A mwah darlink PR cauldron

Attended an event yesterday evening which would have horribly confirmed any preconceptions any outsider may have about PR.

An assorted cross-industry gathering of people who practice the trade.  I’d walked up and down the same Soho street several times looking for a venue with the right name.  After asking someone I was told it was an alternative name for a bar I’d walked past several times already.  Having walked through town from Waterloo I felt my shirt sticking uncomfortably to the base of my spine through my jacket.

Walking upstairs into the dark, first floor “VIP Area” I was assaulted by my own heightened self consciousness.  Beautiful, groomed, typically PRy people adorned the room, the majority women.  As with other PR-specific events I’ve attended - events outside my usual preferred trade which usually contain mostly male smart-casual entrepreneurs and younger bedroom geeks - I feel slightly out of my comfort zone.  I don’t do gloss, big ultra white teeth, expensive clothes or attractive.  How achingly transparent is my roughly 67% self belief? 

Approaching the bar, one of the organisers thrusts her hand towards me.  I’ve never met her before, introduce myself.  I feel the mozzled sweat on my forehead beginning to fizzle lightly in this tight, warm, first-floor space full of bodies.  My body also realises I’ve stopped walking at a clipped pace and tries to compensate somehow.  I decide wiping my forehead with my hand would be more icky than ignoring it. 

She introduces herself, offers a beer, gestures to her colleague next to her who I have met once before.  Obviously they're both attractive.  It’s a very mwah darlink atmosphere with cheek kisses aplenty, but I offer her my hand nonetheless, aware of the forehead sheen..  The way she shakes my hand immediately feels too stiff and formal for this environment and I feel faintly silly for not taking a step forward and confidently planting a kiss on both her cheeks.  Then aggrieved that I should feel that obligation.  I hate this gushy crap.

The next few hours brings chats with an assortment of characters, all with different specialities and at different stages of their careers.  What’s obvious in the room is the desire, and almost desperation, to exude that certain winning confidence, utter conviction, strength, bravado.  Even though plenty of us are new freelancers slightly concerned about whether this whole thing will be sustainable, and cautiously eye others in our own field as competitors.

A dark haired Irish girl who could easily be a forgotten Corr sister is a complete knockout.  She has the exuding confidence thing totally nailed.  Assertive, controlled, strong experience, firm head on her shoulders, human.  Smiley but not too smiley – like some certainly were, as if shielding behind banks of big, gleaming white teeth (fashion and lifestyle PRs).  And she was dynamic, vivid, energetic, damn hot.  It was all there, she needed nobody.  Disgustingly beautiful.  She looked upon me with good natured tolerance as we chatted.

Lengthily chatted to an essentially dull but equally intoxicated chap who worked in a niche technical sector, giving me hope that such work exists.  He rambled away at length, assuming a level of technical knowledge of me which I didn’t have but not testing it.  Made conversation easy and undemanding.

Then another noteable later on in the evening was an experienced chap who must have been in his fifties: debonair, distinguished, brash and raffish. Not unlikeable.  He had clearly had an impressive career, working for a number of top notch agencies, pitching in the Pentagon around 9/11 to the US defence (defense?) during a period spent in America.  He was all about image, he told me: confidence, expense and not seeming cheap, he told me.  You have to impress that on clients, not worry about expenditure if you have to go up north or overseas for a pitch.  Wear the best suits, pay for prospects and clients’ meals and entertainment, flatter them. 

I nodded earnestly to him, as if ravenously sucking up his knowledge, experience and advice.  It all sounded quite horrible, fraudulent, a sham.  Did I actually really want to do that sort of thing?  He was obviously talking about his particular, highly successful niche which he’d operated in at a high level for a number of years.  There are probably other, more understated ways of going about a reasonably successful career. 

If you really want it..

After making a half-hearted attempt to find the organisers,  I shook hands with the experienced chap and made an unshowy exit.

being bitter and professionally plastic

Today saw the completion of a professional event which was just over six months in gestation.  It was born of an idea which needed to be forced through after internal company meetings with nervous, careful colleagues unsure how much value organising an event would give our technical company.

It would give us exposure, I argued; exposure of our company, brand, our expertise and the services we offer – especially by having a chair of the event as well as a speaker who could present a session.  It wouldn’t take up too much of my time: I could arrange a couple of speakers, a secretary of the organisation would arrange logistics with the sponsors.   I assured them it was really no big deal.  They grudgingly, tentatively agreed. 

Or I accepted the outcome of the meetings as agreement, even if it was never given explicitly as such. It certainly wasn’t a no.

Then, about three months later they made me redundant. 

Thanks very much.

Because I retained my duties for the organisation, which weren’t dependent upon my employers, I saw the organisation of the event through.  Unfortunately I could hardly retract the offer of the Chair, or speaking slot at the event to my former colleagues.

The strangeness of professionally encountering the employers who made you redundant a couple of months before, yet still having reason to be amiable towards them, is one which could be compared to feeling obliged to hug an ex who cheated on you. 

Hello, you utter bastards, you feel lke greeting them. 

But you don’t, especially as there’s the faint, outside hope that they *might* provide you with some freelance work at some juncture. You smile, shake hands, ask how it’s all going, and continue the charade of being awfully professional. 

(You would do this anyway of course, even if there was no outside incentive.  Being starkly hostile is harder than being civilised.)  

Before my former line manager gave his presentation, I had taken pleasure in quietly cackling at his predictable clunkiness.  Similar in age and experience, we never shared the easiest professional relationship – possibly due to the level of testosterone between us, and he was likely instrumental in making me redundant. He was Old School within the company, having been there for almost as long as the company and practically his whole career.  I was comparatively new but had equal knowledge of the space, if not slightly more.  You could argue he felt threatened by this, which led to a tricky relationship.  So, looking forward to a clumsy, nervy talk from him wasn’t too hard.

During it though, I felt such a sense of empathy with the nature of his discomfort: uncertainty, constant errrrring, and the jagged nature of delivery – that it was actually sympathy I felt more.  I identified with his hesitance and self consciousness.  I would have been extremely similar.  What surprised me was my instinctive sympathy and encouragement to him afterwards, when he confessed that he thought he was rubbish.  Perhaps I’m not such a bitter twat after all. 

However, it does shame me to admit that I personally bottled addressing the 150-strong crowd. The opportunity was presented to me in an indirect fashion, left open.  I could have easily claimed just a few minutes to introduce the day and open the event.  It would have only been right as the day was my brainchild and much of its organisation and promotion was down to me.  It wouldn’t have needed much at all.

But I failed to grasp the nettle, grow bollocks, address my fear, and weakly allowed my colleague ahead.  I could try to justify it using a rationale that people who do what I do should never be the story, should always sit back and facilitate – but I know that essentially, I just bottled it.

You might not have been aware of this phobia and nervousness had you seen me on the periphery, orchestrating, arranging speakers, or in breaks, chatting and joking with the attendees.  I maintained a confident-seeming air one to one, or one to a handful, as well as in the potentially awkward face of my former colleagues.

Did I imagine slight embarrassed guilt behind their shiny smiley, unknowably plastic eyes?  Who can say?  But I like to think I carried off the whole performance a mite better than them as I flitted around during the breaks.  Shameless about my apparent uselessness to them.  Unbowed.  A delicately subtle waft of, And Fuck You Too.

Ah, no.  There's that bitter twat.  Still there then..