Friday, 22 June 2012
Ever had a drink in a bar (or a pub, or a club, or a speakeasy, or a vodka shed, or a dirty juicer, or a sticky-floored gin palace, or the kitchen of a ketamine salesman, or a supermarket carpark, or the boot of your car, or a restaurant, or a restaurant toilet, or a restaurant dustbin) and that drink tasted strangely good?
Not 'good', like, 'I poled her good over the trouser press'. No, I mean 'good' as in 'giving money to de-homed cripple-men is a good thing.'
I think you know what I mean.
Well, if that drink felt good, the chances are it was paid for by an advertising agency.
Something happens to booze when it's purchased with the quivering, immaculate gold card of an advertising agency account director.
It tastes cleaner, stronger, fresher, rounder, gooder.
Why is this? What is this strange alchemy created by a man called Ben or Scout or Dan or Klaus or Oliver and a piece of plastic with a large credit limit?
I don't care. I just want more of it.
And so should you. Make agency booze a central goal in your life, my fellow marketing professionals.
Because that lovely booze, full of its added gooderness, is a symbol of your agency's respect. Even more important, it's a symbol of their fear. It's like protection money demanded by the mafia. As long as they pay it, nothing bad will happen. Probably.
So what kind of client are you? Are you a champagne client? Or just a piece-of-dick cider client? Are you Courvoisier or cans of Breaker? It's important you find out. It's easy to do. You just call your agency, like I do every Friday morning, and say, 'You're buying me a drink at lunchtime. And then all afternoon. And then all evening.'
Then I let them order.
Once, someone from my agency (to whom I paid a large amount of money every month) brought me a fucking bottle of fucking Orangina. That agency was fired before he could shake the bottle and wake the cunting drink. (It really isn't relevant that a) it was 10am (which is the official start of lunch time in my book) and b) I'd spent the last three years recovering 95% of my agency fees by spotting 'mistakes' in every piece of work they produced for me.)
On the other hand, my current agency confers upon me the proper respect. To them, I am a claret 'n' WKD client. And that, my very dear friends, is the very highestmost client you can fucking be. So stick that up your fucking poop-pipe and fucking smoke it.
Yes, agency booze is a measure that tells me whether I'm still the fucking man. Clearly, I am.
Why? Because I'VE GOT A BUCKET OF CLARET 'N' WKD!
Monday, 18 June 2012
My friends, I am ready.
I am ready to share unto with you a story of corporate betrayal the like of what which you will never have not never ever have heard neither and everything.
I am about to share the story of me - ME, Dave Knockles - being passed over for a promotion.
Let me repeat that so it's very extremely crystal clear: I was passed over for a promotion.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking about that thing you really need to get round to but just can't seem to because of that other thing.
WELL, STOP THINKING ABOUT THAT AND THINK ABOUT ME, YOU FUCKATROPE.
Here's what happened.
As you may remember, my arch-rival and total battyhole, Rupert Abbott, was brought into the company as my co-Marketing Director.
(Of course, everyone knows who the real Marketing Director is. Abbott squirts about the place spunking out results and figures and facts and evidence and all this tedious horsepiss, but he's just a doer. He just gets things done. He just gets results. He's not a thinker, a strategiser, an innovator, a gambler, a philosopher, an artist, a rebel, an iconoclast. I fucking well am, though. And everyone knows it.)
Anyway, Big Andy Poleman, Managing Director, decided that two Marketing Directors isn't a good use of resource. So he created the role of Executive Marketing Director - and that meant one of us would become the other's superior.
In other words, it was a cock-off. And the most important cock-off of my career.
I prepared with the unswerving dedication that has been the hallmark of my professional life. For three solid quarter hours before my interview, I crammed my brain with pure, cold-filtered communications insight. I left nothing to chance, I left no stone unturned, I left no area of marketing unscrutinised. (Essentially, I sat on the shitter with a bottle of Kahlua and The Dummies Guide To Marketing. I learned a hell of a lot, actually! Who would have guessed that DM stands for direct mail?)
As I entered Poleman's office bang on just a couple of hours after my allotted time, I could see I had my work cut out. Abbott was in there, the spunk-soaked dab of soupy shit. The two of them were laughing uproariously, shaking hands and signing a piece of paper with the word 'contract' at the top.
Who knew what that cosy little scene meant? One might speculate that Abbot had already been given the job. But I don't do speculation. I don't put two and two together to make five. I just interview like God's own mother's bitch.
Before Poleman could speak, I fucked the conversation in the teeth and dominated.
'Brainvertising, housevertising, facevertising, bagvertising, fruitvertising, sausagevertising, cowvertising, above the line, below the line, through the line, response, direct mail (also called DM), prospects, figures, sales, ambient media, projected figures!' I barked, filling the air with the purest marketing wisdom.
Poleman couldn't speak. He couldn't move. And I wasn't in the mood to let him do either.
'YOU WILL NOT REGRET MAKING ME LORD MARKETING DIRECTOR! I AM THE FUTURE! I AM THE FINAL SOLUTION! I AM THE CLIENT!' I continued, fuelled by inspiration and, if I'm honest, Kahlua. (I regret a couple of the things I said, actually. 'Final solution' was a phrase I really should have thought about a bit more, and 'Lord Marketing Director' was a clear example of my ambition getting the better of me.)
But I was not to be swerved, steered, stayed or stopped. For the next seven minutes, I mindjizzed gloriously, expanding on ideas and shouting and hammering the desk and being passionate and crying a bit and unleashing innovation and exploding with fresh thinking and sicking a bit of Kahlua and crying a bit and crying a bit and crying a bit and begging and smashing cups and shouting 'DM STANDS FOR DIRECT MAIL!' over and over again and drawing ads on a leaflet from the sexual health clinic I happened to have in my pocket and re-imagining the marketing landscape and punching myself with a mixture of marketing zeal, unfettered brilliance and cock-shredding dread.
I could have done no more. I left it all on the pitch.
And yet they chose Abbott.
I know. I know. But save your words, words such as 'disgrace', 'shameful miscarriage of justice', 'borderline criminal act' and 'bunch of fucking bullcrap perpetrated by filthy cock-handling slags'.
Save them, because it's fine. I am fine. I am happy. I am determined to prove once and for all that I deserve to Lord Marketing Director. And I fuckbucking will.
Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!