not.

Thank God for golf, menials. Without it, your betters would be bereft of the management mojo that keeps you in a job until the next round of redundancies.

I will always, always golf.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Thursday, 18 February 2010

Things I don't understand about agencies

As I think I've proved over the duration of my long, illustrious and much-envied career, I know everything there is to know about advertising, marketing, PR, design and thinking outside the box in the blue sky while breaking ground and changing the game. In fact, anything you think you know, I knew by 1985. And anything you may think you've done, I'd done by 1987. And anything you may think you've come up with, I'd come up with by 1988. I think we can all agree on that.

But there are some things about agencies that I don't get, can't get and may never get.

The receptionistas.
I'm the biggest fan of receptionists who look like pornstars, French models or hookers. I couldn't imagine (and wouldn't hire) an agency without them. But what the fuck is in it for them? I mean, apart from the occasional visit from me, what? They sit there day in, day out, while a succession of ludicrously-quaffed agency boys file in and out looking at their tits and blushing. Then they answer the phone. Then they have lunch. Is there nothing better for these girls to do? That said, I hope there isn't.

The industry-wide self-delusion that they aren't salespeople.
Come on, folks. Let's the two of us have a heart-to-heart here. Nobody else - just us. Let me be honest, because I like you / you buy me beerz.

The only difference between you and a car salesman is an ironic T-shirt.

The constant fucking 'offerings'.
What is it with you fucking people? Why does everything you do have to have a name? Why do you have to call two account executives trawling the internet for second hand research 'The Truth Laboratories'? Why is your planning department 'The Disrupterference Unit'?

And why must you have a fucking 'system'? Because whether you call it '360 Insightification', 'Mirage-Busting' or 'Gorgeouslogicmakesideasgrow', I know that your 'offering' involves an account man giving a brief to some one-time film-makers/novelists who will do everything they can to produce work that turns them back into film-makers/novelists. And you know it too, you fucking con artists.

The flaunting.
I walk into my agency. The sofas are beautiful. The reception desk is like something from a spaceship. The flooring has the reassuring feel of real wood. The sculpted fittings and furniture are sleek and beautiful. There are grand plasma screens, a stunning sculpture and, for real impact, one of the Minis from The Italian Job.


Jesus wept. It's like a mugger popping round the next day to show you what he spent your cash on. 'Look, I got this nice watch - and I sold your phone for this jacket. Fucking nice, eh? Same time tomorrow, you fucking twonk?'

I could go on. But I'll save that for another post. I have to sign off. I'm helping my mother with her bikini wax. It's a tough job, but someone's got to do it! And that someone is me!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Wednesday, 17 February 2010

How to deal with an agency, part 2

There's nothing like tearing the ring out of a keynote speech to really fill you full of pep, spunk and oomph.

So, with yesterday's standing ovation ringing in my ears, I strode into my agency at 11.30am, bang on time for our 9am review meeting.

I veritably waltzed up to reception and said, 'Morning, gorgeous - it's me, a soft cotton gusset.' She looked confused. 'You always want me in your pants!' Poor thing, she didn't know where to look (that's the animal magnetism of executive business power) and I skipped off to meet the agency gang.

Fellow marketing professionals, this post should give you further insight into the correct way to manage your agency and follows on from my original genius in this area. Consider this part 2 of the masterclass.

Here's what I did during the day that you should do with your agency:

1. Accept no excuses.
They tried it all. The Cleanavia launch campaign achieved poor results because the ads that ran weren't the ads they created, their media recommendations weren't taken and there were numerous complaints about the ads - suggesting the target audience didn't respond to them, blah blah blah. Now, I may have created the campaign and rewritten the media schedule, but as I always say, 'YOU'RE the agency. You're meant to be the professionals here. I just make washing machines.'

As usual, there was no come back on that one.

2. Haggle, haggle, haggle, haggle, haggle.
They showed me the usual breakdown of creative and account handling time spent on the account against the monthly fee, with a plaintive suggestion that they'd had to over-service the account by 70 or 80%. But is it my fault if they can't execute my genius ideas quickly enough?

I said, 'I can't manage your time for you. YOU'RE the agency. You're meant to be the professionals here. I just make washing machines.'

Then I added, 'Chop 10% off the fee. There's a fucking credit crunch on.'

3. Keep the creatives energised.
Creatives, or 'scribblers' as I call them (which they fucking love!), are by their nature, bone-idle, feckless, belligerent, cynical, misanthropic, egomaniacal, insecure cunt-packets with barely a worthwhile cell in their entire bodies. So you need to keep them pumped up.

I always keep my lot on their toes by never letting them think they've done a good job. It's a trick that my parents used on me, and it worked! Look at me now! Am I a useless, boring, stupid, pointless, disappointing little speck who'll never amount to anything, ever, now get back in your bed, I don't care if it is Saturday afternoon, no you can't have a bike, because you're so useless you'd fall off it and we'd have to waste money on plasters? No! I'm a Marketing Director!

I said, 'Why are you lot so shit, I have to do your jobs for you? YOU'RE the agency. You're meant to be the professionals here. I just make washing machines.'

They were visibly invigorated.

4. They buy the beerz!
Never, ever let this slip. Ever. Never. Never ever. Ever. Cementing the client / agency relationship is essential. Not that it's ever easy to get people to come along. Christ - it was like a funeral parlour in there today. You'd imagine that three hours of a client telling them they were shit and had to cut their fees would make them ready for a drink! But no!

I made it clear that it's their job to entertain clients. I said, 'YOU'RE the agency. You're meant to be the professionals here. I just make washing machines. Now buy me a fucking pint before I call an agency review.'

It went swimmingly after that.

I'll return to this topic from time to time because, let's be honest, I've made it a fucking art form.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Tuesday, 16 February 2010

The marketing conference, the keynote speech, the return to fucking greatness

Sometimes, life is cruel and unfair, like a teenage step-sister. But sometimes, life sees that you're in the gutter and propels you like Sputnik fucking 99 into the stars.

Yesterday was the former. Today was most absolutely the latter.

For the last nine months, I had been booked to deliver the keynote speech at Strategy - Winning Improved Performance Enhancement 2010 (S-WIPE 2010), the marketing community's most cerebral conference. It's a gathering of the biggest brains in the business, and previous keynote speeches have covered behavioural economics, consumer psychology, the psychic landscape of persuasion and the Jungian collective unconscious in advertising culture.

Now, nine months is a long time. Long enough for someone to get a conference organiser drunk, hassle them relentlessly to give that someone the keynote speech, drink some more, fall asleep, wake up, completely forget what had happened, spend the next nine months in total ignorance of the agreement that had been made and get an email a week before the conference to make final arrangements.

Many marketing professionals would have received this news with horror. Me, I just poured another Glen...something, and fired back the following missive:


Can't fucking wait. You cunts might learn something for a change. My title for the keynote speech is Why Consumers Hate Marketing. It'll be fucking fantasticicic.

Yours bye,


I then poured another Glen...whatever , fell asleep and forgot the whole thing again.

For that reason, Peter's call this morning did, I have to say, cause a momentary flutter of anxiety. But once I'd seen off a breakfast of omelette, roast potatoes, fried bacon sandwich, coffee and ham, I was prepared for anything. I took to my desk to prepare. However, during a particularly intense think on the sofa in my office, I fell asleep.

The taxi driver woke me up with a call to say he was outside and ready to take me to the conference. 'No worries!' I said and left, grabbing a bottle of Glen...thingy, a pen and a pad.

The journey went extremely well. After a couple of snifters, I began to write. The motion of the car, and of the whisky, did make me a little drowsy and I dozed off a bit a lot.

I woke as I arrived at the venue and walked, slightly very stiff-legged, into a backstage room where I had 10 minutes to gather my thoughts. I found that the remaining Glen...stuff really helped, and by the time a stagehand came to usher me on, I was ready for anything. I didn't strictly have anything to say, or anything prepared, or anything in mind, but I was ready. And the great orators don't need a script! They need a stage and a spotlight!

I walked onstage, slightly very stumbling a lot, and found the lectern. It was very sturdy, and just right for holding with both hands until my knuckles went white. Before me sat 500 of the nation's most refined marketing thinkers.

'Ladies of gentlemen,' I began, to a scream of feedback that shook the glasses off a Germanic-looking woman in the front row. 'I would like to talk to you today about...(I consulted my notes quickly)...Why Consumers Hate Marketing.'

Silence. (See? The power of anticipation. They were already in the palms of my hands.)

I continued. 'Consumers are people. They are people just like the people we see in the street every day. People with hopes and dreams. People with...possessions. People like you and...well, not like me, but like you. They haven't really got much upstairs, have they? 'Sheep with wallets' is what we call them! No, but seriously...we do call them that. Because they are, aren't they? Fucking stupid - and soooo fucking whiney and annoying. "Ooooh, this washing machine blew up and killed my cat, boo fucking hoo..." We've all heard it, right? Anyway, consumers are people...'

It went on for an hour after that and I tell you what - they fucking loved it. It was quiet at the start and then they really got into it - even though I fell over a couple or seven times. They laughed in all the right places (and lots of the wrong places - all the time, in fact) and when I finished with the line 'It's good to fucking speak to people who agree with my way of doing things - especially my beliefs about bristolas', they fell about, then applauded!

Afterwards, Peter was full of praise. I think he'd been at the old fizzy mind, because he said 'Are you taking that act on the road?' Did he mean a lecture tour? I might just do it - and it'll be fucking brilliant!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Monday, 15 February 2010

How can there be love in a deadpan world?

Love? Love is impossible. Love can't exist. Love is just a theory. Love works on paper, or in the lab, or in the mind, but it just can't live in the real world - especially a real world like this.

What kind of world is this? A world that looks upon us with a scientist's eye, ambivalent, unfeeling, uncaring, unmoved? How can love thrive in such an inhospitable environment?

Yesterday was love's big day. St Valentine dusted off his cloak, all crusty with the fluids of past loves, and dragged Cupid out of his bed, tearing him away from the latest deluded soul looking for something beautiful amongst the shit and wreckage of this knackered-in life.

All over the world, couples dragged themselves through the rituals one more time. Restaurants, chocolates, roses, oversized cards with cute bears and hearts on - all a distraction from the grim truth: love never existed, and never could have existed.

Personally, I went to Delilaz. In my pocket was an engagement ring, big and shiny and undeniable. In my other pocket, plane tickets to Paris. In my other pockets, my wallet, my keys, some change...the usual shit. That doesn't matter, actually. The ring and the plane tickets are the important bits.

Cutella, my...everything, had returned from visiting her father on death row in America. (He's a bit of a character, the old man, and apparently no stranger to acts of blind violence. While enjoying a peaceful family holiday in Florida some years ago, a misunderstanding in a restaurant over the correct way to pronounce Orlando (emphasis on 'lan' or 'do'?) very quickly escalated, causing the deaths of four waiters, three other diners and a chef - without a single gunshot being fired. He fled quickly, but was arrested in Texas.)

I hadn't seen my Cutella for some time. I felt a fluttering excitement I hadn't enjoyed since I was 14 as I looked for her, anxiously, walking in circles, not thinking straight, just wanting to see her, looking in the same place three times, losing my way, walking too fast, almost jogging, too keen, too happy. And then I found her.

She was in a booth.

With Rupert Abbott.

They were laughing as Rupert touched her shoulder gently.

I felt that touch, like the scrape of old metal on my skin, on my heart. I was crippled by it. I couldn't move, but I couldn't look away.

Behind me, not 4 feet away, Desdemonica and Virtunique performed a lesbian twosome based on the theme of double-ended dildoes in the age of the King Arthur. I didn't even turn my head. (Actually, I didn't dare - they're very liberal with the baby oil, those two, and last time I got a bit too involved, I got a squirt right in the eye. Explain that to A&E.)

I just turned and walked. I walked and walked and walked, but I remember nothing of the journey. That may be because I walked and walked and walked between the Frog & Arab, Bar Onion, the Horse & Hounds, Pandemic Bar & Club, the Royal British Legion, the Crab & Hat, the Spivot Hotel and McMuff's. Or it could be because with every step, with every echoing footfall, I saw nothing, heard nothing, but the word 'why?'

On the upside, the priapic boner I've had since God knows when has finally withered and died.

Romance is dead too. Love is lying in the gutter, all broken and hurt while the world - and you! - steps over it, on its way to some pointless romantic liaison that can only ever disappoint.

From this moment on, consider me off the market, ladies.

Why? Because I am heartbroken.

Friday, 12 February 2010

Stand back. Management in progress.

I love management. I love management. I love management more than I love the smell of Pritt Stick. (And I love that so much, I've got a restraining order.)

I love the feel of management. I love the smell of management (like Adidas Victory deodorant). I love the sensation of management. I love the way management sounds. I love the way management looks.

I fucking love management.

Today witnessed a spectacular management breakfast (egg, bacon, sausage, fried beans, tomato, bacon, egg, black pudding, egg, fried bread, fried toast, doner meat, curry sauce, baguette, roast potatoes, egg, sausage, bacon and egg) at which Big Alan Cockson, so cruelly vilified on this blog following his guest post, delivered an EPIC financial forecast that went from the price of a paperclip, detoured through Keynesian economic theory, swerved through the Illuminati conspiracies and ended with our fiduciary outlook for 2010/11.

'A bit shit', he said.

After an hour, during which time I delegated Mandy Fookes legless, we reconvened for the Friday management lunch at the Dog & Hog carvery (lamb, duck, beef, pheasant, seagull, pigeon, lark, pork, kangaroo, chicken) at which I delivered a triumphant marketing update, including my newfound insight into social media, my amazing ideas on mobile marketing and my very latest stroke of genius: posinomics.

I'll repeat that: posinomics.

I haven't got time to go into it here but, essentially, it's marketing through sheer positive thinking. I know - fucking incredible. I read about it in an American magazine one of the Delilaz girls left lying around. The essence of it is this: you spend all your marketing budget on trained 'positisors' who think your brand into the minds of consumers. (I'll explain it all in another genius post.)

Anyway, I let them have this lot with both barrels and seriously - nothing but wide-open mouths. Just silence. Simple, pure silence. And the odd furrowed brow. And the word 'Eh?' a lot. And shaking heads. And rolling of eyes. And that sort of thing. But mainly silence.

So, I feel it was a breakthrough moment. I think the board now see me in a very, very different light. However they saw me before, they now see me very differently. That is certain.

From then on, it was just management, management, management. Pure, unhindered fucking management. Strategising, prioritising, shaping visions, defining long-term goals, striving for year-on-year growth, maximising potential, fucking management.

By the end of it, we emerged from the Dog & Hog red-faced, ties loosened, shirts glistening with the effluvia of top-level executive exertion. Actually, it was fucking moving. It's days like these I'm reminded why I'm able to do virtually everybody else's job better than them: because I'm fucking management.

I'll be managing again come Monday. Managing hard, managing fast, managing like there's no fucking tomorrow. It will be magnificent - and my agency will watch and learn.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Wednesday, 10 February 2010

Things are looking up. Still.

I just thought I'd update those of you who may have been concerned about my ongoing priapism (also known as Permanent Bone-On Syndrome, or Bishop's Itch).

Well, it's still there. It's there when I go to sleep. It's there when I wake up. (To be fair, it was always there when I woke up anyway. But now it stays there, all day, always there, never not being there.)

I'm touched by the flood of concerned messages - both of them - so I thought I'd let you know that I'm okay, learning to cope, taking one day at a time, that sort of thing. Oh, and pissing upside down. Nothing I can't handle.

Anyway, no need to worry. I'll beat this thing single handed! HA HA! Get it? You've got to laugh, that's what I say.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Brandcentric design immersion workshop

They said there would be 'drinks'. They were right. There were 'drinks'. But there were no fucking drinks.

Where? The DESIGN IMMERSION LABORATORY. In Hoxton, naturally. Mineral water, juices, green tea, herbal...shit. Jesus. Four hours. Four hours! I don't care who you are, if you can sit there and take that for four empty hours, you have a problem that's way bigger than my rampant dipsomania, psychosomatic anal prolapsing, borderline Oedipus complex, food addiction, uncontrolled sweating, piles, untreatable halitosis, astounding athlete's foot, suspected narcolepsy, wanker's lean, attention deficit disorder and general bad attitude. (That's what it said on my annual medical anyway - but what do fucking doctors know? Nothing!)

The whole thing was a scam. I was enticed there on the promise of a booze-up, and it turns out to be fucking serious. Seriously. They actually meant all the shit they were tossing out at us.

What is it with designers? What gives them the right to be serious about work? Work isn't serious. It's fucking work. What kind of cunt-pole has an excuse for a booze-up at work, and doesn't take it?

Anyway, the whole thing was run by this cock-bubble called James, whose design company is called Soft, because he wants everything in the world to be nice and happy and loving and eco-friendly and he won't work with anyone who isn't. And, believe me, this kid can talk some Olympic-standard bollocks.

The purpose of the event was to 'reboot our design thinking, relearn then break the rules, disassemble our design beliefs and establish a manifesto for Tenties design'. (I think 'Tenties' means the 2010's. But it could be something to do with tents. I'm humped if I know.)

Quite an ambitious agenda for a morning, but he gave it a crack - mainly focusing on the endless talking of wank, pap, toss and cock. His workshop on 'Disestablishing The Grid In Contemporary Design' was particularly unfathomable.

Essentially, though, his belief is that there is no such thing as design. There is only brand. And everything, whether it's Coca Cola or a pooplop you just squirted into the lavvy, has a brand. It has a personality, and that is what designers should visually communicate. Don't 'design'. Don't 'do a logo'. Think of the brand. Convey the personality. Encourage conversation with the consumer. Help them hold hands with the brand. Help them love the brand. Help them buy the brand dinner, get it a bit tipsy then give it one up the clacker.

I asked whether this would be an approach he'd take if he were designing something for, say, a mobile butcher. Let's call him 'Mike The Mobile Butcher'.

James said, first he doesn't 'design' things. Second, he'd sit with Mike The Mobile Butcher and discuss his brand. What does it mean? How does it feel? Where is it going? After a couple of days' talking, he'd have an idea about Mike The Mobile Butcher's vision and he'd suggest a name change. (He always suggests a name change, apparently. Most names, he asserted, are shit.) A name you could have a conversation with. Something like 'Meet' that was a bit more warm. Then he'd develop the visual expression of that brand. Simple.

That was me told, then.

Then he did an hour on 'Red. The Old Black' and another on 'The Hierarchy Of Digital Kitsch' and I wanted to kill myself, him, everyone in the room, and everyone outside the room.

Lesson learned, then. Designers are cunts. Or I should avoid similar events in the future. And unless there's booze on offer, I will.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Tuesday, 9 February 2010

Agency characters, no 6 - The print buyer

Had a meeting at my agency today to discuss a big piece of print work for my latest stroke of genius.

(Basically, right, I thought 'Who buys my consumer durables?' Women. 'What do women like?' Knickers. 'What's the connection between knickers and consumer durables?' You wash one in the other! So, to cut a long story short, I've done a deal with all the big high street retailers and I'll be putting a sticker inside every pair of the sauciest bang-me knickers on sale - right on the arse. And it says, 'The Cleanavia 1100. Makes your dirtiest knickers clean again. (Includes solid soilage / menstrual discharge.)' Brilliant, eh? My idea, naturally.)

Anyway, I was talking over the job with the agency's print buyer when it struck me that he was the same print buyer I've had at every single agency I've ever worked with. (And that's a fucking lot!)

He has the same untrustable look, the same shifty, lurking presence, the same ex-rocker hair, the same 60-a-day habit, the same wheezy cackle, the same way of tut-tutting when you want to print anything other than A4.

What's going on with these blokes? And how do you get the gig? It's a fucking doozy of a job. Take a look under a print buyer's desk - it's an Aladdin's Cave of backhanded whisky, chocolate, time share villas, tickets to the rugby and brothel vouchers. And all they have to do is give every single print job to the same printer, the one who keeps turning up in reception with a look on his face that says, 'I can't believe my fucking luck - I buy this dickheel whisky and hookers and the occasional mixed grill and I've got a nice 5-bedroom mock tudor, 2 kids in private school, a place in Lanzarote, a nice jeep, a little 2-seater for the wife, a bird in Essex who lets me stick it up her clacker and several mildly amusing ties'.

With such a lifetime of bribery to look forward to, you'd think the print buyer's would be the most hotly-contested job in the entire agency. You'd think Oxbridge's finest would be slugging it out just for a shot at it. But no. It's a position held solely by crusty, dodgy, dirty, randy alcoholics who look like they'd be more at home as extras in an On The Buses pub scene.

Then again, I suppose there's not much to really tax the mind in print buying. Getting a quote, adding a mark-up the size of Clapham and heading for the boozer isn't going to excite the great minds of a generation.

Which is why I'd be fucking perfect for it. If I had to work at an agency, I think I'd be the print buyer. Obviously, I'd be stu-fucking-pendous at it too.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Monday, 8 February 2010

Rupert Abbott is still a cast-iron fuckwanking shithead, only this time he's a cunt, a turd, a tool, a cackend and a cunt too

First, he pinches my marketing manager. Then he starts working with my old agency. Then he gets himself a fucking column in our trade mag - which he used to slag me right off.

Who? Rupert cock-shuffling, shit-chobbling Abbott.

Rupert Abbott, marketing director (he doesn't get capitals at the start of his job title because he's a cuntwit) at our number one rival, is the dragon to my St George. Or, to put it another way, I hate him so much, I sometimes sit on the lavvy forcing out a pooplop, and all the effort I put into pushing, I put into wishing upon him a death you wouldn't wish on anyone - except a cunt-packet like Rupert Abbott.

So, why another post? What could this fuck-barrel have done to out-cunt all the cuntery he's cunted up to now?

Any guesses?


I'll tell you.







Hmmmmm. Haaaaaa. In. Out. Relax.

This...this is a new low. This is the ultimate insult. Up with this I cannot put. In he walks, in his fucking suit, with my old account director buying him drinks, and my old creative director scoring free booze (some things never change), and a look on his face like the cat that got the cream - only the cream that belonged to another cat who got there fucking first.

I can't think straight. I can't have this. I can't have it.

After an hour (when Abbott didn't go near a bird, apart from politely thanking them for topping his drink up. Politely! What a cunt!) they all fucked off out of it, with Abbott pocketing something from Billy The Stabber behind the bar. (Billy The Stabber is called that because he has a long history of stabbing people, with knives. Lovely chap, though.)

And this...this is the ultimate treachery.

After Abbott had slithered out of the place, I asked Billy what he took with him.

Billy replied. 'What? Him? Errr...just a picture of one of the girls.'

(The girls at Delilaz all have little cards of themselves dotted about the place with private contact details on. Just in case you want to, you them for a children's party or something. Ahem.)

'Which girl, Billy?'

'Errr...I can't! Hang on - it was Cutella. He took Cutella's picture. Definitely. He had a very, very significant look on his face. If you know what I mean.'

Love is like an exquisite rose bush. From a distance, it looks like the perfect expression of joy, beauty and unblemished goodness. But get up close and...well...pretty soon you realise that rose bush has thorns.

(To be honest, I'm struggling here. I've pinched this from a Poison song. I think the thorns are, like, the bad stuff. And the flowers represent, you know, all the nice coupley stuff, like blow jobs and watching porn together.)

In short, Rupert Abbott has bitten off a battle he can't chew. It's time to get fucking nasty.


Thursday, 4 February 2010

How agencies should make a new business approach

As the Marketing Director in the consumer durables market relating to, or directly involving, cleaning clothes and or soft furnishings and or other fabrics, with a commitment to excellence, quality and placing superior cleaning at the core of our customers' product experience, I get loads of approaches from agency boys.

(That pic is fucking wicked, by the way! I must get my agency to use it.)

These approaches come from ad agencies, digital agencies, media agencies, design agencies, experiential agencies, promotions agencies, ambient agencies - the whole fucking range of agencies. (Except escort agencies, sadly. I have to find those myself. Or I ask Big Alan Cockson.)

Nearly all these approaches are consigned to the bin without so much as a forearm smash to the dangle-bag.

So, here are the fundamental fuck-ups you bozos are making.

1. Sending something that tells me how great you are.
Whether it's a letter, an email, something clever in a box or a heartfelt testimonial from your biggest client, if it's about how ingenious, successful, inspired or insightful you are, it goes straight in the bin.

Why? Because it makes you sound like big-headed cunt-bottles, that's why. It makes you sound like the bloke at the party who goes on about his job, his fucking money, his car and his executive home. In other words, me - and I'm me, so fuck off.

2. Sending something that tells me how great I am.
I'm sure you would 'love' to work on my brand, and I'm sure you are 'passionate' about it, and I'm sure you would 'cherish' the chance to increase my sales and blah blah blah, but would you please withdraw your nose from my rectum, you weasely little snot-scrape. I need to sit down and I can't because you've got your face pressed against my a-pipe.

3. Sending a 'gift'.
I don't really have an objection to this. In fact, I'd welcome 'gifts' with open arms and, depending on the 'gift', open legs. But our parent company forbids anything like that. I think they're fucking mormons, or 7th day adventists, or cunts, or something.

4. Pulling some wacky stunt in reception.
If I wanted to watch out-of-work actors dressed as washing machines dancing to the tune of 'You Spin Me Right Round', I'd go to the fucking theatre. And I will never go to the theatre, ever, not even if you pay me in tits.

An alternative strategy: Ply me with booze.

It's all about connections, trust, cementing relationships, mutual goals, shared visions, bonding, symbiosis and, of course, that is all made possible by one thing only: beerz.

I can't think of a single supplier I use who I didn't hire while face down in a pile of curry with my trousers round my ankles and half-empty bottles of Aftershock in my jacket pockets. It's the way business works, and it's utterly magnificent.

So my advice to all you agencies is a) stop moaning when I do your jobs better than you (which I always do!) and b) stop trying to win business on the strength of your commitment, knowledge, success or ability. Nobody in business ever got anywhere with commitment, knowledge, success or ability.

Instead, get your gold card out, put your pride away and BUY DADDY BEERZ. It's the only way. And I should know.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Wednesday, 3 February 2010

It won't even go when I hit it with a metal spoon

Those of you who are kind enough (and, let's be honest, privileged enough) to follow me on Twitter may have noticed me make reference to the proud trouser tower I woke with yesterday morning.

Well, the fucking thing is still with me.

Now don't get me wrong - there's nothing I enjoy more than having a full and unrepentant biffer, but this has gone from being mildly amusing to downright fucking career-threatening.

The morning wasn't so bad because I remembered I had it. (Just tucked it under the old waistband and made adjustments every time I sat down or stood up.) But lunch came and so did a very vigorous strategising session at the Dog & Hog with Big Alan Cockson and his mate, The Piddler (it's a long story), and I clean forgot I was carrying a gun in my pocket. (A big one, girls, like a Magnum or something - not a snub-nosed .38, alright?)

So, I walked back into the office, strolled over to Mandy Fookes's desk to see if she'd done everything I'd delegated at her that morning - and tapped her on the back of the head with it. She turned quickly to see what was going on, it poked her in the cheek, knocked her glasses off, got caught in her hair and eventually came to rest on her shoulder. It took some time to coax her out of the stationery cupboard.

I thought I'd just hide in my office for the rest of the day, but Big Andy Poleman was doing a tour with a woman from the parent company in Germany. (She was International Head of Something. Logistics? Logs? Lego? Fuck knows.) In he burst, I jumped up in surprise, caught the fucking thing on my desk, fell over in a substantial amount of pain, and stood up to shake hands with our lady visitor.

Only she didn't shake my hand.

I don't think she really noticed anything. Maybe. Or she might have done. It was hard to tell through the tears.

(Poleman wasn't pleased. He came bollocking in after she'd gone and called me 'a speck of shit on the end of a turd on a mound of crap in a bucket of shit'. He also called me a 'cunt-spacker', which even I thought was unnecessary.)

Finally, I got it stuck in my car door. Which hurt more than the desk.

I've tried everything. I've had more wanks in the last 36 hours than when I was 15 - and at that age, it was widely agreed in medical circles that I had a serious psycho-sexual problem. It can't take any more. The last few times ended with nothing more than a little puff of dust.

I've even tried whacking it with a metal spoon. (I read somewhere that's what boarding school matrons did. Fuck knows - I'll try anything.)

Anyone got any bright ideas? For once, Dave Knockles is stumped! (Though it ain't no stump, girls, alright?) Cure me and I'll be forever grateful - and so will Mandy Fookes.

Come on, team! We can solve this problem together! Let's grab hold of it with both hands!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Tuesday, 2 February 2010

Social media made simple

There's a lot of talk in marketing circles about social media. The main reason for this is a) an absence of anything else to talk about that is isn't really fucking boring, and b) it makes you sound a bit cool and less tedious that you usually do.

But do you, my fellow marketing professionals, really understand the true potential of social media? Are you fully aware of what it can do for your brand? Have you managed to get your noggin around how much it can deliver to your bottom line in the short, medium, long, very long and too long-terms?

Well, I recently enjoyed a lunch with 3 very bright young social media gurus called Jasper, Tom and CC. It was a long lunch, and it involved some serious cementing, but I can remember the first 20 minutes, so I know my shit.

1. Social media has killed TV.
The chaps made this pretty clear. NOBODY watches TV now. Nobody. It's dead. If we want to watch something, we go on YouTube and watch it for free, minus the ads. Now, you may think you watch TV (and, to be honest, I think I do too) but you don't. Because TV is fucking dead, sucker - so buy it some flowers and move on. The 19.7 million people who watched the X-Factor final? THEY WEREN'T WATCHING, YOU FOOL! THEY HAD THE TV ON BUT THEY WERE ON FACEBOOK DISCUSSING HOW THEY WEREN'T WATCHING IT!

2. Social media has killed advertising.
This was high on their list too. You see, because social media is the only medium to which we're exposed, advertisers have nowhere to advertise. TV? Dead. Radio? Dead. Papers? Dead. Mags? Dead. Outdoor? Who's looking at it? WE'RE ALL TWEETING! In other words, the world has gone completely apeshit, everything has changed and there is literally a communications revolution happening NOW. Look out of the window and you will see it. (Jasper pointed out of the window when he said this. It was very dramatic. I'd have looked too, but I had a pint on.)

3. Social media is the only way to market anything, from this point on, full stop, and if you disagree then you're a luddite in a blindfold made of old hat and your business has exactly 48 hours to live.
Er...explains itself, that one.

4. It's about conversations, not conversions.
You can't just stick advertising messages through social media, stupid! You can't say 'Come and buy my doodah coz it's ace'! Are you fucking mental? You encourage conversations across social media platforms which lead to brand awareness, trust and, at some point in the future, maybe a sale. But don't count on it! Remember that consumers hate you, your brand and your horrid bullshit marketing. You need to gain their trust through conversations. Maybe start by asking them how they're feeling today.

5. Everything in the future will be FREE.
Now that the web has made everything free (you just download it - books, cars, pillows, tampons) you can't charge for products. Instead, you have to give it away for free, then encourage consumers to shell out for added value. Like a widget that sits on your desktop and tells you when Madonna has tweeted, or a Facebook app that gives all your photos a pretty border. Jasper, Tom and CC can sell you these added value items, plus a social media strategy - and all for one bollock-shatteringly massive cost. But so what - you won't need to spend another penny on media because it's all DEAD.

So, there you have it. It's a fucking eye-opener, isn't it? Think hard about that over your cornflakes. Are you going to be the one left at the station when the social media train is pulling away to Success Town and you're left there in a desolate wasteland of broken TVs and old people?

I'm not. I'm going to be driving the fucking train. And I'll hop on, just as soon as I've signed off these TV ads, this press campaign and all this outdoor.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Monday, 1 February 2010

Cutella. A love story.

I should tell you about Cutella. I should tell you everything. She is, as well as the woman I intend to marry, a person of rich complexity, a beautiful soul.

Naturally, she is stunningly attractive. You don't get to shake your tits in front of London's top executives if you're a bog-faced gargoyle with bingo wings and a fat neck. But there is beauty, and there is beauty.

Cutella's hair is a dizzying mixture of shimmering brunette and laser-bright blonde. Plus some red streaks, blue streaks, green streaks and a kind of plait thing that comes down to her arse.

Down her back (in fact, all over her back) is a tattoo depicting a moving undersea scene in which a mermaid, a dolphin and, I think, Neptune, gaze upon a scroll bearing the legend, 'Mom. An angel from the seaside in Bournemouth. 1950 - 1998.' Down her right arm is another tattoo, a beautifully crafted message that boldly asks 'What have you done for me lately?' which, she informs me, is from a poem (shame on you if you thought lapdancers weren't cultured!).

On the left cheek of her magnificent arse is more 'ink' (as she puts it), this time a delightful little rabbit and the words, in flowing lettering, 'Fuck bunny'. Finally, a snake wends its way from just above the right ankle, round her calf, across her thigh and ends with its head at her crotch, its tongue disappearing into her (always trimmed) lady bush. It is as moving as it is erotically charged.

But there's more to Cutella than a sensational body, a spectacular back end and award-winning bristolas. (Literally award-winning: Best Boobs, UK Stripper Awards 2006.)

Her green eyes, little button nose and slightly-surgically-enhanced lips give her the look of an angel, but an angel you can believe in. The angel next door, if you like. Also, she does look proper dirty.

And what a beautiful person she is! Kind, diligent, caring, attentive - and that's just when you've shoved forty notes down her thong. Imagine what shed do for love!

She constantly surprises me too. She knows exactly how much my BMW is worth! She knows the market value of my house! She's looked into my personal finances and suggested she can invest my money somewhere more profitable! What she knows amazes me. She amazes me. She is my angel, my saviour, my Cutella.

I'm going to propose when she's back from a break, visiting her father on death row in America.

Of course, she'll say 'yes'.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!