Horace Bent: Making a Messe. FBF at the crossroads

Sometimes events conspire against the composition of this chuckle-fest (or, as Charlie Redmayne once said to me, “mildly amusing at best”-fest). This past fortnight or so, with all the news from Israel and Palestine, has made it hard to climb onto the ol’ banter-bus. The book fair used to be a balm in times of trouble—a Mother Mary coming to me and speaking words of wisdom, as Sir Paul might have it. The world may be raging, but in the cosy halls of the Messe was refuge (my idea of cosy is harsh, Brutalist architecture with all the charm of an abandoned Milton Keynes industrial estate) and friendly international colleagues (and Andrew Wylie) who may disagree on some matters but know that essentially openness, dialogue and free speech is what we are here for.

But oh, boy, what a Scheisse show FBF and director Juergen Boos have made of what was already a difficult and tragic situation—however well-intentioned the initial response was. Juergen, Jogi: you know I love you. You’re the Travis to my Taylor (by which I mean a relationship completely manufactured for publicity purposes). This week, though, you’ve been more like the Matty Healy to my Taylor. You know you have miscued when the statement on an international flashpoint from the English FA—which shoots itself in the foot PR-wise more often than Harry Kane bangs them in for Bayern—is only somewhat less well-handled than yours.

I looked to the Rugby World Cup for a pleasant distraction. To those not from the seven or eight countries across the world who care about rugger—and the three or four nations who ever have a real shot at winning—yes, this is actually a thing. The only sporting shot at global grandeur more derisive is Major League Baseball’s World Series, contested by teams from, er, two nations.

Anyway, I settled down to watch Ireland v New Zealand only to discover the Irish supporters have taken to singing The Cranberries’ “Zombie” as a jaunty little ditty to fire up their XV. Sure, the late, great Dolores O’Riordan’s song is a banger, but it was also inspired by a terrorist act and used as a reflection on The Troubles. Maybe I’m too sensitive, but this wasn’t the week to hear it.

Thankfully, my dolour began dissipating yesterday. First, because in the latest presser from the Messe to “dispel misunderstandings”, I was amused by the addendum noting a ban on all cosplay weapons at this year’s fair. A relief for some acquiring editors, I suppose, as I hear since Karolina Sutton’s move to CAA she has taken to brandishing a 20kg replica Mjölnir—a gift from her agency’s client Chris Hemsworth—to, ahem, encourage clients to sign on the dotted line during tough negotiations. Secondly, because as I trundled through the halls on setup day and bumped into some old friends (and let’s be honest, a few enemies) at the Frankfurter Hof in the evening, I had the sense that FBF would claw this back. The Messe is really just a platform, a stage.

And whatever missteps organisers might make, it is those exhibitors in the aisles, at the coal face, who will work it all out.