Wednesday, 28 July 2010

How not to behave before a pitch

The days before a pitch can be some of the most nerve-wracking, ball-clenching, winky-shrivelling, anger-inducing, resentment-causing, argument-creating, resignation-causing, punch up-generating, affair-ending times in an agency's life.

I should know! I've called more pitches than I can remember! Some of them just for the fun of it! Or even just to see the look on the account director's face! HA HA! (I am a funny fucker - all my agencies have told me!)

Anyway, I've built up enough experience to know how an agency should conduct itself in the final days before a pitch.

The temptation, I know, is to make any and every attempt to sway the client's judgement, to push them by any means to choose me me me me look at me me we're so amazing we'll do anything for you me me me.

Here's what I think agencies should and shouldn't do.

1. Do not call me on the pretense of asking if I have a projector.
'Heeeeey, Dave, mate. I was just wondering if you guys have a projector over there for us to present with for the pitch, mate. Because we are going to need some serious hardware for this presentation, mate! We've got some amazing work, honestly, mate. No lie - this is some of the best this agency has produced, mate. Can I just talk you through it, mate? The creative guys don't want me to, but I just think it's so good that I want to share it with you, my mate. If you could just let me know what you like and don't like, mate, that'd be...'

Fuck off.

2. Do not call me on the pretense of asking if I have a laptop.
This is exactly the same as the projector call, but usually comes about half an hour after the projector call.

Again, fuck off.

3. Do call me and ask me if I want to have lunch to discuss the pitch arrangements.
By all means, let's get together over a coffee / sandwich / 3-course lunch / 5-course lunch / 7-course tasting menu / 7-course tasting menu with wine / 7-course tasting menu with wine which leads into a monumental tear up ending with your account exec's ladyfoof balanced on my chin. I mean, purely to discuss the logisticacious and arrangementitial requirements of the day itself.

For instance, will I have a projector? Will I have a laptop? These are fundamental questions that need to be answered. Over lunch.

4. Do send me a little present every day for a week before the pitch.
Nothing says you care like a little present. And nothing says you really care like a little present every day for a week. Nothing extravagant, just a little something. A bottle of scotch, for instance. Or a bigger bottle of scotch. Or a hog roast. Maybe two tickets on the Eurostar to Paris and a grand to spend. Perhaps a little car. I dunno. I'll leave it to your imagination. Just try to make it relevant to the pitch. For instance, if you're pitching for a company that makes boilers, fly me to the Maldives, where I can experience what central heating feels like, only outdoors. If my company makes watches, fly me to Dubai, where they sell watches. That sort of thing.

5. Do not be a load of blokes.
There's nothing worse during the final days before a pitch than to think that the agency coming to pitch is just a load of blokes. What you should try to be is a load of birds, ideally with big bristolas or, failing that, then huge bristolas. I know it sounds like a tiny detail but, believe me, it can make a massive difference when it comes to decision time!

I hope that helps! It should. I fucking wrote it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to brief my agency with a six-word email I wrote when pissed.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Monday, 26 July 2010

I AIRBRUSH THEREFORE I AM

Apparently, the government are considering asking advertisers to add a kitemark to all ads which contain airbrushed images.

They'll request that advertisers add the symbol on a voluntary basis as part of a national effort to put body images issues on the political ma...NO! I CAN'T CARRY ON WITH A STRAIGHT FACE!

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

ARE YOU FUCKING NUTS? YOU WANT US TO VOLUNTEER TO TELL THE PUBLIC WE'RE BULLSHITTING THEM RIGHT IN THE FACE WITH EVERY SINGLE AD WE PUT OUT?

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

Ahem. Sorry. Let me try to continue without cracking up. Good. Right. Ahem.

NO! I'VE GONE AGAIN!

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

Ooooooh, shit, that is FUNNY! That is ball-wiltingly, fuck-bangingly, twat-splashingly FUNNY.

F.U.N.N.Y.

Imagine, advertisers actually volunteering to show the public what their product actually looks like. Imagine it! Actually showing people as they really are. Actually showing flacid hamburgers, crack-addled models, paltry servings, ineffective washing powder and all the rest of the shitsplosh that we flog without so much as a single solitary toss about whether it's good, bad, needed or not.

'Hello, turkeys! We've got this great idea called Christmas. Just put an X on this piece of paper and we'll chop all your fucking heads off!'

Fuck me. I haven't heard a joke this good since Madonna's last single.

Well, just to be clear - I won't be volunteering to remove airbrushing from my ads.

Why? Because I AM THE AIRBRUSH! KOO-KOO-KER-FUCKING-CHOO!

GAAAH! I'M OFF AGAIN!

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

Thursday, 22 July 2010

Pitch battles, part 3

After a proper chemistry meeting and a not-so-proper one, it was yesterday the turn of the third agency on my pitch list.

This was the regional agency with a 'hub' in London and some impressive results.

According to their website, they are 'groundbreaking strategists with award-winning creative thinkers of global stature'. They have also worked for Coca-Cola, Nike, IBM, the BBC, Proctor & Gamble, Apple and Orange.

(The work on the site, however, seemed limited to a manufacturer of air conditioners and a leaflet for a local kennels called Janet Balls Dog Hotel. They were very proud of it, though. 'Our innovative print solutions for Janet Balls Dog Hotel increased profits by up to 400%.')

So, I headed to their London 'hub' for a chemistry meeting and, hopefully, a massive tear-up.

The 'hub' part of it was clear: it was around the size of a hub cap. Squeezed in as an afterthought in a bunker-like concrete building at the bowel-end of an industrial estate, it had just enough room for a small coffee table, three collapsible chairs and a kettle.

The 'London' element I was less sure of. We seemed, as far as I could tell, to be in cunting Lincolnshire. Now, I'm no geography teacher, but if we were in London, it was very, very North.

The two agency principles were the Chairman / President / CEO / MD / Global Account Director, and the Chief Creative Officer / Global Digital Strategist / Global Creative Head / Global Head of Art / Global Head of Copy.

Their business cards were bigger than the fucking Telegraph.

We squeezed into the 'hub' and Lee, the Chairman Global President Etc, gave me a passionate and lengthy description of his company's strengths. They are 'the fookin best agency in fookin Cheshire by a fookin mile' and 'as good as that fookin London lot anyday' and 'always winnin loadsarawards and fookin' all that shite'.

Meanwhile, the Creative Global Whatever Etc, was drawing with a black marker pen on some kind of board.

When Lee finished (saying, I think, 'we're dead fookin creative - we've even gorra fookin meetin room wivvuh fookin chair like off of James Bond and that') the Pan-Continental Creative Overlord Etc turned to reveal his work.

He'd drawn a light bulb. On a blank canvas.

'That's what we'll do for your brand,' he said in a barely audible, throatily rich whisper.

Then he fell off his chair, out of the door and into the corridor, where he coughed like a dying hound for a worryingly long time and then walked off, presumably to the nearest boozer.

'See whorrah mean?' said Lee. 'He's a fookin creative genius, he is.'

'Is that it?' I asked.

'Yeah,' replied Lee. 'Wotchuh reckon?'

'I reckon that bloke's your Dad,' I said. 'I'd catch up with him before he dies without leaving you his massive debt and chronic alcoholism.' Lee ran off, with a look of familial concern.

Fucking weird, eh? Nothing more to do but head home without so much as a pint of shandy inside me. (I got back into town, naturally. Then I had a pint of shandy, substituting the beer for scotch and the lemonade for scotch.)

Can't say I was impressed. Still, I think I should let them pitch. It'll be fookin mental.

Right, I'm off to claim virtually everything I've bought over the last month on expenses.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Wednesday, 21 July 2010

The client dead act

Hello, agency professionals. This one's for you.

You know those meetings you sit in with clients, the ones where they seem to be doing their very best to appear dead?

It could be a one-on-one chat, it could involve every cunt from the CEO to the bloke who delivers the tampons, it could be a pitch. But you know the ones. They're the meetings where you start thinking 'Are they actually dead, or am I the most boring fuck-knacker on earth? Am I just not making sense? Do they know something I don't? What the fuck is going on? I'm fucking dying!'

And then you try to liven things up, so you start gesticulating. And you speak a bit faster, and you up the volume. Then maybe you stand up and walk about it a bit, like they do in films. And perhaps you try the odd fist-pump on the table.

By the end of it, you're a widly gesticulating twatbox who's pacing wildly around the room and whacking the table while shouting.

And still the client sits there, deader than Subo's libido.

Well, the truth is this: WE'RE DOING IT ON FUCKING PURPOSE.

It's Lesson One at marketing school. But why do we do it?

1. It makes you nervous and vulnerable and self-conscious and embarrassed and, therefore, more likely to do what we want / charge less.

2. We enjoy it.

I particularly enjoy doing it with creatives. Creatives are always more nervous anyway, because they've produced another one of their precious babies, another masterstroke of incisive thinking, another Cannes winner - and they're worried you're going to fuck it in its cackslot. Which you are. But not until you've sat there in stoney silence and let them talk themselves into a pile of bullshit, after which you can swing into action and make them change the headline so it's got the product name in it, make the colours more like the ones you used in your new kitchen and change the visual to a bird with great big bristolas. You know, all that stuff we have to do to ads to make them fit for the public.

I tell you this secure in the knowledge that there is absolutely no defence against it. Nobody I've ever tried it on has been able to retaliate effectively. Indeed, any attempt to retaliate proves it's worked. And even though you now know we do it, it'll only make you more anxious, self-aware and perplexed when you see that we're doing it to you.

Right. I'm now looking at you with dead eyes, expressionless and silent.













Still doing it.































Still doing it.

































Still doing it.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!


Tuesday, 20 July 2010

Dr Pepper. What's the worst that can happen? Oh, shit.

My fellow marketing professionals, news today of a monumentally dropped bollock by Dr Pepper's digital agency should send a grave warning to you all.

It should send you the following stark and undeniable message: NOBODY IN DIGITAL ACTUALLY KNOWS WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON AND YOU SURE AS SHIT DON'T EITHER.

When pitched the idea to 'hijack Facebook statuses' the client would, I'm pretty sure, have been thinking two things. First, 'Oh, shit - what the fuck is a Facebook status?' Second, 'Why would anyone want hijack it?'

But this client, poor fucker, may have been feeling for some time that all this digital stuff is pretty confusing and intimidating and not nearly as much fun as doing TV spots like I used to and I really wish they hadn't moved me into this stuff just because I'm the only one who knows how to switch my laptop on.

So while the pre-pubescent Creative Strategic Technologist was selling the idea, this client may also have thought, 'Fuck me. I have no idea what this is about. But if I look like I'm not on board with it, my career is going to be more fucked than Keith Richards' short-term memory'.

And, clearly, the folks who had the idea didn't really know what the fuck would happen. Did they? Really? I mean, really really REALLY?

Now, the agency's relationship with Coca-Cola (that's the world's biggest client) is 'under review'.

Quite right too. This may have been a perfectly innocent mistake but the client must act swiftly to retain control and, more to the point, make any and every desperate attempt to avoid being fired faster than a paedo clown.

I'd 'review' the relationship too. I'd review it like I review what's on the bog paper after I've wiped my clacker-shoot. You know, just before I chuck it down the shitter for ever.

Most of all, though, I'd NEVER DO ANYTHING DIGITAL EVER.

Nobody knows what the fuck it does, how it works or what it's for. Come on. Let's talk fucking turkey here. Let's just go back to TV ads and stop trying to show off. You might as well leave your danglebag swinging in the breeze amongst a swarm of angry hornets as trust your career to the toddlers in the digital playpen.

(Apart from anything, when you put bristolas in an ad - which you should always do - you want to see them on a big screen, innit? Not squinted through the grease on your iPhone.)

I hope you all take note. You should.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Monday, 19 July 2010

Pitch battles, part 2.

For the client, the pitch process is, on the face of it, little more than a series of free lunches, booze-ups and jollies punctuated by bouts of ego-massage, brown-nosing and barely-concealed bribery.

Fucking great, eh?

The first chemistry meeting of my latest search for a new agency was a balls-on humdinger, and resulted in this restaurant review. It was a classic of its kind from a big agency: light on detail, big on booze. Obviously, it set a high standard. I know it set a high standard because I can't remember anything about it at all, and I woke up the day after in my clothes, halfway up my stairs, with a sore knob and a jester's hat on.

With that quality of adland schmoozing fresh in my mind, next up for a chemistry meeting was the incumbent agency, Steve. (I don't mean some ironically-astute, uber-cool outfit from some funky shithole in East London who thought it would be funny to call an agency 'Steve'. I mean it was actually a bloke called Steve.)

Steve has a Mac and a bedroom. That's his agency. He has no receptionista with Euro-model looks and spiffing bristolas. He has no iconic film memorabilia in his lobby. He has no creative director who once stood next to Ridley Scott in a lift but passes it off as a 'collaborative project'. He has no board of directors you only see when you threaten to move the account. In short, he's a fucking amateur.

My hopes weren't high before the meeting, but when we sat down in his kitchen and his fucking syphilitic cat kept trying to hawk furballs into my shoe while I drank THE WORST CUNTING TEA I'VE EVER TASTED, I knew this would be a tough afternoon. So it proved.

He began by showing me pictures of his kids, of which he seemed to have about fucking forty. At least three of them looked like potatoes with mouths and one, whom he described as 'my little princess', would have no trouble getting work as a part-time fucking gargoyle. Then there was one - I shit you not - that looked like a cunting turnip with glasses.

That killed an hour. Then I got his wedding photos, some 'glamour' pictures he'd taken of his wife back when she only had the six chins and, most fuck-numbingly awful of all, his paintings. Let me tell you, I don't know much about art, but I know what I hate: all of his paintings. Even the ones of naked women.

I was beginning to wish he'd die at this point, but I'm not a total cunt-bucket, so I tactfully said, 'Look, Steve. I'm not saying you've got no chance of winning this pitch, but if you DO win it, it'll be because every other single agency in the world has been blown up, closed down or turned into a massage parlour. So why don't you shut you fucking bean-hole and give me a bell when hell freezes over or Madonna discovers her modesty.'

I think that was fair.

Once he'd stopped blubbing and hanging onto my leg and self-harming and all that nonsense, he opened the front door and let me go.

The lesson for you, my fellow marketing professionals, is this: there's more to an agency than the work. Yes, Steve can churn out the same shit a big agency will for a fraction of the price. But the marketing isn't as important as the marketer. We are visionaries and experts, and we deserve to sit in nice agency offices, have nice agency lunches and be given nice agency blowjobs. The price of these extras will be charged to our employers - and so it fucking should be.

It's the way I have always worked. And it's the least I expect.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!





Wednesday, 14 July 2010

Lunch. A review.

Yesterday, I had a lunch. It was at a restaurant. This is a review of that lunch.

Now, I'll be honest from the start, right? I don't know what this restaurant was called. I'm not even sure where it was. And I definitely had no fucking clue what I was eating. I was being schmoozed ragged by a big fancy ad agency who wanted my business and, frankly, they just tipped booze down my neck until I forgot that my name is Dave and I have a birthmark the shape of a penis on my penis.

So, I've had to guess at what I was served using my own culinary knowledge. With that in mind, here we go.

A restaurant, London.

Some restaurants, I always feel, are like a pair of slippers. By which I mean, they're not places I want eat. Then there are restaurants that are like a lady's foof. That is somewhere I would like to eat.

Er...I had a point here.

Oh yeah. This restaurant was a total and utter lady's foof. And a very nicely appointed one at that.

Once seated, several things happened. First, I made my standard request for balti which, as per cunting usual, was refused. (All restaurants should serve balti. All of them. If you disagree, you can stick a fist up your own flue.) Next, some booze was brought to the table, which I drank. And drank. And drank a bit more.

Then they started bringing me all these little bits of food. I thought at first that they were bringing me my dinner in fucking installments, but it turns out these were amuses bouches. There was a slice of smoked badger with cabbage sputum. There was a huge plate bearing a single pork scratching. There was a dainty little cup of beetroot and vitriol soup. There were pelican cheeks with butter drool.

(They're fucking FREE, these little bits of whatever. Where's the sense in it? What's in it for anyone? They're like Roger Federer's left arm, or post-cancer Kylie: tiny and a bit pointless.)

Next, a plate of nearly-proper food arrived. It was a square of something sort of brown on a square of something green. Sadly, someone had hawked up a massive slick of lung-gunk and flobbed it copiously across my food.

I called the waiter with a gentle 'OI! CUNT-BAGS!' and sent him scurrying back to the kitchen. He returned a minute later to explain that it wasn't actually the contents of the chef's sinuses, but a 'foam'. It tasted of foam, so I think it was a foam foam.

'It just disappears in the mouth, sir', the waiter explained.

'What's the fucking point of food that disappears in my mouth?' I asked.

'It's a textural thing,' he replied.

'Oh,' I countered.

Next, I was distracted by a bottle of booze, and then a plate of fish. It was fish, neatly and lovingly drizzled with the juice of a different fish. It came with a small salad of Faberge eggs, angel pubes and slices of seared Loch Ness Monster. At least, I'm assuming that was what was in it because I looked at the bill later and that dish alone cost more than I pay for a full massage at The Temple of Adulation in Prague. (And I don't fucking skimp.)

I saw that lot off in about 30 seconds, and then there was a bit of an incident where I fell off my chair and onto someone else's table sort of completely. Then I went to the lav for a while / ages, and then I sat down to the main course. It was an utter success. Smooth, unctuous slices of cow's back, or ears, or udders or something, were dabbed tenderly with a sauce of Bovril and HP, while a delightful scattering of crushed pickled onion Monster Munch added a wonderfully moreish crispness to the plate. That lot went in about a minute, and then I played this little game where I went round the table eating everyone else's too. They laughed and laughed!

The champagne turned up next, so I really can't remember whether I had dessert. There was nothing puddingy in the massive slick of puke I left on my front step, so I think I skipped it and moved straight onto drinking in earnest.

So, overall? Well, if I could remember what it was called, where it was or what I ate, I'd recommend this place heartily. Especially if you like stupid food that costs more per ounce than Simon Cowell's boob job.

The scores:

Overall: 7 Knockles
Meat: 2 / 9 Knockles (depending on what it was)
Bristolas: 3 (very uptight waitresses who allow virtually no goosing)
Ambience: 5
Ability to rinse their customers for every penny they've got: 10 Knockles



There you go. Fucking good, that was. Stay tuned for more indispensable culinary insight. You know you want to!

Why? Because I AM THE RESTAURANT CRITIC!

Monday, 12 July 2010

Pitch battles, part 1

LET'S GET READY TO RUUUUUUUMMMMMBBBBBLLLLLLLE!

In the blue corner, weighing it at £230 million in annual billings, with a pitch record of 7,345 wins, 123,486 losses and 45,399 'we'll call you soon's, hailing from Soho in London, it's THE AGENCY WHO USED TO BE GOOD BEFORE THEY GOT BOUGHT OUT BY THE MULTI-NATIONAL AND WILL PITCH FOR ABSOLUTELY ANYTHING NOWADAYS BECAUSE THERE'S THIS REALLY UNPLEASANT FUCKER FROM THE GLOBAL HQ IN THE STATES WHO COMES IN EVERY QUARTER AND FIRES THE FIRST TEN PEOPLE HE SEES!

In the red corner, weighing in at £55,566 annual billings, with a pitch record of 2 wins, 44 losses and 3 'don't fucking ever call us again's, hailing from a back bedroom in Essex, it's THE INCUMBENT - WHICH IS ACTUALLY ONE MAN AND HIS MAC WHO'S BEEN PAYING HIS MORTGAGE WITH THIS ACCOUNT FOR FIVE YEARS AND IS LITERALLY SHITTING HIMSELF AT THE PROSPECT OF LOSING IT BECAUSE HIS WIFE HAS MADE IT VERY CLEAR THAT HE'LL BE OUT OF THE DOOR QUICKER THAN AN UGLY BACKING SINGER IF THE DOUGH STOPS ROLLING IN!

In the other red corner, weighing at £7 billion annual billings, with a pitch record of 3,000 wins and zero losses, hailing from somewhere outside the M25 but with a 'hub in the capital', it's THE REGIONAL AGENCY WHO CLAIM TO BE ABSOLUTELY MASSIVE, PERFECT IN EVERY WAY, WITH A BULGING AWARDS CABINET AND A RECORD OF MAKING EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEIR CLIENTS AWE-INSPIRING AMOUNTS OF CASH THROUGH THEIR GROUNDBREAKING APPROACH TO CREATIVITY - AN APPROACH WHICH THEY CLEARLY APPLY PRETTY FUCKING HEAVILY WHEN IT COMES TO THEIR OWN WEBSITE, EVEN THOUGH THE ONLY WORK ON IT SEEMS TO BE FOR A BRAND OF AIR-CONDITIONERS AND A SMALL FURTHER EDUCATION COLLEGE SPECIALISING IN HAIR CARE!

And in the other blue corner, weighing in at undetermined annual billings, with a pitch record of zero wins and zero losses, hailing from Shoreditch, London, UK, it's THE SOCIAL MEDIA START-UP THAT'S SO FUCKING NEW AND INNOVATIVE IT HASN'T DONE ANY WORK WHATSOEVER BECAUSE IT HASN'T FOUND A CLIENT THE TWO FOUNDERS CALLED TRISTAN AND BEAUREGARD WANT TO WORK WITH BECAUSE WHAT THEY OFFER ISN'T THE KIND OF THING JUST ANYONE CAN GET THEIR HEAD AROUND IT TAKES SOMEONE WITH REAL VISION AND AN APPRECIATION OF HOW THE ONLINE CONVERSATIONAL FLOW CAN BE STEERED TOWARDS LONG-TERM BRAND AFFILIATION IN WHAT THEY CAN ONLY TERM WEB 3.0 OR POSSIBLY EVEN 5.0!



Yes. My pitch list is together. The chemistry meetings will come first. Then the battle royale to secure the business of Europe's leading supplier of erotic gadgetry to the 50-plus market will commence.

It will not be for the weak. It will feature several rounds of bare-knuckle buying of beerz, lunch and gifts - and even then there will be the final undignified punch-up when the creative gets presented.

It is how it is. It is how it must be.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Friday, 9 July 2010

Thomas Cook. More Knockles than Knockles!

Thomas Cook are demanding a signing-on fee from agencies. They want a cool million quid from the agency that has their account.

WHY DIDN'T I FUCKING THINK OF THIS? IT'S GENIUS!

All the time I was paying agencies to work for me, I should have been asking for that money back as payment for the pleasure of doing it! In fact, while we're on the subject, why the fuck should I pay agencies at all? Shouldn't they pay ME? After all, I'm giving them work, which is a Good Thing. Shouldn't they pay for that Good Thing? Why should they get a Good Thing for shit-all? They've being conning us all along, the fuckers!

Thanks, Thomas Cook. Thanks for showing us all the right way to do things. I'm slightly embarrassed I didn't cook this wheeze up myself, but you can be darn sure I'll be using it from now on - and so will every other client in the world! Ker-fucking-ching!

While we're on the subject, however, I think it only fair that I get a fee from Thomas Cook for having to sit through the Redknapps' fucking wedding video. Here it is. Try not to puke, shit yourself or pull your foreskin over your head, stick dynamite up your clacker and jump through a window. This is not a Good Thing. This is a Bad Thing, and I want my cunting money.




Agency boys - prepare for a new way of being fucked in the ear!

Why? Because THOMAS COOK IS THE CLIENT!

Friday, 2 July 2010

The truth behind the Marketing Director's broom


Advertising agencies have an expression : The Marketing Director's Broom.

This mythical appliance is wielded when a Marketing Director begins a new job and sweeps ad agencies, media buyers, bogroll suppliers et al down the shit-shoot and into a world of redundancies, self-recrimination and explosive alcoholic arguments.

Right now, in at least ten of the nation's advertising agencies, an account handler is walking back into the agency with a distinctly twitchy sphincter because he or she will have to announce to their colleagues, 'They're getting a new Marketing Director'.

Everyone thinks they know what this means. They think it means that they will shortly be fucked inside out and wanked onto the scrapheap without so much as a bin liner to put all those fucking pictures of their kids in.

They are right.

The first thing I do when I take a new position is to fire the agency. Sometimes I don't even look at the work they've done.

Why? Because they're not my fucking agency. They're 'the incumbent'. And they're some other cunt's agency. So if they're brilliant, everyone will give that cunt the credit. And if they suck harder than Madonna on a tour bus, everyone will look at me to sort out the problem. Either way, I don't come out looking like a big fucking hero - which I do if I fire an agency and get a new one. Look at me! I got a new agency! They've got a planner who looks like Eraser Head and a creative director who used to be in a fucking band! Woohoo! Hooray for Dave!

Another important point: being the new Marketing Director is the most perfect of perfect times to have a pitch. And we all know how much fun pitches are. (Unless you're an agency, of course. Then it's an absolute fuckmungous batshit nightmare that costs you a fortune!)

Anyway, the long and short of it, my fellow marketing professionals, is this: the saddest word in advertising is incumbent.

Listen to it. I-n-c-u-m-b-e-n-t. Ooooh, fucking shoot me, why don't you? I'm the incumbent. I've got less reason to live than Subo's dietician.

'The incumbent' sounds like a benign polyp they find on your nudgers. 'Mr Knockles - if you just lift up your dangle-bag, you can see you've got a very uninteresting lump there. Don't worry, it's just an incumbent. We'll call it and say the words 'agency review' and it'll shrivel up and die.'

So, within 25 seconds of starting my new job, I called up the incumbent and said those fateful words: 'Hi! I'm the new Marketing Director. I think I need to...you know...freshen things up a bit.'

Then I held the receiver away from my ear as the screams rang out, the pleading started and the P45s were prepared.

The Marketing Director's broom is real. I've got one, and I fucking use it.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!