The Motherfucker List

My fellow professionals, it is time again to make public the record of those deemed an unremitting motherfucker. All judging was carried out by a panel of people called Dave Knockles.

(The panel, interestingly, currently has six members - three of whom are me, because I'm so dickmendous that I'm like three people in one - and three people who share my name. Frankly, though, that's all they share with me. Even more frankly, they're fucking stupid. The number of times I've called one of them 'Dave' and they all go, 'Yes?' Honestly. I'm beginning to wonder if involving them was a good idea at all. During the judging session for this list, Dave Knockles said, 'I think we should change the name of the list to 'The Golden Child List' and make it all about the brave little ones who suffer so much these days.' I just threw a teapot at him and called him a cuntfart and a fistfuck and a horsewank and a motherfucker, which seemed to shut him up, but, really, what was he thinking? I wouldn't have minded, but Dave Knockles fucking agreed with him! As per usual, though, Dave Knockles just sat on the fence, the useless twonk.)

Anyway, here's the list. These people have been officially deemed a  motherfucker and may be addressed as such without fear of legal reprisal. Much.

1. Coffee.

Ah, go fuck yourself, coffee. You motherfucker. Coffee used to be something you drank a pint of to restart your heart after a bottle too many of Slovakian tequila. It used to be hot black sludge and men drank it to get through another morning of butchering cows and demolishing hospitals and digging holes in the road with their cocks.

Now what is it? It's a big shit-hat. It's a stupid dandy parade of cinos and frappas and con pannas and, for the sake of fuck, the word skinny. 

Look at how Starbucks describes a 'Flat White':

"Expertly steamed whole milk poured over two shots of espresso, topped with microfoam swirled into beautiful latte art."

'Expertly steamed' milk? Oh, you gigantic motherfuckers. Expertly? Really? By a milk-steaming expert? Are you fucking serious? They don't look like milk-steaming experts. They look like they always do: the last pick in team sports. As for 'beautiful latte art', I don't think I need to add anything.

BUT WHAT THE FUCK IS MICROFOAM?

Coffee has turned into a proper motherfucker.


2. Ironic viewers of TOWIE.


What's that? Did I watch TOWIE last night? Was it brilliant? Was it? Did someone say something really fucking stupid? Oh, how priceless. Did some human slurry pretend to be in situations that are nearly dramatic? Did some lumps of collagen and silicone and make-up say OMG again and again and again as though 100,000 years of human evolution had never happened?

And they got a BAFTA, did they? Oh, that is ironic, isn't it? Very ironic. But only in this way: it's ironic that the people who hammered the final nail into TV's coffin - get this - are people who dish out TV awards!

I don't watch fucking TOWIE because it's bullshit and worse than contracting quadruple AIDS. I spend my evenings reading management bibles, writing management bibles, doing one-arm push-ups and punching cats. I do none of these things ironically. I do them with an erection, you motherfuckers.

3. Dogs that aren't my dog.


My dog, Randy, is a gentleman, a character, a rogue, a rascal, a boozer, a serial shagger and a better man than most men.

All other dogs are motherfuckers. Stop sniffing Randy's arse when all he's trying to fucking do is get from A to cunting B. He doesn't like it.

4. Shopkeepers.


I have mentioned in previous Motherfucker Lists that the person who invented the self-checkout is a motherfucker on a scale previously unknown.

In a bid to escape the ignominy of becoming a checkout girl, I've taken to eschewing supermarkets in favour of local shops.

Well, it turns out shopkeepers are motherfuckers too.

'Don't squeeze the fruit.' 'Don't smell the sausages.' 'Don't finger the rabbits.' 'Don't badger the fish.' 'Don't drink the gin.' 'Don't try to leave wearing the suits.' 'Don't watch the televisions for three hours in your pants.' 'Don't shit in the toilets - they're for display purposes only.' 'Don't use the pornography.'

JESUS. WHAT CAN I FUCKING DO, YOU MOTHERFUCKERS?


That concludes today's list. But there will be more.

Why? Because I AM SURROUNDED BY MOTHERFUCKERS!

The Tesco account review: a translation

Oh dear. Tesco, the people who brought you...er...Tesco, have uttered the word that every ad man, girl and boy dreads to hear: review.

On the face of it, you might believe what the client at Tesco says: '...the way consumers and brands engage has changed and it seems to be a good opportunity for us both to step back and take a fresh look'.

You might also believe that Simon Cowell is in it for the fucking music.

It's a short article, but it's crackling with subtext, sub-plot and subversion. And submarines! (Shit. Not submarines. You over-stretched yourself there, Dave.)

So, seeing as it's crackling with...all that shit, I'm going to give you - yes, you - the client translation. So maybe from now on, you won't be no jive turkey. You dig that, bitch?

(Note to DK: not sure the occasional pimp-talk is really working. Especially at work. Meetings with female colleagues seem especially frosty. Give it another month. Maybe they'll come round, those skank-assed ho's.) 

Right. First paragraph.

'The supermarket is a founding client of the agency'.

Oh, sheeeeeyat. (That wasn't pimp-talk. That was saying 'shit' with a sort of ominous undertone.) This means all kinds of things. Probably, the agency and client began their relationship in a great big pink cloud of mutual love and long lunches (paid for by the agency, obviously) and they've been frotting each other in the lift ever since.

Which means this review has been called because the client is massively cocked-off about something. After all, this isn't your normal agency/client relationship. They've been together for six years. I've hired and fired the same agency three times within that timeframe. This is serious.

Next paragraph.

'Intermediary Oystercatcher is handling the pitch process.'

Translation: LET'S FUCKING LUNCH!

In the next paragraph, the client performs the usual titwank and thanks the agency for all their brilliant work, says they'll still be handling the trade side (gee, thanks a fucking bunch) and tries to say the review is about the changing brand/customer engagement blah blah blah. That's not the reason. The reason is coming soon.

Next, the agency gaffer, speaking directly from his special 'happy room' where he goes to put on a nappy, hold his favourite teddy and rock back and forwards singing nursery rhymes through the snot and tears, gives us the classic agency denial routine.

Then we get to the real stuff. The final paragraph is where it's at. This is the Rosetta Stone. (If that's an appropriate metaphor. I think it is, but I really can't be sure. I always get it mixed up with The Blarney Stone.)

The final paragraph tells us that their big campaign fell on its ringpiece, billions were wiped off the share price and lots of very rich people got slightly less very rich. All of which means the client needs a goat to scape. And they've clearly found their goat. Now, over the course of the next few weeks, they're going scape the living fuck out of it.

Of course, they're right to do so. When a campaign fails, there is only one reason for it doing so: the agency fucked it up, the stupid, useless cunts. Obviously. They're the agency. 

That's why we employ agencies. If ads worked every time, we'd do them ourselves. But they don't, so we need someone to selflessly take it up the chimney when the fudge hits the fan. What, you thought we gave you money for your ideas? PAH! Agency fees are insurance. It's a price we pay so our bosses have someone else to string up from a lampost and throw shit at.

It's great!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT! AND YOU'RE UP FOR REVIEW, JIVE-ASS FOOL!

The science of client approval

My friends, many of you work on the creative side of the business. ('Scribblers', I call you! You're so cute and silly, playing with your pens and pencils and little computers, all tucked away at the back of the agency in what I call, 'the playground'.)


Anyway, I love you all because I'm obviously a kindred creative spirit. But as I have experience of being a total fucking genius across all areas of this business, I thought I might try to help my creative brethren understand the often rigourous thinking that goes into a client's approval process.


Let me assure you, my talented creative cousins, that we do not judge your work with anything but the utmost respect, care, thought, patience and consideration.


For example, here's the tried-and-tested DK Route To Approval.


Step 1. Look at the work.
This is so fucking important. I really can't stress this enough. You just can't assess creative work without looking at it. It took me a good six or seven years to establish this fact, and I offer it to you, my fellow marketing professionals, free of charge and with good grace. I know it will help you.


Step 2. Consult the target audience.
Crucial, this. Vital. And for me, being in consumer durables relating to, or directly involving, cleaning clothes and or soft furnishings and or other fabrics, with a commitment to excellence, quality and placing superior cleaning at the core of our customers' product experience, that means consulting my mother.


She's absolutely smack in the middle of the target audience that's just outside my actual target audience, so she's perfect. I let the old girl see everything.


Step 3. Relay target audience feedback to the agency.
I regard my agency as my partner. Well, my partner who has to do what I say. But a partner nonetheless. And I communicate openly with them - which means relaying my mother's feedback on all their ads.


Sometimes, this is minimal. She'll just say, 'The colour is all wrong - it's just like the lipstick that witch who stole your father from us used to wear.' So, like, simple - just change the colour. (And give the agency a fucking good bollockising for not doing in the first place.)


Other times, her feedback will be more...comprehensive. For example: 'This is disgusting and hateful and an insult to God who, let me tell you, David, is watching every little move you make. And the colour is all wrong - it's just like the lipstick that witch who stole your father from us used to wear.'


Not easy for the agency to interpret that. But that's why I pay them them the medium bucks!


Step 4. Amendments.
After a good think about things (I usually allow the duration of one particularly exhaustive and wide-ranging dump), I like to fire a list of amendments over to the agency. Now, it's important to give them a reasonable timsescale. 'First thing tomorrow' seems reasonable to me.


Agencies are often touchy about amendments. Especially when, like mine, they infinitely improve the work and make it clear I could have done it myself. So be sensitive about it. I try to add a compliment to every amend. 


For example: "I really like the way you've used the English language in the headline (see - a compliment) but it's absolute fucking jizzmud and if you don't change it I'm going to cunt you to death.'


Or: 'I like the way you always have a tidy desk (a compliment) but this ad looks like you literally shat it onto the page after a night of consuming spunk jelly, dog bile and unfiltered self-loathing. Change it or die, you squirt of backflow.'


It's just my style. It happens to work.


Step 5. 'Oh shit!' amendments.
Once all the amendments have been made, it's time for all the amendments you forgot to ask for first time around. It's fine. Just call the agency and say 'Oh, shit! I completely forgot to mention that we can't use that picture, or that headline, and it's a different product, and it's not a DPS ad in The Telegraph, it's an A6 flyer. By tomorrow morning, please. Bye!'


They don't mind. They're used to it. And if they're not, just say the words 'agency review' and things will move pretty quickly.


Step 6. Rebrief.
Let's face it, nothing good gets done first time round. So I like to completely move the goal posts once the first brief has been answered, amended, re-amended and finished to print-ready standards. It keeps the agency on its toes. And whenever I call them and say, 'I think I've come up with a brilliant opportunity for you to improve on the ad you've just finished' there's a faintly haunting silence and a little sob, which proves it: they're breathless with excitement and welling up with gratitude.


Step 7. Go back to step 1.




Once you've got something you're finally happy with, you just need to:


Step 8. Present to the team and return with amends.


Step 9. Present to the board and return with amends.


Step 10. Present to the focus group and return with amends.


Step 11. Present to the board again and return with amends.


Believe it or not, that's it. See? Advertising is a piece of piss. 


Anyway, that's the DK Route To Approval, and it's how I roll.


Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

DK dishes the truth on digital advertising

My friends, there has been a lot of talk lately about this thing called 'the internet'.

Now, I'm a fucking marketing goliath with a cock the size of a baboon's arm, so not much gets past me. And I've noticed that advertising on the internet has taken off quite a bit.

I mean, obviously it'll never replace press advertising or anything! That would be fucking disastrous! But it's really becoming quite prominent all across the globally digitised interconnected world we all live in today, the future, now, tomorrow.

So, for those less plugged into the very fudgepipe of the zeitgeist, here's the DK breakdown of what digital advertising is all about.

Web advertising


On many websites, space on every page has been devoted to advertising. You might have noticed it, if you've got eyes in your head. This takes the form of spaces that are just too small to contain anything of value, impact or interest. Often, each space on the page is taken by a different advertiser, and will flash, burp, spin and thrash independently of all the rest, so that the page ends up looking like someone with epilepsy was given a pen and asked, 'Could you draw your very, very worst nightmare?'

The overall point of web advertising is to stop you looking at the web page you originally visited, because you'd only learn something or gain whatever it is you wanted to gain before you went there. The click-through rates currently run at around 0.000000000000000000000001%.

It's a great investment.

Facebook advertising


If you use Facebook (and if you do, you're a 12-year old girl, which means if you aren't a 12-year old girl, you're basically a paedophile) you will have noticed areas of it devoted to little advertisements for things that you may have mentioned in status updates or exchanges with friends. It's a very, very clever algorithm that almost reads your mind.

For instance, if you update your status with 'Just went to McDonald's', and ad for McDonald's will pop up. And if you write, 'Can't believe my wife has been fucking my brother', an ad for McDonald's will pop up. And if you write 'I would dearly love someone to contact me about the latest deals on rubberware, gimp masks and cock-plugs', an ad for McDonald's will pop up.

It's fucking spooky.


Pre-roll advertising


You know you can watch a load of telly on the internet now, don't you? Oh, fucking yes. BBC, ITV, Channel 4 - they all have loads of programmes you can watch WHEN YOU WANT! Even better, it's totally free! Apart from your broadband costs, and the license fee, and needing a computer, and all that shit.

Anyway, on commercial channels, they put ads into the on-demand videos! It's brilliant! It's JUST LIKE WATCHING ON THE TELLY! It's especially clever because you can't change channel, like you do on the telly, unless your own ad is on, obviously, because that's the only reason anyone in advertising watches ITV. So you have to sit there and take it, even though the ads are mostly as enjoyable as taking your penis, grinding it with a ball of wire wool, then smashing it into a jam-like paste with a hammer, then frying it in hot oil before smearing it directly onto your own eyeballs - all while listening to Simon Cowell read Shakespeare translated into Klingon as he gargles the contents of Louis Walsh's colostomy bag.

It's brilliant.

Mobile advertising


This is when people made of the devil's penile discharge, thousand-year old corpses, lizard sick and Hitler's piss put ads on your phone without asking you.

It's the future.




I hope that helps you all put what can be a confusing media marketplace into focus. There's no need to thank me. Actually, there fucking is.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

Sorrell announces amazing client-fucking results

News in that Martin Sorrell's WPP group has posted some really tremendous results across his entire client-fucking corporation.

Pre-tax client-humping profits are up 18.5%, in what Sorrell called an 'outstanding' year for sucking clients dry better than a 10 grand hooker.

Across the global client-fisting group, revenue rose to £44.79billion, showing it's possible to rinse clients for work that hits new lows year on year, even when the rest of the world is clenching its arsehole tight and praying that there's enough in the kitty at the end of the month to give the kids a hot meal.

The improvement in results was a global trend. The USA knuckle-fucked its clients to the tune of £3.39billion, despite a strong dollar, while the account-bangers of Western Europe managed to reach up their clients' beleagured fudgepipes and yank out £2.51billion - 7.7% up on 2010, when clients' ringholes were already more tattered than a paper bag in a McDonald's car park.

Overall, the results bode well for other client-reaming organisations, perhaps signaling an era of rising profits across the whole client-screwing, client-shafting, client-felching and client-doinking sectors.

More client-balling news as I have it.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT GETTING BALLED!

The ins and outs of banging your boss's wife

As I mentioned in a recent post, I have become embroiled in a personal situation which, being as frank as possible, involves me doinking the tits off of my boss's wife.

Yes. BOSS. That King Of The Cunts, Rupert Abbott, has been promoted to Executive Marketing Director, whatever the fuck that means. (The reason for his promotion, I was told, was 'in recognition of his immediate and dramatic impact on sales figures and the bottom line, as well as visible uplift in the quality of marketing'. Whatever the fuck that means.)

Anyway, I would normally have taken this news in a less-than-relaxed manner. I'd probably have gone to the Dog & Hog and drank it.

As it is, I can handle it because every time I see his smug shitpickle of a face drift through the office, I can shout, 'OI! ABBOTT, YOU FUCKING FRENCH FANCY! LAST NIGHT, I BANGED YOUR MISSUS SO HARD, SHE DISLOCATED HER TITS! HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT, YOU FUCKING EUNUCH?'

I mean, I don't shout that.

But I project it, with my Knockles Mind Force, so even if he's totally unaware of it, he's totally aware of it.

So, what are the benefits of bending one through the spouse of your line manager on virtually a nightly basis so that you regularly come into work with one of her pubes stuck in your teeth?

PROS


Well, the unlimited supply of doinking is a bonus under any circumstances. It's comforting for a chap to know that, on at least five occasions every week, he's going to be able to fire up the Bentley, point it down Foof Street and...like...have sex and that. (I don't think I fully committed to that metaphor. Never mind. There'll be another one along in a minute.) Given that a chap could easily devote 95% of his waking life devoted to the pursuit of doinking, a regular supply really does free up time to get things done. My house, for example, now has two clean rooms. This have never happened before.

But above, beyond and from behind that boon, the vengeful nature of the doinking adds an extra bit of spice to things. For instance, the other week, I had Abbott's wife spread over my executive leather sofa. As I expertly hammered away, I remembered every belittling comment Abbott had made that day and it contributed at least an extra 15% to my delivery. I thought, 'Have that, Abbott, you stupid sack of pig dicks!' It felt wonderful.

(Important note: never say that kind of thing. Only ever think it. I've learned that lesson.)

Finally, there's the tremendous thrill of doing something that could make you unemployed, beaten up, sued and shunned by society at any moment. As I tenderly hang out the back of Abbott's wife and bang her like a pissed-up sailor on shore leave, or fondly fist her until she punches me across the face and neck in a mixture of rapture and agony - all those intimate acts between two people in love are given an extra dimension. They're made, I don't know, a bit naughty. Which is amazing when you consider how tender and loving the acts themselves are. Burp.

Anyway, that's what it's like to slam your gaffer's wife. Frankly, I don't think I can stop.

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

THE MOTHERFUCKER LIST

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.

1. BRITISH PEOPLE USING AMERICAN PHRASES WITHOUT EVEN THE SLIGHTEST SCINTILLA OF SHAME OR SELF-AWARENESS.

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?

How?

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.

CAN I  GET A?

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.

THAT'S GOTTA HURT.

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.

Motherfuckers.

GOTTEN GOTTEN GOTTEN.

'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.

I'M ALL ABOUT THE THING THAT WOULD SOUND UTTERLY UNIMPRESSIVE IF I DIDN'T PREFIX IT WITH THE PHRASE 'I'M ALL ABOUT THE'.

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.

Why? Because THE WORLD IS FULL OF MOTHERFUCKERS.

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.