Wednesday, 28 November 2012

Talk Like A Client

My dear, dear friends. My fellow marketing professionals. My countrymen from The Republic of Upturned Revenues. Today I would like to give you some advice.

Not advice like, you know, marry a woman with small hands or never, EVER pay a Thai hooker until after you’ve wiped your donk on the curtains.

No, I mean this advice:

Talk Like A Client.

I realise that I may have just blown your minds with the simple, distilled genius of that sentence, so let me explain by way of an advertising anecdote – an advertdote, if you will. (Or even if you won’t – I couldn’t give two halves of fuck-all.)

Yesterday, I  burst through the doors of my agency like Hurricane Sandy, threw my briefcase on one of the luxurious white sofas (Oops! Sorry miss! It’ll stop bleeding soon – and it can’t make you any uglier!) and leaned in close, close, close to my favourite receptionista.

“I’m here for my nine-fifteen - but I could probably squeeze in a sixty-nine,” I purred. “With you,” I added, because I just can’t help communicate with clarity and relevance, like a great ad.

As usual, she pretended to need to leave very immediately, so I just strode manfully for the elevator. Once inside, I proceeded to Talk Like A Client.

“FUCKING LIFTS!” I roared at everyone inside. “NOBODY FART!”

Then I farted.

(Do you see what I was doing? I was Talking Like A Client.  I’m about to do it some more.)

I turned left as I left the lift, then heading right at the right rate – not too fast, not too quick – and headed into the meeting room.

Turns out I was three hours late for my nine-fifteen, and someone else was using the meeting room. Did I let that stop me? No. I just Talked Like A Client.



“He’s one of our other clients,” replied the planner who, I noted, was talking through a slide entitled De-Saville Your Brand: Removing toxic social halos in the post-Twitter age’. (Yes – we are now POST-Twitter. Who knew?)

“WELL, FUCK HIM! I’M ME!” I replied. See? I was Talking Like A Client.

Trouble was, the other client started Talking Like A Client too. It got quite abusive and loud, and basically looked like two fat, drunk toddlers standing in a swimming pool of shit throwing handfuls of it at each other from point blank range.

But that’s not the point. The point is, we were Talking Like Clients. And when you Talk Like A Client, you Feel Like A Client. And when you Feel Like A Client, you Become The Client. Do you see? DO YOU SEE?

Here are some other ways of Talking Like A Client:


“That’s shit. Not shit, like,  shit. I mean shit, like, super, SUPER shit.”

“This invoice. It’s just not going to happen.”

“I spotted a double space in the copy. I think it’s time to bend over and take a Knockles.” (Use your own name for this one, obviously. Or not. I don't mind my name being permanently associated with fisting a discount out of an agency.)

“Can you make the whole ad a bit more like the ad I imagined?”

Hopefully, you can now see what Talking Like A Client is, what it means, how it works and what it can do for you. If you can’t, then go fuck yourself to death. I haven’t got time to spoon-feed my genius to brainless fanny-mops like you.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Tuesday, 13 November 2012

The Motherfucker List


My friends, once again the International Motherfucker Panel has gathered to publish its latest findings. Remember, these aren’t just opinions. These are scientifically-assessed statements of fact. Those listed below ARE motherfuckers,whether they like it or not.


Have you heard about this place? It’s a furniture megashop on a ring road just outside Satan’s a-pipe. The furniture is made of a material that, I think, is a 50-50 mix of butterfly farts and wet napkins. You have to design it yourself, build it yourself, deliver it yourself – you even have to find it yourself in a warehouse that looks like the final scene in Raiders Of The Lost Motherfucking Ark. It’s an amazing concept. You go there on a Saturday with every other person in the world, and get sluiced along an ever-moving river of human disappointment, past room sets from a house nobody could ever live in.

At the end, you get to eat the world’s foulest meatballs (covered with optional gravy glue made from cow bile and the drainings of the NHS colostomy lake) in a fourteen-acre canteen, bashing elbows with dead-eyed empty-nesters trying to make the back bedroom look ‘funky’ now that their last spunk-sponge daughter has married a cunt called Baz and moved round the corner to a half-bedroomed flat over a slaughterhouse.

Motherfuckers! Or, in Ikea, modderfkkrs.

Tapas-style dining

What’s that, you say? You want me to order two or three very, very tiny dishes that add up to one small dinner but cost the same as three large ones?

Why would you want me to do that? I mean, you can’t be doing it because it helps each primpy spoonful of malignant drool you serve wring another precious few quid out of your punters. That would be wrong.

Oh! It’s because it’s ‘lighter’ and ‘healthier’ and ‘modern eating’.

Listen, you cowcunt – if I wanted something lighter, healthier and modern, I’d  eat a fucking low-energy lightbulb. I go to restaurants to eat massive amounts of things drenched in gallons and gallons of cream, butter, balti sauce, booze and dead baby animals. I want to be brought a plate so big it blocks out the fucking sun and then I want you to fuck off until a) I ask for more b) it looks like I’m having a coronary embolism at my table.

The Spanish might enjoy tapas-style eating, but that’s because they’re hot and randy. I’m not. I’m cold and randy and I want a fucking good feed, you money-grubbing MOTHERFUCKER.

Meeting sandwiches

Leave out of the egg mayonnaise, eh? NOBODY eats them, you stupid MOTHERFUCKERS. And who ordered the ones with just salad? A right motherfucker, that’s who.


Introducing this month’s slag word. The word that will do anything with anyone, anywhere. It’ll go with any old dirty self-abuser, wanging its legs open like a wannabe WAG, getting used and abused and reused until it’s bunged in the gutter and forgotten. Imagine Cheryl when the offers dry up. That sort of thing.

Well, ‘artisanal’ is that word.

Coffee is artisanal. Bread is artisanal. Chocololate is artisanal. Fudge is artisanal. Cushions are artisanal. Sofas are artisanal. Glasses are artisanal. Chairs are artisanal. Last weekend, my dinner was artisanal. Sausages are artisanal. Ties are artisanal. Shirts are artisanal. Conservatories are artisanal. Badger culls are fucking artisanal. For all I know, David Cameron is artisanal.

If you want to try making something special, make it fucking special. Don’t prefix it with the word ‘artisanal’ and assume we’ll all go misty-eyed as we imagine a gnarled old grandpa with deft hands working proudly in a dusty workshop as light streams through the window and a wooden boy looks on. We know that whatever you sell, it was clumpily slapped together in a 24-hour torture shop somewhere in a country we’ve never heard of by people who’d rather be doing many things, like, for instance, sticking hot, spiky turds in their eyes while gargling Simon Cowell’s fuckslop.

Artisanal? You cheeky MOTHERFUCKERS.

So, there you have it. A load of motherfuckers.

Naturally, I'm not on the list.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Friday, 2 November 2012

Agency case studies translated

My friends, it is time to reveal agency secrets. Hidden mysteries that, up to now, have been shrouded in mist and history and the sands of Dave Trott’s egg timer.

Agency case studies, for instance.

These are examples of an agency’s previous work, neatly packaged to tell the story of how they achieved success against a particular brief.

That's not how agencies think of them, however.

Agencies think of them as truth handed down from God that proves beyond the merest whiff of doubt that they are the most effective, most creative, most groundbreaking, most incredible agency in the history of human existence. No matter how improbable the results they yank from fuck-knows-where, no matter how embarrassingly irrelevant the gnat-turd of a budget was, no matter how inconsequential the work was to a campaign's final outcome, a great fug of self-delusion and blind optimism descends as the agency of version of What Really Happened is chiseled onto stone tablets ready to hand down to clients.

Here’s how they usually go:
In late 2011, Craggy Dog Chods & Pesticides came to us with a problem.

‘We’re number two in the market,’ they said. ‘We want to be number one.’

‘Cool,’ we said.

Then we went to work. Starting with our unique Mindologism Planning Tool architecting ‘unknowable truths’, we began our proprietary Garden Of Impact 4-Step Ideation Process: 1) Mulch 2) Nurture 3) Blossom 4) Harvest.

We devised a creative positioning that didn’t just result in an increase of 1,977% unprompted awareness amongst our target audience.

It increased sales by 15,354% and had a direct impact on the election of Barack Obama, the ending of the banking crisis and the death of Osama Bin Laden - and it made the population of the world 65% happier.
For Craggy Dog Chods & Pesticides, it was a history-making piece of thinking.
For Grayson Fanjita Hogg-Balls 360 Environ / Unmitigated, it was just another day.

Here’s the truth. The agency did some work. This work  had the same negligible / unmeasurable effect as every other piece of work the agency has pompously excreted since the day it was formed by four expensively-shod over-privileged cuntslaps – work which has tripled in price since it was bought out by a daddy-funded 'communications stable' looking to buy in some credibility by throwing a bucket of loot at the flavour of the month. Burp. That's it.

Don't be fooled by it. I'm fucking not.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!