So the Jackenhacks came and went. I met lots of nice people, notably Giles from Realwire who lives just down the road from me, and who I bumped into at the train station. I met Melanie from Fake Plastic Noodles who was very lovely and chatty, the inimitable Wadds, Michael Litman (colleague of my ex-colleague Paul Borge) who won the Twitter Twat of the Year – don’t knock it Michael, it’s an award and that’s what matters – and the gang of reprobates from Porter Novelli. And several other nice people. Lovely people. Nice, lovely, drunk people.
I did actually manage to have some half-sensible conversations. One of them was with an editor and we talked about the influence of social media on journalism. I think we kind of agreed that a possible direction for journalism is one in which they’re measured by the number of followers they have online. So, while offline journalism is all well and good, at some point we could envisage a time when online metrics come into the equation. As in: so you want to work for The Guardian? Only if you have X,000 subscribers.
This is something Technorati is already doing with its bloggers, and given that it recently revamped to become much more media-friendly, perhaps Technorati’s ambitions lie in that direction too.
Of course, most of the conversations were very loud and nonsensical, but still enjoyable nevertheless.
In fact, it wasn’t until I was testing my social media search engine enhancements today that I found Mel’s post on Fake Plastic Noodles, featuring this photograph of me (I’m the one underneath – visible in khaki from the neck down):
Now, I actually don’t remember this happening. And despite what Mel says in her post, the guy on top of me isn’t Tim Hoang – Tim is the one standing up laughing. I don’t know who is on top of me. So I don’t really understand how this situation came about. Too much drink perhaps? Or maybe not enough…
As for the event/venue, well they did suffer the old problem of the PA system not being loud enough again, but it has to be said that everyone does chatter on when they should be listening. Not sure what they can do about that.
Anyway, off we all went to a karaoke bar, at which point I found myself wearing someone’s cycle helmet with biros sticking out of it. Then I missed the last train home but managed to get near enough that I could blag a taxi the rest of the way.
The next day I was fresh as a little daisy, and ready to attend Epoch’s Hothouse lunch. And I managed not to faint or throw up.
Oh, the life of a PR rock star…