I Can See For Miles (A Day At The Races)

The morning after the Transvision Vamp - a beautifully executed Dark Satanic Mills Ceremony of Mordor night before - has dawned slightly earlier than my weary (yet excited) mind (body) is ready for. The shrill of the ‘phone-alarm reveals its all of 5.45 am; drat. Yet there is a long-awaited appointment with the curb-side of a Surrey lane to be kept.

Tiggles B, having prepared wayside sustenance, pilots me to the train. She, at least, can grab another few hours under the duvet unless the Psycho-Killers’ bloodlust gains momentum. This has seen the body count of late include two medium-sized sparrows, a frog, a baby blackbird, mice various and a full-grown pigeon all deposited (and dealt with, cat-style) in various parts of Bearwood Hall.

How the hell they got a size 10 pigeon through two cat-flaps prior to slaughtering it is beyond me. Maybe one pushed and the other tugged? Sleepily, as we trundle toward the railhead, I wonder if they sell cat-scan-cameras anywhere local?

Incredibly, the 6.49 to the metrop is jam-packed and equal in the incredulous stakes is the inescapable fact the ‘phone-howlers are already out in force. Don’t these people sleep?

The one diagonally opposite takes out her Olympic Aquatic-centre tickets and starts photographing them. “I’ll just put these up on me FaceBook” she loudly and excitedly tells her heavily-tattooed girlfriend, sat next to me. The elderly gentleman across from me looks quizzical; I tend to think he has no Social Network presence. (Or knowledge thereof). And… is probably headed to the Dressage event.

“Hello Mum… Yeah… I’m on the train. What’s that you say, I can’t ‘ear ya… I’m on a train. Yeah… on a TRAIN innit. Ahhh shit, I ain’t got no signal”. I point to the sign on the window that illuminates the fact we’ve all chosen seats in the quiet carriage. “Yeah… so?” hisses the Lady of the Estuary. I just love going through tunnels. And… there are quite a few coming up. Plus, as a just-in-case, I’ve come equipped with industrial-strength noise-abatement headphones.

Overground, underground I Womble free into the bowels of Waterloo, by way of a much required goblet of caffeine, purchase of The Thunderer (The Times of London) and onto Platform One suitably refreshed and energised; destination Leatherhead.

On arrival, Leatherhead was, to all intents and purposes curled up under the blankets but about to get a rude awakening, as thousands upon thousands descended on what is otherwise fairly described as a sleepy market town.

Big screens are being set up, market-stalls are being readied; pubs are opening early and the roads barriered throughout make progress painfully slow along the pavements with room for one only in any direction. Pity the poor mother with a push-chair as whoever had laid out said barriers clearly hadn’t figured on either families attending or the sheer volume that were starting to arrive. The invalid on his mobility-scooter out to collect his Daily Telegraph got stuck; executing a three-point turn became an exercise in minimizing the twists on the handlebars to double-digits.

A gentle one-mile tramp to the south leads on to the main Box Hill circuit. Roadside space is already, even at this early hour, at a premium – the race itself is yet to even begin from The Mall. The scent of coffee from flasks hangs heavy in the air, one man barbecuing breakfast bacon on the verge has drawn a sizeable crowd.

There was a quote I’d found earlier in the week from one of the local councilors who’d queried the anticipated volume of people, wondering ‘What will we do with 250,000 people?’ Well… the answer was becoming obvious. No… this wasn’t a people-deluge aka Woodstock but, if this early-morning influx was replicated around the entire 15k circuit, by high noon the good people who run the Mole Valley District Council were going to have a good half-million on their doorsteps. At least.

Were they ready, ready with the laughing gas?

Turn the corner off the big road and up onto the Old London Road – my heavily Googled and long-planned ‘spot’ is a few hundred metres ahead. But, it seems that I’m not the only one who’s had this bright idea: also walking up the road is a sea of humankind… there are crowds gathering that one’d only otherwise see on Tour de France stages. And… this is Surrey. Home counties, leafy… suburban… Surrey.

The two policemen stationed just beyond this intersection are already and clearly in trouble. Both are on their respective radios urgently asking HQ what to do. Fairly obviously, they’ve not been briefed in how to deal with this volume of people. Plus, they’re trying to stop the hundreds of cyclists going any further; the thin blue line resembles Canute and tide. Ultimately, they see sense, step aside and the river of humanity flows steadily uphill.

Past the pub that’s going to have its busiest weekend since… goodness only knows when… and finally, just below the brow of the hill, on the edge of the dappled shade, underneath a high-brick wall behind which black sheep contentedly graze, the green backpack is heaved to the ground. X marks the spot.

Settle down to wait.

Check Twitter feeds to see where the race is and what’s going on. A break of twelve with some relatively heavy-hitters have scarpered up the road and established a 5 minute plus advantage, the bunch are riding tempo with Team Sky (whoops, GB) on the front and they’re about an hour away. Relay same to fellow spectators within earshot as everyone nearby is eager for news.

Munch sandwich and wait a bit more.

A few moments later, the first of the security posse amble by – two young women police constables. Both are wearing flak jackets… what are they expecting to be assaulted by? Cucumber sandwiches?

Because they’ve been told this is what they have to do (and probably because they have nothing better to do), they ask that we all stand on the pavement. As they move off the request is ignored.

With so many handcuffs and other jangly police-type paraphernalia attached to her belt, the slimmer of the two clanks her way downhill; the other is more amply proportioned, with a posterior encased in black serge that is roughly the diameter of Guatemala. As the disappear from view, sundry Germans, English, Irish, Dutch and a smattering of Italians as well as self meander back into the road. And wait… some more.

Five minutes later, hi-visibility orange-vested security people hove into view. They, too, request everyone to stand on the pavement that, by now, is bulging with people, pushchairs, backpacks and bikes. “Hey, friend... the race is an hour away” says the Dutchman next to me. “Don’t matter, mate. Stand there... on the pavement”, instructs one of the shaven-headed security man. “You’re causing a hazard”.

He moves off, we move out onto the road. Again. And wait. This is just like a Tour stage; camaraderie – no matter nation or creed – all around abounds.

At more or less the appointed hour, the first police 'command vehicle' flashes past, driven by a uniformed officer, his face masked by impenetrable dark glasses quickly followed by another security 4x4 with four occupants… again sporting the obligatory dark glasses. Isn’t this just a tad over-zealous?

(This actually happens on each lap; they’re too obviously serving absolutely no purpose and one can’t help but wonder exactly what the hired thugs are doing in their 4x4 – for example, do they charge by the hour or by the mile? It doesn’t take the brain of Einstein to work out that they are on an serious earner for doing… nothing). The helicopter is chattering overhead; the race is getting closer. Excitement builds all along our stretch of pavement.

The first of the police motorbike outriders is heard below us on the hill; the on-off squawk of their sirens pierces the early lunchtime quiet. They flash by quickly followed by another two and then another pair… Moments later the workman-like leading group ride tempo up the hill. A flash of heavily tanned thighs, a whir of carbon-fibre and they’re over the brow and heading toward the roped-off sections of Box Hill itself.

Ecologically minded as I am, I’m all for saving the rare daffodil, exceptional species of orchid and certain genus of butterfly but why the race has been routed in such a manner whereby sections of the route will be designated as no-go areas for spectators is beyond me.

The assembled throng holds its collective breath for five more minutes and then the main bunch come through, most of the (expected) main protagonists easily recognisable even despite the fact their race colours are unfamiliar (national jerseys and not the more usual trade-team ones). Even so, it’s a little bizarre seeing the Italians more marble-white than Azzura-blue and the Australians in canary-yellow while close up, Team Sky (GB’s) grey-blue outfit is downright horrid.

The hi-visibility orange-vested security people amble back uttering the same, tedious demands. By now, they also look bored; they have little or nothing to do because its quite evident that the crowd do, actually, know what to do when the race comes through. Even those who – probably because they saw it on one of the high-mountain stages – decide to briefly run alongside the riders are hauled off by other spectators. This is a crowd self-policing itself.

The lady PCs amble back and forth and chatter to the crowd, they have no job to do either other than enjoy their day out. The Police outriders who come through give high-speed high-fives to those who choose to extend their hands; other than the orange-vested Orangutang-bullies it’s as good natured as it gets, a real festival on the roadsides of Britain.

Some of us in our little sub-section of the route are timing the gap between break and main group. There are virtually no updates coming from the race itself (generally, there would be an announcers’ car either just ahead of the race itself or in-between break and bunch) but, inexplicably, this is either a detail overlooked or, maybe, just thought unnecessary. Whichever it is, its becoming clearer still that none of the relevant authorities had imagined the size of the crowds assembled.

As the race unfolds, the gap between break and main bunch slowly comes down. And then, the inexplicable happens. The next time up our climb, a second group on the road has formed and they’re rapidly closing in on the break: and, it contains a welter of big names; Gilbert, Sanchez, Cancellara, Phinney, Nibali… big-hitters every one and yet… no British jersey is to be seen.

They roll through on the front of the main group some 70 seconds later… interestingly, Eissel (Cav’s Sky loyal team-mate but, obviously, today in Austrian colours) is sitting second wheel. Even so, the tempo they’re riding is not (perhaps) as hard as it could… or should… be.

Either there is supreme confidence that they’ll bring it all back together or… they’ve felt no need to at least police that second group by placing one of their guys in it (thus forcing other teams to chase) or… they’re stuffed… or they’re riding at a pace that suits Cav and daren’t up it just in case he can’t hang on.

What is clear is that the Plan A – Z (to bring Cav to the line and position him to achieve Britain’s first Gold Medal) as publicly outlined by the boss of Team GB isn’t going to waver come hell or high water; no matter what, there is to be no deviation.

Its only as the race unfolds that the viewers will be able to herald this as being either a tactical master-stroke or… strategic ineptitude akin to the Charge Of The Light Brigade. We’ll see… battle has, by now, been properly joined.

As they all roll on toward another skirmish on Box Hill, its my time to head back down this hill and retrace steps back to Leatherhead. I’ve figured out that, so long as I time it right, I’ll get to see the race once more along the circuit, then catch it at the roundabout on the southern edge of Leatherhead as it heads back into London and still be in plenty of time to make it to the big screen to see the closing stages.

Parts one and two went swimmingly; the crowds had grown to colossal proportions at the entrance to the Old London Road – there, the Cancellara fan-club had staked its place right along the verge, they’d set up a tv screen around which were gathered as many as could see. The Norwegians were next door, the good people of Surrey and every other part of Britain crammed into every other available space.

The helicopter’s over head and Gilbert streaks through, spring-loaded and whippet-like. The break behind has swelled – so obviously the junction was made somewhere out there and Millar leads the chasing bunch through… the gap between front and back of the race is maybe no more than two minutes. Game on. Best foot forward and stride-out to the roundabout.

It’s jammed. Even so, a little hustle and bustle and you can feel the swish of air as the riders hurtle past. The leading group, which feels like it’s about 30 strong now, is bearing down on Gilbert and a minute or so ahead of the main peleton. The race is fast heading for denouement and its my time to make equally rapid foot-fall toward the big screen a mile hence.

There is a path that runs behind a hedge parallel to the main road up which the race and attendant convoy of vehicles has just made its way. Along with many others, I make for it.

Not so fast.

Three security people bar not just my but everyone’s way. “You can’t come through here yet... mate”. Pretty obviously, I'm not his mate but we'll let that go for the moment.
“C'mon... don’t be silly… the race has gone through… we’re all trying to get to the screen in Leatherhead”.
“Sorry… mate... you can’t come past until I say so”.
The security guard inflates his beer-belly and stands there implacable behind his dark-glasses. Its becoming less and less likely that we'll be buying one another a pint at days end.
“Hey chum..." I'm trying my very best to be... chummy. "The race has gone by… why are you holding us all up?”
Clearly, enforced chumminess isn't going to operate any form of thawing mechanism. He and his cohorts stand there, saying nothing, hiding behind their man-sized shades. The minutes tick by as crowd-anger increases.
“Can you let us past please… now! We're going to miss the finish. Please!”
He starts fiddling with his ear-piece. One of his colleagues starts talking animatedly into a cell-‘phone. Still nothing happens. The minutes continue to trickle by. There is visible irritation coming from everywhere. The security guys are pissing everyone off; the roads are silent with all race traffic long since gone that-a-way and, sooner or later, someone is going to march forward and deliver a healthy blow to this bloke’s solar-plexus. We wait for another five minutes.
“What the fuck is the problem?” yells someone in the deep background from amongst the grumbling throng of adults and crying children.
“I’m not allowed to let you through yet. It’s a health and safety issue”.

Five minutes (which feel like fifteen) later, word comes through that we’re no longer a danger to anyone’s health or safety and the over-sized, over-zealous security man steps aside. There is a congenial rush toward Leatherhead central.

Breathless, a whole group of us make it into the main market area of Leatherhead, there’s the big screen and images are coming through but they’re horribly pixilated and Chris Boadman’s co-commentary and race analysis is being transmitted as if by way of a vocoder from outer space operated by an alien. Moments later the screen goes blank.

A howl erupts from the throng all across the pavement; it was a collective moan the like of which I’ve heard just the once before when, watching the screens in Times Square at just the moment Obama walked out to accept his nomination in Chicago for the US Presidential elections… they, too, went dark. A moment of history about to be missed.

Thankfully, there is an Irish couple stood next to me; he has somehow managed to get a radio-feed on his cell ‘phone, my own is dying a slow death by battery-run down. The commentary is intermittent but at least a little information is coming through; the big-screen technicians are struggling with both the equipment and a visibly (and understandably) hostile crowd.

This is not just a race against time but a malfunction which is, in anyone’s book, unacceptable. This is Britain, it’s the technological age and we’re hosting the Olympics. For pity’s sake, don’t fuck up and look like you don’t care or, worse, that you don’t know how to fix it.

Moments later, the screen pixilates back into life; the audio feeds-back but settles whereby Boardman now sounds like he’s being strangled. The sound is so awful that it is impossible to make out what co-commentator Hugh Porter is actually saying. If anything.

The images on the screen swirl to the extent that only someone who’d taken a mouthful of Dr T Leary's most famous substances would have been able to make head or tail of what they were seeing. They could have reached Knightsbridge... equally, they may still be in Richmond Park... that might have been a shot of a deer. Either which way, it was impossible to tell. Twenty seconds later, the screen goes black and the commentary fades away and eventually fizzles out like a slowly released fart.

This is utter bollox. A shambles.

There… look… a pub with a mass of people straining to see something through the window. God-willing, the pub will have their TV hooked up to the transmission.

It does… and yes, they were traversing Knightsbridge. Phew, just in time then.

Those of us piling up against the window get to see someone in a pale blue jersey beat someone wearing predominantly white in a two-up sprint. The word goes quickly around that Vinokourov has out-smarted the Colombian Uran in the final metres along the Mall.

A hectic sprint for third place follows and then another big bunch comes in. It’s just possible to make out Cav being bested for the line and looking decidedly down-faced as he rolls to an ignominious halt; his race run.

Time for the train home.

And the moral of this tale is?

This was (is) The Olympics. This was Britain’s first chance of a Gold Medal – fielding the outright favourite.

And what is abundantly obvious is that the authorities (local, national and international) underestimated this entire event from the get-go.

Why, for example, were there no large-screens at all the obvious places where the crowds would gather?

Why was there no system put in place for the crowds on the roadside to be kept informed of the race’s progress?

Who decided to employ security staff who’d absolutely no idea of the event they were ‘securing’? (And how much public money was flushed down the lavatory in so-doing?)

And… then… when finally being able to watch a re-run of the television coverage, the entire debacle became clearer still.

Consigning TV footage to only two motorbike cameras – when you have a minimum of three in every classics, semi-classic and all Grand Tours – was unpardonable in that immediately all live footage which could be edited for the broadcaster to pass on to the consumer was a third less than for any other major race.

The on-screen information / timing-splits issues that the broadcasters suffered from has been well documented in the mainstream media. But… no one seemed able (or capable) of thinking on the hoof.

For example, how hard was it to establish who was in the first (or second) break by way of collecting the race numbers off the tv footage, correlate that to the start sheet and get those up on screen? The first leaders’ caption came up (unless I’m much mistaken) one hour and forty-seven minutes into the broadcast. That’s not just inexcusable but smacks of a ‘couldn’t care less’ level of incompetence / nah, that’s someone else’s job.

And now we have this party blaming that party who, in turn are blaming someone else who, in their turn are blaming people using Twitter and Facebook, texting their pals back at home and so forth – all in all, saying the mobile networks couldn’t cope.

This is so much bollox as to be beyond incredible – firstly, the telemetry should have been carried on the same protected networks as the video, rather than using a domestic mobile 'phone network and secondly (and perhaps more importantly) this should have been figured out before the fact = long before race day.

LOOSECOG (or whoever really was responsible for the broadcasting) got this unutterably WRONG way, way before the event. And, most probably from when the 'test-tube-event' was run last Summer. After which they (undoubtedly) said... yeah that all ran fairly smoothly... that'll do.

And is anyone going to admit it? Damn right your sweet ass, they won’t.

Because and unhappily its symptomatic of the total denial, the absolute non-acceptance of accountability culture we all inhabit nowadays.

A culture epitomised by the total inability of person X / organization Y to put their hand in the air and say (humbly)… ‘you know what… that was my / our fault… I / we cocked it up’.

But no… So much (so far) with this Olympics – be it the empty seats debacle, the insipid commentary across many events (try the beach volleyball for size) or the televised coverage of the Mens’ Road Race smacks of: Not me guv, it was his fault… no it wasn’t, it was theirs. No, that’s not possible it was them all along.

And so the blame games rumble on.

And will do until someone, some organisation takes it on the chin and says… we fucked up.

Pity the athletes and pity the public who couldn’t get in to see / understand what they wanted to watch.

The Sound Of The Suburbs

The other night, while watching a favourite TV programme, a new (well, to my eyes anyway) level of advertiser’s intrusiveness was laid in front of us; the consumers curled up on the comfy sofa.

The commercial break was, as usual, annoying enough since it – again, as usual – interrupted the programme’s flow. But, it was what followed said commercial break that proved so aggravating because it appears that advertisers now feel we – the viewers / the consumers – can be devalued by a new treat from their bag of tricks.

And this new indulgence of theirs is..?

Well, the programme in question kicked off again… but… placed at the bottom left of the screen occupying (at a rough guess) approximately ten percent of the physical screen-space… was a run-on of one of the previous advertisements.

And, this animated mini-ad remained in situ for the entire duration of that segment of the programme.

With its’ positioning, one’s eye cannot help but be drawn to what is going on at the bottom left-hand-corner of the screen. Clever in one respect but exasperating and deeply annoying in another since this particular ad takes up just enough screen-room to intrude into what is actually going on in the programme one has tuned in to view.

Did it work, did this advert communicate its message? Did it bollox.

Lets take another quick example – which, according to Steve Purdham (CEO of an internet music streaming service in the UK called We7) is tied up in something he likes to call ‘dwell-time’. This (apparently – yeah, I know, it’s a laughable phrase, isn’t it) is the time one spends on site X or Y ‘engaging’ or ‘interacting’ with what they – the provider – have to offer.

Bypassing the corporate bullshit speak, it links into how they – the advertisers – can specifically target their audience. This is done via all the ‘bots’ out there that track one’s movements on the web (and there are more than anyone even imagines – hence new legislation in progress to combat big brother’s snooping tactics).

Clever… for sure it is. But… what actually happens is that one is continually being bombarded with advertisements that, because of their intrusive nature, are now having very little effect.

The other day, I was prowling about on the wibbly-wobbly after information and eventually linked in to an instructional video for a particular PhotoShop CS5 element I was having trouble grasping. But, before my cyber-teacher and I could ‘engage’, I was subjected to a thirty second advert.

The same goes for (herewith just another random example) tuning in to view a BBC video news feed off their site. Sorry chaps… I do NOT want to watch thirty or even fifteen seconds of advertising before I get to the news item in question.

So, all you advertising wallahs out there… know what happens…? I’ll go and stick the kettle on while your beastly advert plays out. And, quite honestly, I don’t think I’m alone in this.

Y’see, this little Voltaire out there on its grassy knoll in the windswept prairie reckons this (new) level of intrusive advertising is completely counter-productive. And, it ain’t the way forward for this medium.

Advertising is and has – for as long as anyone who reads this can remember – been part of the daily function of our lives. No big deal… it’s just a part of modern life.

However… with the economic world still grappling with being part of the new Millennium, the advertising agencies are trawling the depths of the barrel marked ‘new ideas’ as to how to get their messages across.

Some – indubitably – work brilliantly; lets take the Nike ‘swoosh’ logo as one example… its just an image, a graphic, an emblem and yet… gradually its seeped into the public consciousness and its now known the world over for what it is. No need for ramming the word Nike down anyone’s throat; no need for copyrighters’ silly tag-lines… just the graphic unobtrusively positioned. Very clever

Rapha (purveyors of top-of-the-line cycling clothing) are another such. It’s a brand created by Simon Mottram and he’s very cleverly positioned his company as much by subliminal advertising as by generating high-quality apparel that is and yet doesn’t appear to be branded (much like Nike).

One’d have thought that the market for cycling and accessories (clothing being a key component) would be limited. Not so. Mintel (as quoted in The Independent on November 4th) have stated it is worth 700 million (yes… million) squiddlys in the UK alone. And, in 2011 it’ll be even higher.

Among the (many) component factors that have clearly helped are the Manx Missile’s exploits in the Tour making front page news to the Boris-bikes initiative; from Briton’s winning a sack-full of medals at the last Olympics to people in general getting the message that getting out and about on your bike is a good step forward to being healthy.

And Mottram and his Rapha brand are not just riding the crest of that wave but expanding step by step internationally. And doing so exceedingly cleverly; while the US is now their biggest market he’s recently brought in a chap previously at Adidas to spearhead their forays into Europe.

The other day, I was out and about in a bit of a shopping frame of mind – perusing the wares on offer in a sports emporium; a shop that offered (across its four floors) everything one’d require if one was a real back-packer to gadgets designed to get the very best out of a snorkeling experience; from football strips in one’s favourite team colours to hiking boots and biking gear; from tennis racquets to rugby balls.

And… ploughing along the rails of replica cycling team-jerseys one stood out from the rest. It was off-white with the maker’s (team) logo discreetly positioned over the left breast in a silvery-white. From a distance, it looked like a simple off-white cycling jersey. Close up, the cleverness of the design became apparent.

How can white on white work..? Well… let me assure you, this did… it was exceedingly cool… and, not to put too fine a point on it, this Rapha jersey was the absolute puppy’s privates. Had I the spare wherewithal, I’d have had the plastic swiped and the item in a carrier bag with no hesitation.

In design terms, retro-chic is, I believe, the adjectival expression.

And, retro-chic that’s classy as opposed to the shoddy stab at the same genre by the designers of Team Sky’s dreadful 2010 outfit which, incidentally, hung alongside the Rapha jersey on the same clothing rail.

In 1930, Jose Ortega was quoted saying, "We live at a time when man believes himself fabulously capable of creation but he does not know what to create."

The same rings true today. We’re in the middle of a(nother) industrial revolution… and, just because there are different variants on advertising delivery / brand-awareness now available, it doesn’t follow that the model of twenty or thirty years ago will work.

While those that do embrace it will succeed, equally, its time that advertisers (in general) woke up and got smart to the fact that they’re simply pissing off potential customers – otherwise and before too long, someone smart will set up a pay-wall behind which people who don’t want to be intruded upon can retreat and not be subjected to what is, nowadays, advertising harassment.

Shout To The Top

The room is stark… not Phillipe Starck but just downright plain; unadorned ordinary with cold (not chilled) white-washed walls unencumbered by pictures or, indeed, imagery of any kind.

There are two windows but only one will open to little more than a crack; the air inside smells suspiciously of cleaning fluids.

There are two beds, neither double nor single but somewhere in-between; both are topped by sterile –probably disinfected – lightweight duvets, encouragingly turned back. No chocolate on the pillow though – this is low grade but high rent.

The television – seriously hi-definition and gadget friendly – is positioned high on the wall facing the beds – presumably such that one can lay back and enjoy all on offer.

The remote control is, helpfully, hidden in a jar on a tray next to the orange-brown coffee cups and miniscule plastic milk containers. Hunting high and low, it takes me fifteen minutes before I’m able to locate said gadget. Attempting to operate it, I wish that I’d listened more carefully instead of dreaming about bike races and music while studying O-level physics at school.

Access to all of the premium channels (with premium meaning low-grade pornography) is set at a premium price – I know this because, flicking through the channels with only the remote to guide me, I click on a button I don’t mean to and am but a hair’s breadth from adding a premium charge to a room already costed-out at pure rip-off. Only nimble dexterity of thumb and forefinger leads me back to the remake of a remake of a film I saw when I last wore short trousers.

The bathroom is next door and looks (and feels) like its been used by a generation of corpulent business men who, presumably, have lain back on one of the two medium sized beds having chalked up a further premium charge to their expense accounts that, ultimately, will be filed by Miss Jones at the outer limits of her desk under… miscellaneous. Oh, how they must miss their wives and loved ones.

This noble emporium has, however, announced itself as being wi-fi friendly; ahhh… splendid – that means I can connect to the world wide west and, at the very least, keep in touch with loved ones as well as stay on top of inbound work-related ‘stuff’.

Well travelled machine is plugged in; it sparks into life in an entirely satisfying manner yet… falls at the first hurdle.

Oh yes, it can see the connection but until I enter a password it’ll accept, I won’t be able to travel behind this particular iron curtain.

Fabulous, its late night, my stomach is reacting volubly and not particularly noiselessly from a rather splendid meal from the Indian sub-continent partaken with my lawyer and all I really want to do is log on, collect, respond and log-out.

But in order to do that, I’ve got to jump this unforeseen, technical, Beechers Brook.

Trudge downstairs and request the access key from the disinterested bloke behind the desk.

You want how much… for how long…?

An old fashioned audible gasp escapes while displaying my best quizzical expression – which, in turn, renders both eyebrows shooting north beyond the hairline.

This ‘charge’ of theirs is about as absurd as those rumoured to be put into place by Ryan Air who, pundits claim, will shortly (if they’re not already) be requesting their customers to pay to use a lavatory whilst mid-air. Heaven help any passenger who is low on change after eating a dodgy prawn sandwich.

Disinterested bloke displays no customer-care attributes whatsoever as – reluctantly – a note is fluttered across the desk toward him. Very little coinage comes back by way of change.

A middle-aged, slightly paunchy, German is standing beside me; he too requires www access… not only is he deeply shocked at the price quoted but actually kicks the counter in frustration whilst loudly airing his Teutonic views at the hotel’s swindling attitude – clearly this doesn’t happen in Hamburg… or Bonn… or even Munchengladbach – curiously enough twinned with the Franco / Belgian city of Roubaix; whose own stadium is home, of course, to the final pedal-strokes of the Queen of Single Day Classic cycle races.

So here’s the thing…

This place I’m staying in is a known brand the world over; their logo instantly recognised by millions. I’d not intended Room 203 as an overnight stop – indeed, I’m only here ‘cos the lady of the house in which I was to stay has unexpectedly succumbed to a bizarre form of skin-eating disease…

Be that as it may, I’m in a needs-must situation but, even so… is it really necessary for corporate brand X to dupe its customers?

It’s a brand that, at one time, was synonymous with a certain level of quality; now it (to this Volatire’s thinking) just equates to… how much can we milk our customers for.

See… I would argue that a brand has a certain responsibility and, when brand X or Y gets complacent then their brand-loyal customers don’t just get lost and confused… they ultimately move on… to a brand that, essentially, does what it says on the tin.

The old adage rings true: it takes a long old time to cement a reputation and, it takes but moments to smash it to smithereens.

Alison Bain, (one of) if not the head honcho of American Express puts it like this: "Providing superior customer service that goes above and beyond the norm is something we place considerable emphasis on within our organization."

And… given how fickle customers are nowadays allied o how fed up most of the world’s populace have become with traditional forms of advertsing, this seeking out of new ways to acquire ‘brand awareness’ is central to most companies thinking nowadays; not just the cementing of brand X but taking it to new levels – as emphasised by BP’s top-chap, David Bickerton who states, “The importance of brand coherence across geographic boundaries and across internal and external audiences contributes to building a successful brand."

Using a different form of corporate gobbledygook-speak, Erich Stamminger, top terrier within the Adidas Group says: "We have a clearly defined brand mission, vision, and values. Authenticity plays a vital role here... It builds trust and credibility with the consumer and provides the basis for identification with your brand, and it must never be jeopardized."

Which, in a slightly circuitous manner, brings us to sport on two wheels, peopled by blokes with heavily muscled, shaven legs who whizz up hill and down dale and over unforgiving terrain at impossible speeds while, at the same time, being emblazoned by tight-fitting outfits proclaiming the names of sponsoring companies. Yep… cycle-sport is one of those rarities within sports sponsorships whereby the team is known by the name of the sponsoring company.

Now, just have a wee think here… that doesn’t occur in Soccer… nor in Baseball… not in Hockey (ice or otherwise)… neither does it in Show-Jumping, Athletics, Rugby, Fencing, Volleyball, Squash, Badminton, Curling, Ten-Pin Bowling, Tennis (table or lawn), Synchronised Swimming or even Welly-Throwing… does it?

Nope… Formula One is… to a degree… the only exception…

Which, essentially means cycle-team-sponsorship is a pretty beezer form of marketing device. Added to which, its been well proven over the years that a company which puts in amount Z more often than not, sees return Z+++ multiplied as a return on their investment.

Equals… come 2010, two of the latest companies to throw their sponsoring hats into the collecting ring are… RadioShack and… Sky.

Now, lately, all of the debate – most especially with the formation of the latter team – has centered around the inclusion or otherwise of Britain's cycling’s mod-meister, Bradley Wiggins.

So… while having a bit of a squint at this… lets also consider that within the context of the whole.

Wiggins is currently under contract to the US based squad, sponsored by the multi-media Sat-Nav developer, Garmin. He, through barely-veiled comments, has made it plain - using Soccer parlance - that to achieve his aspirations (bettering his 2009 4th place finish in the Tour de France) means he’d need to move to what he’s termed the Manchester United of cycling, stating he’s currently riding for the equivalent of Wigan Athletic.

To a UK registered team, Wiggins has clear value – via his multiple Olympic Gold Medal’s and, now, with his just-off-the-podium Tour finish, he’s one of only three (British) household names associated with cycling.

Cycling aficionados would argue strenuously that other names are well-known but, pose the question to the man or woman in the high-street and the facts emerge: the only recognisable names would be the lad Cavendish, the recently knighted (Sir) Chris Hoy and… Wiggo.

Cav-lar is (for a wide variety of reasons) unattainable for Sky until at least 2011; Hoy only competes on the track and is, already, a de-facto team-member since British track-cycling is sponsored by Sky-HD… which leaves the team in an almost must-have position in their quest for Wiggo.

Garmin (headed by the savvy Jonathan Vaughters) obviously knows all of this – equals, the lawyers on both sides are now involved and sums approaching the million pound mark as a contractual buy-out are being freely bandied about via Twitter and any other rumour-mill one feels like consulting.

But… what is the true significance and why, for a start, are Sky involved in the first place?,

The real benefit of a Wiggo buy-out to Sky is (to this Voltaire on its grassy-knoll) obvious but… its not the equally obvious comments that have, thus far, been proffered.

The value is the increased media exposure in Sky’s key markets (the UK being just one) and taking their five-year plan forward… It is, put simply, all about global brand awareness.

Because, lest we forget, modern-day cycle-sort is all about the furthering of that.

The Murdochs (via News Limited in Australia which owns over 170 Newspapers alone ‘down under’ / News Corp globally as well as Fox TV etc) aren't in this for self-agrandisement; they've recognised that cycling (and branding thereof) is a key, cost-effective, manner in which to promote their 'products'. Its also hits the ecological / green sweet-spot that translates into a corporate feel-good factor; plus, they’re targeting the youth-market and so, in a sense, Sky’s sponsorship of cycling is sound business strategy, psychology and brand awareness all rolled into one.

Therefore, while sporting considerations are, obviously, of paramount importance in (the make-up) of the fledgling Sky team, it is (has to be) also about their own markets and penetration thereof. Further to which, while Sky may purport to be a ‘British’ team, the reality is entirely different… it is (and has to be) international - witness the inclusion of Australians, Norwegians and Germans among others into the line-up for 2010.

Italy – as just one example, is a key Murdoch-territory… not so long ago, Italian premiere Berlusconi and Murdoch were buddying up (cf a fairly recent Time Magazine cover story)… of late, matters have soured – and the Italian stallion has decreed a twenty percent tax on Sky-Italia tv subscriptions since he’s woken up to the fact that Rai tv are swiftly becoming eclipsed. And, given that we’re in the realms of billions of Euros here, the sums aren’t insignificant.

Thus, is the most recent team news much of a surprise for the (perceived) British squad in that its has just been revealed that Sky have signed two mid-field Italians (fuelled initially by the signature chasing rumours valued at over a million for TdeF top ten finisher, Nibali). Why..? Its again obvious, they’ll be the spearhead for further incursions into that territory. Further to which, the Murdochs have recognised the Italians as sportive-passionata… and they recognise, perhaps more than many, the power of the people’s vote. Consider… the combination of The Sun newspaper and Thatcher and the war (for want of a better term) with Argentina… Oh, and who owns The Sun...?

As such, and given that both India and China are more on the Murdoch radar than is perhaps suspected… should we be surprised – in time – by..? This Voltaire wouldn't be in the least surprised...

Further to which… consider Garmin principal Jonathan Vaughter’s own comments made in the last couple of days concerning the recent date change for America’s (now) primary cycling event… "In my opinion I see the Tour of California as a Grand Tour. It’s the eighth largest economy, directly behind France. The race will be televised in over 100 countries and it has a broad following in Europe already. The concentration of these fantastic races in a 90 day period is pretty fantastic for the sport. You’re going to see the world’s eyes on cycling."

The world’s eyes… televised in 100 countries… Ahh yes, absolutely… The mondialisation… globalisation as another word to describe the same.

To quote Paul McGuinness, U2’s manager – ‘be the best band on your street, the best in your town, then be the best in your country… only after that, can you become the best on the world stage.’

And therefore Wiggo… and, in time, Cavendish… as sensational athletes that they undoubtedly are, still simply multi-million dollar / euro / pound early-move pedalling-pawns in the global game of brand-awareness chess.

Night Boat To Cairo

The transfer season is now wide open (no, not as part of the unfolding soccer season…). This is to do with my other love in life – bikes; the kind ridden by fellas with shaven legs because, upon us has come the season of the witch.

Plus, the start of September is also a time to consider what the ‘record label’s’ have decided we should be spending our hard-earned upon come the following autumnal months. And so, given that I’ve always held the view that bike-racing is rock ‘n roll on wheels – so much is the same, its just the stage that moves… lets have a quick peruse of what’s what.

OK, so… am I more excited about the makeup of the about-to-be-launched British mega-team sponsored by Rupert Murdoch’s SKY… or the imminent release of Mariah Carey’s Memoirs Of An Imperfect Angel?

Am I spending more time wondering about what the new Lil’ Wayne album will sound like or what SKY’s jersey will look like? Have I chuckled at the title of someone called 50 Cent’s new release (Before I Self Destruct) while wishing his music would or have I self-debated what bikes will be used in 2010 by Scott Sunderland’s (the senior director sportif) team?

Questions for sure… the answers are blindingly obvious.

And, with regard to Tommy Mottola’s ex, proof positive, if any were needed, that over 60 million in the US alone (and another 140 mill around the globe) can be wrong… very wrong indeed.

But, seeing the SKY boys astride - like so many lycra-clad Italian stallions - the beautiful lines of a Colnago (or even a Bianchi) would be just about as yummy a collaboration as it gets but… somehow, I can’t see that occurring… but hey, one never knows. And... just to clarify one little bit here... I don't... errr... how do I put this... bat for the other side... just to make that clear, you understand.

Anyway... September 1st was the due date for the unveiling of the riders that SKY’d hired – any formal announcement made earlier and the team would have been fined zillions of euros for breaching one of the many UCI codes of practice.

Talking of which (codes of practice) and as an aside, it does strike me as a bit peculiar that, in trying to eradicate the internal war of doping within cycle-sport that the UCI haven’t – for once in their existence – decided to be tough… by that I mean, properly tough. For sure, the dopers (for that read cheats) are being slowly weeded out but… is the received punishment adequate?

This Voltaire (on its grassy knoll) says its not.

You’ve been proved beyond a shadow of doubt that you have doped (cheated) equals… you get life – that’s it, you’re out of the sport for good. Make the deterrent tough enough and only the truly stupid will attempt to buck the system. And, for what its worth, I’d also advocate that across all sports. Period.

Because, only then will players play on a level playing field.

And, one good thing coming out of Team SKY hq over the past months has been this total zero-tolerance level as regards anyone in the entire team’s make-up who carries even a whiff of (cheating) suspicion with them.

Anyhow… currently… no announcement has been made.

In many respects no big deal as what (who) will be, will be… and, doubtless all will be unveiled in due course.

However… it does strike me that the grand-fromages at Team SKY are not that conversant with the way the media is working as we reach the final quarter of 2009 and are, for reasons best known to themselves, stuck back in the dark-ages of working the media.

For example – while they may well be biding their time to ensure (in their own minds) that their announcement is seen as really major news… the rumour mills are running ragged. And, with every passing day, rumour and conjecture will lead to a lessening of impact.

Other established squads (notably Garmin, BMC, Katusha, Saxo Bank as well as Lance Armstrong’s new formation, RadioShack) are cleverly drip-feeding the information of newly acquired riders and co-sponsors etc; thereby generating ongoing interest but, what SKY appear to be doing is withholding absolutely everything and waiting (for their own agenda) to unfurl when they believe it suits them best.

In times past, this might have worked to their advantage but, my suspicions are that – with companies seeing bigger and better news dissemination & comment-led articles led via the likes of Twitter and on-line as a general rule – the head-honchos at Team Sky aren’t playing this terribly cleverly.

For a start, the rumour-mill has – over the past month or so – produced a number of names that have been ‘leaked’ as probables.

Lots of will they / won’t they / perhaps they should etc etc…

The most obvious conjecture and (inevitable) ongoing media-debate has been over the Manx-missile, the lad Cavendish but – unless someone, somewhere has pulled off an almighty financial and sporting coup, it would seem more than logical that he’ll sprint out his current Columbia / HTC contract; after all his job is to win and he has an established team that delivers him specifically for that purpose.

SKY – at present – is untested and (in my view) he’d be barmy to make the move for 2010. The next again year, well, that’s a different tale indeed and will be as much down to his undoubtedly huge asking-price as anything since the publicity value that he’d return any potential team sponsor would be colossal.

The other major contending Briton is the fourth-placed-finisher from this year’s TdeF – the Weller look-a-like, Brad Wiggins – but, he too, is contracted (to Garmin) for 2010 and… as things stand, it looks improbable that he, too, would jump ship to SKY; not least as that transfer would (inevitably) mean a sizeable buy-out of his (currently final year) with Garmin who – logically – aren’t going to kiss goodbye to one of their prized assets without putting up a serious financial fight.

As to former TdeF yellow-jersey wearer David Millar – well, he’s a share-holder / part-owner in Garmin (again, so far as I know, until the end of 2010) and it – again – seems logical that he wouldn’t make the switch until at least then.

And, while one and three on the above list appear to have publicly ruled themselves out of contention; Wiggo who – as this is being written has just secured the British National Time Trial Champion’s jersey – remains a dark-horse.

Be that as it may, cycle-sport is – nowadays – more international than ever before and despite this being the first really major British team, SKY will – undoubtedly – contain significant names from a number of countries other than the UK; most probably Scandinavia, Australia, Germany as well as the other (obvious) British talent.

And… all of them (those of non-British nationality) will have their own relationships with their own, home media – this is one of the reasons why the rumour-mill has been churning, because, without a shadow of a doubt, its been fed by international riders (or their managers / ‘informed sources’) offering ‘off the record’ comments to their own local journos / media folk… after all, one of the tricks of working the media is keeping the people who write about you… sweet.

Plus, over the past month or so, there have been quoted statements, stating that the vast majority of the riders they’ve targeted are now contracted.

So… what is the delay and… what is the delay in making these announcements achieving?

Well… it looks like the major-domo’s at SKY are requiring that ALL of their ducks are lined up in a neat row before – officially – saying anything. That’s fair enough – after all, its their team and their cash that’s set it all up.

However, in this day and age, that is (again, in this voltaire’s view from its own grassy knoll) a bit of a strange tactic and one fraught with all manner of potential to back-fire.

How would I have done it..?

Firstly, I'd have eradicated the rumour mill by drip-feeding the riders announcements from the due (and given) date

And secondly, properly considered the overall picture appertaining to 2009 and not 1990.

Because…

Within the major announcement, there would be a number of smaller announcements that would all combine to make up the whole.

This isn’t just about the riders who’ll spearhead the team but will (necessarily) include the clothing manufacturer; the bus-supplier; the logo / jersey design; the bikes and components to be used (from wheels to tyres, from pedals to handle-bar tape and bottles and more), the off-road clothing and nutritional suppliers; the doctors, physios, masseurs and mechanics – and so on and so forth – because the formation of a cycling team will include literally dozens of people and sponsoring partners alike.

So… given that September 1st was the key date, I’d have dealt with (1) above by issuing ‘notices’ on a regular basis from that day forward… when the initial riders had been confirmed, their names would have been released; and as regards (2), once the bike supplier had been finalised, another press-release; once the key components for the bikes had been sorted out – another… so on and so forth.

This way, the drip feed effect would have garnered more and more publicity – after all, that’s the real name of the game – and each supplier would have had their own level of media exposure.

However – the way its going – it looks like the final announcement will, in reality, become so huge that – inevitably – only the cream from the top will be written about or commented on… meaning that the (deemed-by-the-media lesser ‘components’) won’t get much of a look-in – creating less media value for those – be they suppliers or riders themselves.

And, this is the bit that this Voltaire believes the field-marshalls at SKY have got wrong; this is the bit – however much you think you can control… you absolutely cannot.

As such, it is also highly probable that – given the nature of this ‘announcement’ – that the major-domo’s are all preparing their own wordings for inclusion in said ‘official press-releases’.

IF that’s the case (and I can’t imagine it wouldn’t be) then, there is another lesson to be learned here… as much as the major-domos will all want their ‘corporate words’ to appear in magazine X / on-line publication Y / newspaper Z, chances are that those worried about / much fiddled about with pithy corporate phrases will not be used at all. History shows that and that’s a fact. The media – as a whole – don’t much care for corporate this or that; what they’re looking for is key – one-to-one – words from the key players…

The end result… I’m anticipating more and more rumour running amok over the next week or so and would imagine (since I’m not part of the circle, let alone an inner one) that those at the sharp end right now – Scott Sunderland being one – are going quietly bonkers with their cell ‘phones ringing off the hook and e-mail in boxes full to bursting with… questions.

Questions that I’d imagine (since all I’ve done is apply a bit of logic fuelled by years and years of doing that PR job to the above arguments) he – and maybe one or two others – are probably forbidden from answering.

Ahh well, that’s life at the 2009 corporate coal-face no matter what game you're in.

So… what else do we have to look forward too?

Stephen Still has a new record coming out by all accounts; David Gray too… Muse and Vampire Weekend as well... There is to be a massive Miles Davis retrospective boxed-set issued and REM are due to release a live album too.

All far more intriguing than the poodles – Leona Lewis and Mary J Bilge – who’ll both be unleashing volumes of… errrr… warbling to beats… later this year. Gosh, I’m so, so very excited.

However, in between waiting on the SKY team news, I will be really waiting on Maps who – so I’ve read – will unleash a new album (Turning The Wind) in late October and Guy Clark’s Some Days The Songs Writes You that should (grammar not withstanding) also be out by November; well – at least there is some light on the musical horizon then.

The last Maps album came out what… three or was it four years ago… to this day, its a permanent fixture on the I-Touch wherever I travel and Guy Clark… thank heavens he is still making music; one of the truly great songwriters of all time and, from memory, his first album (Old No 1) came out roughly when The Cate Brothers released their first record on Asylum… I wonder if both still sound as good as they did back then… darn that’ll mean a trawl off to 991.com to try and find a copy of both (given that both vinyl languish far away at Merle HQ currently).

Ah well… no matter the delays and the rest, three things to really look forward to for when the days of summer start to properly shorten.