Wanted: woman

I’ll be honest. I’m single.

I know, I know – this will shock many of you. After all, I’m the former marketing director of a major manufacturer of consumer durables, and a planner at one of London’s most unrepentantly pretentious advertising agencies.

Also, I’ve got a dong like a fucking baguette.

Sadly, though, this potent cocktail of masculine must-haves is not enough for the women of London.

And to be honest, I’m getting a little lonely. A man of my intellect can’t live as an island. I need a collaborator, an equal, a sparring partner with whom to spend the evenings in discussion of art, politics, theatre and philosophy.

So, here’s the ad I’ll be placing in everything from Guardian Soulmates to the windows of the local rub ‘n’ tugs. Feel free to share it with your single female friends (or, indeed, with any friends who you think have a total fucking waste of air for a boyfriend / husband).

My name is Dave. I’m looking for a woman. A woman I can call my friend, my lover, my equal.

You’ll be a current or former stripper with bazongas like a pair of fucking footballs. You like nights in, nights out and bouncing on my weapons-grade wang. Ideally, English is your second language and you know when to shut the fuck up.

If you’re not a current or former stripper, you’ll be at least an 8 on the Knockles Phwoarmeter (I can let you have a PDF of this if you need it – best to assess yourself rather than have the disappointment of me ruling you out) and you’ll have a job that won’t embarrass me when I introduce you to people (dinner lady, vet, miner, academic, copywriter – that kind of thing).

It’s absolutely mandatory that you have at least one proprietary blowjob technique and that you can remember a safe word. Add a liberal attitude to men who frequently piss themselves, even more frequently shit themselves, disappear for days at a time, shout expletives in their sleep, belch sexually disturbing epithets involuntarily and openly masturbate in areas of natural beauty, and you could have a chance – just as long as you’re also happy for me to continue my three-hooker-a-week habit.

I look forward to hearing from you.


What do you think? I’ll tell you what you think: you think I’ll be beating the birds away with a fucking stick. And that’s because I know the human psyche like the back of my hand.

Why? Because I AM THE PLANNER!

My Morning Routine

Are you aware of mymorningroutine.com? It’s a fascinating, inspiring site where a series of American high achievers tell us in valuably excruciating detail what they do in the morning to be so fucking amazing.

Do yourself a favour and take a look.

Of course, as a high achiever myself, you probably want to know what I get up to in the mornings. So I thought I’d write my own ‘My Morning Routine’, ready for when they inevitably ask.

It uses the stock set of questions they use on the site. I hope it helps you in your own quest to begin the day like a champion, ie, me.


What is your morning routine?

I wake without an alarm at 5am. I immediately drink a glass of water with a squeeze of lemon, some chia seeds and four fingers of scotch. Then I ask the hooker to fuck off.

Within 4 hours, I am up, though I always allow myself 15 minutes before I rise to be grateful, to set my agenda for the day, and to sob relentlessly in vast silent gulps as the darkness in my soul taunts me without remorse.

Once up, I begin my workout routine: gripping the seat of my toilet as tight as I can for 15 reps every minute, or whatever coincides with the explosive bouts of volcanic diarrhoea that rip out of me like jets of pure hate.

Once that’s done, I take a shower hot enough to lift the skin from my bones (but never, it seems, hot enough to make me truly clean).

Recently, I began experimenting with a form of Taoist meditation, but I ended up realising that it was absolute fucking garbage. So I went back to power shower choke wanking.

How long have you stuck with the routine so far?

Since I was 7.

Has your routine changed over recent years.

Only since I discovered power shower choke wanking.

Do you do anything before you go to bed to make your morning easier?

I stop at the fourth bottle of claret ‘n’ WKD and limit myself to one hooker or two masseuses (who I find I can get through quicker than a hooker). I’ve learned that this reduces the night terrors substantially.

Do you use an alarm to wake you up in the morning, and if so do you ever hit the snooze button?

Fuck off. You snooze, you lose. Also, my fine motor skills aren’t developed enough in the morning to actually hit a snooze button.

How soon after waking up do you have breakfast, and what do you typically have?

I don’t like to eat until around 11am, because up to then I’m usually dry-heaving or crying with regret. When my appetite awakens, though, I hit it with my own smoothie recipe. Take two double bacon and egg McMuffins, a pint of cider, seven eggs, a string of Cumberland sausages, three pints of milk, eight Cheese Strings, four KitKats, a handful of Tangfastics and a large pork pie. Blend. Drink.

Don’t try it, though. It’s dangerously powerful. I made it for a colleague once and his heart stopped beating. In fact, his heart still isn’t beating, and this was three years ago. Basically, his heart stopped and didn’t start again. Essentially, he died.

Do you have a morning workout routine?

Grasping the toilet while I shit, like an Astronaut holding on during re-entry, is all I need. Gyms are for the mentally weak / cunts.

Do you have a morning meditation routine?

No. I’m British.

How does your partner fit into your morning routine?

She’ll have been asked to fuck off before it begins, so not at all. And anyway, she’s a different one every time, often with a shaky grasp of English and keen to get to the next client so she can earn money for her pimp and maybe escape the modern slavery she finds herself in. In short, it’s a win-win.

Do you also follow this routine on weekends, or do you change some steps?

I don’t stop at the fourth bottle of claret ‘n’ WKD and I don’t stop at the first hooker. Inevitably, that means I wake a little later – usually around 9.30pm on Sunday.

What do you do if you fail your morning routine, and how does it impact on the rest of your day?

Put it this way. Once, I went to bed at 10pm, sober, and slept for eight hours. I dreamt with remarkable clarity and awoke fresh, invigorated, focused and ready for work. It was fucking horrible. I had to spend the next week at a South London sex dungeon having moonshine injected up my a-pipe and crack cocaine poured into my cockhole. Never, ever again. (The eight-hours-of-sleep thing.)

Anything else you’d like to add?

Anyone who reads this far into your articles is clearly a fucking sociopath or unemployed, so nah.


There you have it, my friends. Don’t steal any element of my morning routine for yourselves, though. I’m an incredible machine and I need this kind of jet fuel to start my day.

Why? Because I AM THE PLANNER!

A proposition is born.

“I’m thinking ‘If God made a litter tray liner…”, I said.

My boss, Gakushu (real name Felix), looked quizzically back at me.

“I have one comment, Dave,” he said. “If there is a God, he would have made this cat litter tray liner.”

“Hmm. That’s a great point, Gakushu-San. I thank you for your enlightenment.”

(Gakushu (real name Felix) likes us to thank each other for our enlightenment.)

“My enlightenment is freely given,” he replied (which is what he likes us to say after we’ve thanked each other for our enlightenment.) “Talk to me about what cats think.”

“Well, cats don’t really think…”

“Pause and breathe, Dave.” (This is what Gakushu (real name Felix) says when he means ‘shut the fuck up’.)

“I pause and breathe without ego, without preconception.” (This is what Gakushu (real name Felix) likes us to say after he’s told us to shut the fuck up.)

“Cats might not think like you and I think. But they instinctively feel. Which is a kind of thought. What do they feel about this litter tray liner?”

“Well…they mostly just shit and piss on it.”

“Yes. And…?”

“Erm…then they walk away from it?”

“And in what state of being do they walk away from it?”

“I guess…they walk away less in need of a shit or piss?”

“Good. Which means…?”

“That the proposition for this brief should be…’the litter tray liner that leaves cats less in need of a shit or piss’?”

“No, Dave. It means cats are happy after using it. And happiness is divinity. We know this, don’t we?”


“So, this litter tray liner is almost a gift from the universe for cats. A gift from God, even!”


“So the proposition should be, ‘The litter tray liner made by God’. Obviously.”

“But that’s what I…”

“Pause and breathe, Dave.”


“Good. Glad we got this sorted. I’m happy. You’re happy too, aren’t you?”


“And why is that?”

“Because I am the planner?”

“Yes, Dave. Yes.”


How the modern agency works

I’ve been agency-side long enough now to give you a clear idea of how things work in a 2017-vintage ad shop.

It’s simple: nobody has a single fucking clue what they’re doing.

As far as I can see, from the bog-scrubber up to the CEO, everyone is winging it from second to second, trying to avoid looking like they don’t know what Big Data actually is. (And nobody knows. NOBODY.)

For instance, the typical job works like this:

The client calls and says they want to promote their latest heap of pointless dog-chod. A suit, aged 7, writes this down and looks for a grown-up to tell. But 98.992% of the time there are no grown-ups around because they’re at a conference in Miami, fucking the same idiot they fucked last time they were there.

So the 7-year old writes a brief.

Now, there will have been an internal session of some kind within the last 36 hours (called TeamHero, or BrainClub or whatever) where a tech dude (and it’s always a dude) will have been gassing on like fucked air-con about the latest bit of digital cow spunk that has caught his eye. At the moment, that will be A.I.

At this session, everyone else in the room – even people with brains and minds and common sense – will have swallowed every word as the Word of God. The 7-year old will have been one of them.

So A.I. will go into the brief thusly: ‘We need an idea that break conventions – maybe A.I. could work.’

The creatives, desperate self-absorbed seekers of approval as they are, will see this as an award opportunity. So they’ll forget the fact that the brief is a pile of shit written by a 7-year old lump of pale meat and get busy with the A.I.

A fortnight later, the creatives (who have already spent the rise they think they’re getting from this award shoe-in) sweatily present an A.I. idea that costs 138 times more than the client has to spend, and does absolutely nothing they want it to do.

The client fires the agency, who fire the 7-year old, who tries to complain to the grown-ups, but they’re at a conference in Brasilia, trying to avoid the idiot they fucked in Miami.

Then the client calls, and…you get the picture.

This, of course, is fucking mental. Which for me, is perfect. Because I have no idea what I’m doing, and no real desire to learn.

Why? Because I AM THE PLANNER!

The Seven Samurai of Insight

Every great agency has a planning tool.

You’ve seen them. It might be called Visioneering. Or TruthSpearing 2.0. Or WeMakeTruthHappy. It’ll be followed by a TM. It’ll be as confusing as the self-checkout in a Japanese supermarket.

The agency I now work for has one that’s a bit different.

After spending a long time looking at it, developing a headache, looking at it a bit more, crying, having a power wank, looking at it again, crying again and looking at it until my eyes felt like hot sand, I’ve come to a conclusion.

It’s amazing.

Some might say that the process I’ve been through is a lot like joining a cult and what I’m now experiencing is a standard case of Stockholm Syndrome.

To them, I say, ‘If you talk about our leader’s teachings like that again, I’ll kill you, your family and anybody standing nearby.’

Our planning tool is called The Seven Samurai of Insight™. And it’s brutally complex in its lack of simplicity.

The Seven Samurai are:






Competitors and Related Market-San™.


Here’s how it works.

The Seven Samurai of Insight™ gather in the Insight Dojo™ and begin a process we call Truth Sparring™. That involves each member of the planning team ‘donning the armour’ of one of the Samurai and Free Thoughting™ in ‘discursive combat’. We argue and counter-argue, each putting across the viewpoint of our respective Samurai.

This process can last up to 18 weeks. When we emerge, we have a conciliatory tea ceremony and a communal shower. Then our boss, Gakushu (real name Felix), chants until a proposition emerges, which we then turn into a brief for the CD to reject and replace with something he thought up on the spot.

It’s incredible, but took some getting used to. I found the confrontational nature of the process hard to adjust to initially. At my first Insight Dojo™, I called my colleague Tabitha a cunt and punched her in the back of the head.

But I have to say, I’m starting to enjoy it. If only for the communal shower.

Some people in the agency think it’s a massively indulgent waste of time, energy and money.

But I tell them to go fuck themselves and open their Bushido Mindhole™.

Why? Because I AM THE PLANNER!

My name is Dave. I am the planner.

Look, I’ll be honest. I was in prison when I decided to become a planner.

My cellmate, John The Northern Cunt (a name he chose) had finished with me for the evening and, while I gathered myself (and my clothes LOL!), I thought ‘What will I do when I get out in 3-9 months depending on good behaviour?’

I knew I couldn’t return to my life as a marketing guru. I had burned too many bridges. I also burned an office, my boss, a gaggle of innocent-but-unfortunately-placed geese and an executive gentlemen’s facility called Honeyz.

No – what I needed was a new challenge. But a challenge that wasn’t actually that challenging. And that’s when it struck me: planning.

I’m not saying being a planner is easy. (It is – it definitely is, it so is. It’s a piece of piss. But I’m not saying that here.)  I’m saying that this new challenge is not a challenge to me because I have a gift for advertising, marketing, strategising, truth-diving and insight-retrieval.

(I can also shit in specific colours on request. That has nothing to do with planning, but it is also a gift.)

Once that thought had struck me, I stopped thinking about planning for a bit because John The Northern Cunt decided he hadn’t quite finished with me after all and I had to play what he called ‘Chew The Fat With John The Northern Cunt’. (I think he liked the way it sounded like a game show, but it really wasn’t a game. Not for me. Not ever.)

Still, that’s behind me. (As was John The Northern Cunt almost nightly, LOL!) When I got out, and once I’d recovered from a prolonged bout of hepatitis (which John The Northern Cunt may have contributed to) I found a job at one of London’s top agencies.

It took a while, but blackmailing an account guy I used to bang hookers with is a delicate process.

In the end, though, I did it – and I got away with it too.