Archive for November, 2011

Ah the double-edged sword of technology: yesterday I managed to spark a very interesting debate during a Skype interview for Radio 5’s ‘Double Take’ regarding the Leveson inquiry. However, just as things were getting interesting- and before I could voice some of my key points- the connection was cut and I was left stranded in my home office.

The debate proceeded, the media machine turned, and I was powerless to change or influence it, or to explain my true point in any audible way. See any analogues?

The problem that the hacking scandal and the Leveson inquiry have thrown up is that, for most people, the media acts in just this way but writ large. It tantalises the average person as it touches on their daily lives, yet it is ultimately a mysterious and unalterable process to them.  When Jane Garvey asked me to clarify what it was I do this was brought home to me- would she ask the same of a solicitor or accountant?

The squabbles between the media and the famous are elevated to epic battles in the eyes of the public, who witness them through a filter. The reality is that this is a procedural question as complex and unromantic as its equivalent in any business. With tabloid journalism now largely driven by showbiz, and the public’s appetite for stories as ravenous and insatiable as ever, certain questions need to be asked and decisions made. However, they need to be made in a measured and demystified manner.

It would be better both for the media and for those in the public eye (who most often suffer the same banal problems as the rest of us) if the voodoo was stripped away.

Reportage of the various heartfelt testimonies from the Leveson Inquiry this week have left me with mixed feelings. On the one hand, not even the hard arsed heart of a wizened old PR man could fail to be moved by the tales told by those ordinary humans swept into the press maelstrom:  the Mccanns, or particularly the Dowlers. These people are living testament to the sometimes frightening power of the story over the truth. It’s a power I’ve occasionally used to great advantage in the course of my work, but wielded without responsibility it can provoke violent disruption in the lives of publicity civilians.

More to the point, such people haven’t the funds or the knowledge to build suitable defences. They most certainly are not fair game.

However, I’ve less sympathy for Hugh Grant, Sienna Miller and the rest of them. While I wouldn’t go so far as Piers Morgan (who earlier in the week tweeted with typical flair “I do hope Nelson Mandela was watching Hugh Grant today, so he now understands what real persecution is all about”), as always in these situations I am inclined to remember the words of Clark Gable. If you’re going to sign a contract with fame, you’d better make sure you read the fine print.

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I’ve recently been running around on a kind of UK Tour, delivering a new presentation in Gateshead, Brighton and various locations in London for a range of industry events in between the rigours of my day-to-day duties.

One advantage of the thinking that goes in to this kind of offering is that along with the new ideas I discover and devise, I am reminded of some of my favourite pieces of wisdom. Amazing quotes and thoughts which get pushed to the back of my mind are suddenly thrust back in front of me- and my audiences- a couple of times a week.

One is from the great film-maker Jim Jarmusch, and it informs much of my thinking about modern communications: ‘Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Authenticity is invaluable, originality is non-existent’.

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Last Thursday, I was fortunate enough to be asked to present at the Media Business Course in Brighton for the fourth year running- the only PR, I’m told, who has ever had the invitation extended. Usually, it’s a day of great value to me: being pushed up in front of the surprisingly intimidating face of the media industry’s freshest bright young things forces myself and others to ruthlessly update our thinking and present totally new material each time.

This year, however, something was missing. As per usual, I totally reworked my presentation, but found myself surrounded by other speakers from TV, Advertising and elsewhere flogging the same shtick they’ve been peddling the last couple of times round the track.

Perhaps I’m being unfair to my esteemed colleagues: they all succeeded wonderfully in making PowerPoint their bitch, fleshing out each point with whizzing animations, Technicolor wankfests and glorious info graphics to the point of turgidity. However, at heart, they were clinging on, and they were offering old thoughts to some of the newest minds in the country. Once again, it’s the PR world that’s at the front line of culture change.

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The X Factor’s token Rock n Roll hairbrush Frankie Cocozza was splashed in lurid glory all over the red tops this morning: you can’t beat a good old fashioned tabloid coke scandal. Especially when it comes courtesy of Frankie, the boy who wanted to be a mashup of Richards, Moon and Shelley. The question, however, has to be where the duty of care lies as the show washes its hands of Frankie at the precise moment he becomes more useful to them offscreen than on.

I’ve written about the show a lot on this blog: it’s always thrived on controversy. Syco’s PR lifeblood comes from outrageous stories that dig their claws in to the tabloid column inches and don’t let go for days: Katie Waissel’s gran, Chloe Mafia’s Prostitution, Ceri Rees’s humiliation and countless others. After making it through Boot Camp, Cocozza was pretty much handed an Ikea flatpack ‘hellraiser’ lifestyle, which he duly assembled within minutes and then attempted to cram up his nose.

For a time, he served his purpose: he was a decent story factory, most recently grabbing the show a page in the Mirror after his first girlfriend took them a kiss and tell. However, arguably things became a little too real after he started appearing inebriated on the show and prompted a full scale Ofcom investigation.

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Since I last penned a brief note on the St Pauls occupy London shenanigans, it seems there’s been some new story almost daily. The resignation of two senior church officials, the alleged 48 hour deadline, the declaration that the protestors are here to stay, the threat of legal action by the city, comments from both sides of mainstream politics (including Jonson’s memorable exhortation ‘In the name of God and mammon, go’) and now, finally, a silence-breaking Observer article by Ed Miliband.

In between the possibly hypocritical condemnations by the Tories, the possibly equally hypocritical support offered by Labour, the regulations of the City of London and the public dithering of the Church of England, there’s enough fuel here to keep the media busy for as long as the camp remains in place, and probably longer.

Dr Rowan Williams’s comments last week, in which he acknowledged the inequality inherent in the financial sector and called the protest ‘a real focus for people’s feelings and their imagination,’ were perceived by many as an antidote to the church’s infighting. In fact, they confuse matters further by acknowledging the ideological alliance between the church and the protestors while smartly avoiding the legal conflict.

The whole affair’s like a messy divorce case: the issues are being ignored because everyone has a claim to being a victim- a problem the media has taken it upon itself to sort out. The entire confused, irrational mess was summed up by the Daily Express last week in an unintentionally genius bit of satire: a reporter camped out in front of the house of a protestor, armed with a tent and a sign reading ‘how do you like it?’.

It’s an interesting quandry: it’s hard to think of a recent protest of this scale which has earned itself so many column inches, and arguably, visibility is enough. The rational, we might argue, will draw their own conclusions. However, my fear is that the temptations of a juicy bit of finger-pointing will obscure the issues at heart far more effectively than a thrown fire extinguisher ever could.

The performance of Alex Hall, Jeremy Clarkson’s now-infamous-once-gagged ex, on ‘That Sunday Night Show’ last week was a classic example of the dark underbelly of the kiss and tell process. Your publicist finds an op, you do it no matter what, and you end making a quick facial omelette. It’s like Faust’s pact with the devil except even more boring to watch as it’s acted out.

Hall was somehow savaged by a panel which contained, amongst others, professionally ineffectual wall hanging Louis Spence and Chiles himself, the world’s least threatening man. Even worse: she has achieved the exact opposite of her presumed aim. Following her constant, whining ubiquity over the past few days, the only sane response is to actually feel sorry for Clarkson. She’s unlikely to make the money she wants, but even if she does, it’ll be pretty tainted now.

Rumour has it that Hall has fired Clifford following the debacle. It’s fascinating to me that this is the conclusion people have drawn: much more likely he’s quietly given her the shove. He sat next to her, blandly besuited like a court-appointed attorney in a police drama, ashen faced as she shot herself in the foot time after time. An attempted gag in which she turned the initials used to refer to her case under the injunction (a.m.m vs h.x.w) into a faux-provocative acronym fell flatter than Spence’s washboard abs. ‘Adulterous Motor Mouth vs. Hurt Ex Wife’, if you’re interested. Cue slow clap.

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