When I hung up my backboard eraser (yes we had real blackboards with chalk … none of this interactive white board technology to break down back then!) to move from a career as a primary teacher into PR, I thought there’d be at least a few glasses of champagne and cocktails to ease the transition. It’s got such a glamorous reputation.
Which is why I find myself asking where the perks are as I sit inelegantly on the gravel surface in the ruins of Melrose Abbey throwing a rugby ball into the air for the umpteenth time.
“You’re making it spin again” the photographer tells me as I, once again, fail to make the sponsor’s name face the camera as the ball is hurled up into the air as we try to catch the illusive perfect shot.
‘I need a rugby player.’ It’s not the first time I’ve had this thought to be honest – but this time I need one for professional reasons.
“I think that it’s meant to spin,” I venture to the photographer.
“Yes, but you need it not to spin. Or, to spin round enough to be showing the sponsor’s logo when I take the picture.”
I’m getting it now; I need to know enough about how to throw a rugby ball to make it do the exact opposite of what it’s meant to do. A bit like Les Dawson, when he used to play the piano so comically badly … and now I am showing my age.
It’s been a long day already and we’re reached the point where we’ve’ lost it’ and can’t stop giggling – which seems disrespectful to the history of the setting; being as we are, so close to the buried heart of Robert The Bruce.
You’d think by the law of averages that the rugby ball would spin in the right direction at the same time as the shutter moves at least once in our twenty thousand attempts to date. The gravel is beginning to hurt now and if I didn’t have cellulite before, my posterior will certainly be dimpled by now.
It brings to mind other glamorous days out for work. Like the day I spent waving a checked tea towel just out of shot when we were trying to shoot a giant truckle of cheese on the Cambus o May Bridge… Or feeding someone’s black Labrador a whole box of Bonios in front of a roaring log fire whilst trying to get it to hold the ribbon in its teeth to look as if it was wrapping a huge pile of Christmas presents – on the hottest day of the year in mid-July. Or perhaps, being handed a snake to hold while the model, who was eight foot up a ladder, applied further lip gloss. I didn’t have time to work out if I was scared of snakes or not. (Turns out I’m not!)
Does a picture truly paint a thousand words? And while my rear end is as numb as this – do I care any more!
As we call it a day, hoping that the recalcitrant rugby ball has performed at least once, it suddenly strikes me:
“I bet the visitor centre manager who let us in plays rugby.”
“We’re in the borders, every male plays rugby,” I am reminded by the photographer.
As we leave, giving thanks to the visitor centre manager, I can’t resist asking him.
“Of course,” he tells us proudly.
If it wasn’t such a long drive back to Aberdeen I’d buy myself that glass of champagne …

PR In Action

What is it with men and formal dress?

Even when they are briefed for months about black tie requirements, there’s always that heart stopping moment when they arrive at an event casually dressed – or at best in a work suit – with no evidence of a suit carrier in hand …

My first experience of that moment was several years ago at an awards ceremony. A senior Scottish politician was to be the key note speaker … and he was running rather late. The champagne reception for finalists was at serious risk of running dry when the VIP cavalcade drew up.
Continue reading »