A short lesson in PR and a potentially big mistake

Last week I was feeling a little undervalued and generally overlooked at work. I know I have only been at the agency for a relatively small amount of time (a month and a half) and in any new job anyone has a fair bit to prove. But while I might be impatient at the best of times, the fact remains that I have worked in PR for nine years and without wanting to sound immodest I have a really broad brand marketing experience and I assumed that was one of the reasons I was employed for the job. Not only have I created and implemented pure media relations campaigns, but I have also devised and deployed strategy and PR mechanics for local markets to implement by themselves in Europe, North America, South America, the Far East and Australasia. And I have done this for some of the biggest, most iconic brands in the world including one rather famous cola manufacturer. No. Not that one - the other one.

As far as I was concerned the straw that broke the camels back was when I happened to learn, last week, that my company was pitching (today) for a luxury car marque. My agency (and all the people involved in the pitch) has no experience on working on car marques, whereas I do. In my time I have worked on [insert famous car marque] and [insert famous car marque] in the United Kingdom, and [insert famous car marque] in the US. As far as consumer publicity campaigns for car marques go, it’s safe to say that I know my stuff.

Now admittedly I am somewhat predisposed to jumping to the wrong conclusion. I assumed that there must be some dark power play going on behind the scenes, hence the reason behind my boss not inviting me to contribute towards the campaign strategy and platform and an even darker motive as to I was not asked to demonstrate my knowledge of the automotive industry at the pitch itself.

Of course the real reason that I wasn’t asked to do either of these things was because the pitch is highly confidential and I shouldn’t have actually known about it in the first place. The other reason is that my main boss (the company owner) didn’t actually interview me for my position and therefore had no idea I had all this relevant experience. It was only when I told her that I knew about the pitch and wanted to help out using my knowledge that she asked for my help.

Now, marketing directors are very aware that editorially placed, third party brand endorsement is at least three times more effective at influencing consumer purchasing decisions than advertising ever will be. But because in PR there are fewer overheads (no media buying, focus groups, creatives, etc) brand directors know that they can get away with paying their incumbent and prospective PR agencies a considerable degree less than they would have to pay their ad agencies to get three times the equivalent page space or air time. In actual fact in PR the overheads are so low that for some of my current clients return on investment (editorial vs. advertising space cost x total campaign value) is in some cases as high as 100:1. To the uninitiated, that is what we in PR call “a bit of a bargain”.

So, marketing directors absolutely get the value of PR, but won’t cough up in any significant way for it. Well some of them will. Most of them will try it on first. So getting back to this car company – my boss first shows me the brief we received in order for us to prepare for the pitch and write the document. As per usual the brief was extremely broad and the allocated budget was tighter than a ducks arse. But this company is so prestigious that they know we will take any amount of money to work on it. It’s kind of like God telling you that, yes, you can go out with Brad Pitt for life, but you’ll have to deal with the fact that he’s only ever going to fuck you up the arse with not so much as a simple reach around.

Actually, I could live with that.

Anyway, anyway – aside form the broadness of the brief and the fact that the budget was small a salient part of our remit was to create a campaign platform that would, in addition to speaking to the core target audience, also address, in a relevant manner, the Asian market.

The plan that my boss showed me, which she had written over the course of two weeks, was actually very well thought through, despite the fact that we had no real market intelligence or brand guidelines to work with. I liked most of the ideas and the ones that I didn’t think were so strong I gave constructive feedback for on how to make them work more effectively. Finally the suggested campaign platform completely took into consideration the Asian market.

But I had a question for my boss. I asked her - was she sure that when the marque briefed us to address the Asian market that they were talking about the Indian / Pakistani market, which she had taken the term “Asian” as referring to. Because in my experience at least, any campaign where I was asked to speak to an Asian market, was always referring to Far Eastern territories – Chinese, Vietnamese, Thai, Japanese. Not Indian or Pakistani. My boss, who unlike me, has never worked on a Far Eastern campaign, assured me that if they had wanted to address a Far Eastern audience they would have definitely asked for an “Oriental” themed campaign – a term I have personally never heard used by a brand manager.

Now I will admit that I might have been wrong and she was right – but the only way to ascertain that would be to go back to the potential client and get them to clarify exactly which territories they were referring to. But my boss didn’t do that. Even though, in my mind, that would have been both logical and actually critical.

Today we went to the potential clients office and presented the pitch document. We presented well, they smiled and nodded a lot and at the end they told us that they recognized that we had collectively put a lot of effort and thought into our ideas.

But there was one thing. The one area of our pitch that they did not comment on was how they felt we had answered the part of the brief that asked us to address the Asian market (or as we had put it in the pitch, the “Indian and Pakistani” market). When my boss bought this element of the document up and asked them what their thoughts were we were met with a couple of seconds of stony silence and a few awkward looks. The response? “Yeah, it was great. Yup – good ideas.”

And the thing was, they weren’t good ideas. They were GREAT ideas. But only great ideas if we were indeed supposed to have been specifically talking to the Indian and Pakistani communities. Because if we were supposed to have been talking about anyone else we would have looked like fucking idiots.

I have a sneaking suspicion we might be the latter. And I think we might find out pretty soon.

One day someone will actually listen to me. But until then, I’m not holding my breath.

Spring is sprung

With a slightly mussed up, bleary eyed stagger I just went out onto the balcony to drink my morning cup of coffee and Spring excitedly leapt out at me and screamed in my face, "I'M BACK!!!"

The tree in the yard down below has little tiny, baby buds on it and just by its base there is a little, lone daffodil. The little birdies are singing happily and the old man face Sun in the sky is shining, unobstructed by a single cloud. It was like an episode of Little House on the Prairie. Even Sam, the neighbour's dog, seemed to be walking around sniffing things with a tiny sense of awe. Before peeing on them.

Yesterday it was so warm I went to work without a jacket for the first time this year. Today I think I may *gasp* go out just wearing a T-shirt!

What a difference a year makes

...or so the phrase, er, doesn't go.

It was exactly a year ago today that I ran out of the three months worth of prescription Ativan I'd pretty much become addicted to and had knocked back over the course of six days. This bought me out of the practically catatonic state I’d been in and my newfound sobriety totally freaked me out. So I tried to kill myself.

(Interestingly I found a site featuring guidelines on the use of Ativan. In the “warnings” section it states that Ativan should not be administered to patients displaying the characteristics of a severe depression. I’m not trying to shy away from taking responsibility for the things I did, but I can’t say that it doesn’t make me a little bit angry that I was ever given that drug.)

I've talked about it a lot before here, so I won't labour the point any more than I have to. Just suffice it to say that, 365 days later, I am in a very different place. But the best thing is that I don't feel either really ecstatically happy or desperately un-happy. I feel calm. I've come to believe that a pervading sense of calm is a highly virtuous emotion.

Today, especially, feels like a good day to live.

A good reason to work for my company

One of the great things about my job is that every lunchtime, at around 1pm, I get to stand up and yell out to my team, "I'M GOING TO GET MY LUNCH FROM FAT FUCK. DOES ANYONE WANT ANYTHING?"

And I'm sort of not lying...



See?

Oh, the hilarity never wears off. For me at least. Can't speak for my team.

Here's looking at Drew, kid...

Fashion "Don't" - Men's Capri Pants

I mentioned last week that I am reading Will in the World: How Shakespeare Became Shakespeare by Stephan Greenblatt. One of the reasons cited in the book as to why Shakespeare was so great was because he was simply too good a playwright for the textual cavities in his plays to be the result of some kind of author's oversight or ineptitude.

Greenblatt reasons that Shakespeare frequently omitted explanations on purpose to create an illusion of metatextual depth. For example, why does Hamlet pretend to be mad? Why does Lago hate Othello? Why does Lear make his daughters do language love tests? We are never told. Apparently Shakespeare ignores the perfectly logical explanation in his original sources (The Gesta Danorum, Hecatommithi and Holinshed, respectively), so that he can demonstrate that the play is a totally perfect snapshot of a fully realised world that can be viably manifested beyond the confines of any of his work.

In other words, Shakespeare's apparent mistakes are the distinguishing mark of his genius.

Men's Capri Pants, however, are just a mistake.

Alistair is in the next room...

...naked, my housemate reliably informs me.

She came into the living room just to tell me that. Then she skipped off to the kitchen to grill sausages (the bitch has a one-track, freaking mind).

I hate her.

I love him.

Sir Alec Kenobi

I'm very aware that Sir Alec Guinness was blessed with a wide ranging acting talent that evoked both gravity and flair. But somehow his role in the Star Wars movies has tainted my appreciation of those skills.

Yesterday afternoon I was watching Dr. Zhivago on TV. Whenever he spoke using that powerfully commanding voice I found myself naturally expecting him to say something like, "General Yevgraf Zhivago? Now that's a name I've not heard for a long time. A long time."

Attn: Barbara Broccoli - Eon Productions

Re: Suggested treatment for new 007 movie

Dear Ms. Broccoli

As I have been a fan of his for many years now, I am very excited to learn that Golden Globe winner and Oscar nominee, Clive Owen, is being considered to replace Pierce Brosnan as James Bond, 007. I was also interested to learn that Eon Productions and Sony Pictures are keen to make some changes to the Bond formula, bringing the franchise up to date.

With this in mind, coupled with the possibility that Owen may be starring in the new vehicle, I have penned a suggested treatment. Once you have read it I would be very keen to hear your thoughts. Please find the treatment outlined below.

Yours sincerely

Christopher Esq.


WORKING TITLE - BOND 21

Introduction
Through the barrel of a gun, we observe Bond (Clive) - shirtless, toned and sweaty - walking across a white background. He spins around to face us and with a few choice put-downs really hurts the feelings of the unseen villain holding the gun. Big, fat tears roll down the screen.

The opening sequence
Bond attends a fabulous leather-themed South Beach circuit party. After intercepting a seemingly innocuous microchip from a dead leather-daddy in a backroom Bond avoids certain death at the hands of an evil henchman who goes by the name Thrust. Unaware that this will not be the last time he will encounter Thrust, Bond escapes out to sea in a small pod helmed by a beautiful, blonde, buff secret service hottie. Bond cracks open the Bollinger and proceeds to make a proper seaman out of the hottie. By fucking him.

The title sequence
Kylie croons the movie's theme-tune while dancing, flexing, naked muscle boys, S&M paraphernalia and grooming products float artily around the screen.

Bond is briefed by M
In the early hours of the morning Bond staggers out of Crash in London's Vauxhall and walks the twenty or so yards across the road to MI6 where Thruppencehalfpenny (Orlando Bloom) and Bond exchange several unsubtle innuendos about the tightness of Bond's clubwear. Because this is gay 007, they make good on the innuendos by actually fucking. They are impatiently interrupted by M (still Judy Dench) who buzzes through on the intercom. After Bond compliments a delighted M on her fierce Thierry Mugler suit, M explains to Bond that the leather-daddy he procured the microchip from was an employee of a famous French haute couture fashion designer called Max De Cherrypop and that the chip is one of two stolen from the US government – they can control an array of secret space weapons, each capable of immense mass destruction. Before Bond sets off on his mission M sternly gives him a warning. "Don't do too much bumming, 007."

Bond collects his gadgets
Bond visits the MI6 dungeon and receives the latest gadgets from Q (Ian McKellan). Q kits Bond out with a pink iPod Mini (which explodes after playing 60 seconds of Diana Ross's Chain Reaction), a retro Keith Haring Swatch (which can create a tear in the very fabric of space time) and a pack of condoms (which can prevent communicable diseases present in bodily fluids being exchanged through anal sex). Bond cracks a rubbish joke. Q tells him to stop being so immature.

Bond heads out
After seeing Bond's plane touch down, we are treated to panoramic views of the exotic location of Mykonos, all set to a classical version of the Kylie soundtrack.

Bond meets the villain
Bond attends a fabulous white-themed circuit party at the beachfront home of Max De Cherrypop (Richard Gere, adopting a thoroughly convincing French accent). Max immediately spots Bond and makes a beeline for him. A breathtakingly cute waiter passes by and Bond orders a drink. "Cosmopolitan on the rocks. Not frozen." Bond and Max exchange loaded comments that suggest neither one trusts the other. But they fuck anyway.

Bond uncovers some information
Bond snoops (wearing only a pair of tighty-whities) and locates Max's secret study and stylish Apple computer system. He instantly gains access to heavily encrypted computer files and deduces that Max has the second stolen microchip and is in control of the US government owned space weapons. He also discovers that they are set to fire at gay villages across the globe, including West Hollywood, Chelsea and Old Compton Street. Bond is vexed. Max seemed quite gay when Bond was bumming him a couple of hours ago. Why would he want to kill his fellow gayers?

Bond meets the Bond Boy
An intruder interrupts Bond from pondering the extent of Max's insane plan. After an extended and impressive Kung Fu and wrestling fight sequence both Bond and intruder end up on the floor, panting heavily. Bond is surprised to see that the intruder is the breathtakingly cute waiter from the circuit party (played by Adam Brody). After a heated and highly flirtatious discussion (and another wrestle) Bond learns that the waiter is actually a CIA spy called Lucky Bender. Lucky has been assigned to find out who it was who stole the prototype microchip and get it back. Lucky asks our hero who he is and 007 gets to utter the immortal line, "Bond. James Bond." Realising that they are on the same side they pledge allegiance to one another. Then they fuck.

Bond and Lucky get into a fight
Bond and Lucky attempt to escape Max's beachfront mansion. Lucky urges caution but Bond is too cocky and barely escapes the violent advances of several tweaked out muscle daddies. Lucky shouts "James! Be careful!" a lot.

Bond drives fast
Bond and Lucky procure a bright red Jeep Wrangler and an extended chase scene occurs involving incredible stunts and wanton destruction. Lucky "tuts" and rolls his eyes a lot because Bond is driving irresponsibly. Bond pulls over and they have their first argument.

Bond and Lucky find Max's secret base
Despite having no hard facts or solid information Bond and Lucky deduce that Max's secret base is hidden inside a remote mountain in Guatemala. To get to the base Bond and Lucky must hike through thick rainforest, wearing only Abercrombie cargo pants and practical yet stylish hiking boots. Both lament the fact that it is unlikely that there will be a fabulous, themed circuit party awaiting them at their destination. As they struggle on through the dense foliage we get to see lovingly extended shots of their sweaty torsos and arms.

Bond battles Max's dogs
Max sees Bond and Lucky enter the secret base on CCTV and sets his muscle daddies on them. Bond and Lucky are captured and Lucky is put into a sling. Rather than just killing him outright, Max leaves Bond to die a certain death by being eaten alive by Max's vicious sharpeis, in a deep pit from which there is no escape. Max continues with his plans but not before telling Bond his motive. It turns out that the gay boys of the world, a notoriously fickle bunch, have stopped buying Max De Cherrypop fashions in favour of more critically acclaimed designers. Therefore Max has decided that all gays must die. Bond says "But they are your brothers!" to which Max responds by laughing like the crazed lunatic that he is.

Bond escapes
Bond tries to blow the sharpeis up with the iPod, but he can't figure out how to use it and ends up playing Jennifer Lopez by mistake, which just pisses the sharpeis off even more. Lucky shouts out to Bond that he should use the retro Keith Haring Swatch to go back in time, which Bond does.

Bond creates an army
Bond goes to DTPM and rounds up a bunch of gayers to assist him in the vicious battle against Max's evil henchmen. Upon confronting the muscle daddies and seeing their really dated Max De Cherrypop outfits, Bond's gay army burst into peals of laughter, which makes the muscle daddies really embarrassed. Eventually Max's men are pacified when Bond's army stops laughing and offers some practical, sensible fashion advice. Realising they have been duped by Max they remove the unfashionable garbs until they are naked. Some of Bond's men and Max's men start getting it on.

Bond wins
Bond rescues Lucky and the two of them remotely disable the array of space weapons by destroying the stolen microchip. Then they take on Max who is now alone. Lucky strains his shoulder, which has been playing up ever since he fell off the climbing wall at Crunch. Bond takes on Max alone. After an extended fight scene Bond finally has Max cornered and threatens to shoot him. Max tells Bond that he knows he won't shoot because after they fucked Bond told Max that he loved him. Bond says that he only said that because he was tweaking out on X. Max dies of a broken heart. Bond sheds a single tear.

Max's secret base avoids destruction
Bond finds Lucky who has miraculously recovered from his shoulder strain. Bond wants to destroy the secret base, but Lucky convinces him not to because an interior designer has obviously gone to a lot of effort to make the base look pretty and the lighting is very flattering. Bond agrees and rigs his iPod Mini up to the computer system and everyone has a fabulous secret-base themed circuit party.

Final battle with Thrust
Thrust reappears. He is upset at Bond for killing Max by breaking his heart, as Max was Thrust's mentor and they also used to have quite a lot of hot sex. Bond and Thrust fight, but Thrust gets the better of Bond and starts to throttle him, muttering "Bitch!" a lot, under his breath. Bond escapes a certain death when Lucky shoots Thrust in the back of the head.

Max's secret base is destroyed anyway
Just as we think the action and suspense is over, the iPod starts playing Chain Reaction and Bond still can't figure out how to operate it properly. Bond manages to evacuate everyone from the base but suddenly Bond and Lucky become trapped by a large piece of rigging and realise that they might die. Bond notices Max's escape pod and he and Lucky buckle themselves in. With a few seconds to spare they are blasted through the top of the secret mountain base. Beneath them we see the mountain explode.

Bond is located
Back in the MI6 dungeon M asks Q to locate Bond's whereabouts. Q patches in to a surveillance satellite and zooms it's sights into a section of ocean. Eventually we see Bond and Lucky on a life raft. They are fucking. "What is 007 doing?" enquires M, to which Q dryly responds, "I'm not sure ma'am, but it would appear that he's getting lucky."

JAMES BOND WILL RETURN!

Me, not looking my best

Last night I went out for dinner with my friends Richard and Lynda. I see Richard all the time but I haven't seen Lynda probably since sometime in July last year, so we had lots to catch up on.

At one point during dinner Lynda exclaims "Oh my God! How is your jaw now?" She was referring to the unfortunate incident that happened to me last September when I broke my jaw (if you want to know the specifics check out the September 13 post last year in my archives. I would put a link, but my links system for each day doesn't seem to want to work).

I explained that I am much better now and that the only real reminder is a few buggered up back teeth and a skewed bite.

Then Richard starts telling Lynda how hideously deformed and ultimately GROSS I looked the day after it happened when he, along with Drew, Kate and Vix, came to laugh at visit me in hospital.

"Infact," he gleefully exclaimed, "I think I still have a picture in my phone!"



Attractive, wasn't I?

Given that I have had the courage to put that picture up on my blog, never let it be said ever again that I am even remotely vain!

(And what is my hair doing?!)

Another great date...

His name is Alistair. He’s 34 and while he looks his age he still has that naughty, twinkly-eyed, boyish (but very chiselled) charm thing going on. His hair is dark brown and cropped fairly short, but you can see that it’s starting to go salt and pepper grey at the sides which I’ve always found really attractive. Then there are his intensely blue eyes, great skin, full kissable lips - the list goes on.

Bodywise, we’re talking total rugby player (he was actually wearing a rugby top) - big and muscled, but not defined. When he leans forward over the table to talk to you all you can focus on are the mountains of his chest and biceps, stretching through the cotton of his top.

Last night Alistair came over to the flat for a late dinner – chicken breast wrapped in Parma ham and potatoes roasted with basil and olives. He’s very intense and I kind of bookish, I guess. When you talk to him you're totally confident that he's completely focused on what you’re saying. And then, just for a few seconds, you can see that he’s quietly considering what he’s going to say in return. Have you ever noticed how when someone does that it makes you really listen to whatever they subsequently say so much more seriously?

“Hmm. That’s a really interesting point. Put like that I guess I can see that whale hunting isn’t so bad after all.”

Anyway, we shared stories of our work, our youth, our families – some sad and some funny. And we laughed and laughed (oh, his laugh!) until there were tears in our eyes and the muscles in our stomachs ached.

And the best thing? He doesn’t drink alcohol! Only tea!

It was the perfect evening. And as we all know, there is only one perfect way to end the perfect evening.

“Alistair, er, shall we, er…?” (With head, gestures in direction of bedroom)

“Erm, sure. So anyway, it was really nice to meet you Christopher! Maybe see you soon?”

“Yeah, definitely! Great to meet you! Night Alistair! Night Victoria!”

From my seat at the kitchen table I watch them walk up the hall and disappear around the corner and into Vix’s bedroom.

She sent me a text this morning. All it said was "HUGE!"

Smug cow.

Uneventful tube journey

I took my seat on the southbound Northern Line train at Stockwell station. As I fished around in my man-bag to retrieve my book (finished Flaubert - am now reading "Will in the World - How Shakespeare Became Shakespeare". This is all payment to my brain for excessive Dan Brown-ing) I noticed that I had spilt some of this morning's Pret coffee down the front of my favourite pink sweater.

*relieved sigh*

And everything was right in the world.

Ok...

...this is becoming less and less funny...

This evening, on the tube, again, a man four seats down from me stood up and punched the woman, who had been stood above him, in the face. He just freaking punched her in the face! She hadn't done anything to him from what I could tell - she was just quietly reading a book. And until that moment the guy had just looked like a regular guy in his 30s.

No one hit the passenger alarm, or went to the woman's aide. I was really ashamed of myself afterwards for not doing anything. Clearly very scared and shocked the woman just scrambled down the carriage, through the people, while the man stayed where he was and just glared at her.

At the next station she got off the train. Then the doors closed, the train moved away and the guy sat down. As if nothing had happened. Gradually people started getting up and moving away from him, obviously scared for their own safety.

It was one of the strangest things I have ever seen. And it was definitely scary. And crazy. Animals do that kind of thing, just going for each other - but not humans. Not like that, do they? He didn't even look drunk. Just kind of wild eyed for only a few moments. And then normal.

I don't know what the hell is going on in this town...

Happy Day, Mom!

I was a good son and took my Mom for lunch. When she offered to pay for the bill I let her. What? She wanted to, ok? Who am I to deny my Mom anything she wants to do on Mother's Day?

A cruel irony

It's just been realised for me that if a hot guy appears in a gay lifestyle magazine, it more than likely means that he's straight.

Throat Update

“Oh my God! What are all those lines in my throat? WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME?” I mock-exclaimed as the doctor handed me this printout.

With grave seriousness he responded, “Our printer isn’t working very well at the moment.”

Some of you are aware that I have a partially paralysed set of vocal chords. Yesterday I finally got to see the throat surgeon who is going to correct the problem. But before I go into the outcome of the appointment, would you like a little anatomy lesson? Well regardless, you’re going to get one anyway.

Observe:

(a) A healthy pair of vocal chords (shaded areas)


(b) A partially paralysed pair of vocal chords


Vocal chords perform two functions. Despite their name, our vocal chords raison d’etre is actually not to help us speak. That’s an unexpected bonus. Their most important function is to stop food and drink going down into our lungs. When you swallow those shaded areas (the white bits in the top right of my photo) close together, sealing off your windpipe.

The problem with my vocal chords is not that they don’t close together, but that they don’t fully open up after I have swallowed and move fully when I speak. This lack of movement has resulted in two problems. The first is that my airway is restricted by almost three quarters. This means that I get out of breath really quickly when I do anything aerobic (including walking) or when I talk for too long. The second is that my vocal range is really limited. My voice is very deep and gravelly and I certainly can’t reach the notes required to sing (not that I could before anyway). As I mentioned before, this has been the only positive thing, as I get lots of comments now on how sexy my voice sounds.

The surgeon told me that in order to alleviate these problems he has to laser away part of the vocal chord with the least amount of movement, which is the one on the right. This will give me more breathing capacity. But take too much away and it could mean that not only does my voice change again (it would become more “whispery”) but that also there would be a greater likelihood of my coughing and spluttering when I eat and drink.

Because the procedure is irreversible he wants to do it a bit at a time. This way we can see how I heal, how my breathing improves, ensure that my voice doesn’t change too much again. It also means that we can limit the chance of the coughing / spluttering thing.

(c) This is how my vocal chords will look after the procedures:


The only problem with this is that I will have to have at least three separate surgeries, under general anesthetic, to fix it over the course of this year. Looks like 2005 is going to have as many hospital visits for me as last year did! The first op is on April 22.

I’m not going to say that I’m not disappointed that the procedure isn’t going to be quite as straight forward and risk free as I was hoping it would be. Yesterday I was pretty pissed off and upset. But after thinking about it I have to concede to one important thing:

Had I not taken the overdose last March I would not have had to have the emergency intubation procedure that caused the damage to my vocal chords. While that procedure may have provided me with a lot of grief and hassle over the last year, it saved my life. It's a small price to pay for my still being here to tell the tale.

The tube passenger from Hell

What with news stand splatting and viciously mean old women, my journeys to and from work have become more and more bizarre. Perhaps they should form the crux of a new comedy skit show:

(Radio Times listings)

Thursday, March 3, 2005
BBC3 – 10.00pm
In which our hero even manages to screw up selecting a seat on a tube carriage.

This evening I went to a magazine party. It was crap. The champagne was warm, the canapés were stale and there was a live band, the type of which you would hire for a wedding reception (“That’s the way, uh-huh, uh-huh, I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh…") And absolutely zero cute boys. By 9pm I’d totally worked the room, at least twice, and decided that it was safe for me to chip off home in time to watch ER and Fool Around With My Boyfriend.

The tube wasn’t that packed. But for some stupid reason, I unconsciously sat next to some guy (not a hottie), despite the fact that there were plenty of solitary seat choices.

So, I was buried deep in my book (“Oh, why, dear God, did I marry him?”) when the guy next to me coughed. It was a cough so deep, hacking and penetrating that it forced me to abandon my reading and vividly imagine viscous phlegm slowly slipping down a pinky-white mottled windpipe.

After a moment or so I’d managed to erase that nasty vision from my mind and was back in Flaubert’s world of high romance, voracious spending and wicked adultery. But only for a few moments as my neighbour decided to spark up a Malboro red.

On the tube.

By this point I’d totally abandoned all hope of discovering whether Emma Bovary would get a good seeing to by the Viscount d’Andervilliers as a result of “accidentally” dropping her fan on the ballroom floor. Instead all I could consider was that my fellow commuters (who were all averting their gaze in a way that said that they were 100% focused on what was happening to my right) might think that the issue sat next to me was my boyfriend. Because, despite the fact that there were many vacant seats left, right and opposite us we were indeed sat together.

Fortunately the excruciating “I can’t believe this is happening 30cm away from me”-ness was short lived as, after only a few puffs, the-most-hateful-fellow-Underground-traveler-ever decided he’d had enough of his cigarette and dropped it on the floor, treading it out with his Reebok classics.

And the rancid fog (literal and otherwise) that I had been immersed in for the past few moments began to lift.

That was until he pulled a small brown bottle from his jacket pocket, unscrewed it and bought it up to his nose, drawing a couple of powerful inhalations through both of his nostrils.

Oh God, I thought. He’s actually sniffing poppers on a tube train.

By this point I'd experienced about as much as I could handle. I closed my book, picked up my bag and strode off, disgustedly, to the end of the carriage.

Ok, I’ll admit that I shouldn't be too sanctimonious about such things. But there is a time and a place, for crying out loud!

For example, 5.30am on a Sunday morning in some randoms bedroom in Acton. Er...

Grrrr! (Ouch!)

This morning I was walking down the King's Road, listening to the brilliant Nightmares on Wax (why, why am I always the last to know?), when I spotted this Benetton model on the side of a bus:



"For heaven's sake!" I thought to myself. "How can one person have such perfect hair? I want my hair to look like that! Gianni Versace model circa 1985. Oh, and I want to have sex with him."

As I thought these things I was not aware, as the bus slowly ambled past me with the direction of my gaze and head following, that I was about to walk into an object. Of course, me being me, I couldn't just walk into any old pavement object like a lamp post or a phone box. No, no, no. I walked into a news stand. A freaking 6 x 5 ft RED news stand. And it really hurt! The part of my body that took the hardest blow was my right ear. This pushed my earphones in so hard that my ear began to bleed from inside.

(It's not entirely irrelevant for me to point out that, weirdly, the exact same thing happened to me last year, only it was a lamp post I walked into cause I'd been looking at an overflowing drain or something boring like that)

The icing on the cake was that Rob, the drop-dead-gorgeous account exec from the company's fashion department, who I have fancied pretty much from day one, was walking a few yards behind me and saw the whole thing - the lusting after the Benetton model and his hair as well as the slapstick splaying against the side of the news stand. At the time he was really sweet and actually quite concerned when he saw that I was bleeding slightly profusely.

However, once my ear had scabbed up I really just wanted to forget the whole sorry episode. But apparently I wasn't allowed to as the Gods had deemed that every time I ventured out onto the stairs Rob would also be there to not so subtly draw everyone's attention to the fact that I am a clutz with a gammy ear.

I don't fancy him anymore.

But I do fancy Benetton boy. Look! He lost his shirt!

Fired!

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I might get flamed for saying this...

...but I feel more than a little sympathy for Maxine Carr.

Because of what I do, every morning I read each newspaper front-to-back (not counting sports pages, of course!) Actually, that’s a lie - I don't technically "read" the tabloids. I scan them. I do even less with the Daily Mail. I do a kind of sideways glance while barely touching it, even though I'm donning those white, latex gloves that Amanda Burton wears in Silent Witness. The two newspapers that I actually read for objective reporting are The Guardian and The Independent.

If I only read the tabloid press I would most likely be of the mind that Maxine Carr's mortal soul is doomed to burn in the eternal fires of Hades, but not before she is ripped apart, limb by limb, by some blood-thirsty, soccer-mum lynch mob. I know this, because on Thursday and Friday I had three separate conversations with friends and family who pretty much are of that mind - all of whom are devout Sun / Mirror / Mail readers.

This isn’t supposed to sound like some sort of stuffy intellectual snobbery - it really isn't supposed to come across like that. But had they read something with a few less pictures and a few more nouns and adjectives they would be a little more enlightened to certain facts. Such as, at the time of lying to the police for her lover, Carr was herself a genuinely sad, beaten down and mentally unstable victim. She was not a hideous child-killing or abusing monster the gutter press have and still are painting her as. She was never even close to a Myra Hindley or a Rose West. But these not so subtle comparisons have indeed been made, on countless occasions and, for the most part, have remained largely unchallenged.

It's also struck me that Huntley got off quite lightly really, considering that he was infact the soul homicidal maniac. I guess this is another example of a very complicated form of sexism - for what is worse than a monster, but a female monster? In fact so desperate was the media to have a reprise of the Hindley and West scenarios that at the time of the whole furor around the case it would make several completely unsupported claims which included suggesting that she concealed evidence and that it was actually her who suggested to Huntley that he should burn the girls bodies. The courts later established that these claims were wholly untrue and, at the time of lying for Huntley, that Carr was also unaware of the real extent of his crimes.

But then when has the truth ever been a valuable commodity for shifting papers?

On Friday I coaxed myself into reading the Daily Mail’s coverage of the story. I had to deal with the very real threat that I might vomit at any moment, but I got through the ordeal in the end. The news feature that I read was based on some really dubious claim that the false identity protection that Carr is being provided with will cost British tax payers at least £50million. It goes without saying that this illogical figure was not backed up or explained in any detail. But it doesn't make a lot of difference anyway, because had the press done what they are supposed to do (at least in Christopher's rosy tinted view of the world) they would have covered the whole issue with some degree of respect, objectivity and compassion. And the cost for Carr's official protection would have been minimised.

I hope this is not true, but I think I might belong to a minority who believe that Maxine Carr's only real crime was to lie for the man she loved. From what I have read and understand, that was all she did. Perhaps it was stupid, misguided, whatever, but each of us is capable of doing incredibly dumb things for love.

But this is what I hope the most - I hope that I’m not the only person who can see that the real monsters in this whole sorry mess are the cretin writers who have sunk the journalistic profession to previously unrealised depths of soul-selling idiocy by encouraging such vitriolic public hatred.