Friday, 27 January 2012

60% planners















Terrifying news, my fellow marketing professionals.

A new agency has been founded (called Founded) and it's staff consists of 60% planners.

Let those words sink into your brain.

THEN GET THEM OUT OF YOUR BRAIN BEFORE THOSE WORDS TURN YOUR BRAIN INTO SHIT SOUP!

Why this is something Founded would like to advertise to clients is beyond me. But what do I know?

(I know fucking everything - EVERYTHING - in case you were wondering if that question was rhetorical or not. IT WAS.)

Let me give you the client perspective on planners. It goes something like this:

Ooohh, shiiit. It's that brainy fucker. Laurence? Fellopia? Jurgen? Owl? The fucker with all the SLIDES. The ENDLESS slides - shit, no, not NOW! I've got about a million emails to forward to my PA. Right - what can I do? Fuck. Er...clashed meeting? No - they just send you all the slides on Vimeo and expect you to watch it. Funeral? No - they come with you and tweet your grief. Er...walk out with an air of imperious preoccupation? No - they're waiting at your office when you get back there. They're like ZOMBIES. Fuck, there's only one way out of this: PUKE.


That's my approach, anyway. When a planner starts talking, I start puking. It's become an almost unconscious reaction. I don't have to force it that much. Habit gets things going, and I just give it the extra bwaaawk at the right moment. Everyone stands back, pretends to be sympathetic and you're out of there before you can say 'How much to dry clean this suit?'.

What the fuck do you WANT me to do? Listen to it? ARE YOU FUCKING MENTAL? That's how they turn you into a planner; they get you to listen to it. Once you start actually listening to it, there comes a point where you go, 'Ooh - I think I see what they mean about post-mobile box-setists versus sofa-hugging Wagamamites!'

That's the point when you start writing haiku. And that's the point you become a different species. Do you understand? You no longer belong to the human race. You become some kind of bullshit-based lifeform that would have Darwin scratching his fucking noggin, saying, 'Well, fist me into next week, I've obviously fucked something up here.'

But, look - this is just my opinion. I wish Founded the very best of luck. They're probably all top-notch chaps who know that the secret to true client satisfaction is BUY THE BEERZ. I'm just giving you my opinion, even though you didn't ask for it.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!


Friday, 20 January 2012

Loveshit





















My friends, I have neglected you lately. I have paid you less attention than James Corden pays to daily calorie intake guidelines.

But I have the very best reason for this withdrawal of the attention you so understandably crave.

I am in love.

Not the kind of love I feel for a sausage. Nor a pint of claret and WKD.

Neither is it the kind of love I feel for lapdancers, trollops, tramps, vamps and checkout girls.

This is the kind of love a grown man feels for a grown woman. Adult love. I mean, not like 'adult bookshop'. Mature love. I mean, not like 'mature' love, like on the websites I've found in my mother's internet history. Special love. I mean, not like 'special' love between a woman and her bulldog...oh, fuck it.

I met a real-life woman and I'm crazy-dogshit-in-love with her.

Here's how it happened.

I was at a work function. By which I mean, I was on a table in a juicer, showing the locals how to moonwalk fucking properly, while everyone else was in some conference centre next door, listening to the MD announce something about parking spaces or whatever or something or whatever.

Then a woman walked in.

This was strange, because it was the kind of juicer where any women present are usually strippers or cleaners. And not good strippers, either. Rather, the kind who appear on a Sunday afternoon, between football matches on the telly. The kind who thwock tired, sloppy pingpong balls from tired, sloppy foofs to three half-filled rows of musty housecoats and greasy glasses, the ennui thicker in the air than the smell of toilet cleaner and microwaved egg baps. That kind of stripper.

So, like, it was well fucking weird.

Then she walked to the bar and ordered a drink. Well fucking weirder. (Most birds who walk in to that kind of juicer ask for directions or want to hide from some rapey type outside.)

Naturally, I leaped from the table, stumbled a bit, regained my footing, stumbled again, fell, got up, tripped on a dog (that fucking dog!) and fell onto the bar next to her. As you would.

'Hello', she said. 'Are you drunk, or disabled, or both?'

'I'm drunk-abled,' I said.

'So I see,' she said. She seemed to be drinking whisky, neat.

'Are you drinking whisky, neat?' I asked.

She confirmed she was.

'Why?' I said.

'Because I'm so fucking bored, I just want to numb my brain until it doesn't work,' she replied.

'I'm your man,' I said, and ordered the rest of the bottle.

From there, it was a pretty much perfect first date. We talked about how much I think my superior-in-job-title-only colleague, Rupert Abbott, is a massive squirt of horse jizz. We talked about how she feels trapped in her marriage. How her husband gave up on them years ago in favour of his career. How we both love drinking whisky until we numb our brain until it doesn't work.

Things got a bit blurry at the end. I mean, I definitely remember bending one through her. (And I turned in quite a performance, I can tell you - despited the obvious constraints of being up against some bins round the back of All Bar One.) After that, though, it's not so clear.

I do remember her listening quite intently as I gave my frank and full opinions of Rupert Abbott. And in the dates and days that have followed, it's become clear why.

She's Rupert Abbott's wife.


This is great on a number of levels. But it's particularly spiffing because every morning, when I rock up and Abbott's been there for three hours eating fucking algae or whatever he has for breakfast, and asks 'Jesus, Dave. What did YOU get up to last night?', I can say 'I fucked your wife again and again and again until she literally shat in my bath.' (She did once. It sounds bad, but it was fucking amazing.)

I mean, I don't respond with those words. I just say, 'Wouldn't you like to know?' and go for a well-earned think in the disabled lavs.

Some people might think the whole situation is a bit messy, fraught with moral ambiguity and bound to end in a clusterfuck of soiled hankies and black eyes. But I don't! I just think it's bangtastic!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!






Wednesday, 18 January 2012

DK hits The Fuck-Up Jackpot!














WALLOP! I right-hooked the doors of my agency open.

SMASH! I landed a Hulk-like fist on the reception desk.

BANG! I asked the receptionist for one, but she ran off crying.

No matter, because this was a great day, my friends. A victorious day!

Why? Because tucked into my attache case (yes - I use an attache case with combination locks, because I'm fucking 80s tremendous) was a print job containing not one errant double space, BUT TWO!

Yes. TWICE did my agency place two spaces between words, instead of the requisite one. And this, my friends, means I've hit THE FUCK-UP JACKPOT!

'What's that, Dave?' I can't hear you ask because you're not in the same room.

Well, it's the welcome addition to your marketing budget that your agency contributes when they fuck somthing up. Typo in a headline, website missed off an ad, massive pubic thatch not removed from a bikini shot - that sort of thing. It all means the agency's paying for the fuck-up, because they understand that it's the right thing to do.

HA HA! Of course they don't do it because it's right! They do it because they don't want to lose your account! If they did things because they were right, nobody would have heard the words 'We buy any car' a trillion times in the last year.

Now, most clients see agency fuck-ups as something to be stamped out. 'Don't do it again,' they chide, placated by the agency's cheque book.

Let me be very clear: those clients are amafuckingteurs. I am not most clients, however, so I can give you the proper juice:

I love agency fuck-ups so much, I employ someone whose sole purpose is finding them!

Yes. A bloke called...er...something sits in the office with a magnifying glass, a dictionary and a ruler and I don't let him go home until he finds at least one fuck-up on every single piece of work my agency produces.

Rogue pixels, widows, orphans, misaligned logos, debatable commas, dubious grammar - my guy...thingy...will find 'em. And then it's JACKPOT TIME!

I reckon I reclaim about 65% of my marketing budget back from the agency! It's a win-win! Well, it's a win! For me!

After all, the agency boys won't cause a stink. They still keep 35% of my budget. That's better than nothing, and after working with me for a week or so, they learn to adjust their forecasts. They just have to fire someone every time there's a fuck-up. And what's the problem with that?

(That said, I did bump into a creative director who lost his job because I got the agency to pay for a national poster campaign that had a less-than-perfect line break in the legals, but he was fine about it. Well, he didn't say much, to be honest, apart from some stuff about his wife and an operation and losing the house and divorce and rehab, but from inside my BMW, he seemed fine. Sorry - when I say 'bumped into' I mean 'ran over'. Should have made that clear.)

So don't treat mistakes as something to avoid, my fellow marketing professionals! Treat them as a valuable income stream! I certainly do.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!


Monday, 16 January 2012

We are your overlords


I mean, look at the agency's last ad for the Teutonic Yoghurt Fuhrers.


First, let's agree that 'resigning' an account means 'were about to be fired from'. Agencies are always resigning on me. And I was always just about to fire them. (But, then, I'm always about to fire the agency. It's the only way to ensure decent service, I find.)

Second, let's agree that I'm fucking tremendous. I'm dynamic, wise, kind, sexually incredible, can drink like nine Vikings, have a sensitive and thoughtful side somewhere and I will happily plate a bird off until she's had enough. This has nothing to do with the post I'm writing, but let's all just agree it, because it's fucking nailed-on TRUE.

Third, let's agree that agencies just don't understand clients, as TBWAWBAWTA has proved. They think that really, deep down, we want to do lots of brave, bold, pioneering creative work that gets 45 billion views on YouTube and makes our mothers brag about us down at their swingers club.

We don't. We don't want to be in Campaign, pulling the Campaign face (wear black, pretend you've seen things, possibly in Vietnam). We want to be in Marketing Week, with a picture of us in our cavernous new office, next to the headline, 'World's first billion pound bonus.' We don't want YOU getting blown in pub toilets for doing great work. It's OUR account, you sploots of discharge.

Let me make this simple. Here are the possible outcomes of any campaign and the probable results.

Amazing creative, shit results = client blames agency, agency loses.


Shit creative, shit results = client blames agency, agency loses.


Shit creative, amazing results = client wins, agency loses.


Amazing creative, amazing results = client wins, agency takes credit, client fires agency, agency loses.


See? If we all just make stuff nobody hates, loves, reacts to or ignores, the gravy train keeps on a-chuffin'. Stop trying to fuck it up. Now, off you go and make me an ad with a cute toddler and a ball of wool in it or something.

Why? Because I AM YOUR OVERLORD!