Wednesday, 31 October 2012

I'm sorry



My fellow marketing professionals. My friends. My special, special  soulmates.


I have neglected you of late. No, no – I admit it. I have. I couldn’t have treated you worse if I’d totally diddled you in the a-slot without asking first.

But I have my reasons. Mainly, like, reasons of not really being bothered and shit and whatnot.

But also reasons of a deeply personal nature.

Let me explain.

Some months ago, I was squiring a young lady called…something or other. I’ll never forget her. Beautiful, tall, inexplicably angry a lot of the time (just like my dear old ma!) – she ticked all the boxes. (Coincidentally, she trimmed her own jardin du foof in the shape of a Nike swoosh – so she really did tick every box.)

After an expensive dinner for two, a moonlit walk along the river and what felt like endless soft clouds of whispered intimacies, it came to the point in the evening when, in time-honoured fashion, I was about to bang her a new growler.

Now, I’m no slouch in the Department of Fadge.

If sex was The Apprentice, I’d get taken by Alan Sugar every time.

(Hang on. That doesn’t sound right. Can’t work out why.)

Whatever, I’ve never had any complaints, apart from the ones you’ll find in the records of the police and HR and the Mormon Church.

But this piece of work. Holy mother of balls.

‘Stick it in there! Harder! Not there, there! Pull on that! Twist this! Spit on those! I want to punch you in that! Faster! Again! Lick it! Hit it! Talk to it! More! Less! Down! Up! To the left! To the right! Smear it on! Wipe it off!'

It was like screwing a Sergeant Major with tits.

All that aggression would have been fine, mind you, were it not for the fact that SHE GAVE ME A FUCKING SCORECARD AFTERWARDS.

'I like to give my lovers some tips for next time,' she said breezily as she called my cab.

First, 'lovers'? Bleurgh. What are you, some moneyed high society bike from 1962?

Second, DAVE KNOCKLES DOES NOT NEED TIPS ON PLEASURING LADIES!

Especially not in a fucking 24-page bound document.

As you can imagine, this had a profoundly traumatic effect on me and I had to suspend all activity apart from sitting and crying and crying and crying. My work suffered a bit, but not so much as you'd notice. My blogging, however, went down the cacker completely.

I'm happy to report, though, that I've resolved the issue (mainly by sending her increasingly vicious hatemail) and I am now back, my little beauties (as Jimmy Savile used to say on the Paediatric ward).

Strap in for a fresh expulsion of effluvia made of equal parts marketing insight, management expertise and non-EU growth hormone. It's going to be unmissable.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

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