Wry Smile at Must-Read Summary

February 22, 2010

Richer

Amid reports that certain guardians of linguistic propriety have launched a campaign to prohibit the use of the cliched formula “a wry smile” (as in, “He allowed himself a wry smile as the opposition crumbled”, or “In such circumstances of disquiet, not to say discombobulation, only a wry smile is permissible”), we cannot but summon a wry smile as we encounter the New Statesman’s “Ten must-read pieces from the Sunday papers.”

Who must read them? Why must they read them? What will happen when they read them? Where should they read them? But most importantly, given the fractious air in most newspapers, how should they read them? Online, on a laptop at home? On a PC at work? Or via a hand-held device? Surely not in antediluvian newsprint?

Here’s to an end, one day, to cliches. Mind you, perhaps the only way to avoid them is to do a Victoria Coren. And no, we don’t mean win £500,000 playing poker. Or, indeed, that one should suddenly make an adult film, another of Ms Coren’s enterprises. Still less that anyone should become a journalist. We refer instead to La Coren’s recent life without the internet, newspapers or even a mobile phone, this in preparation for a new BBC quiz called The Bubble. As she explains in the Guardian, The Bubble is a topical news show with a twist: “all contestants are locked in a secluded Lincolnshire house for four days before the programme, in order to prevent them from knowing what the news actually is.”

It seems that the experience proved interesting, if not life-changing, but what we want to know is this: were there any cliches in the house? Was it not wonderful to escape them? Imagine, four days without a wry smile or a must-read summary in sight. Surely this is possible in other places than the febrile minds of BBC producers?

 

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When a lawyer’s son is before the law

September 8, 2010

A lawyer of Swordplay’s acquaintance finds himself in a fix.

“My teenage son is to be interviewed by the local constable,” he tells us. “He is alleged to have committed an offence.”

We gasp, for such seems the appropriate response, and then ask: is it serious?

“No, it is not,” our troubled legal friend tells us. “In the great scheme of things, my son’s alleged transgression is about as de minimis as they get.”

For a split second, we wonder if said teenage son is cognisant of lawyerly terms of art such as de minimis, but rapidly conclude that the answer to this question is not a sine qua non of further discourse. And so we press on. That sounds good, we say, relatively speaking, at least.

“Yes,” says the lawyer, “but I am at a loss as to what to do with him. Do I come down hard and ground him, or do I play the liberal card, or do I find a compromise?”

That depends, we aver.

“On what?” asks our man.

On whether you would prefer to deal with your son’s alleged offence as a lawyer, or as a father, or as a father who is a lawyer, or maybe even as a lawyer who is a father.

“I see your point,” says the lawyer. And then, as if to prove that there is no cure for recidivism, he says: “The offence is, after all, de minimis.”

Without prejudice, we add.

Pictured: something out of Kafka. Now there was a man who knew about the law. And had a tough old father, too.

Max Mosley and Wayne Rooney: bedfellows?

September 6, 2010

We rarely enjoy pondering Max Mosley – the man, the sins, the legal action, what he stands for – but confess to a degree of grudging admiration for his tenacity in trying to change the law of privacy. As this story from the Independent has it, Mosley has lodged a request with the European Court of Human Rights in Strasbourg asking that, by law, journalists must inform the subject of a story of the private details they intend to print, prior to publication.

We suspect the motor racing man would never have thought it, but he would appear to have an unlikely bedfellow in a certain England footballer. Step forward, Wayne Rooney, who would presumably put his name to Mosley’s petition.

Pictured courtesy of NashvilleScene: some bedfellows are stranger than fiction.


Memo to Freelance Writers: return that editor’s call quickly

September 3, 2010

Woe betide those who freelance and fail to return a call.

We say this upon hearing of a normally prolific freelance journalist who picked up a voicemail from an editor at one of the nationals on Tuesday afternoon. Please call us, was the message, and it could mean just one thing – a commission.

Our hero’s habitual practice is to return such calls as soon as is reasonably practicable, as m’learned friends might put it. In practice, that would habitually mean within a couple of hours. Most atypically, and for reasons we have yet to fathom, our man failed to call back for a full 24 hours.

By then, said editor had looked elsewhere. One of our man’s competitors had the gig, an interesting piece about cricket and the law, one which might just be in The Times today and which, we assume, asks whether the Pakistan cricket team have been caught out (in the legal sense, you understand).

We make no judgement on the no ball scandal, save to say that it is a scandal, but in another sense the moral is clear: in the fast-paced world of modern media, he who hesitates is lost.

Pictured courtesy of PrintedClothing.com: a fast-selling shirt.