Trade magazine publishing is a very strange game in a lot of ways. The public are always interested in journalists and journalism as a theoretical beast but the practicalities elude them. The desire people have to meet others that they perceive to have more interesting lives than them means it instantly invokes a romantic ideal when they hear it's your profession.
In my experience, there's an assumption that being a journalist automatically means you must work for either:
a) A national newspaper
b) A glamorous glossy or
c) Something that covers movies, music or celebrities
So if you're asked "What do you do?" and you say "I'm a journalist", the eyebrows always shoot up with a "really? who for?".
And that's just setting you up for a fall. If they're expecting "well, I've just got back from being embedded with the US marines in Fallujah" or "well, I'm interviewing Orlando Bloom tomorrow at the Ivy" then the actual answer of "I work for a trade magazine covering the retail interiors industry" means those eyebrows drop faster than Ron Atkinson's income.
Thursday, April 29, 2004
Wednesday, April 28, 2004
The Living Daylights
Ach, well, it had to be too good to last. Storms arrived in London like the wrath of god last night, or as near to it as we can get in a north European country. As the train pulled out of Victoria station the darkness made it feel like dusk and the air had a charge to it that you could taste on the tip of your tongue.
Or that might have just been the smell from the pasties several passengers were eating, either way it was obvious that we were about to pay the price for the unseasonal sunshine we'd had.
There was a flash, and rain mixed with hail suddenly drummed on the roof making the passengers packed inside all jump at the same time like sardines trapped in a tupperware box that, er, was having a steady stream of gravel slowly tipped onto it.
Of course, with a reliability that commuters only fantasise about being applied to the published timetable, the train ground to a halt. A bit of rain and stormy weather and the country seizes up but as quickly as it started it stopped and by the time we got to Beckenham there was little evidence it had happened.
Similarly, when I left home this morning it was raining so hard that I actually dug out my waterproof coat that I only wear in such bad conditions as it makes me look, and sound, like a giant bag of crisps. When I got to work though on the other side of the city there hadn't been a drop.
And this, my loyal foreign readers, is why we Brits are so fond of talking about the weather, because, like property prices, council tax and golden jubilee celebrations, what is happening in one street isn't necessarily what's happening in the next...
Or that might have just been the smell from the pasties several passengers were eating, either way it was obvious that we were about to pay the price for the unseasonal sunshine we'd had.
There was a flash, and rain mixed with hail suddenly drummed on the roof making the passengers packed inside all jump at the same time like sardines trapped in a tupperware box that, er, was having a steady stream of gravel slowly tipped onto it.
Of course, with a reliability that commuters only fantasise about being applied to the published timetable, the train ground to a halt. A bit of rain and stormy weather and the country seizes up but as quickly as it started it stopped and by the time we got to Beckenham there was little evidence it had happened.
Similarly, when I left home this morning it was raining so hard that I actually dug out my waterproof coat that I only wear in such bad conditions as it makes me look, and sound, like a giant bag of crisps. When I got to work though on the other side of the city there hadn't been a drop.
And this, my loyal foreign readers, is why we Brits are so fond of talking about the weather, because, like property prices, council tax and golden jubilee celebrations, what is happening in one street isn't necessarily what's happening in the next...
Monday, April 26, 2004
Sofa so good
It was simply a glorious weekend here in London. The thermometer nudged 23 degrees and the sun shone like the world was new. Throughout the capital people emerged blinking into the sunshine and spent Saturday simply strolling and enjoying the warmth on their pale English skin.
We, on the other hand, bought a sofa.
It's a very nice sofa, don't get me wrong, and it will look the dog's bollocks (as opposed to the cow's back, which is what it's actually made of and is equally as unpleasant if thought about too much) when it's in place, I just think on a day like Saturday we could've thought of a hundred other things to do.
But it was a necessary job and it was over with in a couple of hours. If nothing else, the glorious weather meant that the retail park, which contained the mighty triumverate of Ikea, DFS and World of Leather, was relatively empty and horrific images I'd had of fighting through crowds of Croydon chavas was unwarranted.
Strangely though, while wandering between DFS and, I think, the Sofa Workshop, I stopped at the crossing to check for traffic and a tiny pony pulling a tiny cart containing three small boys trotted past. Bearing in mind that this was in a retail park inbetween Croydon and Wimbledon and you can imagine my sudden confusion. Not only was it a peculiar sight to see in the middle of such an industrial area, but if their parents had sent them to pick up a sofa they were severely underestimating the capacity of their cart and the strength of their pony.
We, on the other hand, bought a sofa.
It's a very nice sofa, don't get me wrong, and it will look the dog's bollocks (as opposed to the cow's back, which is what it's actually made of and is equally as unpleasant if thought about too much) when it's in place, I just think on a day like Saturday we could've thought of a hundred other things to do.
But it was a necessary job and it was over with in a couple of hours. If nothing else, the glorious weather meant that the retail park, which contained the mighty triumverate of Ikea, DFS and World of Leather, was relatively empty and horrific images I'd had of fighting through crowds of Croydon chavas was unwarranted.
Strangely though, while wandering between DFS and, I think, the Sofa Workshop, I stopped at the crossing to check for traffic and a tiny pony pulling a tiny cart containing three small boys trotted past. Bearing in mind that this was in a retail park inbetween Croydon and Wimbledon and you can imagine my sudden confusion. Not only was it a peculiar sight to see in the middle of such an industrial area, but if their parents had sent them to pick up a sofa they were severely underestimating the capacity of their cart and the strength of their pony.
Thursday, April 22, 2004
He's dead I tell you
I am reliably informed that Johnny Morris is, in fact, already dead. My initial reaction upon hearing this was one of smug self-satisfaction mixed with a tinge of concern that I had developed Minority Report-type powers and am now able to forsee the deaths of former children's TV presenters.
But no, I looked it up and he actually died in May 1999 aged 82, I'm not sure what his last words were, but I imagine they were done in the voice of a lazy giraffe. Interestingly, he'd cut his family out of his will and left his house to Terry Nutkins. While a little unfair to his family this seems somehow correct to me. It would be like David Jason leaving all his cash to Nicholas Lyndhurst, or Noel Edmonds bequeathing a couple of helicopters to Keith Chegwin.
Whether Nutkins has already drawn up his will naming Chris Packham as beneficiary is unknown.
But no, I looked it up and he actually died in May 1999 aged 82, I'm not sure what his last words were, but I imagine they were done in the voice of a lazy giraffe. Interestingly, he'd cut his family out of his will and left his house to Terry Nutkins. While a little unfair to his family this seems somehow correct to me. It would be like David Jason leaving all his cash to Nicholas Lyndhurst, or Noel Edmonds bequeathing a couple of helicopters to Keith Chegwin.
Whether Nutkins has already drawn up his will naming Chris Packham as beneficiary is unknown.
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
Arrivederci Norris
Big gap, sorry about that. M and I were in Milan from Wednesday to Saturday, la de da. I had to go to a big trade show there and M was on her Easter break so it seemed logical to drag her along to abuse her credit card in the capital of greasy hair and scooters.
Milan is a strange city in many ways, while we were away someone described it as "The Manchester of Italy" which I think is a little harsh, comparing anywhere or anyone to Manchester is downright vicious, but I know what they meant. It has some genuinely lovely parts to it, but it's also quite a business-orientated industrial city, the difference is that in Milan the greasy hair is self-inflicted as opposed to unintentional.
I've been to Milan three times now and still can't get over how stylish and affluent everyone looks, there just doesn't seem to be any real signs of shuffling tramps or painters and decorators on their lunch hour. Unless even the tramps and painters are wearing D&G glasses, swish raincoats and tan shoes with dark suits.
The trade show itself was ok , lots of wandering round looking at the latest toilet technology. I had to get back on Saturday evening and then spend Sunday writing it all up to go to the printers on Monday, very tedious. I hate working from home usually if it encroaches into spare time and the resentment left a taste of bile in my mouth.
Either that or the fact that in the previous four days I'd consumed enough cheese to wipe the smile off the Laughing Cow's smug beauvine face.
Speaking of Europe, it's just been announced that famed pedant and unapologetic racist Norris McWhiter died on Monday. There's a theme developing here, first Blue Peter's Caron Keating, now Record Breaker's Norris McWhiter....if Tony Hart lives to see May I'll be suprised.
McWhiter was famous for his slightly right-wing political beliefs. His twin brother Ross was murdered by the IRA in 1975 for offering a massive reward to find a group of bombers and together they founded the Freedom Association, a group the campaigned aginst British involvement in Europe, as well as other things.
What's interesting though is the statement that could only be put out by the family of the man who invented the Guinness Book of Records:
"The two things he attached most importance to were the freedom of the individual and the sovereignty of the United Kingdom. Apart from his family, his great loves were a good game of tennis and visting the 1,049 offshore British Islands."
It's a shame that despite all this he'll actually be remembered for telling kids pretending to be interested who ate the most baked beans with a cocktail stick.
Milan is a strange city in many ways, while we were away someone described it as "The Manchester of Italy" which I think is a little harsh, comparing anywhere or anyone to Manchester is downright vicious, but I know what they meant. It has some genuinely lovely parts to it, but it's also quite a business-orientated industrial city, the difference is that in Milan the greasy hair is self-inflicted as opposed to unintentional.
I've been to Milan three times now and still can't get over how stylish and affluent everyone looks, there just doesn't seem to be any real signs of shuffling tramps or painters and decorators on their lunch hour. Unless even the tramps and painters are wearing D&G glasses, swish raincoats and tan shoes with dark suits.
The trade show itself was ok , lots of wandering round looking at the latest toilet technology. I had to get back on Saturday evening and then spend Sunday writing it all up to go to the printers on Monday, very tedious. I hate working from home usually if it encroaches into spare time and the resentment left a taste of bile in my mouth.
Either that or the fact that in the previous four days I'd consumed enough cheese to wipe the smile off the Laughing Cow's smug beauvine face.
Speaking of Europe, it's just been announced that famed pedant and unapologetic racist Norris McWhiter died on Monday. There's a theme developing here, first Blue Peter's Caron Keating, now Record Breaker's Norris McWhiter....if Tony Hart lives to see May I'll be suprised.
McWhiter was famous for his slightly right-wing political beliefs. His twin brother Ross was murdered by the IRA in 1975 for offering a massive reward to find a group of bombers and together they founded the Freedom Association, a group the campaigned aginst British involvement in Europe, as well as other things.
What's interesting though is the statement that could only be put out by the family of the man who invented the Guinness Book of Records:
"The two things he attached most importance to were the freedom of the individual and the sovereignty of the United Kingdom. Apart from his family, his great loves were a good game of tennis and visting the 1,049 offshore British Islands."
It's a shame that despite all this he'll actually be remembered for telling kids pretending to be interested who ate the most baked beans with a cocktail stick.
Tuesday, April 06, 2004
Oh...I see
I have eventually discovered titles. I've been to University you know. I've gone back and put some in the previous entries.
Suicide bummer
It's occured to me that if anyone ever actually read the previous post here they could be left thinking that I'm actually a Christian and, even worse, that I have something against chocolate. I am neither of these things. I am a fundamentalist atheist and take my non-beliefs very seriously, to the point where I am considering making the ultimate sacrifice for my cause and blowing myself up on a crowded bus with a cry of "For the glory of science!" as I press the button.
But I'm not going to (in case this blog turns up as evidence somewhere) mainly because it would really hurt and it probably wouldn't work, and what cause would want a cowardy incompetent martyr?
As for chocolate, well, I think in a strange kind of way my constant consumption of the solid brown nectar is blowing me up anyway, it'll just take 20 years rather than 20 milliseconds.
But I'm not going to (in case this blog turns up as evidence somewhere) mainly because it would really hurt and it probably wouldn't work, and what cause would want a cowardy incompetent martyr?
As for chocolate, well, I think in a strange kind of way my constant consumption of the solid brown nectar is blowing me up anyway, it'll just take 20 years rather than 20 milliseconds.
Monday, April 05, 2004
A beginning rather than a ressurection
The start of something big or the start of something that will pitter out after about three entries, who knows. For what it's worth, today is the first day in charge of the magazine. Ed is off for two weeks, back for two weeks, and then off on maternity leave at the end of the month. Of course, the two weeks back won't consist of any work, just eating buns and sighing so I'll still be running things then.
I had an email today from a fluffy PR person I've never met that started with wishing me an Happy Easter and "lots of chocolate", which she then qualified by apologising for being un-Christian. Does this mean she is Christian or she thought she may have wrongly assumed I wasn't and had better apologise just in case?
Either way, what kind of Christian would be offended at the mention of chocolate at Easter? I'm no biblical scholar but I'm pretty sure the Gospels neither acknowledge, condemn or praise chocolate in their text and so would therefore imagine it's up to the concience of the individual worshipper.
Or I'm just talking bollocks to fill up this first blog entry. Also up to your concience.
On a lighter note, I've just had an email from someone called Darren Allschwang
I had an email today from a fluffy PR person I've never met that started with wishing me an Happy Easter and "lots of chocolate", which she then qualified by apologising for being un-Christian. Does this mean she is Christian or she thought she may have wrongly assumed I wasn't and had better apologise just in case?
Either way, what kind of Christian would be offended at the mention of chocolate at Easter? I'm no biblical scholar but I'm pretty sure the Gospels neither acknowledge, condemn or praise chocolate in their text and so would therefore imagine it's up to the concience of the individual worshipper.
Or I'm just talking bollocks to fill up this first blog entry. Also up to your concience.
On a lighter note, I've just had an email from someone called Darren Allschwang
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