Tuesday, 24 August 2010

Marketing With a Hammer

The man in the image above, up there, look, just above this sentence, there, is Friedrich Nietzsche.

He was a philosopher (which is an olden-days word for 'unemployed') who had some pretty firm ideas about stuff. 'God is dead' was his big line. He was always saying it. Parties, down the shops, in the boozer - all the fucking time.

Well, I imagine he was. I dunno. I only just found out about him on Wikipedia. I was searching for 'French Nazi porn' and he came up, along with a lot of French Nazi porn, obviously. Anyway, that's not important. What is important is that he is now the inspiration for my entire approach to life and marketing.


Mainly, because I saw he did this bit of philosophy in a book he called 'Twilight of the Idols' (which means fuck-all, let's be frank). He also called it 'Philosophising With a Hammer'. There were some short, sharp bursts of philosophy - sort of like being twatted in the face by a big blunt lump of blaaargh.

Now that I do get. That's got me written all over it. So I'm going to make like an agency creative using YouTube and 'be inspired' by it. Or, putting it another way, I'm nicking it and claiming it as my own.

Here it is then: Marketing With a Hammer.

A target audience will only be a target audience for as long as you consider it a target audience. The rest of the time, they're just cuntspanners like everyone else.

Build it and they will come, as long as what you're building has something free or deep fried or with its tits out.

A good idea usually appears to be a bad idea, until you do it and it works. The lesson? Pursue bad ideas like Madonna pursues latino underwear models.

They will tell you that it can't be done. And if you're trying to do a tasteful retail ad, they're right. Stop fucking about, get your head out of your cackshoot and make the price flash much, much bigger.

The agency of the future is already history. I have no clue - none whatsoever - what that means, but I am absolutely convinced that some cunt-clacker somewhere, probably one in a planning department in Soho, wearing unimaginable trousers and hair that belongs in a psychiatric ward, has said it, believed it and tried to shove it down the throat of a client who just wants to get pissed for crying out loud.

A campaign needs three lives. The first to survive the creative who wrote it, a second to survive the creative director and a third to survive the account team. That's why, when it gets to me, it has run out of lives and MUST BE DESTROYED ON PRINCIPLE.

Designers believe that the ability to operate a Mac combined with the ownership of 15,000 typefaces equals talent. It does not. It equals 30 quid an hour.

The world is full of dreamers because the night is full of dreams. Or, to rephrase...er...yeah. Let me see. The world is full of dreamers...er...hmm. Look, I'll be hones: I've overstretched myself with that one. Let's move on.

Bristolas, product name in the headline, big price flash. This is the holy trinity of advertising. Do it any other way and you might as well stick your advertising budget right up your fucking dickybox. (That felt like more familiar ground.)

That's enough Marketing With a Hammer for now. There will be more. And it will be similarly amazing.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Sunday, 22 August 2010

She stinks like a pig in July but I love her

Oh, would you look at her?

Would you look at the girl in the bubble from Sure's latest BO-Fucker For Birds ad?

I don't often fall in love (in fact, it may never have happened, thinking about it - birds are a right fucking pain in the wallet, eh fellas? Know what I mean? Wallet? Eh? HA HA! I'm funny - it's fucking official) but I think I've gone this time.

She's beautiful, this girl in the bubble. Have you seen how she accepts her rank and despicable social stigma with such benign grace and dignity? Have you noticed how she smiles gently to herself when the lift arrives as she realises, 'No. Not for me this everyday convenience, because I smell like a rugby team's shitter after a night on the boiled egg vindaloo.'

Oh, how she touches my soul!

But, frankly, I go right off her when she's welcomed back into normal, polite society. The bit at the end when she's showing offer her boyfriend disgusts me, I have to say. The way she shares a little joke with the other non-stench-riddled bird is sickening.

'This is 'im,' she's saying. 'Yeah - the one I toljoo abaht innit? The one who does all vem funny fings annat wot I toljoo abaht and, cor stroof, ain't men a pain, eh, wot wiv all nair football and silly ways but we love 'em, don't we, can't live wiv 'em, can't live wivaht'm, s'right vo, innit?' Etc, etc, et-cunting-c.

I want to meet this woman, and confiscate her deodarant. I want her in her bubble, all angelic and coy (albeit an angel who smells worse than a month-old corpse in a Saharan wheelie bin).

I don't mind that you stink, pet! I like it! I mean, I fucking reek!

I think we should get naked, turn the heating up to maximum, get under a thermal duvet and roll about making our own porridge. You know where to reach me. I await your call.

All that said, it's a jolly good ad, showing product benefit in a compelling and diverting way. If she had her bristolas out and their was a price flash, it'd be close to perfect. You can't have everything, though, eh.

Well, unless you're me.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Wednesday, 18 August 2010


My friends, I am back!

I'm back in the heady, crazy, wild, lawless, kooky, fruity, freaky, inventive, demented, reckless, relentless, redoubtable, remarkable, re-fucking-splendent world of consumer durables marketing!

And I'm loving it like footballers love aggressive behaviour towards women!

Like Icarus, the prodigal son from the Promised Land, who rose from the grave after the Germans crucified him, or some shit, and then rose from the ashes of the lost Ark to pull the sword from the stone, or whatever, I am back at my old desk, with my old team, doing my old job.

Only I am now...fucking get this...Director of Marketing.

Take a second to roll that name round your mouth like a fine vintage claret with a splash of WKD.

I'm not some pissy, shitty, cunt-pole Marketing Director. I'm the fucking Director of Marketing.

(The 'of' is like adding foie gras to a Pot Noodle. It transforms the name into the ultimate statement of status. For example, The Queen of England sounds fucking...like...regal, doesn't it? But 'England Queen'? Fucking shithawks.)

So, there I was, Monday morning, bursting through the doors and striding with masculine certainty towards my old desk like a wild, wandering tomcat returning to its favourite spot in the sun after spending a few months working as Marketing Director at Europe's leading distributor of sex gizmos for the over-50s.

(Something's not right with that last sentence. Can't put my finger on it. Ah, fuck it - only words innit?)

All the old gang were there: Shit Alan, the bloke with the limp who fixes stuff, all the members of the marketing team whose names I never committed to memory - everyone! And it was so good to see them....hang on, let me correct that...it was so good for them to see me! (I could tell by the open mouths and blank, terrified looks of sheer delight. One of them even fainted! Now that's adoration!)

I was straight back into the old routine - delegating like a fucking maniac up to about 10.30am, then closing my office blinds and settling down for a good, long think. I had a really, really good, deep think, then it was straight over to the agency for a lunch meeting.

This new bunch was hired by the last guy, so I thought I'd give them a chance. (Also, Big Andy Poleman, my MD, told me he'd kick my cunt off if I fired them.)

I must have been thinking very deeply because I bombed through the agency doors at 4pm, pretty much on time for the 1pm meeting.

It was the usual scenario. Receptionistas with A-grade bristolas looking bored behind a giant, monolithic white desk, like an iPod fucked Stonehenge, and straggly gatherings of gangly dandies hanging about doing fuck-all.

I headed for the receptionistas and leaned in close. 'Hello, ladies', I murmured provocatively. 'Are you two professional chicken-trainers? Because you've got my cock doing cartwheels!'

(Bless the poor little things, they couldn't hide their excitement, playing all coy and shocked and offended and mortified. You know the act, right fellas? Anyway, they sent me on to my meeting, once they'd stopped crying.)

I'm sorry to say that my first impressions of this new agency weren't good. A bank of confused faces, questions about what time it was, 'I thought you weren't coming', all that shit. But I soon smacked them right upside their imagination by yelling 'Let's fucking kick some shit into the balls of this account! IT'S FUCKING KNOCKLES TIME!'

That shook them up! (Four of them couldn't take the energy - they just got up and left! So long suckers! You can't stop the Knockles Train, so get on board or get out of the way!)

Anyway, they slapped some ads on the table and I perused them thoughtfully. I felt like a four-balled stallion about to mount his bitch. (Or whatever they mount. A steed? I want to say steed. Flossy? Fluffy? Filly! That's it - filly. Is it? Fuck it.)

Now, bearing in mind that Big Andy Poleman had told me not to change anything the agency was doing, I knew I'd have to make my changes subtly. And boy did these ads need changing. No bristolas, no product name in the headline, no price flash - schoolboy errors.

So, after a short, respectful pause I simply said, 'I would just like to make a few subtle changes. I WANT BRISTOLAS, THE PRODUCT NAME IN THE HEADLINE AND A FUCKING BIG PRICE FLASH. DO IT! BY 5.30! GOODBYE!'

And that was that. It was reassuring to know I can still give creative direction as well as I ever could. Sweet cunting Jesus, it's good to be back.

Right. I'm off to tell the agency to do more, to a higher standard, faster and for less money.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Wednesday, 11 August 2010

Photographers. The truth.

I've worked with photographers. I've stood there in the cold while they look at a landscape for upwards of fifteen minutes before saying, 'Nope. This isn't right. The light's too...gooey.' I've watched as they try endlessly and repeatedly, like a clockwork autistic obsessive/compulsive, to make a single hair on a model's head stay exactly 13mm from the adjacent hair. And I've watched as 5pm approaches and the shots suddenly start to get done a lot fucking quicker.

Oh, I've worked with photographers.

Someone once said of photographers that 'it's not the man behind the camera - it's the camera in front of the man'. And that someone was me, just then. What I mean by it is, simply, 'a bloke with a camera' becomes 'a photographer' when the cost of the camera exceeds the cost of his car. But essentially, it's still a bloke with a camera. If he has a good camera, he will be considered a good photographer. Excellent camera? Excellent photographer, clearly. Amazing camera? Well done. You're an award-winner.

So, yes, some of them are chancers. But not all. Some of them are delusional fruitcakes. And, to be fair, many of them are just inveterate bullshitters.

I invite you to find out for yourself by looking at photographers' websites. Here is what you will find in the 'portfolio', 'gallery' or, if they're a proper cunt, 'art' sections.

All photographers will have a series of shots from mid-America, featuring huge landscapes, run-down diners, weathered signs, wonky old lights and, probably, a bird in a checked shirt pondering the faded glamour of America's heartland while, if you're lucky, revealing one of her bristolas.

The gritty portrait
All photographers will have stark, detailed, black and white head shots of ugly people. This shows that they can shoot real people (even though nobody but photographers wants to shoot real people, I mean, fuck me, why would you?) and that they aren't just shallow fuckbars obsessed with models and their bristolas (though the work they get paid for will exclusively feature models and their bristolas).

The girl in the wheatfield
All photographers will have a shot of a girl in a field, waist-deep in a crop of some sort, turned slightly away from the camera, looking off across a natural landscape while perhaps gently fingering a wheatsheaf or flower and, if you're lucky, revealing one of her bristolas. This demonstrates the poignant relationship between nature and man and the delicate balance of sorry I drifted off for a second there.

The celebrity
All photographers will have a shot of one or more celebs. They will all be simply shot in black and white and will 'show the real person behind the name'. They will also all tell you that they 'only had five minutes to get the shot'. This is just a cover for the fact that photographers haven't actually invented a different way of shooting celebs that isn't 'showing the real person behind the name'.

The thinly-veiled porn
Photographers are all dirty sex-grubs who enjoy peering through curtains at the erotic pursuits of others. But since this is against the law, they just peer through a camera at the erotic pursuits of others instead. Combine this with a ready supply of would-be models prepared to do anything to get their portfolio going and you have a pornucopia of nudey-bird shots. Nudey birds on horses, nudey birds in mud, nudey birds looking in mirrors, nudey birds holding parrots, nudey birds bending over a kitchen worktop and fingering a...no, you'll have to excuse me while I nip for a wank.

The personal project
I'm not really capable of fully describing the rank stupidity and pointlessness of some of these. I once saw a photographer who raced through his portfolio of nudey birds on pogo sticks etc, just to get to his personal project. He had titled it, simply, 'Me', and it was a series of shots of himself, his possessions, his friends, his gargoylesque grandparents and, of course, his penis. 'This is me', he kept saying. 'But this is you too.'

It fucking wasn't me. It was him. It was very clearly him. Fuck knows what he meant. But I'll tell you what I told him: 'Look, son. Photography's a fucking cinch. Model with big bristolas next to product. Click click click. Pub.'

I stand by that. I can't honestly imagine why you'd want to take a photograph of anything else. Apart from the nudey birds.

Anyway, I'm away to place a series of increasingly pointless and time-consuming calls into my agency just as they approach the deadline for a different, pointless job I gave them.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Tuesday, 10 August 2010


As Dr Dre so memorably put it...actually, I don't know any Dr Dre. I'm not even sure who he is.

As Dave Knockles so memorably put it, I AM THE FUCK BACK!

I have returned, like the prodigal phoenix from the wilderness, back to the company and the market where I became the marketing legend, guru, ideas-busting genius and acclaimed insightologist that I am today.

I'm back in consumer durables. Where I belong.

Big Andy Poleman (my MD again) made me an offer I couldn't refuse. (Mainly because if I did refuse it, he said, he'd punch my cunt off.) I made him sweat, mind! Nobody hurries Dave Knockles into a decision! He demanded a response in 24 hours. He got one in 26. That's brinksmanship, my friends. It's all about the size of your fucking pellets.

So, what will I do, now that I'm back?

Well, I'm not back, actually. I have to serve a week's notice. (Another employer stupid enough to only have me on a week's notice! I know! Idiots! You only keep staff you really aren't sure about on a week's notice! I can't believe pretty much everyone I've worked for has made the same mistake.)

I will serve out this week with diligence and professionalism, even though Mark Schitz, my soon-to-be-ex-MD responded to my resignation with a puzzled look, a slightly frozen expression of fear and then the words, 'Who are you again?' (He said he thought I'd left some time ago. What a fruitcake! Adios, sucker!)

So, while some would serve notice at home doing fuck-alll, I will be at the boozer with my Blackberry well and truly ON, ready to field calls. (Well, I say it'll be on, I mean on vibrate, obviously. I don't want to annoy my fellow regulars in The Cock and Balls. And I'll keep it in the car, of course. Rude, innit, looking at your phone all the time?)


Now, I held a pitch just before I left, then I held a pitch at my new place, but I'm not going to go through that again. Pitching is so time-consuming for client and agency alike, and so costly for the agencies that lose. I also firmly believe that for the client, stability is a brand's best friend. (Also, Big Andy Poleman said if I even thought about changing the agency, he'd fuck my legs up with a hammer and then punch my cunt off.)

So it'll be straight back in the saddle to the breach of the coal face with a new lease of lust for life in a well-worn pair of shoes in pastures new. Or some shit. I don't know. I'm fucking wankered again. Fuck off.

I can't wait to see my old team again! I'm looking forward to seeing their faces when I walk in! They don't know how lucky they are to work for me twice.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Friday, 6 August 2010

Fuck it

I've got a job offer on the table and I can't fucking decide what to do for the life of me.

Blllaaaaargh. You know? Pfft. Blaap. Splllaaaaaargh. Can't fucking decide. Shit shit shit.

On the one hand, I could go back to my old place and be the Director of Marketing (which is fucking different to Marketing Director - FUCKING different) of the number 2 in the European consumer durables market relating to, or directly involving, cleaning clothes and or soft furnishings and or other fabrics.

Or, on the other hand, I could remain Marketing Director of Europe's number one distributor of sex aids, love machines, erotic devices, pornographic enhancement utensils and...well...big fucking dildos for the over-50s.

It's a tough one. I can't decide. I can't decide. I can't decide.

So, I thought I'd get all fucked up on beer and booze and WKD and claret and scotch and Malibu and sherry and scotch and gin and booze and beer and see what happens.

S'like...you know? It's really fucking...like...blaaaagh. You know? Like...just...fucking what? Come on! Fuck off! It's like that. It's exactly like that.

I don't know what to do. I've got a decision to make. FUCK!

It's like...well, put it this way: you know when...NO! I tell you what it's like! It's like....oooh, what's the fucking word now? It's like those things, those fucking things you get when you're a kid...er...GAAAAAGH! What are they? I can't remember. Fuck it. Never mind. It's just...you know...YOU know. You know?

It's like that.

Cor. I'm writing this in the boozer now. I've got my laptop all set up like and that. Wifi. Wireless and that. I've had a few pints of things and some other pints and a bottle and some glasses and stuff and, really, honestly...like, seriously...I think I can't make my mind up just yet.

Maybe I should have another pints of bottles or whatever and that.

HA HA! Someone just said to me...HA HA HA HA! That was brilliant! Oooh, fuck, that was hilarious! He just comes up to me and says...HA HA HA HA! AAAAH HA HA HA HA! Oh, it was fucking brilliant! He said it all...like...funny and that! Oooh, priceless. You should have been here.

Oooh, it's great working in the pub. I'll decide on my decision in a bit.

Anyway, I'd better call the agency and get them to change everything on the ads they're doing.


Thursday, 5 August 2010







I just took a call from none other than Big Andy Poleman, the MD at my last company. (The company, it could be argued, where I carved out a niche as a marketing legend.)

Here's how it went:

"Alright, Knockles, you fucking cunt."

"Jesus! Hello, Mr Poleman."

"Look, are you busy? I mean, after we fired you because you're shit, did you get another job?"

"Yes. I emailed you and everything."

"Did you? I never read that shit. I get one of the slags to do it for me! HA HA! (Laughs and coughs for 2 minutes.)"

"Er...what's up, Mr Poleman?"

"Call me Andy."

"Okay. What's up, Andy?"

"Actually, go back to Mr Poleman. You calling me Andy sounds fucking horrible."

"Okay. What's up, Mr Poleman?"

"Well, since you left, things have been going very well."


"Sales have quadrupled."


"The bloke who replaced you got a new agency in and they're doing all this really good stuff. You know, ads and all that shite."

"I see."

"Well, that's the fucking problem. It's all the agency, innit? That cunt's doing fuck-all, but he cost a fortune."


"So I thought, 'Why don't I get Knockles back? His wages are a third what this fucker's on and the agency's doing everything anyway."

(See? SEE? I fucking told you that doing good ads was career suicide.)

"So what are you saying, Mr Poleman?"

"I'm offering you your job back, you dopey cunt. What do you think I'm fucking doing?"

"Oh. Cor. Right. Er...I'd have to come back on improved terms."

"You always were a cheeky cunt, Knockles. Right - I'll improve your job title from Marketing Director to Director of Marketing. And you can have my old BMW. Well, not the old one - the one before the one before that."

"Wow. I'll have to think about it, Mr Poleman."

"You've got until tomorrow. Don't be a cunt. Poleman out."


Phew! What about that? I know I've just put the phone down, but I really don't think I've ever had a better telephone call than that!

'Director of Marketing!' Back in consumer durables! A 2002 BMW!

I'll have to think hard about this.

Give me your thoughts, my friends. What should I do?

Anyway, I'm off to take all the wit and subtlety out of some headlines.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Wednesday, 4 August 2010

Pitching for clients!

I am, as many of you will know, a marketing professional of unrivalled experience, talent, insight, envelope-busting creativity, girth and ferocity.

So you've probably been wondering how I behave in a pitch.

(I imagine many of you have wondered what I look like naked too. Come on, ladies. Admit it. Power is an aphrodisiac and they don't come more powerful than the Marketing Director of Europe's NUMBER ONE distributor of adult gadgets / marital erotic enhancement devices.)

Well, I've already revealed what pitches are actually about: making yourself look good in front of your peers by making the agency look stupid.

Here, then, are my top tips on how to achieve that goal.

1. Interrupt.

A trusty favourite, this one. Just as the account man is getting started, butt in. Plain and simple. Butt the fuck in. He may be starting to talk about how great his agency is or how much they want your account or ARE YOU THE PEOPLE WHO DID THE AD WITH THE DOG IN IT?

See? Easy, isn't it? Just butt in. It throws the account man off his train of thought and shows your colleagues that you are so fucking awesome, you're prepared to stop this minion in his tracks and dominate the conversation. A bit like a bear would, or perhaps a shark.

2. Drop a bomb.

This is similar to interrupting, but more disruptive. It's disrupterrupting, if you will.

Before the pitch, think of half a dozen 'big' questions about marketing theory, the current advertising landscape, the state of the economy - wotevs. Just like the interruption technique, wait until the speaker is in full flow and then 'drop a bomb', butting right in like an angry goat with a hard-on, launching your pre-prepared question.

For example: We believe that the way to leverage maximum impact in this market is TELL ME. WHAT ARE THE TWO BIGGEST THREATS TO CONSUMER LOYALTY IN YOUR OPINION?

Ker-fucking-boom. The bomb is dropped. Again, this will make the speaker look flustered and weak, while you look like the big fucking cheese who can do whatever he likes to the agency because you're the boss.

One note of caution: make sure the question has nothing to do with whatever the speaker is talking about. It must be totally unrelated to cause maximum fluster, confusion, tension, anxiety and suicidal thoughts.

3. The Great Wall of Laptop

Simple, this one. Take your laptop into the pitch, pop the screen up and hunker over it, as though working. Do this while the presentation continues, and be sure not to make any eye contact with anyone from the agency. This will unsettle them deeply and make you look super-cool and important.

Sometimes, I get all my colleagues on the pitch panel to do the same, so we're all working away on laptops. It's brilliant. One agency boy, when face with this Great Wall of Laptop, said, 'Do you want us to pause for a moment while you guys finish what you're doing?'

Played right into my hands, that. I barked back (keeping my eyes fixed on my screen), 'WE'RE FUCKING MULTI-TASKING! IT'S WHAT WE DO HERE! AND WE NEED AN AGENCY THAT DOES THE SAME! YOU CLEARLY AREN'T THAT AGENCY. I SUGGEST YOU FUCK OFF!'

I can't tell you how good that made me look in front of my colleagues. Shame, really, because they'd got a strategy that I reckon would have quadrupled sales.

4. Sleep

Quite simply, have a snooze. What says 'I'm the Alpha-Alpha Male round here' more eloquently than sleeping right in their faces?

Use my gifts wisely, my friends. (Or use them unwisely. Who fucking cares? It'll only be some agency you fuck over enough to make them fire a load of people, but that's hardly kiddy-fiddling is it?)

With that, I must away. I've got some ads to approve and a nice, fresh red pen in my hand. I'll probably be making changes just so I can use it!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Tuesday, 3 August 2010

Dixons show Saatchi's who's boss

Remember these ads? Oooh, didn't adland grab hold of its scrawny dink-donk and give it a good frot over them?

Widely regarded as brilliant, everyone fucked on about how well written they were, how the concept was simple and clever at the same time, how they were fundamentally linked to the client's essential proposition. A brilliant example of advertising at its best, they all said.

Well, it looks like the client knows best. They're calling a pitch.

I think they've got it bang on. There's only one way to respond to a successful, critically-acclaimed campaign.

Find a new agency.

Why? Obvious, innit. Everyone's talking about fucking Saatchis. Nobody's talking about the client. And why would that client want people talking about his or her (but let's be honest, probably his) agency?

To be honest, if I was the client, I'd be fucking livid. How dare they? How fucking dare they increase sales with ads people actually want to look at? What the fuck were they thinking?

I'll make it simple for the agency boys, so they hear it loud and clear: if you increase sales with horrible ads, everyone blames the agency and the client gets a bonus. If the agency increases sales with brilliant ads, everyone congratulates the agency then the client gets fired because, well, it was all the agency, wasn't it? The lesson: don't do ads anybody likes and everyone wins.

Saatchis must be kicking themselves. Doing good ads? Fucking amateurish.

Anyway, I must dash. I've got to brief my agency on an ad that needs to go tonight. I've also got a four-hour lunch planned, which I'll be doing first.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Sunday, 1 August 2010

Pitch day. A client's perspective.

Look at these calm, professional welcoming clients ushering an agency into a pitch. Aren't their warm expressions just perfect? Wouldn't their beneficent demeanour put any agency and its pitch team at ease (even the jumpy creative guy who's the only non-suit in the agency who can really present but who sweats like a fat uncle on a dancefloor)?

Yes. Absolutely.

And that's why I'd never have cuntwodges like them working for me.

A pitch is war. A pitch is a world war. A pitch is World War 7 and I'm General Dave 'Knuckles' Knockles of the 4th motherfuckfacing Battalion. You agency shitshooters just walked into my theatre of conflict and you'd better have come with some serious firepower or you're going to leave in a bodybag.

In fact, fuck it - you're going to leave in a carrier bag because there'll be fuck all left of you but teeth and jam. (And pubes. There are always fucking pubes, aren't there, no matter what you do.)

Yes, I called you in. Yes, I gave you a brief. Yes, I changed that brief radically with a week to go. (And, okay, I changed it back again with two days to go. And, fair enough, I changed it completely again the night before the pitch.) Yes, this pitch is only happening because I have asked for new agencies to give me their view on my business.

But I'm not here to listen to your ideas. I'm not here to bathe in all 266 slides of your soapy Powerpoint hot-tub. I'm not here to see the creative work you've probably done far too much of, because you fuckers always do.


I'm here to make a series of pedantic and confusing criticisms designed to impress my peers by making you look inept. And it will work because you're too desperate to win the business to point out that I'm talking utter fuckchunks.

Do you seriously think I'd give you a brief, spend an appropriate and respectful amount of time digesting your response to it and then follow your professional advice?

Go fuck a cat!

How does is reflect on me when I follow your advice and it works? Shitting badly, that's how.

'Hey! Did you hear about Knockles? He increased sales by 130%!'

'He did? How'd he do it?

'He listened to every word the agency said!'

'Then why are we paying him? Fire his balls off!'

What kind of wet-balled jizzmop of a marketeer would actually listen to his or her (but let's be honest, probably his) agency? You'd have to be thicker than Simon Cowell's corset to allow your agency to take any credit for anything.

Take it from me, I'm a seasoned marketing professional and widely regarded as a genius in my field. DO NOT PAY ANY ATTENTION TO A WORD YOUR AGENCY TELLS YOU. IT WILL GET YOU FIRED.

So on pitch day, don't pay a Blunkett's bit of notice to what the identikit Jaspers and Victorias are telling you. Just do everything you can to make them look stupid in front of your colleagues. It's one of the ways I rose from Marketing Executive to Marketing Director in just 17 years.

(Oh, yes. You read it right. Seventeen years. Fucking frightening, isn't it?)

Tomorrow (or the day after, or the day after that, or, like, whenever) I'll tell you exactly how I did it to the agencies that pitched for my business last week.

Now, though, I've just decided that all my ads need changing and I'm going to tell my agency all about it, even though it's 9.50pm on a Sunday motherbastard night.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!