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ICE


ICE to see you, to see you… ICE!


Matt Broughton normally goes to ICE for three hours. This time we made him go for three days. Just imagine how much more stuff he stole this time…


ou’ll have to believe me when I tell you that I originally planned to empty my Dictaphone and write a legit and in-depth ICE review… but then the dog looked at me in a funny was and that was all the convincing I needed to change my mind. I mean, you’ll probably read the same report in every magazine and on every web site that visited Excel for those three glorious days in Feb anyway. We all saw the same ‘BIG’ announcements (which I’m pretty sure would have been a single- sided press release any other month of the year) and we all heard the same noises. Although, having said that, it was something of note this year: the ridiculous battle of the PA systems was far less intrusive this year and allowed for some actual conversation. Which was nice. That said, I did have one interview completely obliterated by a ‘flash mob’ which I had seen advertised as a ‘feature’ of ICE this year. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but it turned out to be four dancers and one annoyingly-powerful mobile ‘beat box’. Luckily, I only ran into them once, but mostly their ‘gig’ seemed to be to wait for any journalist to press record on their Dictaphone and then - without request or encouragement from anyone nearby - play incredibly loud and unwanted music and start jumping about a bit. If you weren’t the troop members jumping about a bit, you got to stand awkwardly among the suits whooping and clapping until it was your time to jump about while the others clapped and whooped at you. Frankly, I got the feeling we were as relieved as the dancers were when it was all over. They gave themselves a standing ovation as they walked away to find fresh victims. It was similar to a violinist drifting over to your table during dinner just as you’ve broken up with your girlfriend: he doesn’t want you there, and he doesn’t want you to be there. Although there does tend to be less whooping and clapping in those situations. Anyway, I digress…


Y


only way for me to deal with life while trudging from N7-350 to S2-115 (I know, I know… bad planning on my part) was to play The Smiling Game. I’ve not sent this off to the patent office yet, so feel free to steal it if you want to play it yourself. It basically involves making eye contact with the person furthest away from you - but walking towards you - and smiling at them with ferocious intent. Watch their eyes flick up and down trying to work out if they know you, don’t know you, if you’ve got a knife, if they should smile back, if they should call the police… SO MANY OPTIONS. It drives them mad, especially when they actually get to you and you just walk past them looking for the next contestant. The winner for me, incidentally, was a very tall chap in a light blue suit who smiled back for the full four minutes it took for us to come together (by the Bagel Factory, in case it was you and you’re wondering why we didn’t kiss). Well played sir. Anyway, that’s enough about me. Let’s talk about you. Or - even better - let’s have a look at my ICE 2019 scrapbook and tally up all the things I stole. Yay!


The ‘girls-in-their-underwear-for-no-good-reason’ issue seems to have been properly addressed by most (although a few cheeky catsuits slipped through the pervy net). I was also happy to see the girls who started the day in preposterous porno heels were into their comfy trainers and looking much happier by noon.


THE SMILING GAME


I’ve got a pretty low tolerance to actual work, so having appointments every thirty minutes was – frankly - a bit of a shock to the system. By each afternoon the


CIO MARCH 2019 59


“Or - even better - let’s have a look at my ICE 2019


scrapbook and tally up all the things I stole. Yay!”


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