Nice Package

The British satirical magazine VIZ (which, by way of context, specialises in schoolboy-toilet-wall-level humour - which I find frequently hysterical) features a regular page entitled 'Top Tips', in which peeved readers write in suggesting sarcastic or ridiculous household hints.

I found over the holiday break that a veritable flood of similar hints occurred to me.

Toy manufacturers: Be sure to encase your most robustly-constructed metal products in rigid, 3-millimetre thick industrial-grade plastic, fused, heat-shrunk and crimped at the edges for a secure seal. This will indefinitely extend the kiddies' anticipation of actually playing with their new toys while Dad uses scissors, a knife, tradesmans' tin snips, or possibly, a chainsaw, to remove the outer casing.

Honestly. The logic of packaging simply defies belief.

Eggs, for example, are provided in a carton so soft and fibrous that the cautious buyer routinely checks for breakages before purchase. Yet items that would be only lightly grazed by close proximity to a thermonuclear blast apparently need to be coddled in layers of armour and freed by rescue squad members wielding the Jaws of Life.

This degree of somewhat unnecessary protection can lead to frustration, not to mention pain. My personal highlight this Christmas was when a kitchen knife, which I had, in desperation, wrestled into an apparently unassailable Tamagotchi package, slipped, its point sliding in an instant down my thumbnail before lodging, as a finale, firmly in the cuticle. And, after all, what is the festive season without a trip to the local Emergency Department?

Part of marketing popular dolls and action figures is setting them in lifelike, action poses within their packages. A big Christmas thank you to those dedicated foreign sweatshop workers who are paid a pittance to spend their workdays anchoring the dolls in place, by manually twisting lengthy pieces of wire into a Gordian knot behind the backing cardboard. One suspects their diligence may be driven in part by the prospect of exacting some small degree of petty revenge on wealthy Western consumers.

These bits of wire, insulated with plastic for safety - yet, for unwary adults, often surprisingly sharp at the ends! - in extreme cases may be additionally threaded through a small plastic grate, which locks the bonds in place, presumably to prevent the possibility of escape attempts by the action figure in question.

Perhaps the packaging of modern dolls represents a subtle nod to 21st century culture. Barbies and Bratz exist in disposable, plastic worlds, skin taut, hair taped down and sewn flat, and limbs stiff, in much the same way as the body parts of celebritiy role models like Victoria Beckham and Nicole Ritchie remain curiously motionless and unlifelike.

I'd also like to pay tribute here to those toy manufacturers who have refined the science of typography further than was thought possible. Their latest advances are demonstrated on the comprehensive instruction sheets that accompany new toys. Craftsmen who can engrave The Lord's Prayer on the head of a pin have nothing on Mattel. I adore the irony that instruction-sheet font is getting smaller year by year, just as its target audience of middle-aged fathers is battling with annually deteriorating eyesight.

And a special mention to the manufacturers of toys from countries where English is not a first language, and often not even a fifth. Instructions contained in items from these countries require first deciphering, partial translation and finally, creative interpretation as well.

Still and all, things have generally improved when it comes to kids' toys. The dreaded small-print notation of days past - "(Batteries Not Included)" - was rarely noticed by parents desperate to finish their Christmas toy shopping. But that one small oversight would prompt a chorus of wails on Christmas morning from unlucky young recipients whose prized gifts lay mute and powerless, and would remain that way until the battery shops reopened after Boxing Day. No more.

Today, thoughtful toy manufacturers have developed special batteries that come pre-installed and last as long as three days before expiring. Those same manufacturers have doubtless since bought controlling interests in the companies that make batteries, too.

Hackneyed and Lazy Reporting

So that's it then.

Eddie has abdicated his reign as Chief Executive of The Nine Network, Lord Protector of Her Majesty's Territories, Warden of the Cinque Ports, Master of the Universe, etc.

Gosh, couldn't see that coming. Much.

The whole affair was ridiculous on so many levels it beggars credibility.

What makes McGuire's 17-month tenure remarkable is not that he ascended to the pinnacle of what was at least once the most powerful media company in the land, but that someone in power within the Packer empire actually thought it would be a good idea to put him there. Not because he's no good at being CEO - but more of that later.

Now, don't get me wrong. Eddie is a remarkable individual. He is the best television front man bar none since Bert Newton in the 60s, 70s and 80s. His knowledge of sport is extensive, and of AFL football, phenomenal. He affects a blokey, matey, knockabout, everyman, easygoing charm toward everyone he meets: the contestants he churns through on his quiz shows, the guests he interviews, the journalists that report on him. He is a skilled MC of live events. As a journalist, he worked his contacts relentlessly to regularly break fresh stories. He ably steered a radio program packed with strong personalities. His achievements for someone in only his early forties are astounding.

But here's the rub - none of that makes him a chief executive. Not of a national television network where mistakes are measured in tens of millions of dollars. And certainly not of one that has been stripped in recent years of skilled board governance, corporate knowledge and memory, television expertise, production resources, employees, and, crucially, morale.

For all Ed's confident bluster, Nine is struggling.

Nationally, Nine scraped home in the 2006 ratings by 0.1%, measured over the year. So far this year it has lost all twelve weekly surveys. Revenue is down. The production slate is lean. As one media analyst remarked, "Nine's got CSI, and not much else."

A successful TV network depends on an endless cycle of specific outputs: popular programs, which attract viewers, who translate to high ratings, which attract advertisers, who buy airtime using money that buys the network a new set of popular programs. Eddie undoubtedly knows how to put a program together. But the sales side of the business - almost always the source of the hardheads who make the strategic business decisions and actually run the dream factories - was largely unknown to him. Would Network Ten make Rove their CEO? Would Seven, Kochie? At least he'd have a grasp of the financials.

McGuire admitted at his farewell media conference that what he called the necessary 'financial engineering' of the business was beyond his capabilities or interest. Why should we be surprised? He claimed the job of CEO had changed almost the moment he accepted it. To the extent that the place was being more closely overseen than ever before by PBL executives - real executives - that's true.

But on another level, it isn't. He simply hadn't realised what the job demanded. The job of television CEO has never been about direct involvement in creative pursuits. In successful networks, it has always been about the bottom line. About allowing the creatives to produce, reaping the financial rewards of that endeavour, and managing prudently to ensure the process can be self-perpetuating. Since the recession of the early 1990s, as in many businesses, strict financial management has become more the focus of management than ever before. The grumble from staff is that, "the accountants are running the place."

It seems only Eddie, in a lather of his trademark hubris, actually thought he was being made CEO because of his talent and suitability for the job. It is simply inconceivable that those with the power to make the appointment actually saw Eddie, popular TV host, as Eddie, network corporate saviour. Show me any other company, let alone one of comparable revenues, where the Chief Executive is suddenly transplanted from the shop floor, without even the most basic experience or qualifications in marketing, human resources, finance, or business management.

Much was made of Eddie's parallel appointment at the helm of the Collingwood football club, usually in terms of reproach for the alleged inherent conflict of interests. That aside, remember, however, that there he is the President, not the CEO. No tiresome day-to-day actual running of the business. Just a matter of using your own weekly TV show to promote your club, harvesting the resultant benefits, and beating your chest in the occasional difference of opinion with football's other super-egos - the AFL.

It all makes me think the real plan was to have Ed out there simply to wave the Nine flag, charm the ad agencies and their big-spending clients, cheerlead and generally talk the joint up, as only Ed can. He was to be the face of Nine, just not on the screen. The real decision making would be done by the PBL heavies in Park St.

That's what made the former CEO, David Gyngell, pull the pin: interference from PBL boss John Alexander in the running of the television business. But Gyngell had it easy. These days there are a clutch of PBL executives - none of them with any TV experience, interestingly - trying to run Nine.

Eddie has had the unusual experience, for him, of facing the blame and having to take responsibility for the limp performance of Nine over the past year and a half. Hamfisted, boofhead banter about 'boning' female presenters hasn't helped him. But Nine was well on the skids before Eddie took the reins. It's a measure of the network's desperation, its paucity of ideas, and the sheer cackhanded dopeyness that now passes for management at the once-great network that Ed's appointment as boss was even afforded passing consideration. It speaks volumes, too, for just how highly Nine values the job that Ed filled, that they are not bothering to replace him. What a vital cog in the mighty Nine machine he must have been.

Wisely, he'll go back to being the front man, the showman, whilst being allowed to retain some token management duties, just to spare him the public humiliation of being ushered off the executive floor with indecent haste.

Commercial television management has always been an unsophisticated process, where the use of blunt instruments and even blunter language is commonplace. And Nine was Bearpit Central for 30 years or more. But Nine stayed on top because the people running the place were smart enough to stick to what they knew - keeping the money flowing - and allow others to do the job of pumping out the product. Incidentally, they're the ones now mostly running Seven.

That's the thing about TV. It's not a science, so no one is actually ruled out of any role on the basis of their qualifications, or lack of them. If you make a success of your job, you're qualified. Now a severely chastened Eddie knows that, too.

Journos drown in a pool of mediocrity

There's a new man in my life. Well, a new male. He's my baby son - Thomas, born five weeks ago, on February 23rd. Our first boy, after two girls, the same pattern of births as my parents. He's been smiling for a day or two now, but I'd missed out - until today. Amazing how a certain arrangement of those tiny cheeks can change your life. Sorry to gush.

So Thorpie, the Thorpedo, the ol' Thorpmeister, has returned an abnormal drugs test. Well, he did four and a half months ago. Funny how the news has only just emerged, the week of the World Championships. He's clean. Of course. It's been all over the news. You have to hope it's featured as prominently when he's found to be innnocent of all charges.

And what is it anyway with news bulletins these days? Hate to sound like an old fart, of the "things were better in my day" variety - but here goes: is it just me, or is every single TV news reporter now aged about 12? Honestly. What the hell would they know?

YES, I understand that you have to pay older, more experienced reporters more, and YES, I understand that viewers will still watch the bulletin, regardless of the quality of the reportage, but, I mean, my God, where is the pride in their product? With reporters who've been around for five minutes, maybe not even in the same city they're now reporting on and in, there's no chance of any historical context or perspective. Even worse, the basic skills of news journalism are becoming non-existent.

Case in point: the swimming again. Grant Hackett has been performing poorly in the minor events. Swimming legend Kieren Perkins gets on the radio and mentions that he's discovered that Hackett has been going through some emotional upheavals that may be affecting his times. Hackett holds a media conference the following day. Does anyone there think to ASK him what's troubling him? No. Or if they did, it didn't make it into that night's stories. You wonder if the reporters even monitored the other media closely enough to pick up the cues.

Celebrating Excellence in Journalism

I was just about to switch off the fairly dull and confused SBS telecast of the Walkley Awards tonight when it suddenly got interesting.

A well-known journalist with whom I have a passing acquaintance was physically attacked by another well-known journalist with whom I used to work and socialise. On national television. Stephen Mayne, of the internet media/politics/business website crikey.com.au, was barreled on stage by News Ltd's political correspondent Glenn Milne.

(Barreled is perhaps too strong a word. Milne is these days certainly barrel chested, but his stumpy little legs prevent much momentum)

Anyway, it kept me watching. A good old-fashioned drunken journos' brawl. Possibly it doesn't confer great credibility on the craft of journalism to do it, live, in front of the cream of the industry, on its night of nights, before a national audience, but there you are.

Mayne, having been shoved from the stage by Milne, and then seconds later having leapt from it to avoid a second charge, recovered his composure well with a few amusing ripostes. Milne, dragged away by the floor manager and reportedly thrown out of the awards dinner by security staff, may think better of his precipitate actions by morning.

Within minutes of the amazing spectacle, reports and pictures of Milne's unedifying behaviour were all over key news websites (especially Fairfax ones). They showed a short, fat man with his shirttails hanging out, being frogmarched away. Not a great look.

I used to see Glenn on the road when we were both journos in Brisbane - he at the Telegraph, me at the ABC, both of us at the Journalists' Club in Bowen Hills. Years later I filled in for him as the Seven Network's Canberra correspondent during his holidays (it was, incidentally, the week of the Thredbo disaster - Glenn was staying in the lodge next to the one that was buried in a landslide. Does trouble follow this man?).

He has had professional and personal issues with Mayne for some time. This is no secret, and has been extensively chronicled in Crikey. Mayne's earnestness, self-obsession and frequent lack of regard for the consequences of his actions can be tedious and taxing. But the sight of Milne trying - at some length - to pick a fight, on-stage, at a supposedly prestigious event, was at best unbecoming, risible, and in a professional sense, idiotic.

Move on, Glenn. Use your journalistic talents to distinguish yourself. And you might want to think about giving away the grog, too.

Rove's loss leaves a lesson in life

We all knew deep down that cancer was going to claim Belinda Emmett.

Despite the positive airs, every time she was seen in public with her husband, TV host Rove McManus, she looked progressively more unwell. And the intervals between her public appearances have seemed to grow longer and longer.

The photo essays now being published on many online media websites underline how she ailed. Older publicity pictures show a full-faced girl, while later images reveal her painful wastage.

But her loss need not be totally in vain.

How brave this young couple were, how devoted they must have been, marrying despite the knowledge that their union was doomed, probably much sooner rather than later.

One feels they may have enjoyed more love, warmth and intimacy in their 22 months of marriage than many others do in 22 years.

Their dedication to one another, and their decision to formally declare that dedication through marriage, is a valuable lesson in how to live life unencumbered by the spectre of what might happen.

News, but not as we knew it

Nine's flagship 6pm news bulletin - once a proud and unchallenged leader - is now testing out overseas formats in an effort to revive its flagging fortunes.

Tonight's lead story covered the effect of the Reserve Bank Board's decision to lift interest rates by a quarter of a per cent. Instead of a packaged tape story comprising interview grabs and voiceover behind relevant overlay footage, we had reporter Wayne Dyer standing in the studio, delivering the entire report directly to camera, save for the soundbites of interviewees.

It's a technique borrowed from British news bulletins. But it's a retrograde step. Leave aside for the moment the question of whether a reporter such as Dyer should be allocated such an important story. The format - where the reporter is in a controlled and sterile environment - means the background of the shot can be devoted to graphics, such as charts, figures and tables. But these were partly obscured by Dyer in the foreground.

As well, it removes the reporter from where he is supposed to be - in the field, on the road, gathering the news, talking to the people who matter. Dyer's script may as well have been cut & pasted direct from wire copy written by someone else (and probably was, at least in part). He never had to leave the comfort of the newsroom.

But most of all, the story becomes the reporter, and the reporter becomes the story. No relevant shots of houses, suburbs, construction, families, or banks. It looks cheap - probably because it is. The field camera crew and tape editor who otherwise would have been deployed to produce Dyer's story could be used elsewhere. The studio crew and control room facilities usually idle until late afternoon could be pressed into service.

It's a business model that pleases the accountants. But it's one that shaves another slice from the substance of good television journalism.

Strictly Dancing: Extremely Annoying

Strictly Dancing, ABC TV

Ballroom dancing has experienced an upsurge in popularity since the Australian film Strictly Ballroom was released in the 90s.

The ABC has jumped on the bandwagon with a commendable show thoughtfully entitled Strictly Dancing. OK, 1 out of 10 for originality. What do you expect for eight cents a day?

Anyway, the program showcases a succession of eager young couples looking for their big ballroom dancing break. They're put to the test with a series of searching dance assignments, qualified dance judges rating them on their technique. At the climax of each episode, their scores may be boosted or toppled by a mysterious, apparently indefinable showbiz commodity entitled 'the X- factor'. The ABC's originality comes into play again.

In general, the standard of the dancers' performances is very high. What a shame the same can't be said for the standard of commentary.

Paul McDermott does an adequate, if slightly forced turn as compere. In the interests of raising a chuckle, he is unafraid to put himself in situations that would humiliate a more precious host. McDermott ploughs on unabashed. His weakness, betrayed by his uncertain delivery, is in his interviewing technique. The moment he begins asking post-tango questions of the night's winning couple, you feel he wishes he hadn't. Thankfully, the interlude, like a bad prawn, usually passes quickly but unpleasantly.

These flat spots can be cheerfully ignored in the interests of watching the considerable talent on display.

What can't be overlooked, however, is the endless, asinine carping of two unseen commentators whose role it is, apparently, to distract viewers from the actual dancing so that we can all more fully appreciate the sparkling personalities of these disembodied voices.

What they should be doing, of course, is helping to enlighten those viewers who aren't conversant with the finer points of ballroom dancing. What they are doing, of course, is enlarging their own already bloated egos without adding one jot to the enjoyment of the event.

The ABC publicists would say they are there to provide a counterpoint to the serious business of dance and competition, to ensure the program benefits from both light and shade.

Of course, they are not.

They simply cannot wait for the music to begin so that they can open the floodgates for their stream of mindless, ill-considered babble. The female voice, Angela Gilltrap, used to confine herself to technical appraisals of the dancers' techniques, a task for which she is admirably qualified. But of late she has begun to assume the irritating habits of her male counterpart, Lex Marinos.

Lex's acting career reached its zenith several decades ago, in a minor role as the son-in-law of Ted Bullpitt on Kingswood Country. Since then, he has moved through theatre, film, TV and radio, achieving some plaudits as a director. Good on him. In his lengthy online biography, he lists his current occupation as 'events coordinator' for the Wagga Wagga City Council. But nowhere does it boast that Lex enjoys any qualifications in dance.

In which case, might it not be advisable for him to shut the hell up and allow us to enjoy someone who does?

If Lex's asides and interjections were amusing, and believe me when I say they are not, he might be tolerable. In any case, one might reasonably assume that viewers specifically seeking light relief might not make a dance program their first port of call.

Marinos is snide, patronising, and, most unforgivably, unfunny. He fails in his primary task, that is, to make us laugh. In the context of the program, he is inappropriate and superfluous.

His criticisms give every indication that they have been recorded and dubbed over the dance footage after the judging has been completed. This, of course, allows him to tailor his comments accordingly - praise for the winners, smartarse denigration of the rest. If this is, as it appears, what happens, it is cowardly and unfair.

Take your ego and your attempts at drollery, Lex, and stop polluting what is otherwise an admirable show. Wagga beckons.