Special edition: How to appear suave* when meeting Jenson Button

This week’s episode leaves behind office politics, flooded basements and drinking from a Treasure Chest in Prince William’s favourite London haunt to focus on yesterday’s adventures in London’s West End (well, mostly in the dusty corridors and creepy festive animatronic filled spaces behind the scenes of Selfridges) which culminated in a seminal moment: having a book signed by Jenson Button.

Opportunity knocked due to some sporadic time wasting in the morning leading to the discovery that Britain’s newest world champion, and second most sports newsworthy man of the week (with due deference to Ireland’s favourite Thierry Henry) would be initialling copies of his new book in London at 6pm sharp. Surely I’d be able to use some industry connections to secure a one on one slot with Jenson? Well no as it turned out, so instead I found myself sadly in the kind of line generally reserved for theme parks and Michael Jackson’s memorial service.

Special mention here must go to my two queuing allies, Jess and Janet (admirable dedication to provide husbands with the perfect festive gift), who were a valuable ally to my sanity, and provided crucial life lessons on how to blag opportunities if you don’t have the right coloured wristband. Kudos also to the conversational intro of a mistaken (deliberate) prod of my backside.

So, after 2 hours, as we neared the man himself, shielded behind a wall of beefcakes to prevent anyone punching him in the chops (a la Leona) and sectioned off behind a velvet rope behind from which hundreds of people were doing nothing more than staring and updating their Facebook statuses (‘blah blah is looking at Jenson Button!’ ‘so and so likes this’), I lined up my priorities: killer question? Check. T-shirts to sign? Check. Business card poised? Check. Shameless colleague name dropping for preferential treatment planned? Check. Jess poised with camera to capture the moment for posterity? Check. Video camera in hand for absolute nerdish fanboy credit? Check. Composure? Crucially missing in action.

Here’s a transcript of the moment itself:

Jenson: Hi how are you?
Me: Hi yeah good thanks
Jenson: (flashes winning smile – the housewives favourite) Great. (notices me struggling to hold my jacket, bag, book, camera and extract T shirts to sign) Wow you’re trying to do a lot
Me: Yep. Lucky I’m so good at juggling.
Jenson: Erm, yeah.
Me: So I work for F1 Rocks, any chance you can sign some T-shirts for a competition?
Jenson: Oh cool yeah sure, leave them with-
Security: Ok sir move along now please

And then a meaty arm in the back led me away. Had I accomplished any of my aims without coming across as a stuttering moron? No. Had I taken the ‘me and my mate Jenson’ money shot picture which should have adorned this post and my bedroom wall? Likewise no. However, the day was saved by the interjection of Jenson’s (we’re on first name terms now for sure) PA Jules, who clearly took pity on me, and promised to have Jenson sign a couple of F1 Rocks shirts and get them sent to me. We even exchanged business cards in a definite high point of my corporate career. Boy the nemesis would have been proud. I might have to buy a rolodex soon to cope with the weight of the 4 cards I’ve collected on rare occasions of being allowed out of Hammersmith..

Anyway, no regrets. And we’re lining up an assault on Mark Webber for 2 weeks time. Can I overcome my crippling stuttering in the face of icons, or will another photo opportunity pass me by? Time will tell. And for all you housewives out there, here’s the one picture I took that came out..



*replace with ‘bumbling chump’ as required

New Adventures in Lunch

So this week’s adventures have taken me on voyages away from the safe haven of Hammersmith (and the odd state of amiable truce with the legal bods) to the busy and distressingly Christmas light filled world of Soho. I scheduled my first ever solo business meeting (which required a pretence of a sheen of professionalism for a whole three minutes), discussed rock, roll and 80s Grand Prix politics over a so-called rostrum shoot (making bits of newspaper spin theatrically a la 50s B movies) and came distressingly close to repeating my foible of a couple of months ago of breaking a string on a guitar I had no business playing.

However, the fineries of Soho extend far beyond fresh air and dodging animal rights activists with their steely glares and determination to speak to me no matter how loud my headphones, and mostly towards a glittering array of lunch options that take Hammersmith’s finest Pizza Hut all-you-can eat (and the 8 plate challenge) and wipe the floor with it. Il Burrito, I salute you. Also a tip of the hat to the subservient servants who blessed my afternoon helping cut a sales promo with limitless tea, chocolate and ice cold water. It seems the editing industry is no different to any other, in that the path to success is lined with a litany of teabags and unyielding politeness in the face of your bosses’ most pointless demands.

I did get to try my hand at an oft maligned art form though: the voiceover. My debut audition in the field was to try and blag a slot reciting a lengthy list of superlatives about F1 Rocks, but in the end my attempt at gravelly movie style (inspired by Sky Sports football trailers) was beaten into second place by Kate’s Saaaf London sales pitch. In a role in which I’d always felt my dulcet tones were created to make waves, test one was an inglorious fail.

Nemesis update: How can I be friends with anyone who doesn’t know ‘Danger High Voltage’ by Electric Six? Maybe we’re about to hit a politeness recession.. Watch this space.