From the personal diary of Dr Thaddeus Jack, PR troubleshooter, occasional bush lawyer, and Point Howard’s man about town (no, he is not a peeping Tom. Seriously. Well, OK…)
DELHI, DAY ONE: After that wee incident with BP bloke Tony Hayward, I thought I’d never work in international public relations again (I did tell him to say “I want my wife back – we could plug the hole with her”, but it came out as “I want my life back” c’est la vie of an international man of mystery such as moi). Anyway, excitement plus as the people from the youth hostel ran up to tell me there was a lady on the phone from India who desperately needed my help!
Turns out her name is something that might be lost in translation, but anyway, here I am on my way to Delhi after hiding out, I mean, a relaxing break in the Wellington youth hostel!
DELHI, DAY TWO: Turns out it wasn’t lost in translation. Sounds like Dicks It, but the horrid man from the Commonwealth Games who’s also from New Zealand (and who could blow my cover here) pronounces it Dipshit. I think.
Anyway, right into action – Sheila (for safety’s sake I have refused to call her Mrs Diktat or whatever) wants me to sort out a wee problem around some human rights’ people complaining about the homeless being herded onto trains and dumped in the countryside. Was about to suggest something about urban beautification , tra la la, when she screams at me “If I see one headline comparing us to any dictatorship, Burma, the Nazis, or anything like that, I’ll…I’ll…”
“Kill me?” I suggested, always helpful with words.
“Yes!” She stormed off. I had the human rights’ people sorted in no time. The police with the big swishy sticks managed to get them on a train too. Problem solved. Off to the bar.
DELHI, AS THE DAYS START TO MELD INTO ONE ANOTHER: What a bloody great opening ceremony…but I couldn’t understand why we didn’t refer to the Battle of Little Big Horn when it was a celebration of Indian culture. Anyway, as my translator and new BFF Ranjit and I sat in the big corporate box sipping shandies, I said to him “is the track supposed to have big holes in it like those ones near the finish line?” In no time at all, Sheila was back screaming at me to fix it. I didn’t dare argue with her, but having no knowledge of athletic tracks, I was forced to throw myself on Ranjit’s expertise. I don’t know if red-dyed sand will do the trick, but we’ll see. Putting a bit of glue in the mix was my idea. If the worst comes to the worst we’ll use the old “Western athletes’ expectations are far too high” argument.
DELHI, DAY WHATEVER: Things not going well. Sheila was about to give me the letter opener between the ribs when the phone went. And so did she. Into a little ball of tears. Turns out some fella on the TV in New Zealand was making fun of her name. This was my turning point.
“Create a diplomatic incident!” I yelled. “Scream racism, xenophobia, and poor pronunciation from the rooftops!”
“Will it work?” Sheila asked.
“By God yes…this should keep the media off the broken track, blocked drains, and empty grandstands for a few days…and when it loses its PR value, we’ll get another TV Johnny to make fun of Lalit Bhanot’s name…what rhymes with Bhanot?”
Bloody great stuff – I might get that Rugby World Cup job after all….