Friday, 26 August 2011

Clever Fucker. I have no more to say.

Thursday, 31 March 2011

OK, so it's been a few years and Bave Balls hasn't been posting. Why? Cause I couldn't be arsed, simple as that. But now I'm back from outer space with that sad look on my face. So, what's new? Well, strangely enought, fuck all. Still dealing with dipshits on a daily basis. Although Dave Balls is now having to embrace the Internet. It seems clients in their infinite wisdom are seeing traditional advertising as a waste of money, so instead are throwing everything into the empty shit bucket known as the Internet. Call it copywriting and no fucker wants to know. Call it SEO writing and you've got a licence to print money. Go fingering figure. As me old mum used to say. Bless her.

Tuesday, 18 December 2007

Balls to Christmas

As this is the season of good will to all men, Dave Balls would like to wish everyone a Merry Xmas*.

*Except the following people: Account handlers – you’re all wankers, Planners – hope Rudolph shits in your Xmas sock, Media lovies – how’s ‘do some fucking work’ sound as a New Year’s resolution, PR – Santa only does one day’s work a year; sound familiar?
Students – Christmas is a time of giving, start giving a shit and do some work rather than pissing about, Graphic Designers – ho-ho-hope you get an STD for Crimbo.

Monday, 12 November 2007

Make it stop.

I was in a meeting with an account handler today. As you may have noticed from my earlier posts Dave Balls hates them all with a passion and wishes a pox on them and their families.

The meeting started with shit-for-brains stating:

"I just wanted to give you a heads-up.'


You are talking to me face to face, not typing to some bloody so-called-mate on Facebook who you are only keeping in touch with so you can feel popular.

It's only monday. When I sober up from a weekend of liver abuse I am sure it will get worse.

Thursday, 8 November 2007


Daddy, daddy what did you do today at work? Well dear, I thought of famous films and replaced one word of each with the word 'cock'. And here they are:

Saving Private Cock

The Cock Father

Indian Jones and the Temple of Cock

Edward Cockhands

When Harry met Cock

A Fistful of Cock

The Surecock Redemption

Shindeler’s cock

12 Angry Cocks

To Cock a Mockingbird

Internal sunshine of the spotless cock (Ok so I changed that one a bit more)

Seven Cocks for Seven Brothers

Raging cock

A Cock too Far

Cock it like Beckham

The Little Cock of Horrors

Full Metal Cock

Some like it Cock

Butch Cock and the Sundance Kid

It’s a Wonderful Cock

Cockhand Luke

Harry Potter and the Cock of the Phoenix

Harry Potter and the Cock of Fire

Those Magnificent Men in their Flying Cocks

Who Cocked Roger Rabbit?

Spongebob Cockpants the Movie


The Da Vinci Cock

Tim Burton’s, The Cock Before Christmas

Close Encounters of the Cock Kind

Fantastic Four: The Rise of the Silver Cock

Wallace and Gromit: The Cock of the Were-Rabbit

The Silence of the Cocks

Honey I Shrunk the Cock

Uncle Cock


Cockwork Orange

Cock Bandits


Citizen Cock

Dr Strange Cock

Cock of Arabia

2001 a Cock Odyssey

And the winner is:

Das Cock

You see it was this or write a fucking leaflet for paving tiles. Lord give me strength. If only enough to twat an account handler.

Friday, 26 October 2007

Put it in your diary

Dear account handlers, when you write a letter to Santa this year, please, please, please put a diary at the top of the list you worthless pieces of fetid shit spawn.

How hard is it plan something in? It’s only a leaflet a client wants, not the Nazis marching through Europe. How much fucking organising does it take?

Here’s an idea. When a client asks for a piece of work, rather than just file it under ‘B’ for ‘bollocks-up’ and forget about it until about 5-minutes before it is wanted, instead just type out a brief, then give it to Creative straight away. I know it’s a mind-numbingly simple thought, which is why you’re having trouble with it. But what this means is that I don’t have to work late while you swan off to do Pilates or whatever other brainless shit you’re doing because it is ‘in’ that week. I hope sticking your puss ridden cock into glass becomes the next big thing. I am sure you'll jump on the bandwagon. I know I will give you a leg up.

And account handlers wonder why I am such a miserable twat. Wankers.

Wednesday, 17 October 2007

Pitch Bitch

I was in a pitch the other day. What a waste of my fucking precious time that was. I might as well have spent my time wanking against the window. It would have been more productive.

There I was presenting billboards concepts to the clients. OK, they weren’t going to win any D&AD’s – Dave Balls is honest if fuck all else – but they were good solid ideas and the client seemed to like them. So far, so good.

Then, the media bitch stands up. Someone who has got to their position in life through force of character and big tits. And very little else. Unfortunately she is now no longer 21, although she still dresses like she is, and all that remains is her force of character and breastickle saddle-bags around her ankles. So, this loud argumentative ad-slag-whore-a-way-media-lovey stands and gives us her media schedule.

In your mind you’re expecting billboard schedule recommnedations I bet. I know I was. But oh no, that would be far too bastarding simple. Christ on a bike, she recommends the back of car park tickets.

I stared at the pile of work on the table spread around the table. I stared at the thick bitch pointing at the overhead display which was lighting up the room with our incompetence. I stared at the client to see if he had noticed we were fuckwits. Then, I stared out of the window and wished I was wanking against it.

Well, did we get the business? No, obviousy. Because when you’re a client and you’re told your name is going on the back of car park tickets, you smile politely, walk out slowly, then run as fast as your little feet will carry you to the agency who is going to put you on the TV. Now that may be at 3am on the No Fucker’s Watching Channel, but you’re still on TV and not lying in the footwell of someone’s shitting car.