Wednesday, 30 June 2010

Dirty old boilers

Well, well, well, well, well.


It turns out that an awful lot of old women - and a lot of old men - are spending their retirement with a prosthetic genital device shoved squarely up their foof, fundament or fizzog.

This is what I've learned during my first few days at my new place of work, Europe's leading supplier of love toys, sex aids, marital gadgets and wang-enhancing technology to the over-50s.

As Marketing Director, I've got to figure out a way of getting even more over-50s ladies and gentlemen (although if you knew what I know, you wouldn't call them ladies or gentlemen) to feel that a battery-powered erotic appliance is essential to an improved quality of life.

"Dave, I want every pensioner in Britain fucking themselves dizzy!" says my CEO, Simon Schitz.

He's keen to push two products in particular. One is supposedly an 'anal stimulator' but looks more like a Transformer dry-humping a Tellytubby dressed in a PVC SS uniform. Personally, I'd rather put a starving bulldog wearing a wire wool jacket up my fire exit, but there you go. The other product is a 'sensual massage device', but I'm not convinced it'll be used for 'sensual massage', principally because it is lovingly crafted in the shape of an absolutely monstrous dong. And I don't just mean porno big, either. Some of the blokes in my special films look like their Dad could be a baseball bat, but this thing is on a whole different scale. It's not even eye-wateringly huge. It's fascinatingly huge. You can probably see it from space. Or Birmingham, at least.

Anyway, those are the two campaigns I am about to create. Obviously, I need an agency to help me create them / do what I tell them too. If anyone knows of any that are willing to learn at the knee of a veritable Stephen Hawking of marketing, let me know. Just remember, they need to be fucking cheap.

I'll bring you more on my new adventure soon - including news of my new colleagues. Spencer Spencer, the warehouseman, for instance, and Mary Hinge, my secretary. Also, the goth receptionist, Lollipop, who is apparently very big on the fetish scene. I can imagine she is, because she's fatter than a manatee bingeing on cheese pasties and Frazzles.

I look forward to educating you further. And you look forward to it too, don't you?

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Friday, 25 June 2010


My fellow marketing professionals. It gives me immense pleasure to announce that I AM CUNTING BACK!

This morning I accepted an offer of employment from Simon Schitz, CEO of Europe's leading supplier of marital aids, pleasure enhancing devices and prosthetic genitals to the over-50s market.

You are being blogged at by his new Marketing Director & Hygiene Supervisor! (It's about a 60-40 split, in terms of time.)


Great things are going to happen, my friends. Great things. And I can recommence your education in the fine and mysterious arts of marketing communications with an emphasis on envelope-busting idea-bombs that engender consumer delight. I can also continue my new sideline in reviewing restaurants, as well as generally enlightening the world with an occasional series I'm calling The Dave Knockles Lectures.

You will surely tune in.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Tuesday, 22 June 2010

Come dine with me!

As a farewell to my Florida diaries, I'd like to describe the night Kelly-Anne-Marie-Jo offered to take me to dinner at her Uncle Clint and Auntie Sally’s place.

When dining in the home of others, I find it essential to abide by three rules. Always arrive on time, always compliment the cook and never anally prolapse all over the hall.

Well, on my visit to Uncle Clint and Auntie Sally's peaceful home, two out of three wasn't bad.

We arrived bang on time and were greeted by the smell of freshly baked bread. It was lovely, but turned out to be a yeast infection Uncle Clint picked up in a Vietnam brothel in 1968 and hasn't been able to shake. Still, a lovelier couple you couldn't hope to meet, and we were soon being served something sort of brown and chewy, a meat of some kind, which they said they'd made in their bathroom. Jerky, possibly? Turkey? Turkey jerky? Dunno.

At the dinner table, Aunt Sally revealed a veritable Macy's Parade of home-cooked Americana - meaning most of it was beige and fried and looked like it contained more fat than a rolled loin of Elvis.

A model of polite gentrification, I gratefully sampled everything on offer, from the fried meat to the fried other stuff, and only got grease on my tie /face / back two or three or twelve times.

But delicious as this all was, I had noticed a distinct lack of booze. The pint of scotch 'n' bourbon I'd had while driving over was wearing off, so I asked for a beer.

'We don't take alcohol in this house', replied Uncle Clint, curtly.

I'm a man of manners, so I nipped to the loo to gather my thoughts and let the panic attack die down. It was there that I saw a bottle marked 'Moonshine'. 'Ha!' I thought. 'You're rumbled, Uncle Clint!' And I necked the lot. It had a distinctly corrosive edge, but was no worse than my home-made absinthe. I think I only blacked out for 10 minutes. Or possibly 100 minutes. Only a zero, innit?

Anyway, I emerged in time for dessert, or for dessert being cleared away, and decided to involve Clint and Sally in a little British culture. I called him a stupid old cunt and offered to punch her tits in. I think I may also have done a little Morris dance on her kitchen worktop. I certainly fell off her kitchen worktop more than once and I can't think of another reason why I'd be up there.

(Dessert, by the way, was something beige and fried, with ice cream.)

Well, the evening seemed to be wrapping itself up at that point, so I rolled along the wall to the door, and that's when it happened. I noticed a shade of brown on the stair carpet that I knew only too well.

(I suffer from a complaint which causes me to explosively and immediately empty my bowels when I see a certain shade of upper-middle class rustic brown, commonly used in ads found in Horse & Hound.)

Well, the effect was predictably instant, shocking and unstoppable. The involuntary roar came first, which clearly shocked Clint and Sally, but it was when I fell and expelled a volley of angry brown feculence from each trouser leg that Clint suffered his first heart attack. (The other two were just tremors, really.) As always, it was quite something to behold - like Jackson Pollock having a particularly expressive outburst in an oxtail soup factory.

(The irony was that the 'Moonshine' I'd consumed was in fact a brand of multi-purpose surface cleaner, and Aunt Sally had nothing with which to clean up my little mess! Life, eh?!)

As usual, everyone ignored the real victim: me. Uncle Clint can have a shower, then heart surgery, then a few years of rehabilitation, and he'll be fine. I have to live with this affliction forever.

Anyway, goodbye Florida. Thanks for the memories. And the herpes. I will be back.


Friday, 18 June 2010

Your nan's dildo

Sometimes, while you're looking the other way, opportunity sneaks up on you and pops its bristolas in your ears.

So it was that, while presenting an award at the Adult Industries Marketing Awards the other night, I met the founder and CEO of Europe's leading supplier of sex toys, marital aids and performance enhancers to the grey market.

Two days later he called to ask if I would be interested in becoming his Marketing Director.

After being cruelly allowed to resign by my last so-called company, this could be a chance to again flex my massive management gland, and to push the envelope of marketing invention once more.

Give me your opinions, my friends. Adviseify me. Should I become the Marketing Director of a company that sells dildos to your nan? (And not just dildos. Some of the them are MASSIVE dildos. And butt-plugs. Butt-plugs! Who knew old people were so fucking dirty? Did you know? I didn't know. And, fuck me, you should see some of the strap-ons they sell! Seriously! Either your nan is a lesbian with that busted old crone three doors down, or she's banging your poor old grandad up his poor old clacker - a clacker which beat the fucking Germans! Talk about an eye-opener. And I don't just mean your grandad.)

Is this a gift horse or a fucked old nag that needs to be turned into glue? Help me, my friends!


Thursday, 17 June 2010

Dave Knockles' World Cup Round Up

As a one-time leading light of the marketing, communications, advertising and creative industries, I feel it's about time I offered a definitive guide to the World Cup-themed commercials currently running.

Let's start with Nike's understated little low-budget effort.

That bit above was sarcasm. I'm very good at it. (That bit wasn't sarcasm.) I know from an industry source that the budget for this commercial was over £1 billion. Or something. It was a lot, anyway.

So the chaps at the agency will be pretty fucking embarrassed when I point out the obvious flaw with this great Southfork of an ad: You forgot to put the price in, boys! You forgot to add 'From just £44.99 at JJB Sports, Footlocker and all good sports retail outlets, see website for details, terms and conditions apply.' AMATEURS!

You also left out a bird with substantial bristolas modelling the boots wearing just a football shirt (a schoolboy error, that one), and missed on the opportunity to upsell all the other stuff Nike makes. I mean, in those 3 minutes of footballers getting fat, then getting knighted, having statues built of them, blah blah blah, you could have featured a good 75 other products.

All in all, a noble effort, but fatally lacking in bristolas, price flashes and a shouty voiceover. I expect better next time.

Next, Pepsi unites a continent that's been fucking itself ragged for centuries.

Well, some people might say that this ad, here in its full never-to-be-seen-anywhere-but-the-creatives'-showreel 150-second version, is a wang-shrivellingly patronising piece of imperialistic corporate horse shit. But what do they know? Maybe the people of Africa, up to their throats in poverty and debt, could be brought together by a group of multi-millionaire footballers and a big flag with 'Refresh your world' on it. How the fuck do you know until you give it a shot? This is a vision of a new politics for Africa. Football, a big flag and a load of locals who aren't killing each other because they're too busy having a fucking good time. Can't we just try it?

Next, Pringles.

Great ad. Anelka demonstrates how to use the product, and Crouch does his funny little robot dance - the one that was all over the news...oooh...four years ago. It's perfect - 'The Crouchbot', as I have just termed it, is now a cliche so old and tired that it worries it's going to die every time it takes a shit. For marketeers, this is good news. It means there's no danger of it upsetting anyone. And that means pay rises all round. Good work from the agency. (NB - It doesn't matter that watching the ad makes you glaze over and start wishing that thing on your ballbag is a tumour.)

So, a mixed bag so far. We've got a missed retail opportunity from Nike, the hope of a new dawn for Africa from Pepsi (though they've disguised it as a massive mound of awful double-chewed shit) and a classic piece of lowest-common-denominator thinking that would have ensured a comfortable night's sleep for the marketing department.

Let's hope we see some advertisers using more bristolas and bigger price flashes in their World Cup advertising. If it's out there, I will bring it to you.


Monday, 14 June 2010

Dave does Porky's

Ensconsed in Paynted Laydeez, a tremendous bar I discovered on my recent sojourn to Florida, I was being shown the sights by a fine and upstanding young lady called Kelly-Anne-Marie-Jo.

Those sights mainly consisted of bits of Kelly-Anne-Marie-Jo herself, and bits of her friends, Shaqueena, Lashonque, Gabriella De Souza Margerita Hernandes De Calderon De Margerita De Souza, Pati-Belle May, Scout-Mystery Lockhart and Missy Parabchakraporn.

These spunky young women made me feel welcome in at least 94 different ways. They even made sure I was well-fed by taking me to some of their favourite slop-houses, burger-dens and grill-sheds. One of them, Porky's Last Stand, I felt worthy of my second ever restaurant review. (I'll carry on in the style of my first. If ain't broke, don't fucking fix it, innit?)

Porky's Last Stand, Florida.

When I walked into Porky's Last Stand I had a healthy appetite, a spring in my step and around 40 dollars in cash. When I left, I could barely walk, I could barely see, I had torrential meat sweats, I had sick on my tie, there was a dull, throbbing pain in my dangle-bag and I had 32 dollars in cash.

But those aren't the only reasons I love this place. There are more.

It's not an easy place to love, mind. Some might see a salad cart ridden by a pig (pictured above) and assume that its creators have as much taste as a South African divorcee shopping in Trump Towers for a leopard-skin Hitler outfit. Indeed, generally speaking, the place looks like the set of Seven Brides For Seven Brothers staged in the Liberace Care Home for the Overtly Rococo.

But, really, does anyone actually give a fuck what a restaurant looks like? Personally, I'd eat dinner at a table in the middle of an especially ill-tempered gang-bang if they kept the claret 'n' Malibu coming.

We started with some 'buffalo wings', but if they were made of buffalo, I'm a fucking Dutch monkey's uncle. No matter - whatever they were, I ate them and then all the others they brought. And then the rest.

My companions were keen for me to try the sirloin, but I said, 'Fuck that - I want steak'. The piece of cow that came sizzling to the table was the size of a mattress and cooked just as requested: raw enough to taste of blood-bogeys.

By this time, I'd sampled most of their extensive wine list. They have red flavour wine, white flavour wine and also pink flavour wine, and it all goes very well with the scotch. And the brandy.

Now, at this stage, I did something of which I'm not especially proud. I fell under the table while attempting to goose a waitress, and got stuck. Then I panicked. Then, during the ensuing thrash, I had a fairly major digestive malfunction, mostly over the shoes, legs, ears, hair and neck of a very nice woman at the next table.

I raise this only to highlight the superb service of the staff at Porky's who, apart from some tears, threats and thinly-veiled revulsion, were superb. They didn't even complain when a couple of the girls consoled me in the gents (a little noisily - sorry!) or when I accidentally sat at the wrong table and spent 10 minutes whispering porn into the ear of a pumpkin farmer's wife.

We ended the evening with dessert, possibly, and coffee. Or not. I dunno. Who cares? By the time the meat part is over, I'm usually ready to move straight onto breakfast.

All in all, I'd recommend Porky's Last Stand for a Roman orgy.


Overall: 8 Knockles.
Meat: 9 Knockles.
Bristolas: 6 Knockles.
Ambience: 8 Knockles.
Tolerance of spending 45 minutes in the toilet with two lapdancers: 10 Knockles.

Price: Apparently, $8 gets you dinner and drinks for nine. That can't be right, can it?

I hope that helps you when you're considering a place for dinner next time you're in Florida. I think we both know it will.


Friday, 11 June 2010

The Florida Diaries, part 2

BUUURRRRPPPP! Cor. Sorry. Just had a Rustlers.

Right. More on my travels in Florida, news of which, I know, excites you more than Madonna in an orphanage for Hispanic male models.

As I mentioned, my route to Florida was a little more complicated than I would have preferred. In total, I spent 140 hours in the air. And after a journey like that, a marketing guru and envelope-pushing ideas-doctor like me needs sustenance.

Imagine my delight, then, on finding this beautiful (well, you know - not beautiful but...sort of...fat and nice) woman at a place I spotted as the cab driver whisked me from the airport to 'anywhere with a bed and access to porn'.

Seeing a sign inside reading 'We serve burgers for breakfast' was a joy mixed with surprise - like finally banging that bird you've been after for months and finding a fiver tucked behind her ear.

I asked for burgers, many burgers, and they did indeed serve burgers for breakfast. I stopped eating them when they ran out of meat.

Refreshed, refuelled and ready to go, I went straight to a hotel, checked in and made ready to find out what Florida has to offer. Then I had a snooze, for about a day, and woke up all squashed between the bed and the bathroom door, and then I went out.

Strolling down the road, I quickly noticed that America is quite big. Nothing is particularly close to anything else. So, after walking in 35-degree heat for two hours and reaching nothing more than deserted petrol stations and the houses of people with more ears than teeth, I concluded I should hire a car.

Two days later, I'd done exactly that. (I got slightly waylaid by a trip to a very nice bar called Paynted Laydeez. Honestly - they really do the service industries much better than us, the Yanks. They could not have been more accommodating, those girls. It was almost moving.)

Behind the wheel of my 4x4 (although it was big enough to be more like a 7x7, or even a 9x9) I began to explore. I travelled beyond the tourist traps and obvious theme park attractions - off the track so well beaten by my countrymen - and rambled freely through the undiscovered towns and communities that make up the real heartland of America.

It was fucking awful. Have you seen these people? Jesus wept. The knuckle-shaped foreheads, the ball-park bellies, the ironic-but-not-ironic hair. I think - I mean, I really think - that this is a different species. It's a devolution. At some point, human beings in that part of the world started regressing, genetically. Eventually, they'll turn into plants. Big fucking fat ones. And this is me talking - someone who's worked extensively with advertising agencies.

So, I headed back to Paynted Laydeez where I met the delightful Kelly-Ann-Marie-Jo (shown above in a whimsical T-shirt I bought her). We became something of an item during my stay and, in a small way, she helped me heal some of the wounds left me by that soulless bitch, boiler and ballbag, Cutella.

I didn't just stay at Paynted Laydeez, though! They don't do food, so I had to leave to eat. I'll be filing a couple more restaurant reviews in the coming days, as well as a description of a meal I enjoyed in the home of a real American family. I think they enjoyed my company a lot! But who wouldn't?

You will surely tune in.


Tuesday, 8 June 2010

My debut restaurant review: Fat Boys' Bar-B-Q

Many friends, admirers, well-wishers and confidantes have suggested, then asked, then begged that I start to review restaurants.

As a modest and self-effacing man, I didn't agree immediately. But then I realised I'd be fucking spectacularly cock-on at it, so here goes - my first ever. I've tried to avoid the usual cliches of the restaurant review game and have instead chosen to develop my own style and scoring method.

Fat Boys' Bar-B-Q, Florida.

Fat Boys' Bar-B-Q has a bar, a barbecue and lots of fat boys. So the name is spot-on. It's not like one of those places in London called Le Foofoo de Poncenpoo, or SLOPS or The Kitchen and Room With Tables where you think you might nip in for a balti and a pint of cognac, but they don't do that sort of thing, oh no, they do pig's jizz on a bed of fanny farts, or stomach and beans, or stuff in French that turns out to be a wasp's bollock.

The room itself is less like a restaurant and more like a barn just after 35 cows and a dozen animal rapists have had a very long and angry party. The waiting staff, however, more than make up for that by demonstrating a consistently high standard of bristola or, in the case of the men, giving me beerz.

The food is, as you'd expect from a barbecue joint in America, more calorific than a deep-fried SuBo. First, I tried pulled pork, which came in a big pile on a big plate. Being nearly totally meat, it was excellent. So I had another one. Then I had some brisket, which was a bit of a cow they'd been cooking since 1976 or something, and that was mainly meat, so that got the thumbs up too. Had a couple of them, I seem to remember.

Then it was time for the main course (which I like to call The Blur because this is generally the point where things go a bit fuzzy, what with the food and the booze and that), and I tried the Sulley's Dawg Burger. 'Why's it called the Sulley's Dawg Burger?' I asked.

'Becuz iss reeyul beeeyug,' replied the waiter. 'And Sulley's dawwwg is reeyul beeyug.' He could teach a lot of copywriters a thing or two, that boy.

It was a superb burger, being mostly meat, so a further thumbs up. I accompanied it with a bottle of a local beer, a local bourbon, a local beer, a local alcopop, a local beer and a local girl called Deedee. Then I tried the 42oz ribeye, the triple-triple-dog (nine frankfurters in a baguette), the Pork Motherload Ribs (basically, 50% of a pig) and the Fat Cow Sandwich (assorted fat from a cow, in a sandwich).

I also tried to eat part of the table, arm-wrestle the barman and marry seven of the waitresses. Sadly, the over-fussy owner would rather his customers didn't enjoy themselves and, with the help of three of his nine sons, threw me into a 'creek', or as we call it, 'ditch full of shit'.

For that reason, I can't tell you what the desserts were like, but all the clientele were fat cunts, so they must be nice.

All in all, I'd recommend Fat Boys' Bar-B-Q for a lads' night out, or a date with a fat, greedy girl you don't like much.

Scores (out of 10 Knockles):

Overall: 6 Knockles.
Meat: 9 Knockles.
Bristolas: 8 Knockles.
Ambience: 3 Knockles.
Tolerance of goosing waitresses: 2 Knockles.

Price: $0.00 if you get chucked out by the owner.

Pretty fucking groundbreaking stuff, I think you'll agree. If you know a restaurant you'd like me to review the shit out of, let me know.


Monday, 7 June 2010



My fucking BMW motor car! MINE! Apparently, when they give you a company car - THEY'RE ONLY LENDING IT TO YOU!

Did any of you know this? Did any of you fucking think you might TELL ME?

Oh, no - of course! Much better to let me get back from my afternoon colonic and find one of the oozingly corpulent clacker-fucks from HR waiting for me with a pile of papers and the threat of legal action.

He said, this sludgy great diarrhetic smear of a person, 'I'm here for the car, Dave. You should have returned it promptly on the day your period of notice expired.'

(Do people in HR have their minds erased when they enter the profession and have it reprogrammed by some jargonistic fascist fuck-ball robot? Or are they just attracted to HR because they're already a sub-spunk fuck-bubble wank-crack who frots themselves mushy over contract law glossaries from a particularly fascist period of Nazi Germany?)

I tried to fight but, frankly, after a colonic I'm a combination of dizzily euphoric and in considerable discomfort, so I just gave him the keys and said, 'You look after her, you hear?' As he walked away, I simply added, 'You cunt.'

What the fuck am I supposed to do now? My life is over! My BMW motor car is my second home! Without it, I can't do a fucking thing! Can you kerb-crawl on fucking foot? Can you visit the drive-thru on a bike? Can you hump broads on the back seat of a fucking skateboard? NO!

This is a fucking insult. This is a slap in the face that crosses the line beyond the fucking pale.

I will return. I will return with a BMW motor car of such high specification, they haven't invented the fucker yet. It'll have a bath in the boot, be capable of time travel and deliver scientifically-perfected blowjobs at the flick of a switch.

They shouldn't have taken my BMW motor car.


Sunday, 6 June 2010

The Florida Diaries, part 1

My friends, I have returned from a fortnight in Florida with a renewed passion for life, envelope-busting ideacising and, above all, bristolas.

Florida is to bristolas what Champagne is to...champagne. But that's for a later post. First, let me tell you about how my sojourn began.

I arrived at Heathrow in plenty of time to catch my flight. The day before, in fact. (You have to remember that I haven't been on holiday since I was 8. I don't know how the fuck it works.) I popped to the bar for a couple of pre-flight relaxants and got into a nice chat / argument with the barman who, after a couple / five more pre-flight relaxants told me to go fuck myself, so I went to the check-in desk.

'Are you an air-traffic controller?' I whispered to the girl. 'Because I need to land this thing and I bet you've got a very tidy runway.' Sadly, she didn't have time to react because she had to go on her break very suddenly, and was replaced by some lumpen munter with a face like sad cardboard. She looked at my ticket.

'This flight is tomorrow, sir. Bring it with your passport two hours before the flight leaves - TOMORROW.' She said 'tomorrow' a few times more after that, but I was confused by something else.

'Pass-what?' I asked.

'Passport, sir. Your passport.'

Then she explained what a passport was, and then why I would need one, and how to get one very quickly, which I did, after a very large amount of money changed hands and some very thorough checks into my personal affairs (and cavities) were conducted.

It was about as enjoyable as putting your hand into a boiling pan of salted razor blades but I got through it and, JUST, made it back in time for my flight - which I boarded triumphantly at a sprint carrying only my small satchel and a scotch 'n' Vimto 'n' scotch.

The flight was shorter than I expected, but I disembarked at Charles De Gaul Airport ready to knock the US of A on its fanny!

I headed straight for the bar and began drinking in earnest (because I was on holiday, dammit, and I don't let my hair down enough) and, after a couple of hours, discovered that I had, in fact, flown to France. You know, rather than Florida.

Never mind - I spotted a flight to Florida leaving in half an hour, and legged it. Phew! Just made it, despite pausing to do a little sick into a plant pot. Good long flight this time - but Vagar Airport was distinctly lacking in amenities, and the weather was fucking terrible! A good few snifters of something called fredrikk helped keep out the cold but I was expecting...hang on, Knockles! You've only gone and got the wrong plane again, you silly old cunt-fork!

Well, I quickly bade farewell to the Faroe Islands and, via Stockholm, Amsterdam, Heathrow again, New York, Chicago, Bogota (don't ask me!), Mexico City and then Chicago again, I was in sunny Florida!

Some may think such an arduous odyssey a disaster. Not Dave Knockles! I have discovered that I fucking love aeroplane food! The little forks! The little dishes! The little bottles! It's like being a giant! And, if you ask / shout nicely, they keep bringing them!

I'll write more on m trip in the coming days, including how I came to meet the delightful woman pictured above. Her name is...something or other, and just as the sign promised, she served me cunting burgers for fuck-cocking breakfast!

You must return!