Tuesday, 20 December 2011

It's Tuesday. It must be time to revolutionise advertising AGAIN

Fuck off. 

Fuck off on a horse.

Go fuck yourself in the neck, you blob of cock-sploot. 

You're a cowcunt and a moron.

You're worse than piss; you're a piss-Hitler.

That's what I say to convention, every single day, the second I wake up. And I say it loud. My neighbours are used to it now.

Today was no different. So it can come as no surprise that I've thrown the ad industry another curve ball so curvacious, it's got massive bristolas and a bee-hind that makes J-Lo look flat-packed.

Allow me to say one word:


I know - your mind is probably thrashing about like Michael J Fox on a rollercoaster, but let it settle while I explain my - MY - idea.

Obesity is soaring. Right? You don't need medical statistics to know that the Western World is piling on the timber. You have seen them, the humapotomases, dragging their pillar-thick limbs across the concrete of the town centre, defying belief and gravity and taste.

But they are people. These are not animals, nor plants, notr inanimate land masses. They are human beings, with feelings, and the right to a dignified life with financial independence. So I'm going to give it to them.


Yes - human billboards. Fuck knows, some of them are the size of actual billboards. Holy shit. Why not paper 48 sheets of advertising magic across their incomprehensible arse-ends?

After all, they deserve to derive income from the hard work they've put in. Becoming the size of a mythical bovine monster takes fucking dedication. Why shouldn't they make some dough, rather than just eating it?

Now then - fucking listen to me. This is MY idea. So before you go sticking your latest bullshit ad on a fat man's tits, bear in mind I WILL FUCK YOU LIKE A HURRICANE if you do. Technically, thanks to intellectual copyright laws, the bodies of all obese people in the world are now mine to sell.

So keep your fucking hands off. These people have rights. And I have a right to 20%.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Monday, 12 December 2011

Things I don't want from an agency

My fellow marketing professionals, I am about to say something profoundly surprising.

Sometimes, being offered more than you asked for is not a good thing.

Obviously, this isn't the case with the following: hookers, strippers, booze, cars, houses, wanks, chocolates, cheese balls, plane tickets to Bangkok, burgers, baltis, Pot Noodles, staplers, PowerPoint slides written by me, nine-egg breakfast omelettes, telescopes, butter, lube, weaponry or porn.

That's just plain common sense. A child would know that.

But when an advertising agency is offering anything other than advertising, you have to fight your instinct to get free shit and resist. Because what they offer is largely as useful as bacon at a bar mitzvah.

Here's the 'added value' they try to flog you. Don't buy it.

1. Research.

When an agency offers you research, what they're actually offering you is justification for their shitbrain, cowspunk, sexwater ideas - and they want you to pay for it.

Here's what happens. The agency gathers a bunch of people with no minds and puts them in a room with a low ceiling and a mirror. You sit behind the mirror and spy on them while they answer questions about the agency's ideas. They respond with answers that defy belief, logic, understanding and purpose.

Two weeks later, you get a report with lots of bar charts, graphs and a summary page that says, 'THEY LOVE THE IDEAS!' in 72-point type. In red. You also get a bill the size of my ballbag. (I have a fucking monster of a ballbag.)

2. A Christmas film

Oooh! An email from the agency! I wonder what they wa....oh. Oh, fuck. Fuck off. Oh, Jesus fucking wept - they've made the receptionist put on a sexy Santa outfit and they're all singing 'All I Want For Christmas Is A Smooth Delivery Of Integrated Brand Communications' and the MD has begrudgingly agreed to mime a line from behind his desk, clearly with the insistence that they do it in one take and then fuck off, and the creatives all look weird and reticent except THAT cunt who keeps popping up every thirty seconds and clearly fancies himself as a comedian even though it's obviously a front for his deep sexual ambiguity, and the female account directors who all take themselves seriously are in a row, smiling through gritted teeth and spinning on office chairs and trying to sexily cross their legs in a little bit of choreography that was obviously devised by someone who hasn't had two kids, and  there's the creative director looking suddenly exposed by having to join in with the rest of the oiks, his veneer of cool cynicism all shot away by having to do a little dance that he would normally refuse to do but he was told to be less aloof in his last performance review, and....oh, make it all fucking STOP.

The worst thing, of course, is not the forced festive fun. It's the fact that, somehow, I'll end up paying for this feculent drool of coprophilic fucking sludge.

3. Seminars

I keep getting invites from agencies to things like 'Revampifying Your Business's 360 Contact Strategy' or 'Brand Ideation In The Age Of The Cloud' or 'Are You A Brand That Can Or A Brand That Won't?'

The first problem with them is that they take themselves seriously. These things used to be an excuse for a tear-up, but now they seem to think this shit is important or something, and everybody rocks up with notepads and bottles of fucking water, and some tool called Barnaby stands up and talks the usual nebulous cock-sploot about...oh, you can imagine.

I tried a few, but I never quite got over the shock of there being no booze. I still can't get over it, to be honest. There's actually a fucking tear in my eye as I write this.

There are more things I don't want from an agency. But they'll have to wait for another post. Right now, I've got a very important thing to do involving a bar, some beerz, another bar, an Indian restaurant, a gentleman's entertainment provider, a hotel room and some gaffer tape.

And it'll all be on expenses!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Thursday, 8 December 2011


On my remarkable blog, I AM DAVE KNOCKLES, I produced a few of these important documents.

The Motherfucker List is a definitive guide to the people who have earned the epithet 'Motherfucker', as judged by an international panel of cultural experts (me), business gurus (me) and style icons (me).

(What do you mean, 'That's not an international panel'? I've been to America AND France, you CUNT. Go stick a cricket bat handle up your cack-flue.)

After some deliberation, the latest Motherfucker List is now ready - and here it fucking well is.

1. The writer of the 1963 Weights and Measures Act

It would have to been written in the 60s, wouldn't it? It was the decade of the pill, obligatory daily banging for the under 25s and drug-induced naked dancing in public. Of course some officious clackhole had to standardise all the weights and measures in the UK - INCLUDING BOOZE.

A 'single measure' is supposed to be between 25 and 35cl. This is not a measure. This is the same amount of snot I emit when I do one of my highly-amusing lady sneezes.

In Spain, where I occasionally spend some R&R time after one of my DK Power Weeks at work, a measure is dependent entirely on when the bartender remembers to stop pouring. If he gets distracted by a chica with particularly bueno bristolas, you could get a good gallon of G in your G&T.

THAT'S a fucking measure. Whoever thought 25cl is an amount worth paying for is a MOTHERFUCKER.

2. Portion Controllers

Do you work in a restaurant? Do you decide how much goes onto my plate? You do?


3. Asda

If I need to return a cucumber because it's been soiled by a ladyfriend of mine, fucking well give me a refund. It wasn't ME who shoved it up her foof and turned the end to mush. But it WAS me who had to pay 69p for the fucking thing. I mean, the cucumber vs foof thing was my idea initially (and a fucking good one it was too) but I didn't force her into anything. Well, not until well after the cucumber had been put back in the fridge. WHERE'S THE JUSTICE, MOTHERFUCKER?

4. George Osbourne

Balancing the nation's books I understand. Cutting unnecessary benefit spending I understand too. But don't target we disabled folk. I absolutely depend on the benefit I've been receiving since my whiplash incident. Without that weekly allowance, I CAN'T TURN MY HEAD FROM SIDE TO SIDE.

Here's a thought, George - why not up the tax on the dickbags who got us into this trouble in the first place? That's right: the WORKING CLASS AND THEIR FUCKING DEFAULTED MORTGAGES!

I guess that's just too easy, isn't it? YOU MOTHERFUCKER.

5. Simon Cowell.

He's permanently on the list. The MOTHERFUCKER.

A new Motherfucker List will be out soon. It will be just as cock-on as this one.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Wednesday, 7 December 2011

Advertising kills advertising in the balls

One of the things I enjoy most about advertising agencies is their ruthlessly enforced recruitment policy of employing account executives with spiffing bristolas.

Hang on. That's a different post.

One of the things I enjoy most about advertising agencies is the way an account director will brandish his credit card the minute I shout 'BEERZ!'

Hang on. That's a different post too.

Focus, Dave.

One of the things I enjoy most about advertising agencies is the way they constantly attempt to kill the very thing their clients want from them: advertising.

Yes! THAT'S what this post is about! I'm back on course.

I've been presented at by several agencies who want to kill advertising, usually with some cross-eyed planner committing the murder. 'It's dead,' they say. 'It's changed. If you just do advertising, you may as well take your brand and throw it into a well full of shit and snakes and napalm.'

Then they begin the inevitable conversation about conversations and I reach for my Big Box of Self Harm.

One agency told me 'TV's dead!' He looked surprised when I said, 'I ran a TV campaign with your agency last month, you dopey cuntpot.' After 15 seconds of looking blanker than Bruce Forsyth watching Skins, he said, 'Did you include a hashtag?'

Over the years, and with acceleration worthy of a pissed French chauffeur, the ad business has been trying to rebrand. (They should do what they do to me when I rebrand - charge me six figures for a new typeface and a full-stop rotated by 45 degrees. That's always the fucking answer to my problems, apparently.)

I think you agency boyz are making a mistake. We all think the ad industry is full to the ceiling with cunts, twonks, shitpipes, motherfuckers and fassy-cleaners - not to mention assorted dogknobs and jizzgarglers. That's a given. But what would we think of the same people if they said they worked in 'change manifestation' or 'futurescoping' or...FUCKING CHRIST - THE NAMES YOU CUNTS COME UP WITH IN THE REAL WORLD ARE SO STUPID I CAN'T EVEN PARODY THEM.

We can just about bear to deal with you as it is. Don't become even more fucking loathsome. Your industry will collapse and you'll come knocking on my door asking for a fucking job.

(You can't fucking have one. We don't want your type in our business, thank you very much.)

So just accept that you're salesmen with funny trousers, not 'difference architects' or 'brand envisionistas' and we'll all get on fine.

Now fuck off. I've got some work to delegate to my advertising agency.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Friday, 2 December 2011

The client Christmas bonus

My dear, dear friends.

To take my mind off working with Rupert Abbott, the world's biggest slab of penile gristle (that's an official title pending confirmation from the Guiness Book of World Records), I thought I'd describe unto you one of the few perks of life as a client.

(Few perks is right. These days, with financial prudence so essential, many of the niceties of our professional life have gone. Lunches are now strictly three courses. I work at least 14 hours a week. I can no longer claim my fishing license on expenses. The list goes on and on.)

However, it's nice to know we still get our Christmas bonus.

Not our actual Christmas bonus. Our other Christmas bonus. The one bestowed upon us by our agency partners.

It's an age-old tradition that follows some well-rehearsed phases. It begins in November when we clients begin the 'Murmurings of Aspiration'. We casually drop into conversation with the agency such things as, 'Did I ever mention that I'm a huge fan of very expensive whisky?' and 'I do so adore business class flights to Bangkok' and 'The day I tire of Rolex watches is the day I detach my colostomy bag and walk into the Thames'.

Next come the 'Puzzlings of the Distant Aunt', where we mention in passing all the relatives we haven't bought Christmas presents for because we have next to no fucking clue what women in their seventies want - especially women in their seventies who spend most of their time, as far as we can gather, talking about the vaginal ailments of their friends.

Finally, in the days before Christmas, we begin the 'Hastenings of the Account Director', where we make direct calls to our ADs and suggest things like, 'The very pressing need I'm feeling to put my account up for pitch might go away if the iPod-shaped hole in my desk was suddenly to be filled. Actually - there are fourteen iPod-shaped holes.'

The generosity of agencies, media independents, production companies, photographers and printers is sometimes amazing to behold.

And if it isn't, I fucking have words. Specifically, the words, 'I'm putting the account up for review, you stingy jizzsack.'

I can't stand meanness. Especially at Christmas.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!