If ever there was a recipe for disaster in holding a press conference, it all came together at the recent Air Cargo Europe (ACE) event in Munich last month. In all our years of covering the air cargo sector the Belly Achers have never, ever been subjected to such a torturous affair than what they were subjected to at one particular press conference. It was really quite a shocking affair, in part because it had all the right ingredients, but somehow the cook cocked up the recipe.
Take one esteemed European cargo carrier, add one reputable European PR practitioner and a healthy amount of air cargo journalists and you would think the outcome would be worthy of a Michelin star. But alas it seems the chef either had too much Weisbier for lunch or the overly ambitious chef was simply not tuned into the right channel. Because of the respect we have for said carrier and said PR practitioner we will spare them the embarrassment of naming and shaming – but you know who you are!
To elaborate further, it was the afternoon of day three of the four day ACE and quite rightfully the air cargo hacks were getting a bit weary from back-to-back interviews, walking the length of the exhibition centre (with the media centre at one end and the air cargo hall at the complete opposite end – a full Underground train stop apart!) and finding their way through the labyrinthine conference rooms cleverly hidden above the exhibition halls where many of the press conferences were held.
The cumulative effect of previous night’s entertainment at Munich’s famous beer halls probably didn’t help much either, but that’s another matter altogether.
And so, with most of the journos having found the obscure room, the event began with an introduction by the moderator, followed by the first speaker from the carrier as a handful of lost media types finally found the room and attempted to slink in, ultimately foiled by the rather cramped room which unfortunately had the door at the front next to the lineup of speakers and of course the podium.
And so, one after another the various cargo execs rose, gave their spiel and sat down, ad infinitum. The information, was well… rather stale and quite frankly, something everyone in the room already knew. And so, as the monotony of the historical info began its hypnotic spell, the tiny room grew warmer and warmer.
And, the eyelids grew heavier and heavier. As steadfast and stout as the Belly Achers are, we too succumbed, drifting off asleep with dare we say, drool forming the only expression on our slumbering faces.
Shaking ourselves awake, we looked left, looked right and much to our amusement a good proportion of the other journos were in various stages of slumber. We pity the one elderly gentleman from a US publication who unwisely chose to sit in the front row (ok, there were like only six or seven rows, but still), who unable to fight the primordial urge to slumber, succumbed to a full on, chinon- chest afternoon nap!
It was about this time – now a good 30-40 minutes into the erstwhile dog and pony show – that thoughts of escape were certainly foremost on all the journalists minds. As the Belly Achers surveyed the room it was clear no discreet escape route existed. To bail out would have entailed a rather embarrassing and disrespecting walk across the front of the room, past the speaker at the podium and past the other assembled execs who were waiting their turn to deliver their historical ‘updates’. And so we sat, pondering what what we had done in our past lives to warrant such a nasty turn of karma. And on it went.
And on and on, ad nauseum. Thoughts of the wonderment of a bullet out of the blue careening into our skulls and thus ending our misery played delightfully in our remaining consciousness.
And then it started. The clever, or more appropriately, the clever determined ones were quick to seize the opportunity presented by the six second interval it took to change speakers and beat a hasty path to the exit door. Like lemmings, as soon as one got up, two, three and four more joined as pack instinct kicked in. The Belly Achers, heads woosie from vanilla information overload and dreams of pain-relieving bullets were unfortunately slow to board this lemming train to freedom. But, enough was clearly enough, as soon others weren’t even bothering to wait for the six-second interlude to make their great escape.
And so, with sights clearly fixed on the next speaker change, the Belly Achers readied their gear, all set to jump and run – to run for our lives in that six second pause to freedom. With a quick nod and a mumbled apology the Belly Achers, trying really hard not to sprint, crossed the void and emerged into the hallway. Ah the sweet smell of freedom!
Of course after such a harrowing experience the only medicine that seemed appropriate was to have a nice cold beer over at the Brussels Airport stand (needless to say we value their approach to networking over the small room, hostage situation) where several of the air cargo journo ‘escapees’ had settled to discuss their shared torment in a sort of beer+venting self-counselling session aimed at forestalling the onset of post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).
Being the conscionable types that we are here at Belly Ache, we do feel bad for the carrier and PR firm involved and we’re truly apologetic about bailing out, but really, what were you thinking!? Please, next time if you don’t really have anything all that new or ground shaking to share, at least reverse the room so that the harried press crowd can make a more dignified exit! Or, just provide some beer and those big doughy pretzels – at least you’ll keep the Belly Achers in their seats! Prost!