I wanna be a doormat

What do you do when you seem not to have what it takes to be the only thing you ever wanted to be? Can you learn? Do you fight? Is there a fast track route to 'the best'?

I'm not referring to becoming a rock star. I know that whatever you do in whatever industry, there are only so many who can shine the brightest. But what if you don't seem to have a spark, at all? What then - what powers you through the long cold night of the soul?

Some days I think, I would be happy doing a mediocre job, if I could just write the rest of the time. Like Kafka, working in a meaningless office job while he sculpted out tortuous masterpieces overnight. But I strive for meaning also. If I'm sitting at a desk every single day, I want it to make a difference in someone's life. Why exist if your existence doesn't improve the lives of others?

There are songs in my head so constantly I barely have time to write them down. In fact the only time I don't hear music in my head is when I am writing. But when I write, I listen to music, so does that count?

Well anyway, here is a soothing Friday video and song for you.

Watch "Beach House - Zebra (OFFICIAL VIDEO)" on YouTube

I want the moon on a stick

I realised yesterday that I cannot wait for fully integrated content on our media.

There was a time not so long ago when all posters were just that; now they are video screens and I'm sure if it wouldn't mess with peoples minds we would have sound blaring from them. I even saw one that was some kind of cooking infomercial, Commuters' Kitchen or some such kitsch.

I remember thinking that these 'live' posters were inevitable, before they were suddenly everywhere, like Harry Potter come true. The next step is obviously living magazines and print media. Interactive books are a big thing for kids, as they always have been really, except that previously your interaction was a fuzzy piece of felt and not a touch screen.

What I'm looking forward to is the magazines. Obviously blogs have this mixed media aspect already, but I really want to have a magazine on my ereader with the experiences embedded. You are reading a review - it plays the song in question to you. Tired eyes? Just listen to the article instead. Maybe this is a lot to ask of free print mags. All I do know is that reading a review the other day made me want to hear the music, immediately. This must be the next step: or something like it.

Kindle or kindling?

Advantages of kindle/tablet:
All the books, all the time
Lighter than books in your suitcase
Cheaper than print editions
And many free classics available from sites like
Saves the trees!
Backlit (some tablets)

Disadvantages:
Low battery on a three hour journey? Shame
Not so hot on graphic novels
Many books unavailable - mostly those produced in the last 50 years. Anything published after the event of the Kindle, bad publisher, pull your thumb out

Its a bit of a tie in my mind. Graphic novels and art and coffee table books need to be physically had. But any other novels, especially reference books, journals and academic tomes save the trees, your wallet and back when all in one handy device. And of course the trash you don't want people to notice you are reading is disguised. I would campaign for an extension of rights on digital editions - my favourite thing about books by a long way is being able to press a novel you loved into someone else's' hands.

To review or not to review?

It's been a while blog, and I've missed you.

I've been working harder and harder lately, it feels, and to little avail. At what point does 'feeling experienced' kick in? Here are some of the things my brain has actually remembered lately:

Editorial is worth three times that of advertorial. Even though getting a journalist to write about a thing would often cost the company less than buying an advert for it. I.e. a typical half page ad might cost £500 but asking a journalist to review your restaurant, hotel or spa for one night would typically cost £300 on the very outside. This is assuming their normal service is in no way disrupted, in which case you might be a bum on a seat that wouldn't have been paid for anyway, as reviews are usually relegated to week nights to protect establishments' busiest times.

The reasponing behind the relative value is that an advert is an advert: it is designed to bring a brand or product to front-of-mind but can only have a limited impact based on whether the item is something you would consider buying, can afford, etc.

A review or editorial piece starts a conversation with you about the product. This is obviously far more engaging, especially from an authority figure (editor of the magazine or well-known critic), a writer you are familiar with and so trust, or even a celebrity figure. After hearing a personable voice espousing the good aspects of a product, instead of seeing them in the sales pitch of an advert, you are far more likely to remember the brand and of course spend your all-important money.

This is a great advantage if you are a writer and want to swan off to four-star hotels all the live-long day (except  Fridays and Saturdays, see above). Less good if you don't want to appear a total sell-out who does nothing but whore yourself out for reviews, with which your magazine will become so stuffed that there is no other content.

Don't get me wrong, I love reviews: film, music, theatre, dance, food, art - written well, there are very few things of which I won't read a review. And magazines like Shortlist runs its reputation on providing reviews and mentions of engaging, interesting and wide-reaching content. But it has established a reputation first.

This is the balancing act; where you don't review, you might be able to pass someone interested in coverage along to sales, where they will buy advertising, thus actually supporting your publication. This is what Shortlist, for instance, need to happen.

So what appeared to be some glamourous perk at the beginning of my career becomes a delicate balancing act: how do I employ a company that simply wants me to visit its venue, at the least expense to the company, so that it actually benefits my magazine instead?

Grotty Little Island

My view in the face of the recent media tomfoolery which resulted in the death of an innocent human being is sad horror at the loss of a human life. But my second reaction was 'aaaaaaaaaaaargh'. In a country where morals and morale are holding either end of an ever-sinking limbo pole, an isle described in a glorious diatribe by Andy Salzman of the Bugle as "perpetrating a social culture... of institutionalised police cover-ups, mass corporate tax-evasion funded in essence by cuts to disability benefits a) because they can and b) because it was actively encouraged, political expenses scams rife through parliament, swathes of media not merely plumbing the depths but installing in those depths a fully-fitted moral bathroom... all suggesting that Britain has not only been taking a volcanic mud-bath with itself in a swamp of skewed morality but also turning an institutional blind eye to anyone trying to get away with anything in the field they're trying to get away with it", a country where journalism and politics are both so confusingly, unhappily tethered and yet so gut-wrenchingly unable to agree on anything, one condition is sacred: stay away from our Royal Family, you.
Like comments made in seriousness about your own mother, the playground tactics of the British press still somehow involve the rule 'leave the Windsors out of it.' Even the globally distributed images of Harry in the nip were dished out in England with a kind of gentle chastisement more than anything else. And with the appearance of Golden Girl Kate on the scene, we've regressed into a state of dabbing our eyes with a Union Jack handkercheif. I dread the scene when the God-given, third-in-line, doomed-to-those-ears sproglet pops out.
So shouldn't we be bolstering ourselves in the meantime? This incident has shown that yes, our media are a group of terrorising, backstabbing, bribe-accepting testicle lumps. But there are more laughs to be had, and they're missing out on them. This country has more money than it knows what to do with and in all the wrong places, and we still can't protect our monarchs from being taken potshots at by the Aussies?
The message, I feel, is clear: we need to grow some giant clanging balls, and fast. We need to be that dude in the bar that everyone knows has the middle name Ermintrude, but that no one would remind of that fact, because you know what? Bruiser Ermintrude McKnuckleDestruction is proud of every single syllable of his name. You try and tell him to be otherwise, he'll not only destroy you, but do it with pride.
I have fallen into a hamfisted analogy. I am not nationalist or royalist, but it shocks me that, really, we just can't tell people off like we used to. The Queen used to technically OWN those questionable Australian journalists' ancestors. Now we are left with the sad, shocking mess of the world's most morally empty media, which the rest of the world's media is still out-doing in terms of mockery and envelope-pushing.

Why I still don't watch reality TV

I was talking to a person recently, as you do, and they were kind enough to say 'You should write this stuff down.' Basically, the more you think about the richness and variety of life, the more it becomes disturbingly apparent that not everyone goes through the things you or I personally go through. Here are some examples of things:

I went to a PR event for a French resort that my workplace is tentatively connected to, and was introduced fairly early in the evening to two young gentlemen called something like Sam and Steve. Neither of them had name badges as an aid memoire, so it was inevitable I immediately forgot their monikers, but I began a conversation with one of them by asking why they didn't have these plastic name tags, which all of the other guests were given on their way into the venue. He shrugged and said 'We know some people.' Not seeing any real problem with this answer, I gamely continued 'What do you do?' and he replied that he was something in sports publicity. Again, his answer was broad enough that my memory fails me (this happens a lot). I jumped for joy - I was struggling with putting together the calendar of a sporting venues supplement my workplace is aiming to publish. There are many things I wouldn't claim expertise on, and sports is right at the top of the list, but the task had fallen to me in a 'no other bugger will do it' kind of way.
'I need someone who knows sports!' I exclaimed, giving the young man a slightly more positive overview of my work on the sporting calendar, 'Let me give you my card.' He gave me none in return, but etiquette dictated that he must now send me a message over the following few days at least saying how pleasant it was to meet me.
Pleased at having secured this contact, I continued my evening. Little did I know, until roughly 20 minutes later when speaking to two fantastic girls who write for a travel website, that the two roguish young men were from Made in Chelsea, and had come to the evening apparently just because they could. I thought it was funny, then strange, then I baulked: I had just over-enthusiastically found what now seemed like a paper-thin excuse to thrust my card into one of their well-manicured hands.
I cringe at it even now, and pray desperately that I seemed so ill-bred that he doesn't even recall what, in retrospect, looks like a journalist making a desperate pass at someone purely because they were on Made in Chelsea.