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.

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.

Meet our new account handler

Long time, no see. And all that shit.

I hate fucking account handlers. I hate them so much, I amost like having them around, so I can hate them.

I know they serve a purpose, but then so does Toilet Duck. And I don't want to spend the day with it.

I spent an hour in a client meeting the other week trying to get out of them what they wanted to say. What made them different from the competition - if anything - as what they were saying previously was the same as everyone else.

Eventually we got somewhere. It wasn't hard. You just have to ask the right basted questions to get the right bastard answers.

So, fast forward to yesterday. Our sweet innocent account handler comes over to brief me holding her lovely new brief.

Now Dave Balls was impressed she'd actually managed to count how many people we're going to be in the briefing (3) and had the right ammount of copies of the brief (3). So far so good. Then we sit down and she goes through it.

Sweet Jesus. All she had to do was write the proposition we'd agreed the week earlier. That was all. The rest of the brief was the same. The target audience, the support, the media, everything thing.

Instead, she had decided to simply copy and paste (as far as I could tell) the same old proposition we'd been using the year before.

I mentioned this to her in my usual calm style. And pointed out she'd got the proposition wrong and told her what it should be. She commented on what a good memory I had for remembering. As she hadn't put it in her notes she'd made during the meeting.

I pointed out that it wasn't fucking difficult to fucking forget becasue it was all the fucking fucking fucking fucking meeting was fucking about for a fucking hour.

I remeber a quote from the movie 'Team America", when dictator Kim Jong says "Why is everyone so fucking stupid?"

Could it be because they are all account handlers?

And finally on a lighter note:

How many account handlers does it take to change a light bulb?

Don't let them, they'll fuck it up.

Why did the account handler cross the road?

Who cares as long as he gets run over.

What's the difference between a lorry load of sand and a lorry load of account handlers?

You can't empty a lorry load of sand with a pitchfork.

How many account handlers can you get in a Mini.

As many as you can then drive it off a fucking cliff.

Have a nice bank holiday.

(unless you're an account handler).

DAVE

BALLS

SUCKS

LOGOS

Dave Balls has let his blog slip. I've been off on a shoot. But now I'm back.

'Did it go well Dave?" I hear you ask. 'Have you created an award-winning ad?'

Did I fuck.

I am a prostitute to my art. A fat, sweaty, over made up tart. Giving the client what he wants then taking the money.

'Over 'ere darling, looking for a good concept? Course you are luvva. I know how you like it. Cor look at the size of your logo. That's a big one. Do you want me to put it somewhere nice. How about smack bang in the middle of your fucking ad? And make it as big as a house?'

I cry myself to sleep, cradling an empty bottle of rioja.

Welcome back.

Dave Balls Advertising Agony Uncle

As you may have guessed from my previous posts, Dave Balls is a creative guru, knowledgeable about all things advertising. Like Trevor Beattie, only with a decent haircut. And without the silly fucking accent.

So, ask me a bastard question or petty problem and through the power of the Internet, your query will be answered - probably.

Whether you gets an answer depends on a number of things:

1. Dave Balls knows the answer.
Although let's face it, when has that ever stopped someone in a client meeting spouting on for what seems like hours without saying anything of any god-damn relevance?

2. It is a decent bloody question.
I'm not answering any old bollocks.

3. Dave Balls gives a shit.
Dave Balls is busy doing ads not sat around waiting for you and your pointless fucking questions.

Little known fact: Planners are like jellyfish. They serve no purpose and they are bastards.

Weekend Balls

So, what does Dave Balls do at the weekend when he is not doing advertising? Well, he spends his time looking at other people's ads.

And I found the above creative jiz. I have no idea who did it. I have no idea where it ran. I have no idea why I bother when I see shit like this.

The fucking fact that 'Drink' and 'Drive' both start with 'Dri' and making me aware of the fact is enought to drive me to drink.

I've got news for you whever did this ad - Fuckwit, Fucker, Fuckhead, Fuckstick, Fuck-up and Fuck-you-in-the-ear all begin with Fuc.

How on God's green Earth does the above make me stop drink driving ? Dave Balls ticks both boxes. Your ad ticks none. Unless there's a Twaticus box. Whatever the fuck that is. Makes as much sense as that piece of shit ad.