Monday, 20 February 2012


My friends, it is time once again to calmly, scientifically and without prejudice detail those who have recently earned the epithet 'motherfucker'.

These are people, entities, institutions or objects which, unlike you and I, are total and irredeemable motherfuckers, as judged by an internationally-agreed set of criteria too complex for a fucking pudding like you to understand, so don't even ask.

Just one entry on the list this time.


Oh, Albion. What happened? How has our gift to the world - the English cunting language - been torn from us, twisted, shat on, bent all out of shape by a nation of obese fundamentalist shit hounds and returned to us to consume, like a delicious dinner, vommed back up, reheated, poured onto a plate and chucked back in front of us?


I dunno. Fucking films or whatever innit.

But one thing's for certain: a breed of dickbag has spawned and multiplied across Blighty for whom recognisably American-and-definitely-not-British phrases are just linguistic ketchup to jizz all over the cheeseburger 'n' apple pie that 21st Century English has become.

And they're all motherfuckers. Let's examine a few sub-groups.


Not 'can I have'. Nor 'could I have'. Not even 'give me'. No - there are motherfuckers here, in Britain, who stride up to the counter of their local coffee-slopper and boom 'CAN I GET A LATTE?'

Yes, you can. You can get a latte. You can also get fucked, get lost and get AIDS. You MOTHERFUCKER.


There are two types of motherfucker who use this phrase. The first is just a mentally subnormal human sponge who thoughtlessly burps back whatever cultural fuckpie he or she has thoughtlessly consumed. They see a pensioner slip and shatter a hip bone. 'That's gotta hurt!' they mumble, their jowls shaking free a few long blobs of mouldering clag.

Then there are the real motherfuckers. These are the motherfuckers who view Jim Carrey's early career less as films and more as a very real guide for day-to-day living.

'THAT'S GOTTA HURT!' they roar shamelessly, at any excuse, all the time.

But let them. They will roar it one last time as we take them in a plane to the mid-Atlantic, their spiritual homeland, and drop them out, one by one, clutching an American cultural reference they don't fully understand, like a pinata, some grits, a sloppy joe or a grade point average.



'No way, Dave,' you're saying. 'British people - from BRITAIN - don't say 'gotten'. They just don't.'

Oh, they fucking do. The motherfuckers. They say 'I've gotten really infected' and 'It's gotten much worse' and 'It's gotten better since I put the cream on it'.

Gotten? Gotten? You motherfucker. You golden motherfucker. You shining, golden, dazzling motherfucker of all time.


The final motherfucker today is the kind of mentally diarrhetic squirt of human backflow who attempts to add a sheen of significance to the otherwise tedious, pointless, stupid or commonplace spuff that fills his or her life.

'I'm all about the salt 'n' vinegar.'

'I'm all about the gym.'

'I'm all about the chai latte.'

'I'm all about the Gaga.'

I even heard someone, a British person, say, for real, in the real world, in Britain, 'I'm all about the having fun.'

THE having fun? Not just 'having fun'? THE having fun. So 'having fun' is a fucking noun now? It's a thing? Where is it, the having fun? I tell you where it fucking isn't. It isn't anywhere near the sentence that just prolapsed out of your fucking mouth, you massive MOTHERFUCKER.

Aaah, that's better. There'll be another Motherfucker List along soon.


By the way, 'motherfucker' is not an American phrase. Shakespeare coined it. He said to a renowned actor of the day who was struggling with the soliloquy in Hamlet, 'Why do you keep saying 'To me or not to me', you stupid motherfucker?' That's proof, dickbag. Now jog on.

Wednesday, 15 February 2012

My life is like a box of chocolates. If that box of chocolates is fucking busy.

Oh, my fellow marketing professionals. My friends, my allies, my contemporaries.

My life at the moment. You should see it. As a Geordie friend of mine says, 'It's all over town like a mad dog's shite.'

(You don't often credit the Geordie people with wit. Or taste. Or erudition. Or anything except borderline barbarian sensibilities, but on this occasion, you have to say they did well by coining that phrase.)

In short, I've been busier than a dog with several penises. A French dog with several penises. No...a French dog with several penises and a diagnosed sex addiction, plus objectively good looks and a very palpable je ne sais quoi that really gives French lady dogs a right wide-on.

Yes. I've been busier than that.

Obviously, I'm one of marketing's leading lights and a professional fucking powerhouse, so this hasn't even caused me to wake suddenly and explosively in the night with a sense of oppressive, all-encompassing dread and a very pressing need to shit buckets and buckets of worryingly soupy feculence. I haven't been doing that at all, no way, fuck you, jog on, fuck off, what, me, no way, fucking help me I'm dying, get lost, fuck off.


I'm just keeping you up to speed.

For an example of the crazy rollercoaster death slide clusterfuck monster truck mindbang that is my life at the moment, let me describe yesterday.

Breakfast meeting with the agency. One-to-one with agency principles. Croissants. Summit-style talks. Big decisions. Discussion. Debate. Stalemates. Stale croissants. New croissants. And a bit of bacon. And something nice like ooh I dunno Haribo or something. More coffee. Quick dump. More coffee. Agreements. Handshakes. Next meeting. Planners. Shit. Slides. Many slides. More slides. Venn diagrams. Lunch. Please, lunch. PLEASE. Lunch. Slides. More slides. Confusion. Tears. Balled fists under the desk. Stupid Dave stupid Dave stupid Dave. School memories. Dave can't do sums. Gathering crowds of clever boys. Stupid Dave stupid Dave stupid Dave. More slides. Make it end make it end make it end. It ends. Next meeting. Creatives. Ads. Words. Pictures. Change words. Change pictures. Tears. Not mine. Awesome power. Swelling trouser. Feel my ads. Price flash. Offer flash. Let's make these babies work harder. Next meeting. Drinks with different agency. Hushed offers. Silent agreements. More drinks. Less silent agreements. More drinks. Very loud agreement to give them some work fuck it why not I'll change everything you do anyway guffaws guffaws the corporate guffaw I fucking love it. Next meeting. Motivational dinner with team. Stand. Power speech. Fall a bit. Sit down. Power speech. Motivate. Drive. Vision. Bottom line. Numbers. Together. No 'i' in team but there is in pint so fucking get them in you pointless cunts. End of motivational dinner. Alone with thoughts. And bill. Leave restaurant. Running. Chased. Violence. Swollen face. Alleyway. Next meeting. Delilaz. Private booth with new girls Bebo, Flakette, Apple-Nike (pronounced Apple-Ny-keee). Home. Bed. Nearly. Close enough.

See? It's like that every fucking day. But it won't stop me achieving. Last quarter's results from my marketing campaigns? LESS THAN NEGLIGIBLE DOWNTURN IN SALES. I will never be stopped.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Tuesday, 14 February 2012

Hello from fuck-knows-where

My fellow marketing professionals, I'll be brief.

For the last several days, I have been in an 'isolated treatment unit' somewhere in the English countryside.

I was placed here by members of the NHS, Her Majesty's Police, the HR department of my employer and, betrayal upon betrayal, my mother.

I have spent my time here being intensively tutored on 'acceptable behaviour patterns' and 'moral obligations in modern society'.

I have learned the following:

It is not acceptable to refer to female colleagues as 'the one with the big tits', 'the one with the rubbish tits', 'the one with the wonky tits', 'the one with the fat tits', 'the one with no tits', 'the one with three tits', 'the one with tits on her tits' or 'the one with a face like a toad that's been dipped in salt and hit with a hammer covered in shit'.

It is not acceptable to suggest that female colleagues 'come over here and sit on my face', 'bend over the desk and pray', 'put your hand down my trousers and count my balls', 'grab this and pull - it's got a bell on the end', or 'let me rest my danglebag on your chin while I dictate a letter to the Director General of the BBC'.

It is not acceptable to fire someone because 'they smell funny', 'they remind me of Yoda', 'they won't swallow', 'they think they're fucking cool but they're not', 'they're from Poland or somewhere', 'they eat crisps too noisily' or any of the other 'fireable offences' in the 'DK Marketing Team Book Of Doing What You're Fucking Told'.

It is not acceptable to stir female colleague's tea with your penis.

It is not acceptable to stir female colleague's tea with your scrotum.

It is not acceptable to stir female colleague's tea with a finger you have inserted into your (or anyone else's) anus.

It is not acceptable to touch female colleagues on the buttocks, breasts, hair, arms, knees, upper thighs, face, eyeballs, ears, genitals or bra straps without prior permission.

It is not acceptable to drink alcohol during work hours.

It is not acceptable to drink alcohol during work hours then invite lapdancers to the office for a brainstorm.

I've learned this very well. And now I'm ready to behave like a responsible member of society.