Missing braincells and a bobbejaan of a babelas – for what?

Posted June 12, 2007 by nakededitor
Categories: Uncategorized

Oh dear. OH dear.

Let me just say this. No night at Bokkie’s Breakdance Bar in Springs has EVER left me feeling the way I felt on Thursday morning, the morning after the night that I will never forget.

Except I did forget, for a few days. That, dear readers, is why I have been absent for so long. I have been suffering from some bizarre form of alcohol induced amnesia that resulted in me walking around the ICC in vain search of panado, epsom salts (don’t ask) and a computer to blog on. Alas, it was not to be. I recall taking my computer to the gala dinner but I do not recall bringing it back. There is a possibility in a drunken moment that I donated it to a whining student from UCT who pleaded poverty. Strikes me as a bit odd now though – she was wearing a cocktail dress and six-inch stilettos. She must have been very persuasive. And so it has taken me a few days to recover and find a computer before I could once again fill you in on my move up the editorial rope ladder, as it were.

So. The closing dinner. Let me just reach back into the dusty, wine-filled cellar of my mind, and pick out a couple of classic bottles of memory. Nederburg 2005? A terrible year, according to someone from Johncom. Didn’t know you had to be well versed in wine-tasting to get trashed on some good plonk.

Anyway, the gala dinner at Nederburg was a real blast. Lots of pretty people, old people, and pretty old people dressed up to the nines catching busses to a wine farm. Sounds like a recipe for success (or disaster) if you ask me. Despite the rain, quite a few daring ladies managed to face the cold and turn up in “this dress cost more then my wedding ring” outfits. It was lovely to marvel at the ways in which their skin turned purple and attractive shivers ran down their spines. Ah, the sacrifices women make to look good. You really have to wonder.

I, on the other hand, was quite comfy in my purple turtleneck and beige Jet chino’s, pressed especially for the occasion by the German maid at the backpackers. Except for the burn mark right next to my ass cheek, I looked great. Let’s just say that I’m glad I remembered to pack my beige underwear.

Despite the cold weather everyone was cheered up by the shortage of speeches and the abundance of wine. Good food, good times! I settled myself at a table with the red-haired object of affection in my line of vision. Tonight was going to be the night I thought. Ladylove, you’re not going to know what hit you.

I think that might have been the last clear thought that I had that evening, or at least the last one I can remember. Everything else seemed rather fuzzy. I remember the glorious strands of Dr. Victor and the Rasta Rebels whistling their way to my ears like the call of a piet-my-vrou in the heat of summer. The tables emptied as people made their way to the dance floor.

Now, as you all know, I’m a pretty conservative oke. I must say that I was quite shocked by the flamboyant way in which editors, publishers and journalists conduct themselves at night. Talk about letting go! Gees, I haven’t seen such a party since I stumbled on that bring-and-braai at the Benoni drive-in. What a night! The only person who looked unhappy was that columnist from the Sunday Times – Fred or something? Not sure he was to keen on hearing Dr Victor cover Bob Marley. Shame for him! But more space on the dance floor for us! I have never seen so many old (ish) people get up and party. I must say, that young girl who was flung around by the CEO of Media 24 looked like she was having a bit of hard time. I don’t think he recognised the look of pain on her face as he stepped on her feet repeatedly while swinging her around. I was just about to be merciful and save her when she was thrown into the arms of what looked like a 14 year old, pasty-faced British boy. All I heard as he swung her around was another man whispering to another girl that if they wanted to get anywhere in journalism, they should show this boy “a good time”.

Aha! So that’s really how it works. The sordid details of the media world reveal themselves!

In an attempt to find the red haired lady who had so unsuspectingly stolen my heart, I stumbled outside onto the smokers infested red carpet. The young girl who had been attacked on the dance floor was moaning at another young chap for handing her over to the wiles of the young teenage boy. She was saying things about “matter of decency”, and “working – not sleeping – my way to the top”. Wow, what a firecracker. She was accompanied by two girls laughing uproariously, and another young chap who spoke with a very British accent. Now this group of people looked interesting. I started wondering how I could muscle in on their vibe when I heard one of them talking to that curly-haired bloke from the M&G Online about the “Naked Editor” bloke. I nearly choked on my fine wine when I heard that. Didn’t really think people knew about me, or were talking about me, but my surprise they were – even arguing about me!

I regained my composure and listened with amusement as curly boy talked about he had “inside information” about who the Naked Editor was, and that he would “eventually find out who it really was”. The young girls standing with him rolled their eyes and said that if anyone had “inside information”, it was them! I was tickled with glee. There I was, standing next to them the whole time, and they had no idea! I thought these people were journalists, not masters of inaccurate speculation. Wait…. I think I might actually have hit upon the essence of journalistic endeavour.

Jeez, so my blog is gaining some ground! And among the very people I was hoping to impress! Best be careful not to reveal too much about myself, or people might not want to hire me in the future…
(Although from the state of journalists and editors at the party, looks like publishers and owners are willing to hire just about anyone)

After that the evening was really quite a blur. A fuzzy blur. With chocolate mousse edges. (It was a blur with personality). I found myself in the bus travelling through wine country in the dead of night. Once again the young girl from the party was there, sitting across from me. Before I drifted off I noticed that she was leaning her head against the shoulders of some burly, good-looking Cameroonian guy who said he worked for Reuters. She kept saying she was so happy to be with such a damn good-looking man. I looked hard, but I just couldn’t see it. Even under the influence of Nederburg’s not-so-finest. Anyway, if he really was that good looking, I wondered, why wasn’t he an editor yet? He clearly could’ve slept his way to the top. Anyway, if these girls wanted to get anywhere (in Journalism at least), their best bet was probably the doughy-looking pommie boy, not a Cameroonian who looked like that bouncer from the strip club in Benoni. But, erm, what would I know about that anyway?

I woke up with a bobbejaan of a babelas, as my friend Boet used to say. This time, dearest readers, I really was naked. And extremely forlorn. And I was filled with regrets. I was sad to have missed my ginger-haired print media queen. I had no computer, no more alcohol, no more free lunches and, worst of all, the editors had left for bigger and greater things, leaving me washed up on a Long Street floor. What now?

Well, this is my question as my internet time ticks down to nothing. I have a few minutes to go before this internet okie kicks me off the computer. Does anyone appreciate the sacrifices I have made in my quest? Several kilograms of braincells, for a start, were required. And after all this, where do I go next? Sigh.

Advertisements

Crazy about editors

Posted June 6, 2007 by nakededitor
Categories: Uncategorized

My Aunty Clarens said to me that it’s always best to get your beauty sleep because good looks will get you very far in life. Everyone knows that all the most successful editors are attractive, charming people, and I’m sure they got that way because they had more then enough sleep.

Which is why journalists, who look the way they do, are still journalists, and not editors.

I am only capable of thinking these Zen-like thoughts because I declined the imploring pleas of my fairweather friends and didn’t go to Moyo on Monday night. I went back to my backpackers, put on a face pack, checked my Facebook, clipped my nails and fell into a deep and wonderful sleep.

During the night I had a weird dream that I had gone with the City Press editor with the union cap to join the customs officials at OR Thambo on strike. Many very important people were quite upset. We were both fired from our jobs as incredibly important editors, and had to take up jobs as distributors of the Sandton Gazette.

What a nightmare.

I woke up refreshed and ready to tackle the day ahead. Crashed another editors breakfast and packed my bag with pastries to last me the morning.

What I’ve learnt in the last few days is that journalists and editors LIKE personality, even if they don’t necessarily have any. So much so, that they’ll do anything to be around personalities of any kind, even Amor Vittone.

Take, for example, the people organizing this conference. I’ve already spoken about that fiery redhead I am fervently pursuing. But what about that good-looking, short guy, who rattles off in French, Spanish and English, and manages to look disheveled yet charming at the same time? Look, I don’t bat for the other side, but I have respect for a guy who can look like he went to bed in his suit, but can still charm the pants off of any lady.

You know, he almost looks like a complete sleazeball, but something tells me he’s a nice guy underneath.

Then there’s the soft, sweet-voiced young British lady who stalks the seats of the auditorium, organizing editors and managing difficult Frenchmen (this one makes Inspector Clouseau look calm) as easily as she calls people “sweetheart”. I almost changed my loyalties to her until I walked past the auditorium and heard her shouting orders to the sound people, with her smile still pasted insanely to her face. I may be adventurous, but I’m not ready to go out with a crazy woman.

I have great respect for people who manage to organize editors while simultaneously flirting with each other in an outrageous manner.

Clearly, editors keep these kinds of characters close because it makes them feel normal in a crazy world.

That aside, someone at the conference must have chuckled with glee when they managed to book the Deputy President of South Africa (Pumzi as I fondly think of her) and Deputy President of the ANC, JZ (yo) at different lunches, at the same time. Now this was going to be interesting: who would go to which lunch? Which journalists would run between both? Which speech would be worse?

As you heard from my Monday entry, I picked Pumzi, though her speech was literally, to die for. I almost did – of boredom. But in retrospect I should have picked JZ. Apparently he was almost massacred by the media after his speech (which I heard was as dreadful as Pumzi’s was boring) and got very upset.

Presidents, politicians, editors, publishers, fancy people, all swanning around on a cloud of media righteousness. I love it! It’s like everything they do is justifiable by their belief that they represent the PUBLIC. Which, granted, on many levels they do. But that a different blog for a different day. I have the closing party to go to! Woohoo!

Journalists: Toads and pitbulls or creative masterminds?

Posted June 5, 2007 by nakededitor
Categories: Uncategorized

This conference is super awesome! Free Internet, free newspapers, free women. Free drinks, free lunch, FREE BREAKFAST!! Gosh these editors are free-loading dudes.

But they have to suffer for all those free lunches by listening to interminable speeches by politicians. These must get pretty old after a while. I felt like I was back in Mrs Cloete’s religious instruction class at Springs High when the deputy president went on and on about how she was tackling crime.

Still, she’s an amazing woman. She worked as a courier in Lesotho and now she’s in line for president! I wanted to ask if she also worked at DHL, like I did in school holidays, but it didn’t seem the right time. But if she can be president, I can be an editor!

Monday was a great day. I really feel like I’ve made some inroads into learning how to be an editor, and that I’ve got a great feel for the politics of the industry.

After my head had settled down from the previous night’s Cullinan episode, I came to the ICC wondering about the REAL importance of editors.

While I was contemplating the very essence of this serious philosophical question, munching on a mini pastry and pretending to read the Cape Times, that’s when I saw her.

I have officially met the woman that I want to join me on my fast-paced move up the editorial ladder. With her fierce organizational skills and her militant way of walking, there’s no doubt she’d be the best woman for my global ambitions. Forget Elmarie and her low-level newsroom desires. I’m going straight for the top – the cream of the crop!

And I’ve always wanted to make it with a fiery red head. Even if she’s a bit older. Maturity adds something to a woman – an executive position at the Independent Group for one. Woohoo!

I was so excited by this thought that I tripped over a network cable while making my way to my seat in an auditorium.

Wow, journalists are crabby people! Take away either coffee or the Internet and they turn into vicious monsters whose wrath is only compared with the attitude of an editor five minutes before deadline. Or my cousin Darien when you take away his Luckies.

Let’s just say that I’m never getting between a Mail & Guardian writer and his internet cable EVER again. Don’t be fooled by the little curls, chubby cheeks and those old-fashioned glasses like my Aunty Hester used to wear before she got her People magazine makeover – this dude is really a pitbull.

I’m starting to wonder how editors manage to control this strange subculture of journalists. They are fickle creatures, swapping political leanings and source loyalties. They talk about each other a lot, too. I distinctly heard one woman referring to a colleague as a “treacherous little toad”. He looked kinda random, unshaven and in scruffy jeans, so maybe she had a point.

After I had recovered from the stare of death from Mr. M&G, I looked around and realized how full the auditorium had become. Did this have anything to do with the huge amount of security we all had to go through to get in here? I wondered why they confiscated my special edition Grade III stun gun. Makes sense that the queue slowed down significantly after that. I settled down to what was evidently going to be a special occasion.

I had my special translator thingy on when I saw everyone stand up. I hadn’t heard who was coming in, but I watched with interest as a procession of seriously bulky men and one short looking one walk past me, looking very important. I wondered if this was Jacob Zuma. I heard he needed a lot of security to protect him from left-wing assassins.

After they had taken their place at the front, and after a rather uncomfortable silence, the national anthem started playing. Oh yes! That was who the short man was – the President! I was seriously going to have to do some more schmoozing to be at the top of my game.

I had a tear in my eye as the last few strands of the national anthem died out. Damn, it was a pretty horrendous rendition, enough to make a grown man cry. After that, things got better. The ceremony looked very spooky – sort-of “The Gods Must Be Crazy” crossed with the State Theatre – and expensive, at least two million rands worth, in my humble estimation. I guess the Sunday Times really has money to burn. As well as paying for the ceremony, they even gave each of us an encyclopedia!

Okay, I’m off. Apparently the other deputy president is also in the building. I need to check it out. Let’s hope his speech is more fun!

 

Free drinks and free press at WANC!

Posted June 5, 2007 by nakededitor
Categories: Uncategorized

I’m beginning to wonder what it is that editors really do. A lot of talking, and a lot of drinking, and of course – a lot of sounding smart – but do they make a lot of money? That’s what I really want to know.

On Sunday morning I arrived at the ICC filled with excitement and nervousness at the number of lessons that lay before me. I was going to learn how to be an editor who would make presidents tremble, cause finance ministers to mumble, and persuade presidential hopefuls to give me share options!

Editors may be able to organize a newsroom, or a dinner, but they certainly can’t organize a conference. Or maybe they just enjoy general madness and confused foreign people wondering around as long as there are enough bottles of wine to make up for it. It reminded me of that time I got lost at the Rand Easter Show, when my uncle Frik left me at the vetkoek stand on our way to watch Steve Hofmeyr.

After three hours in a roundtable on press freedom I wondered out of the room, bleary eyed with the sun blinding me after the darkness of the room. I would have to buy me a pair of Gucci’s, once I accepted my first pay-off from a dodgy politician.

Lunch was easy enough to find. I just wandered into a random hotel lobby and sat down at a table of rather pissed journalists. I learnt that they hate to admit that they don’t know who someone is.

I also learnt that despite the popular claims that newspapers are dying, losing money at the same rate as Geraldine Frasier Molokete’s popularity, journalists and editors have no problem with putting lavish lunches on their owners or publishers bills. In this regard, journalists and editors are no different from accountants really.

As I sat down for lunch, I surveyed the people walking down the halls of the convention centre. What a crazy bunch. I saw one pair walk past that looked completely mismatched, the one man wearing a trade unionist cap and weathered jqcket and the other an ankle-length purple kaftan. They seemed to be the best of friends. A lady with a grey streak in her jet black hair swanned by wearing a red leather jacket. These editors obviously weren’t a very serious bunch. In fact, they didn’t really look like they earned a lot of money.

I wonder if it was the publishers who owned the orange lamborghinis? I would have to investigate this.

I heard there was a party at the Castle of Good Hope that night so I went home to shower and change into my newly bought poloneck and pant. There’s this dude from the Sunday Times who’s always wearing polonecks and I’m taking my fashion cues from him, because he always looks super smart.

I arrived at The Castle terribly late, having gotten lost in a student pub on Long Street. The Castle was a steamy mixture of people attempting to get serious and others attempting to get rat assed. Why is that wherever there are journalists and editors, there’s alcohol? Is it really that hard to write a story? Cousin Marie did it all the time, stress free, when she worked for The Sowetan. I felt rather silly walking around not being able to crash the VIP sections. I heard Helen Zille was there, but she proved as elusive as an ANC member at a Bok van Blerk concert.

So I decided to make my way to one of the most esteemed hotels in Cape Town, knowing that it would undoubtedly host the most esteemed media employees. The Cullinan rose before me with the brightness whose only competition that day had been Bill Keller’s smile.

I fell in with a group of young ones from Johncom, which I very sneakily managed to discover is a media group that no-one owns. By 11pm the daquiris were flowing, the compliments were rolling off heavy tongues and there was a carefree disillusionment that I felt myself drawn too.

Turns out the mix of journalists and media developers in the group were an eclectic bunch. Apparently taking digs and trying to outdrink each other is a popular pastime of anyone working in the media.

I wasn’t persuaded that becoming a journalist was a better idea then becoming an editor though. Journalists just have to do too much schmoozing. And lackey work. Why work hard when I could sneak (but not sleep, because I’m not that kind of guy) my way to the top?

But journalists are definitely more fun to be around. As the editors sat around the bar’s fireplace sipping whiskey and completely failing to look posh (no bribes there obviously), the journalists were living it up in a corner, looking decidedly wild.

If they hadn’t been persuaded by their more responsible colleagues to leave, there might have been some “dreadful” consequences. Too much schmoozing generally leads to regrets and emotional casualties in the morning, or so I’ve heard. As an innocent plumber from Springs I felt completely corrupted by the ridiculous behaviour of these young journalists. They were completely out of control!

But apparently leaving journalists to their own devices allows editors to completely absolve themselves of responsibility from the negative results of their actions. Good, because I wouldn’t want to be responsible for what was evidently going to be a long night for that chap who was attacked by the palm leaves of the corner pot plant.

Really, I don’t know what the youth are getting up to these days. My granny always said, “keep your pants on and your eyes closed. This may not be the most practical advice generally, but it’s definitely going to be a guideline for my editorial career.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bubble bath and burst bubbles at Sanef

Posted June 4, 2007 by nakededitor
Categories: Uncategorized

Look, I don’t know much about editors. But I’m a quick learner, and I’ve learnt a lot since Saturday.

I saw their Lamborghini’s parked outside the Arabella Sheraton, their laptops scattered around the hotel lobby and their PA’s clicking their heels through the ICC lobby.

If I can get an orange Lamborghini that would be sweet!

The life of an international high flying editor seems pretty cool. Flying from Paris to Cape Town to Jericho, all in the name of press freedom and professionalism. Dude.

But now to catch you up on yesterday’s shenanigans.

Wearing my squeaky new Mr Price suit, with my press pass in my pocket, I left my Long Street backpackers and made my way to the convention centre.

Nothing interesting was happening really, and I didn’t particularly feel like crashing the party happening on the 2nd floor, especially after a man with a red boa stumbled out of the conference room. I have a feeling an editor would never wear a red boa. Not at 5 in the evening anyway.

Wandering around the 2nd floor with very little purpose other then to keep fluff off my suit, I noticed a sign pointing to the South African National Editors Forum AGM. Perfect! Sure, they weren’t international high flyers, but I had a feeling that a couple of them had some Audi A3’s parked in their garages. Especially the editor of The Daily Sun.

The AGM proved pretty dull and I didn’t think I was going to learn much. I almost put myself up for the Sanef council but I thought that I would stick out a little bit, especially since I only really have plumbing experience.

Would it have been presumptuous to nominate myself as chairperson? The thought crossed my mind, but quickly left when I saw how reluctant people were to accept their nominations.

 Throughout the two hour deliberations about who would be the next chair, I thought my brain might melt from the dreadfulness of it all. But eventually, some bloke called Jovial (didn’t look bloody jovial to me) was coaxed (coerced more like it) into the position and took his position behind the mic.

The experience taught me that editors spend a lot of time talking about things, then just when things are about to get political, they break for lunch.

I was just about to leave when I overheard someone talking about a do happening that night. Sweet mother! Do these people never stop drinking?

A quick shower and some Brillcream later, I had sneaked my way into the Sanef dinner. Well, when I say dinner I really mean tons of alcohol and maybe a crouton here and there.

Some dude talked about getting photographed in the bath, and just when I had visions of an all male Pirelli calendar I realised why he looked so familiar – he was a judge at the Constitutional Court. Gosh, times have changed. Used to be that judges wouldn’t get out of bed for less then R100 000.

The do was quite lovely and I think I learnt a lot

To be an editor, you need to be able to drink a lot, smoke a lot, argue a lot, drive an orange Lamborghini, lunch at the Sheraton and sit on enough media freedom boards to make Danisa Baloyi look like a ninny.

 

 

I am in – thanks to pissy Frenchmen and African muti

Posted June 2, 2007 by nakededitor
Categories: Uncategorized

Obviously the gods are pleased with my dreams of becoming an editor. My pursuit of rapid upward mobility in the editorial world has just been given a leg up by a chance encounter in a dim lit bar.

At the end of my last post I was outside the Convention Centre, and as I typed in the last few words I heard the chiming of my digital watch, ringing 4pm. Just about time for the daily Klippies and Coke that my granny always recommended. Despite what Elmarie says, it IS good for your liver.

I hauled my bags onto my shoulder and made my way down to the la-dee-dah pubs at the V&A Waterfront. I made a point not to look any seagulls in the eye. I’ve heard about their legendary ability to make off with your wallet while threatening to claw out your eyes. Wow, the V&A Waterfront! A safe haven for tourists and training ground for militia seagulls.

With great trepidation, I opened the door to the cheapest looking pub and requested the price of that that venerable South African brandy, Klippies At a mere R34 for a single shot I swallowed my East Rand grown pride and ordered a Black Label. At only R18 – the price of a 5 course meal at our local Springs Roadhouse. Seated next to me in the shadowy bar I could make out the shape of a 1litre bottle of Versus wine with two men draped over it.

From their Polo pants to the unfiltered cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, they looked characteristically French. This would have been a very un – PC stereotyped assumption, had it not been preceded by my astute observation that they were speaking French and were wearing T-shirts that said: “Long Live Royale – and her fabulous tits!”

Hoping to touch up on my French and show some true South African hospitality to the two men, I made my way over to their slumped figures, the taste of my beer making its way down my throat like a snail making its way down a drain pipe.

“Good day”, I said in near – perfect French (translated here for your convenience dear readers). “Welcome to South Africa, what is the purpose of your visit to our beautiful country?”

The man to my left raised his bleary eyes, filled with what appeared to be despair and the epitome of human misery, slid in a surprisingly agile manner off his chair and – clutching his stomach – ran in the direction of the bathroom. My quizzical look at his companion accompanied the fading sounds of his friend shouting “merde”.

“You must excuse my friend”, he said in remarkably good English. “He’s suffering from the shit food of your country”. He looked at me pointedly and then grasped the bottle of wine. The only thing that redeems your country is the cheapness of your wine. “He took a sip from the bottle. “But only barely”.

The rather pissy little Frenchman told me that they were two exhibitors (more like exhibitionists) from Paris at the WAN/WEF conference and that his colleague had contracted food poisoning from tinned tuna and beans meal that they were forced to eat on the SAA flight over.

Having failed to find a doctor, they tried their luck with some “African Muti” sold to them by a UCT student on Long Street and now they were feeling so hot.

After listening to his alcohol diatribe about the pitfalls of trusting anyone in a third world country , I was relieved when he slid off to join his friend in the loo. Hell! I thought, if there is one thing South Africans must do, is to be reliable. I nonchalantly slipped the two men’s exhibitors passes into my pocket and headed for the door.

How I became naked

Posted June 1, 2007 by nakededitor
Categories: Uncategorized

Life is cruel. That is the lesson Elmarie DuPlooy taught me on the day she ran off with the sub – editor of the Springs Weekly tabloid. The sight of that paper covering the broken window pane of my next door neighbour’s car gave me shivers.

But this was the last time Elmarie DuPlooy was going to trample all over my heart. Unrequited love will not be healed by the dull beat of Achey Breaky Heart at the Coronation Bar and Grill. But a 24 hour trip in a Greyhound bus might. So I packed my bag and set out on a road trip to Cape Town.

The Mother city welcomed me like a boerewors roll needing tomato sauce. The waterfront stretched before me like a duvet on a City Lodge bed. Inspired by this glistening vista, I pulled out my laptop and googled Shakespeare’s Sonnets. Shakespeare has always been my rock in times of trouble.

The bus creaked its way to a halt outside the gleaming, shiny, just-out-of-the-box Cape Town Convention Centre. I stepped outside with my bags and one single intention: to show Elmarie that I was better than that no good, R5000 a month earning sub – editor chump. The only question was, how?

With the melancholy words of Shakespeare ringing in my ears (Oh, let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments), and the smells of the Greyhound bus slowly leaving my nostrils, I paused outside the Convention Centre to catch my breath. Two young women were cleaning windows outside, talking about an upcoming do that involved editors and newspaper bigwigs from all over the world flocking to Cape Town. Something about the World Association of Newspapers Congress.

WANC sounded huge.

Opening my trusty laptop, I searched under ‘editors convention’ and read with interest a blog entry by some bloke called Anton Harber. Suddenly – I had it. I was going to show Elmarie the man I was. I was going to crash this editor’s do and become the greatest editor the East Rand had ever seen. One week in Cape Town hanging around a bunch of editors would be more than enough training. And then Elmarie would see that I was no ordinary plumber from Springs. I was going to chump that sub editor chump by becoming the WAN KING. I was going to become a man of the world. I was going to become an editor, without EVER having to be a journalist.

So now I’m off to Mr Price to buy a suit, and to brainstorm a way to sneak into this conference. Watch this space.