What's in a name?

I’ve blogged before (The Stupid Advertisement Awards) about offensive advertising. News of a forthcoming talk by Trevor Beattie reminds me of a related issue: offensive branding.

Sometimes things change their names for reasons which are unclear. I could imagine a “Marathon” bar might give me the energy to run a marathon. “Snickers” (combining Sneakers and Knickers) merely evokes the sweat that the said activity will generate.

Sometimes the reason is clear enough. A new name is chosen in the hope of escaping the opprobrium attached to the old name. Sellafield and DR Congo spring to mind.

Again, the Royal Mail briefly tried out the name Consignia – an anagram of Gain Coins, highlighting that its priority was no longer to deliver mail but to make money. The Lib Dems have been though various anagrams of LSD. And Beattie, joining in the anagram game, re-branded French Connection as FCUK.

French Connection was (I imagine) named after the film. The worst one can say is that it’s a bit incongruous. (Although better than Scarecrow, if we’re naming clothing chains after Gene Hackman films.) But FCUK is no less incongruous, and a deal nastier.

Taking a rude word and reversing the middle letters isn’t clever or funny. Nor is it original. 1000 years ago, Canute purposely showed his fawning courtiers that he couldn’t control the sea: and they responded by re-branding him as Silly Cnut. (Apologies to the Private Eye cartoonist whose joke I seem to have pinched.)

Anagrams can be fun. Crossword setters have long rejoiced that “schoolmaster” can be found in “the classroom”: although it took the genius of Araucaria to point out that “Manchester City” is an anagram of “synthetic cream”. But pasting anagrams of rude words on the wall is just as puerile as shouting the words themselves.

Trevor Beattie, lest we forget, was the brain (or groin) behind the infamous “Hello Boys” advert. This was the one displaying Eva Herzigova’s cleavage, and inviting us to join Mr Beattie in his schoolboy sniggering. No surprise then that his name is an anagram of “Eva titter bore”.

FCUK? It's a load of carp.

Honey Monster

“Bin Laden has won,” says Richard Dawkins.

Strange headline! If (as Dawkins confidently assures us) God, heaven and hell do not exist - if this life is all there is - then Osama has broken even. On this point, Dawkins stands with Job and Mr Frisbee: “You come from nothing, you’re going back to nothing. What have you lost? Nothing!”

All right: maybe Dawkins means that by his death, Bin Laden has somehow gained kudos. In the same way, on hearing Captain Scott’s death, Amundsen said: “He’s beaten me.” It’s still not the kind of victory I can see Dawkins counting worthwhile.

Or maybe he won because he orchestrated the 9/11 murders, and because others have joined his murderous cause and are still active. That is the victory Osama himself might celebrate.

No: Dawkins has in mind a far more important and tangible victory. Forget the loved ones lost: Richard Dawkins is weeping for his honey. Airport security has responded to Bin Laden as Bin Laden intended: by confiscating infidels’ honey.

Some have found his reaction disproportionate. But I find it entirely consistent with his declared beliefs. Religion is said to have its eyes on jam tomorrow, although the Bible bangs on annoyingly about our neighbour's welfare: but Dawkins is concerned only with honey today.

What Sir Alex Ferguson can teach us about leadership

The above is the title of a link on today’s BBC news website.

Until Ferguson’s new book came out, we thought we knew about his approach to leadership. Indeed, the BBC story carries his definition of leadership (paraphrased by Nick Robinson): “Leadership ... is a quality which allows your personality to transfer to everyone.”

His disdain for officialdom, his readiness to bully and even use violence, are well-known. Day after day he slagged off referees: and to no-one’s surprise, his players followed suit. Most notoriously, during a match in January 2000, Roy Keane led a lynch-mob of five players who pursued ref Andy D’Urso, shouting in his face and threatening to push him over.

Again, in 2003 Sir Alex famously threw or kicked a football boot into David Beckham’s face. Knowing this, we were less surprised about Roy Keane’s revenge “tackle” a year or two earlier which effectively ended Alf-Inge Haaland’s career. Or Eric Cantona's kung fu assault on a fan in 1995. (Ooh! Aah! Cantonese.)

Ferguson’s personality was also transferred to the behaviour of his players when on international duty. Beckham and Rooney famously lashed out at opponents, perhaps imagining that referees would quail from action as they did in the Premiership. Cristiano Ronaldo limited himself to some judicious play-acting, with more wisdom but with equal dishonour. And who can forget Roy Keane’s vicious mutiny against Mick McCarthy during the 2002 World Cup?

But Ferguson’s new book shows another aspect of his leadership. Bored or dissatisfied with having a go at referees, he is slagging off those who most loyally served him: such as Roy Keane (whom I thoroughly dislike for his role in events described above, but who does not deserve this from Fergie of all people) and David Beckham.

I’m reminded of Ray Illingworth, English cricket’s chicken supremo, who, during the 1995-96 tour of South Africa, laid into bowler Devon Malcolm. He carefully did this from a distance: sat in his armchair at home, like a WWI general, while his troops slogged it in a distant trench. Likewise Ferguson did not make his comments while in post, but carefully waited till he was no longer required to meet players or press face-to-face.

To say such things at all shows indifference to morale at Manchester United. But maybe he is acting with purpose: for if the club quickly fails without him, he has all the more cemented his personal legacy.

In short, the things Sir Alex Ferguson can teach me about leadership, I do not wish to know.

Second Money

Today I read that the FBI has closed down a site called Silk Road, with possible impact on Bitcoins.

I hadn’t heard of a Bitcoin. Apparently it’s a “virtual currency”. You buy bitcoins with real money, and use them online to buy stuff. When I heard about this, I was puzzled. I’ve heard of Second Life – a very useful resource for people who don’t have a first life. This sounded like a Second Income – for people who don’t have real money.

It turns out to be more like a Second Expenditure. Bitcoins are actually quite expensive. And then their value jumps up and down, like a real currency, even without the Feds taking an interest.

Which still leaves two questions. (1) Who determines that they are worth anything at all? And (2) Why not buy (online or otherwise) with pounds or dollars?

On the first point, the BBC explains that bitcoins “have value because enough people believe they do and there is a finite number of them”. Like Premiership footballers, or Royal Mail shares, or houses, or hostages, or snooker results. Or real money, come to that. Terry Pratchett wrote of “the fairy dream that the gold is there, at the end of the rainbow, and will continue to be there forever – provided, naturally, that you don’t go and look.” (Does anything have intrinsic value? Another topic, another day.)

On the second point, an important point is that you can use bitcoins anonymously. It’s about privacy. Some people prefer to buy stuff without divulging their identity. That’s why I wear a balaclava when I go to Tesco. That’s also why money-launderers like bitcoins: and that’s why the FBI are interested in their use.

And if the bottom falls out of the Bitcoin? I guess the bad guys will just have to go back to trading in snooker results.

Let the right one in

Like a good Tory, Theresa May is very upset when people can’t find jobs, and would like to take any measure possible to help, as long as it doesn’t involve spending any money.

One problem, of course, is that people are coming from overseas and taking jobs as road-sweepers and dentists. (Of course, trouble-makers have suggested that such jobs are either beneath or beyond home-grown candidates.)

So Ms May is asking GPs to check up on people’s immigration status. Foreigners out – problem solved.

Trouble is, the GPs haven’t got time. Nor have the teachers, library staff, etc. who will doubtless be asked to join in.

So who can perform this splendid and worthwhile duty?

The unemployed, of course. The government already wants them to work for their dole. They won’t get the dignity of a proper contract or proper pay, of course. What they can be given – at a relatively small outlay – is a nice uniform and a big stick. Then send them out looking for foreigners.

Two birds, one stone. I wonder why it hasn’t been tried before?

The end of an earache

(Headline borrowed from The Guardian, November 1990)

When George Best died, former team-mates such as Denis Law wept openly. It was hardly a shock: Best had clearly been drinking himself to death for a long time. But I suspect his friends were also weeping for the career that was wasted thirty years earlier. And somehow they couldn’t weep before. Because when Best left Manchester United, there was still a chance he might find his way back: and as it became clear he wouldn’t, somehow the moment for weeping had passed.

In a similar way, perhaps, it was difficult to rejoice greatly when Thatcher resigned, because her party remained in power. (For over six years. And New Labour, despite its name, did nothing to change or refresh our travails.) So the moment for rejoicing passed. And now, in a mirror image of Law’s tears for Best, we are catching up on the partying we did not do 20 years ago.

Thatcher’s death is not in itself noteworthy or newsworthy. (I am sorry, did you think she was immortal?) She was 87. She retired long ago: any damage she did, she ceased to do in 1990. Some things she may have left beyond repair, like George Best’s liver: but many others we have destroyed without her help.

The important thing, having partied (or wept, if you prefer), is to put her behind us. The world has changed. Her policies are no longer relevant. Her insistence that Nelson Mandela is a terrorist is no longer helpful. Nor is her policy of closing down factories and communities, now that we hardly have any. The good news is, we don’t have to feel we are under her shadow any more. She’s gone. Let’s move on.

Funny peculiar

As a comedian, Stephen Fry knows that timing is everything.

All the more surprising, then, that in a recent edition of QI he told a rude limerick about a churchman and a choirboy. I don't know whether he was trying to score points for being Anti-Clerical, or for being Gay-And-Able-To-Laugh-About-It. But I would have thought "jokes" about child abuse were better left until the fuss about Jimmy Savile has died down a bit.