My it’s cold out there — where? — today. Memories and pulp would freeze and break, SNAPPPPP, in this weather, but not a little pain. Lays our heads down on the third triptych scrub this night and perish. Together, alone, who cares?
Issue a press release — send it to a London, or even a UK audience, but don’t, do absolutely not, include an attachment. Ain’t done you see an’ you’ll go straight to an idiot’s trash. Paste it in, that’s the done thing. Paste and she’ll come to you my lad.
Issue a media alert. Send a release. Don’t be a man, be a dynamite stick. Or a skin flick.
Get the alert out, there’s coverage to be had.
There you go, that’s all you have to do to be good at PR. There’s no great secret to it, whatever an agency might tell you. Just give ‘em what they want when they want it and, hey presto, you’ll be in the papers every day of the week. OK, you need ideas, angles and you need to know the news and it helps not to take yourself too seriously…......Read more
I’m writing this just after the previous post, namely in bed. Tiggy is in the room above, ironing. But God only knows what she is doing, the floor is creaking, has she got two British airmen up there? Am I in an episode of Allo Allo after all?
God, that was a funny old year. At one point, late Spring/early Summer I really did think it was all going to go tits up but then we bagged a client or two and since then haven’t looked back. It’s all down to me, of course. Jonny has nothing to do with it, I just carry him. All the time. God I hate language. I’m writing this after half a bottle of a fantastic Burgundy, in bed, preparing to flick through the Torygraph and Mail to catch up on what happened in the world 24-36 hours ago. Just how much longer before papers evaporate anyway? Long live the internet, and long live Ian Pollock and Kevin Peachey at the BBC. Boy did we bag some good coverage this week. I reck over 100 pieces of national for just Globrix and Cobalt in two days. Geee, I have no time for language, for words (the little critters), it all makes me kind of tired, and queasy and… and… And sick.
Now that Pinter is… pushing up the… daisies somewhere… it’s almost probably a good time to reflect on his contribution to the body of knowledge, to discourse, to the that-which-(as-far-as-I-can-tell)-is. He, of course, contributed Nothing, which is a mighty fine achievement. There’s a little something in the Baudrillardian schema (or paradigm, call it what you will) about creating a Nothing, a little or maybe not so little Nothing into which meaning collapses — kind of a vacuum or black hole. And that, kind of, is what Pinter does. He understands, and conveys this understanding, that what is said is ultimately irrelevant. It’s how it’s said. The how is far more important than the what, and considerably more important than the why. Content isn’t king. It’s saying things, anything, aka Nothing in a way that devastates or disturbs. Pinter, the first in quite some time, made language hiss.
