Friday, 21 May 2010

Florida. The wink-wonk of the USA.

After much deliberation, brandy and a small bout of fisticuffs with a travel agent (she was fucking asking for it), I've booked a holiday to Florida.

My decision was made when I looked at it on a map and saw that it looked like a cock and ball set, proudly swishing itself in the Atlantic.

It reminded me of the time when, at a conference in Cornwall, I walked onto the beach at 4am and proudly swished my own cock and ball set in that very same ocean. Coincidence? Surely not. Florida was calling me.

I fly on Saturday airport, and will be gone for two weeks. While I'm gone, I'd like to leave you with these vital lessons in life, management

Never put a tomato in a burger
It is a ruinous and stupid act, one perpetrated by Burger King every day, millions of times. It can't be right, can it? No. It can't. Can it? No. You're right. It can't.

Always look people in the eye when you shout at them
Sure, 80% of management is about shouting at people until they do what you want them to do. But that shouting is 80% likely to be 40% less effective if you don't make it personal. Make direct and lasting eye contact during bollockings and you'll be 95% more likely to see an increase of between 50 and 75% in the productivity of around 65% of people.

Don't fart in lifts
Unless you're pretty sure someone is about to get in. Waste otherwise, innit?

Food at work is always free
Don't make the mistake I saw one young hopeful make a few weeks ago. At an edit, the inevitable bento box lunch was offered and this kid - this poor, young kid - he declined. He fucking declined! He thought he'd have to shell out himself, so he declined. I guess I should have told him it was all free but, you know, I didn't. Maybe he needed to learn the hard way. And maybe I was looking at the receptionist while she bent over to pick up a box of printer paper. Either way, always - ALWAYS - fill your boots with free work food. And your pockets, and any other receptacle you can get your hands on.

I hope those hints help you while I'm away. I'll see you in a fortnight, you load of clack-knacking fuck-lumps.


Tuesday, 18 May 2010

A new dawn for Dave

Well, a man can only stay down for so long. And though Cutella gave me a devastating kick in the cock, balls and that bit between the cock and balls, I must practice what I've always preached: don't waste time thinking about anything - just do something.

Of course, it's not easy to pick yourself up after such a setback, but songs like the above help. Songs that capture what it is to have one foot in the gutter and the other looking at the stars.

(The visuals are great too. This is worthy of someone fucking tip-top! I'd like to see the agency that could come up with it.)

So, what next for me? Undoubtedly, I will continue to blog, but perhaps in a new place. After all, I am no longer the client. I am a man like any other now. (Well, not like just any other. There are some right clack-poles out there who, frankly, aren't fit to light my farts. But you take my point. Let's put it this way: apart from all the cunt-fudges, bastardos, fuck-munchers and twat-shatters that seem to populate every fucking inch of the world outside my house, I'm just like anybody else.) So, maybe thinking about it, I will always be the client, no matter what I do. Being a client, perhaps, is just part of my soul. Or perhaps it isn't. Or, then again, perhaps it is.

Whatever happens, it will be a true adventure, and the road may often be dangerous, or take me through strange places, like council estates. But, like the song says, 'no mountain's as high as it seems'.

Of course, even if it was, I'd climb the fucker.

Why? Because for now, I AM STILL THE CLIENT!

Monday, 17 May 2010

The Loneliness of the Ex-Marketing Director

Sometimes, just as the eagle takes flight, it is cruelly struck back down to earth strong breeze, or a dog or something.

And sometimes, just as the tender infant deer takes its first trembling steps away from the protection of its mother, a fucking great bear comes and rips its arsehole off and bites its head in half.

So it was today that I, Dave Knockles, Ex-Marketing Director, took my first hopeful journey into a new life. And life, being the cunt-clacker that it is, fisted me so royally up the jack-pipe, I can barely fucking sit down to write this.

It went this way.

I rose early, full of hope, took a cautious dump, breakfasted eagerly, hit the sofa with the jobs section of the local rag and had a quick snooze. I awoke again, still full of hope, and made a few calls. Nobody said, 'You're hired! When can you start?' so I had another shit and went to Delilaz.

That was where things took a nose-dive.

As well as looking at bristolas and drinking scotch 'n' WKD, I go to Delilaz to see my Cutella. Cutella is my woman, my muse, my mystery, my bottomless pack of Pringles. When I'm down, she picks me up. (Sometimes by my dangle-bag, which I am man enough to admit to liking.) When I'm sad she makes me smile. When others misunderstand me, she calls them cunts.

I was desperate to see her. So the minute I'd finished my fourth drink and had had a quick go on a couple of the girls, I sought her out.

'Baby!' I said when I found her, straddling Barry Cradish while he stuffed twenties down her tits.

'Davey!' she said back and booted Cradish off to find someone else to dribble on.

'I've got great news, sweet-jeans,' I said.

'Have you had a pay-rise, flumps?' she replied, excited.

'Even better!' I said. 'I've quit my job! I'M A FREE MAN!'

Her face froze. Only worse. She looked like someone having a stroke.

'What's up, bunny-babes?' I stuttered.

'Well, this ain't good, Davey. This is the oppo-fucking-site of good.'


'How am I supposed to set up house and build a life of aspiration and quality furnishings with some cunt with no job?'


'You'd better fuck off, Dave. My Dad told me about lazy cunts like you.'

'You're Dad's on death row, angel-peach.'

'Yeah - so he knows all about cunts, doesn't he? He's in there with 'em all fucking day.'

'But I'll get a job, fluffy-doll.'

She turned very, very angry. Her beautiful and delicate face became something else entirely. (Well, it didn't actually change that much because the Botox was really working its socks off, but her eyes told me everything.)

'At your fucking age? You must be nuts. Dear me. You need to jog on, Dave. I can't have this. I've got dreams of a minimalist executive home and a staircase made of glass what just sticks in the wall with no bannister or nothing and looks like it's floating and is all see-through and is on Grand Designs, you cunt! You know this! You know about my dreams! You know about my staircase! How could you fucking do this to me?'

Well, there was no arguing with the glass staircase. It had been a dream of Cutella's since 2007. And you can't argue with dreams like that.

As I walked away, slumped, shambling, agonised, I turned, hoping to see her staring after me, distraught.

No such fucking luck. She was sitting on Darren Beanaugh's lap feeding him Monster Munch.

In the words of the song, I just don't know what to do with myself.

This has hit me hard, in a private special place. And I know only one way to get over such a desperate situation: get smashed and find some dirty slags to cuddle.

I will do this now.

Why? Because I am no longer the client.

Wednesday, 12 May 2010





I've fucking had it. I HAVE HAD IT.

Another bum-rupturingly good idea. Another presentation to the board. Another room full of blank faces, unmoving and cold, like ranked tombstones - only tombstones WHO JUST DON'T RECOGNISE MARKETING CUNTING GENIUS WHEN THEY TITTING SEE IT!

What can I do? I give these people an idea like 'Every Hole's A Goal with the England WAGs' and it's like I've put a turd on a plate, sprinkled it with badger jizz and dead babies, added a dash of pepper and yelled, 'Lunch is served!'

The same happens when I announce my groundbreaking plans to suck the gay market dry. And when I devise a strategy to be the first brand to truly embrace product placement.

Well, enough is enough. The straw on the camel's back has crossed the fucking line.

Big Andy Poleman, MD, just looked into the middle distance during my entire presentation, only squirming and grunting occasionally. (Admittedly, I discovered later that he was getting a blowy under the desk at the time, but he might have delayed that until I'd finished.) Big Alan Cockson, FD, wasn't there because he'd had a heart attack mid-dump for the third fucking time this week. And Big Brian Humpage, Sales Director, just looked at me through his tinted glasses, smirking like the cat that got the cream, as well as a new Audi for hitting its targets.

All anyone said when I finished was, 'Has someone farted?'


I could do anything. I've mastered marketing. I could master something else. I could master teaching, or rearing cows, or producing porn films, or medicine, or managing a Blockbuster, or writing adventure books for girls, or supply chain management, or bar work, or meteorology, or astrology, or pathology, or watch making, or food science, or...well, you get the point.

Er...where was I?




Monday, 10 May 2010

I win the World Cup

The World Cup is nearly upon us and, with it, the other World Cup: the World Cup of World Cup-based Marketing Campaigns.

You have to have a World Cup campaign. You have to, because everyone else has. And if everyone else has one, do you want to be the tosscock who doesn't have one? Of course you don't. So competition is rife amongst marketers to devise the best one.

I call it The World Cup World Cup (of Marketing, Sponsorship, Advertising and Promotional Communications Campaigns), but that's because I have a way with fucking words and that.

Usually, these campaigns are a complete pile of old cack-spray and nobody deserves to win. But this year, I have The World Cup World Cup sewn up before the fucking thing begins.

Our World Cup campaign this year will be unbelievable. It's title?


It's part advertising, part promotion, part fucking art. With Fabioni Carpello banning WAGS from the England team camp, the girls are keen to get some exposure during the tournament. It's how they sell more of...I don't know...whatever it is they sell. (They all have ranges, apparently. Not driving ranges, I'm assuming, but you never fucking know, do you?) I'm going to turn that cloying and all-pervading desperate lust for any kind of attention whatsoever into marketing gold.

So, we'll launch the promotion with a TV spot featuring all the England WAGS you know and love, except the ones who've realised that England players are prone to bone anything (concrete, a loaf of bread, a turtle) if it's got a skirt on.

It'll be big, bold, unmissable and unforgettable. While bending seductively over various things (I haven't figured that bit out yet - but they'll definitely be bending over) they'll utter the line 'Don't forget - this Summer, every hole's a goal.' Then they'll probably wink or something.

The promotion will kick in via a leading tabloid. Dispersed throughout every edition will be discretely hidden shots of WAGs with their holes open. (You know those shots of WAGs with their mouths, or 'holes', wide open, at a match, cheering on their boyf /husb? Those.) Every time you spot one, you score a goal, which can be added to our World Cup WAGHOLE Wallchart. Whoever spots the most WAG's holes wins - get this - tickets to the fucking World Cup Final. In 2026. The whole family can play!

I think people are going to love it - especially the board. Most people I describe it too have a big smile across their faces, usually the minute I tell them it's called Every Hole's A Goal! So I think it's going to be popular. My agency are going to think I'm the tits - again!

Do you have a World Cup marketing campaign yet, my fellow marketing professionals? I have. And it's a fucking peach. But, then, you'd expect nothing less!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Saturday, 8 May 2010

Crisis management and the art of PR

Sometimes our consumer durables go wrong. Sometimes they go wrong in spectacular, explosive and dangerous ways. Very occasionally (about twice a year) they go so wrong that people are blown to bits, electrocuted to death or drowned in soap suds.

Obviously, this is absolutely tragic on a number of levels.

First, sales take an absolute fucking dive. Second, I have to do a huge amount of work / delegating.

Still, these situations can be handled. And it's down to me to handle them.

Reading this blog, you may think I'm only a marketing and communications legend. But I am also massively proficient, expert and respected in the world of PR. (Max Clifford, for example, once referred to my handling of a story about our exploding CleenyWeeny consumer durable as 'just unbelievable'. Praise indeed.)

The last few days have busied me greatly in this field. A Cleanavia 1100, belonging to a woman in Burnley, exploded while entering its final spin cycle. She was standing in front of it at the time. The drum became detached from the body of the consumer durable, burst through the glass door and hit her square in the face, removing her head and flinging clothes all over the room.

Her poor old noggin was found in the bread bin, topped with pair of incontinence pants, like an avant-garde hat.

Now, while this may sound absolutely fucking hilarious (and it was!) there is a downside. That downside is this: people don't want to buy a consumer durable that may, at some point, behead them. That's why this story needed to go away.

It was a situation that required sensitivity and guile. Here's how I did it.

First, I called the bereaved family (after a respectful amount of time to allow for grieving - four or five hours) and announced myself as a representative of my company. After the usual 'wanker-this and cunt-that' stuff these people seem to love slinging at me, I offered them a deal that would hopefully buy their silence: 25% off their next Cleanavia 1100. If purchased on a Wednesday. Within the next three days.

'But it's a fucking Thursday, you insensitive cunt!' bawled the headless woman's daughter.

'Alright, we'll call it 10% off any time,' I replied. 'You can't say fairer than that.'

She hung up. (I never get over how fucking rude these people can be.)

Next tactic was to engage the local press and spin the story in our favour. This is easy to do because journalists are more like hookers than hookers. They will do absolutely anything you say for a bottle of scotch, a bit of Latvian porn and a curry.

Within two hours, I had a local hack spinning a story with the headline 'Headless woman was crack whore Nazi'. With that as the focus of the episode, there's no way anyone's going to be interested in a killer washing machine.

Finally, just to make sure that nothing got out, I popped round to the grieving plebians the next day with Big Mick The Cunt, our security consultant, and suggested that if they so much as thought about going public, they would meet with a very unfortunate mishap involving their knees, an angle grinder, a chisel, a hacksaw, some gaffer tape, four two-inch screws and a few off-cuts of MDF I have in my garage. I mean, Mick's garage. I mean, a hypothetical garage.

It took a couple of days but it was worth it. Nobody will ever know about the Head-Removing Cleanavia of Burnley. Unless you start blabbing, of course. (Obviously, if you do, Big Mick The Cunt will be round faster than you can say 'Please don't saw off my knees and replace them with MDF'. Capiche?)

That, my fellow marketing professionals, is how to avert a disaster: with a finely nuanced blend of crisis management and PR.

These are the standards I set myself every day. I cannot afford to fail. And I don't.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Wednesday, 5 May 2010

Why do you think it's called a 'brief'?

Right, you wankpipes. (You - you agency wankpipes.) Let me just make my point about briefs very clearly.

I don't really appreciate it when planners - yes, that fucking bunch - send me snotty emails about the briefs I write which suggest that I don't know what I'm doing.

I know exactly what I'm doing. And if you think I don't, you've clearly never seen me doing what I do because if you had you would see that I do what I do very much like someone who knows what they're doing. So up your cunt-end.

Anyway, my fellow marketing professionals, here's what a brief should be. (And don't let those agency toolbags tell you anything fucking different.)

It's called A BRIEF! Brief means fast, quick, speedy. Mine are often no more than four or five words. But those words are fucking fantastic.

Don't go on and on and on about this, that and the other fucking thing. The more you put into a brief, the less you get out. This is a fact, proven by many years in the business. I've written very long, elaborate, detailed briefs in the past and all I got was a lot of bollocks about 'what does it mean?' and 'were you drunk when you wrote it?' - so keep it short.

Not long.
Agencies bang on ad-cunting-nauseam these days about the jaw-dropping, ball-spanking, cock-wilting insights into the target audience, their reasons to buy, the minutiae of their daily lives, their inside fucking leg measurement. So let them get on with it! Anything you write will be turned into reams of unbelievable shitwank by a planner anyway, so spare yourself the fucking headache.

Basically, just tell them you want a press ad, a TV ad, a radio ad, a poster, a whatever - and then tell them which product it's for. WHAT MORE DO THEY NEED TO KNOW?

I'll tell you what they need to know: I PAY THEIR FUCKING WAGES!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Tuesday, 4 May 2010

How to do a bank holiday

A bank holiday, for those of you in parts of the world that aren't Britain, is a public holiday, usually a Monday. You may have similar holidays in your part of the world, and you may use them in the same way we do: getting devastatingly drunk while charring meat in the rain, or taking children to drop litter at leisure attractions and areas of natural beauty.

My good friends at Delilaz, however, have found a third way of enjoying these precious breaks.

The Barbie-Cue.

The theme is a simple combination of Barbie, the anorexic fetishised doll and role model for young girls, and the barbecue, every man's favourite way of ruining his food.

Now, there may be those amongst you who say, 'Dave, come on. A Barbie-themed barbecue with strippers cavorting about, smelling of meat and whoring themselves for your pleasure? Doesn't that leave a bad taste in your mouth?'

Well, sometimes it does. But that's what happens when you undercook a sausage. The solution is to drink enough to kill any bug known to science. I hope that answers your concerns.

At Delilaz, the scene was undeniably charged with a certain level of erotic energy. By which I mean there were naked women everywhere. But there was also a great sense of togetherness, of community - sentiments often lost to us in modern Britain.

Allow me to take you there. Look around.

Over there, Garry Carrymore (of Carrymore's Carry More Cash & Carry) is being fed a side of ribs by Clorette, Cosmopolita and Evian.

Beyond them, Mick 'Fuck' Ewe is engrossed in conversation / light fondling with Majorette, his very favourite girl, while she tenderly pours gravy over his sausage.

In a booth towards the back, three hardworking executives from a prominent mainstream religion are washing away their sins in a mixture of cava, ketchup, the juice from seven rare steaks and a bottle of baby oil, assisted by six girls they have renamed The Blessed Choir of the Fellatious.

Across the room, close to the bar, Innocentia is manning the spit roast area, looking flushed but sticking to her task gamely.

And beyond Innocentia, in the dark unseen recesses of the lounge, where deals are done and love is found every minute, the embers of an endless grill glow with hot promise, lighting glimpses of fat hands on young bodies, one piece of meat smeared greasily with the juice of another.

Fucking great, innit? Burp.

Maybe you could try it next bank holiday. I might see you there! And you can buy the beerz!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!