Sunday, 27 November 2011

The Union of Advertising Professionals

Take a look at the title of this post.

If you're thinking, 'It says 'The Union of Advertising Professionals', well fucking done, genius. What else do you do? Walk upright? Breathe? Ingest food and pass it through your rectum as fecal waste? Here, have a medal, you dopey cunt.

If, however, you're thinking 'That makes absolutely no fucking sense whatsoever, Dave, because such a union doesn't exist', then you're onto something. I mean, you're not as sharp as me, obviously, but you're not a total Murs.

The question is, why doesn't such a union exist? After all, these are days of mass action, united protest, the 99% standing, banks and stuff and being poor. (Is it? Is that what's happening? I really try to avoid learning anything about other people, really. Mostly, I find, other people are far less interesting than me.)


It's what I love most about agencies. Like hookers, there will always be one out there desperate enough to grip the sheets, bend over and, to the sound of the surgical gloves mm-popping on, sob 'Okay. I'll do it.'

I have spent many hours trying to think of a request so ridiculous, barefaced, unimaginable and downright offensive that no agency, anywhere, would agree to it.

So far, I've come up with one: Will you join a Union of Advertising Professionals?

None of them would touch it. Not with a barge pole. Not even with my barge pole, which is a fucking doozy.

Over the years, agencies have meekly handed over control of the work they do, they way they operate, the way they're paid, their ownership of the work they produce - it's all ours, baby! What's left for a union to protect?

I could call my agency up right now and say, 'Change the headline and the picture, change the structure of my account team so I only talk to Account Directors, I'll pay you after nine months and when I put the account up for review on a whim I expect you to pay me for the privilege of pitching - and all I'd hear is the furious scribbling of the dollop on the end of the phone taking notes before repeating it all back to me to make sure they'd got it right.

It's fucking great! And now you fucking twonks have handed over the family jewels, the shirt off your back and your Nan's ashes, YOU AIN'T GETTING THEM BACK!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Friday, 25 November 2011

Life under Abbott

My friends, fellow marketing professionals and all you other cunts.

My life at the moment is, putting it gently, about as much fun as being gang-fisted by an army of massive-handed psychotic sex criminals with deep-seated anger issues.

Why? Because Rupert Abbott is now my colleague. So what is a working day with this insufferable cock-pipe like? I describe it below. Read, learn, drop your jaw in shock, feel extreme sympathy for the DK then mobilise yourselves as a fearsome, vengeful army of brutal killers and wipe him from the planet.

1. Morning meetings.

Yes. You read that right. Abbott, the speck of dog-flob that he is, insists on a 'catch-up' every fucking morning, 'before the guys get in'. BEFORE THE GUYS GET IN. In other words, he expects ME to arrive before the fucking drones! I don't get paid more than those twonks to do more work. I get paid more because I can do amazing things between the hours of 11am and 12.30pm. Or 12 noon, if it's a Friday, Wednesday, Tuesday or Monday.

2. Reports.

While I was in a coma, Abbott started writing reports for the board. Reports full of figures and facts and boring shit that only non-creative dullbollocks are into. There isn't a single culture-fisting idea in any of his reports. It's all projected sales and campaign results and metrics and...God, I'm getting a fucking headache.

3. Water.

The cunt only drinks water. Fucking gallons of it. His bladder must work harder than Simon Cowell's fucking girdle.

4. He talks to the drones.

He moved his desk out into what I call 'Mordor' - the open-plan bit where Yvonne and Julie and whatever-the-fuck-they're-all-called sit. He gave up his office! What a fucking dope! Now he has to sit amongst them and soak up the intellectual spatter as they waste air with talk of their tampons and their babies and their hopes and their dreams.

I see them through the shutters of my office. Laughing. But the laughing stops when I walk out there - because they know authority when they see it. The pointless cunts.

That lot is just the start of it. But the combined effect of having Lord Shitfister as a colleague is something almost intangible - it's created a change in the workplace that I struggle to define.

Put it this way - I saw...what's her name, the fat one, face like apricot yoghurt, can't remember...I saw her smile the other day.

Do they like Rupert Abbott more than me?


Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Wednesday, 16 November 2011

I don't care WHAT you say - it's genius.

Some people have said that Sapient Nitro's pop video / recruitment tool is, among other things, an execrable piece of unmitigated shit, an exercise in self-indulgence not seen since the invention of Katie Price, a smear of cow smegma on a smear of cow shit on a smear of cow fuck, the worst idea ever brought to life, an insult to human evolution and foul enough to make The Yorkshire Ripper think, 'Maybe I'm not so bad after all.'

But they're wrong.

It's actually brilliant. And the reason it's brilliant is because everybody says it isn't brilliant.

How do I know this?

Because it happens to me all the fucking time.

I'm forever being told that my ideas are 'fecal drivel', 'cacky fuckjuice', 'stale enema water', 'rubbish like rubbish has never achieved' and 'a terrible, haunting joke that will cause nightmares and an urge to self-harm forever'.

But I'm a marketing golgotha. A marketing Ron Jeremy. A marketing Dalai Lama. My ideas have been proven to be phenomenal time and time and time again. Cloudvertising? Dadvertising? Both mine - both amazing, both totally unworkable (further proof that an idea is phenomenal), both the spark that caused raging brushfires of jealousy across the marketing world that is in my marketing department.

So, don't worry, Sapient boys! You and me are brothers in creative ideationised futurebombing. We set the agenda, you and me. We're cut from the same cloth - and it's cloth that has 'genius' written all over it in fucking big letters, in red, in comic sans (the greatest typeface of all time), with a drop shadow and some cool Powerpoint effects on it, like a ripple or something.

When everyone says 'How in the name of GOD did you let that piece of crow bile even become a distant half-thought in the bit of your mind where you keep the livid memories of seeing your dad rimming your mum on the kitchen table?' That's when you know you're right. It's the rule I follow every single day, my friends.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Monday, 14 November 2011

I have been bummed

Oh, treachery.

Treachery, with your monochrome soul and your cold, long fingers stretching into our hearts unbidden, squeezing out gently the very life we live.

Treachery, your name is Human Resources. And you are the very pinnacle of biblical evil on this human earth.

In short, I've been bummed right up the clacker by those cuntaloupes in AITCH FUCKING ARE.

As Snoop Dogg, or perhaps Ghostface Killah, might say, let me break it down.

This morning, I returned to work for the first time since emerging triumphant from a months-long scrap with what my doctor called 'The hardest fucking coma I have EVER seen.' (He didn't strictly use those words, but he had a look in his eyes - one of total admiration and respect - that told me all I needed to assume.)

Our HR Director, Paul D'Ong, (he's new - used to work in polyfibres), called me on Friday to suggest a 9am meeting to discuss my return.

So, I kicked the doors of reception in, bang on time at 11.30, and spent a while joking with the girls on the desk. (Bless those girls! If anybody can beat the joke they played on me, I'd like to meet them. They had these expressions of total horror on their faces when I walked in and one of them ran off in tears! BRILLIANT! They kept it up until I left too! Fucking LOVE those girls! 'But they said you weren't coming back!' they kept wailing. 'Waah, waaah, waah!' GENIUS!)

Anyway. Paul D'Ong called me into his office.

I did not warm to him. A scrofulous, scrotumular boil of a man, he lurked damply at his desk, festering over a mug of something with a milky skin on it. He bore the mildewy aspect of a man who spent his life either cowering to his superiors, or victimising those below him. I knew his sort. He was a denizen of the committee, the stationery cupboard, the minuted contact report, the timesheet.

He was, essentially, a horrid cockblob.

'Be seated, David,' he gargled.

I be'd seated.

'I've been tasked with, if you will, greasing your entrance,' he continued.

'Greasing my what?' I said.

'Your entrance into the new-look marketing department, David,' he replied, all simpering vowels and claggy glottals. He wore a smile as faint as a memory.

'The new-look marketing department? Have they redecorated or something?'

'No, no. We have restructured. You have a new colleague with whom to collaborate.'

I didn't like the fucking sound of that. So I said, 'I don't like the fucking sound of that.'

'Come, come, David. This is the age of cross-pollination, team-centric ideation, togetherness foreverness...'

'Fuck off. Who's this new colleague?'

'Oh, I think you've heard of him. His name is Rupert Abbott.'

The world stopped.

Rupert Abbott is...was...the Marketing Director at our main competitor, the market leader. He has always been an unmitigated dickprong, shitbar and fuckhole.

It's all here, here and here. Rupert Abbott, basically, is Darth Vader to my Luke Skywalker.

No, he's not - he'd be my dad. He's Cain to my Abel.

No, he's not - he'd end up killing me. He's General Zod to my Superman.

Yeah. I think that stacks up. Basically, he's a fucking douchecrack and I'm great. He's all stupid digital bullshit and I'm proper ads with birds and bristolas in them. He's all 'new era of consumer engagement', I'm all '10% OFF MUST END TODAY'. He's chalk, I'm cheese. (With the proviso that cheese is obviously way better than chalk. Way better.)

'I absolutely refuse to work with that fuckhound,' I protested. 'He's a tool, a dick and a tool. And he knows nothing. And he's a twonk. And a tool.'

'I'm sorry you feel like that, David,' slimed D'Ong. 'But tell him yourself - he's sitting just over there.'


I turned to see Abbott ensconced on a sofa, reading something called 'The Republic' by Plato. (No fucking last name - just 'Plato'. Dick!) He'd been obscured by a pot plant when I walked in.

'Hello, David,' he said, calmly.

'Hello, Rupert, ' I said, not calmly.


I felt very much at that point like slicing off my own cock and balls. But I'll see how the kid develops. Then I'll fire him like Gaddafi in a sewer.

I will not be shaken from my course.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Friday, 11 November 2011

What's new in adland?

Having spent some months locked in a violent, no-holds-barred, tear-your-cock-and-balls-off, pub-car-park fist-off with a coma, I've missed the developments that have swept through adland during that time.

So, with my urethra tube removed and my various colostomy attachments gone, I thought I'd take out my Knockoculars and survey the advertising, marketing, communicationing and customer engagementing industries.

(You know, I'll miss those colostomy attachments - I really will. Nothing beats taking a shit without even knowing about it. It's such a gift. We should all have them fitted at birth.)

Anyway, what's the scene on the horizon of the landscape in the vista across the topography of the panorama I see before me?

Let's see.


Right. What's happening with my first love? Advertising is the go-to trollop in my marcomms brothel, so I'm expecting a lot.

Oh. Oh God. Oh, Jesus and fucking Mary. What in the name of Simon Cowell's quim is this? This is...this is a fucking hate crime. This should go on trial at the Hague. This is...I can't find the words. This is worse than cat rape. This might even be cat rape - only cat rape perpetrated by a dog, which is the worst kind of cat rape imaginable.

Who are these hateful warblers? What is this? The Abu Ghraib Torture Choir?

What happened? What the FUCK happened? I NEED FUCKING ANSWERS.


Well, let's hope our digital brethren have spent the last months continuing the mindfucking revolution they're always telling us they started when they started slowing down the internet with their pointless shit all those years ago.


Let me see if I've got this straight. You've spent time, effort, thought and money on allowing me to point my phone at a coffee cup and make it look like whimsical cartoon characters are frolicking about it in a snowbound festive scene?

This gives me nothing more than 'entertainment', am I right?

Well, chaps, if that's your idea of entertainment, you're clearly a bunch of toddler-aged elves with attention-deficit disorder and a fucking Peter Pan complex worthy of PEE WEE CUNTING HERMAN. Fuck you, fuck your wives, fuck your pets, and fuck your brains, suspended as they are in sweety juice, nappy-squeezings, the dribble of little kittens and fucking cutey-pop fizzy bubbles.

Are you fucking stupid? Starbucks is for adults, you cuntshots, you spunkmops, you bowls of shit!

Still, I like the fact one can share one's cute little coffee experience. How cute! I know all my friends would love their in-box filled with this infantile, pointless, life-sapping enema-water.

Is this it? Seriously? I've been in a fistfuckfightfest with a coma since April and all you bunch of jizzends have come up with is THIS load of old horse-fudge?

It looks like I'm needed more than I ever was.

Well, I'm ready to answer the call. And I'll answer it with a one hand on the phone and the other on my ferocious penis, which I have just this minute named The Pink Dragon Of Justice.

Could this be my greatest ever era? You may depend upon it.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Thursday, 10 November 2011


My fellow marketing professionals, my colleagues, my sons, my daughters, my brothers, my sisters, my teachers, my students, my barmen, my barmaids, my sex workers, my care workers, my off-licence sales advisors, my massage providers, my dreamers, my wanderers, my friends.

I have returned from beyond the grave.

Actually, scratch that.

I have returned from beyond Guildford.

I've been in a coma in a hospital in...actually, I won't say where. I don't want the place I was resurrected (no I don't think that's an overstatement) to become a place of worship or pilgrimage. The good people there are professionals and need to be left to do their work, not swamped by an army of panting trollops waving their bristolas and saying, 'You brought Davey back to life - bang my fassyhole off.'


Let's just say I was saved, by special people, in a special place. (If you want to thank them, send me a donation and I'll pass it on. Serious.)

My mother (who is a skanky cunt-wart and deserves to have her fucking knees broken) said 'David has passed away.'

What she should have said is 'David has very nearly passed away, having made a poorly-executed attempt at auto-erotic asphyxiation while a trusted Thai ladyfriend mainlined certain secret remedial substances through a vein in his anus, an activity which broke no UK laws, nor compromised the health or safety of anyone but himself.'

But she didn't. And I aim to find out why.

I also aim to find out the following...

a) Why, after several months asleep, I don't feel refreshed in any way - in fact I've got a bit of a headache,
b) Why my balls are the size and shape of a Tellytubby,
c) Why St Pauls has started operating as a campsite (it can't be that bad, can it?),
d) Why I have only one memory of my time in a coma - a single image in my mind of Nigella Lawson deepthroating her own leg.
e) What the fuck is happening at work and whether I'm still a marketing-leading, market-shaping, market-fucking marketing mastermind.

Actually, I know the answer to the last one. Of course I fucking am!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!