You Can't Apologise - It's The Law

In my view today saw the restoration of some form of natural order following Man City's demolition of the Caligularian Citadel that is Chelsea FC. Not from any sporting perspective, although that was gratefully received, but from the obvious guilt-ridden burden John Terry and his team mates carried into the match that weighed so heavily on them as they imploded like weaklings in the face of a far mightier power.

Footballers are 'lads' at heart, I'm one too, and there are many unwritten laws that glue the society of male friends together. They vary from low-level misdameanours like not standing your round, or being flaky about arrangements made as a group, to severe. When I say severe, I mean so unforgivable that they break the invisible but powerful bond of male friendship. Getting off with you mate's current girlfriend is one that will get you exiled forever and everyone recognises that one. But more subtle, less obvious but equally punishable 'law-breaking' include going out with you mate's sister and/or going out with a girl one of your mates has had a proper relationship with, loved, been hurt by, had a child by. This is the 'crime' that John Terry committed, one that puts his position as a trusted friend and colleague in servere jeopardy with all his Chelsea and England team mates. Whilst the City team and fans rallied magnificently around Wayne Bridge it is evident that his Chelsea team mates and most of the right-minded Chelsea fans cannot bring themselves to do so.

No-one can lord it over their friends in this way and have the stupidity and temerity to expect everything to be alright whatever powerful alpha-male position they may think they have. The deep-seated understanding lads have about their relationships almost exclusively unsaid make that sort of behaviour destroy the moral code and therefore everything. Mates will go to the ends of the earth for each other, even lay their lives on the line but once law has been broken they can barely shake hands. I applaud Wayne Bridge for his stance even if John Terry grovels publicly and apologises for his unforgivable behaviour no British bloke will really let him off the hook because they can all put themselves in Bridge's boots and know exactly what they would do.

Egg Banjos and Other Exploding Myths

What is it about people who don’t do Twitter?. Unfortunately their knowledge and understanding is fuelled by a sceptical establishment media in freefall who can’t find the ripcord and the tedious celebrity tweeter, equally clueless for simply putting out and not giving a whole lot back. Non-Twitterers assume it’s all about [insert celebrity Twitdiot of your choice] and/or telling people ‘what you‘re having for breakfast’. Well, it might be for some of the people some of the time, but certainly not for all of the people all of the time.

I’ve spent just over a year on Twitter; including the first 4 months forgetting I’d actually signed-up, initially following footballer twitter accounts (they of course have since been all but closed down) and wondering why anyone would want to know what I had for breakfast. Then I had some sort of epiphany, nigh on blind panic, that in my job, it was my job to get onboard and actually learn and experience the sharp-end of social media. The first fumbling steps are but a dim and distant memory, but I’m more than certain that they were just that. The treacle we’ve all got to trudge through in the early days sucked at my legs drawing me ever deeper into the mire of ‘can’t be bothered’.

Then something started to happen after near enough 2 weeks of solid commitment. I had done the usual and followed like crazy in the hope that a beam of light might be reflected back whilst fearing I was too fragile to survive any knock-backs. I started to feel the cool, cynical and sassy ‘love’ that Twitter gives back. People didn’t really make allowances for my kindergarten skills, but by the same token re-span my plates just as they were in severe wobble mode. I would get paranoid if I didn’t get any @ replies for a few days and would think that someone who had @ replied me once then not again for a while actually thought I was a knob and regretted ever speaking to me. Of course the Holy Grail of a Re-Tweet was never even on the agenda.

I started to organize myself into little groups of chums aligned to different interests I had. Then started to find some unbelievably funny, peculiar and most of all creative people. Playing with Twitter, pushing the boundaries, turning it into something else that worked for them. Some amazing Twitter ‘brands’ started to emerge, true characters with burst mains pipe personalities gushing out of them. I’ve seen information, enlightenment, cause and effect all coming to the fore and most importantly the Twitter ‘touch’ - like a roadside telecomm box of a thousand coloured wires pulsing with connections.

So there you have it, not at all about fuckwit celebs or foodstuffs. Having said that, a frequently recurring question I get is ‘what is an Egg Banjo?’ as most Saturday mornings, my itinerary Tweet of the day often includes ‘..lunch (egg banjo)’. It’s actually a term me and my surfing mates used to use (although I’ve since found out it’s a well used phrase in British military circles) for a fried egg in a bap, baguette or sliced bread, often scoffed ravenously in the back of a Camper Van after a dawn patrol. The beauty of it is that when you first bite into it the yolk invariably bursts dripping under gravity onto your shirt which requires the banjo action of one hand to brush it away. Simple and fun really - why not give it a go.

Virgin’ On the Ridiculous – 39 Steps to Customer Service

After a rather good run of form with the Virgin Trains service from Macc to London; I do that trip maybe 8-12 times a year, I had a rather unfortunate experience last week.

I was due to take the 10.55am from Macc on Tuesday 9th February to get down to London in good time for a conference (The #Hashjacking of #BR140 in the blogroll). Only the previous day my Twitter stream informed me that all trains from Manchester to London had been cancelled due to ‘overhead cable problems’ at Milton Keynes. Being a dutiful traveller I checked with the official information online and it declared the trains would be running as normal from 10.00am. With that reassuring information in mind I made my way to Macc station. Being as I work with a super-efficient HR lady, my ticket had been booked well in advance (bargain) including a seat reservation.

So a bit like a giddy kid on a school trip to the British Museum I hopped onto platform 2 with 10 minutes spare. Only to realise that there was only me and one other bloke waiting. I inquired of the station announcer to ascertain the circumstances who advised the 10.55am had been cancelled. ‘When’s the next train’ I asked slightly concerned, ‘we think 11.55am, but can’t be sure’ was the helpful reply. I would still just about make it in time for the 2pm conference start, in fact, a good excuse to miss that very stressful British experience of ‘networking’ before an event. So I popped down the road for an espresso, made a couple of calls and tut-tutted about the state of Britain with my fellow Virgin traveller.

Anyway, the 11.55am arrived pretty much on time, although was as packed as a cup final football special. I found my way to the carriage with my reserved seat, it was occupied. Realising that most of these people were also suffering from the cancelled train I decided not to take up my allocated spot, but found a single seat in a draughty corner between two carriages. On doing so I realised that there was no plug socket for my laptop so I would struggle to get more than 1/2hour out of my battery.

So most unusually I decided to make further enquiries with the Train Manager in an effort to get ‘upgraded’ to First Class which I had noticed had enough room to swing several cats, a Leopard and probably an Arctic Tiger. I found the manager’s little office and described my plight as sympathetically as I could and asked what he could do for me in the way of an upgrade. I wasn’t coming on the ‘big I am’ although I did mention my company spends an awful lot of money with Virgin, I would like to think that whether I was Mrs Miggins or Lord Richard ‘effing’ Branson himself I’d be treated fairly and with some sympathy. He busily tip-tapped away in some sort of handheld device and declared quite unashamedly that it would be £150 for the pleasure. I again reiterated my situation with full-on puppy dog eyes and asked if he could do me a deal?.

‘Nah can’t do that’ he said,
‘Why not I said, you’re in charge of the train, you could run a herd of wildebeest through first class and know one would notice’.
Nervous blank look from Simon the Train Manager (I knew that cos he had a badge).
‘I want to speak to you’re boss’
‘You’ll have to speak to Customer Services’
‘I don’t want to speak to them I want to speak to your boss’
‘No, I can’t even get to speak to her’
‘What’s her name, email, or telephone number?’
‘Not telling’
‘Yer what… I want to complain about you and won’t tell me the name of your boss?’
‘Just send a letter in to customer service’
‘No I want to send an e-mail to your boss right now, why can’t you let me have her e-mail address’
‘Not allowed to… it’s the system’

Exasperated I walk off get a coffee and settle down in the seat in the draughty corner.

I wasn’t going to let this lie, so tweeted my displeasure using the #virgintrains hashtag in the hope that somebody might be bothered to respond. Nothing.

I whinged on about Virgin at the conference via Twitter. Still nothing. Then the next day I got a tweet from a Virgin train driver saying that @virgintrains were on Twitter and I should try my luck there. So I sent this tweet

‘@virgintrains I want to speak to Simon's (train manager 11.55am from Macc 9th Feb) boss, I want to discuss you're appalling customer service’

To date not a dicky bird. I really don’t know what I’m expecting now, not a lot really but if Virgin think I’m going to use their so-called customer service channels to make a complaint when I can use more convenient routes they’ve got another thing coming.

I’m beginning to think this is Branson’s revenge for getting his fingers burnt for buying the publishing rights for our songs for a tidy sum back in the day. If it is, it’s one of life’s real mash-ups.

The #HashJacking of #BR140

I had the great pleasure of attending the Brand Republic 'Winning Formulas To Maximise The Potential Of Twitter' workshop yesterday. They did a great pre-workshop job interacting with me and making sure I prepared for the day. The information booklet supplied was also very informative and I was particularly struck by the 'Participation and Interactivity' section which advised delegates Prepare; Be vocal!; Get chatting; and Let us know your thoughts.

Well here we go. The abiding memory for me apart from telling the guy from Kraft Foods to never, ever change the Cadbury's chocolate recipe was the hashjacking of the conference hashtag #BR140. I love these sort of hashtags, they allow you to connect with people on Twitter before an event and follow everyone's comments during and post an event. They also allow you to 'follow' the event on Twitter if you are not attending, enabling live updates from delegates, the event organisers and other people following. Some events, including this one, also have a live big screen 'Twitterfall' of all the tweets with the hashtag. Always very interesting and entertaining to see your own tweets on the big screen. Being an avid Twitterer I of course contributed to the hashtag with my own mix of pithy comment, useful insight and occassional drivel. For example, I was staggrered when the representative from the Labour Party referred to the 'right-wing Blogosphere' and tweeted accordingly.

Then the most amazing and I have to say hilarious thing happened after the mid-afternoon break, the #BR140 Twitter stream on the big screen started to be populated by hashjackers, with comments such as:-

#br140 Leave now and beat the queue for the urinal

I've dropped £20 somewhere around the 5th row, can anyone spot it? #br140

Let's forget all this boring Internet rubbish and just put our car keys in a big pot... #br140

Does anyone know if these Custard Creams are vegan-friendly? #br140

Can you help a brother out? I'm locked in the third cubicle of the gents with no paper. #br140

All this talk of SM is making me frisky, anyone for some S&M after hours? #br140

Check out the hashtag for the full stream. It was quite an experience, I was literally transfixed to my I-phone and the big screen as more and more jackers joined in and the comments got funnier and funnier. Eventually even pornbots started to contribute.

The switched on Twitterati amongst the audience could see this happening and were starting to chuckle and even the occasional belly laugh. I was literally doubled up in pain, eyes streaming close to cardiac arrest.

All the while a fairly low key panel discussion was taking place on stage, from the likes of Dell, a fashion shop, a taxi firm and the Dogs Trust (that's comedy gold in itself of course).

Then it struck me like a bolt of lightning, the hashjackers were social media and Twitter savvy way beyond the organisers and the panel. I was learning more from the jackers about the power, corruption and lies of Twitter than any of the panel could elucidate. To be fair to the organisers they handled the situation brilliantly, saw the funny side and counter tweeted to keep the delegates and followers of the hashtag onside.

BREvents: Thank you to all the speakers and delegates that attended #br140 & to the hackers for that stint of light entertainment!

So a few valuable lessons to be learned:

1. Moderate your #hashtag
2. Think carefully about having a Twitterfall
3. Make sure the event is truly engaging and interactive

We've all got a lot to learn about Twitter and Social Media, but it's here to stay, is irreverent, in your face and instant - brands need to be cognisant of this and will need a sense of humour to survive.

In a strange way the whole event reminded me of the original film of The Taking Of Pelham One Two Three

Shuffle Along To Another Time And Place

I love the I-Pod or any MP3 playing equivalent, one of the most convenient devices I've ever known. Last Friday night, as I often do on a Friday, I put my I-Pod on shuffle, poured myself a glass of cava and cooked dinner, a little ritual I look forward to after a week's hard graft. I have over the last couple of years copied my miniscule collection of CD's onto to the I-Pod and (quite legitimately I'll have you know) downloaded upwards of 1000 songs. It's a proper eclectic mix to cater for all eventualities, moods and occassions. I've set-up up various playlists with those quirky titles we all give them; Dance Pants, Little Anthems, New Year School Disco, Plastic Punks and Manc Mafia. So it's always interesting and surprising to do the old 'shuffle all songs' thing and just see what comes up.

The great thing is that whatever song comes up, resonates with you in some way, after all that's why it's on there in the first place. But the power of your 'old classics' whatever your musical persuasion is a thing to behold. Instantly I am thrown back in time to another place, wrapped-up in a cloak of memories whether they be good or bad, happy or sad experiences. I can be transported back to schooldays, fumbling lunchtime discos, the jukebox in the pub when I was 18, particular holidays and friends, whatever scenario, the list is endless. The songs are there for a reason and that reason is they are all part of me and my life.

There She Goes by the La's is pretty much the theme tune from a period in my life, of heady times gadding about Manchester and inevitably ending up in the cellar of a late night drinking shebeen in Fallowfield called Granville's ankle deep in broken glass, girls and alchohol. Or New York, New York which takes me straight back to The Smithfield in a part of manchester now called The Northern Quarter - it was always the finale of the set of a black guy (actually from New York) called Jerome who used to play their every Friday night.

But last Friday, Everyday Hurts by Sad Cafe shuffled into earshot, a song from a comedy playlist called 'Cheese' put together for a naff party I was going to, including such classics as Dancing In The City by Marshall Hain, Without You by Harry Nilsson, and one or two Barry Manilow's.

Everyday Hurts is a song I never put on out of choice, but it was one of my mum's favourites at the time it was a minor hit so in my book a cheesy song. Perhaps it just caught me at the right moment but I was transported into a nether world of broken relationships and heartbreak, got a little moist-eyed, and was sucked in to the soft rock schmaltzy world of Sad Cafe for 4 minutes. Then half an hour later the Gorgonzola of cheese I've Never Been To Me by Charlene came on, a quite bizarre song, a paen to a lost and corrupted soul but strangely compelling and wouldn't of been out of place in The Smithfield circa 1989...........that's truth, that's love.