Tag: London

One door opens, another is closed by someone posh : 2009 : John Myers, Digital Britain

 A posh voice opens doors. Not literally, unless you are royalty, but figuratively. Opportunities seem to fall out of the sky for those who speak in a recognised way that conveys their breeding and their assumed elevated status in British society. I have observed this as someone who has never considered myself posh, as someone who has never been perceived as posh, but as someone who was thrust unprepared into a world of posh people from the age of eleven. Until my first day at grammar school, I had mistakenly believed that ‘people were people’ (to quote Lou Rawls) and that ‘meritocracy’ was a fact rather than a fancy theory. My mum had believed it too, having just bought me a red ‘Harvard’ sweatshirt from Farnborough outdoor market for having passed the eleven-plus exam. I wore it to bed (in the style of Susan Saint James) for the next thirty years until it literally wore out .. but Harvard remained a fantasy.

My claim to have never had a posh, or posh-ish, voice could be challenged by someone who knew me at age four. I was shocked when I revisited a recording of my recital by heart at that age of ‘Winnie The Pooh’, made on a Uher reel-to-reel tape recorder my father had bought second-hand from the pages of ‘Exchange & Mart’ magazine which he would pore over every week. I sounded frighteningly like a distant relative of the Queen and nothing at all like my parents. Maybe I was trying to emulate fellow toddlers at Gay Trees nursery school on Grand Avenue where owner Mrs Potten had insisted I play a reluctant shepherd in the annual Nativity play. In summer, she would lead us all onto the adjacent Recreation Ground to sit on the grass and watch the uncensored violence of her one-woman Punch & Judy show.

During the following seven years, I attended a state school on a council estate where my posh-ish voice must have been modified by a desire to integrate with my new set of peers whose ‘overspill’ families had been relocated there from South London suburbs bombed during the War. From then onwards, the only posh voice evident in our household was my mother habitually answering our phone with “Camberley double one three one”, inexplicably speaking as if she were Mrs Bouquet. Aside from this mannerism, I cannot remember meeting anyone who had a posh voice. It was not until I was aged seventeen that I visited the Ascot home of posh schoolfriend Kate Graves and asked why there was a bell button in every room, only to be told that it was used to call a servant from the scullery. Okay, I thought to myself, I must have passed into a parallel universe.

My first indication that posh people and radio were a match made in heaven arrived when I was sharing a landing with a Durham University final year music student who had heard me regularly rabbit away about my passion for radio. One day he startled me with the news that he had accepted his first job as a producer on BBC radio. I was gobsmacked. Why? Because he had never once shown an interest in radio or demonstrated any understanding of how radio programmes are produced. I was pleased for him … but I was baffled. He had not been hired as a trainee. He had been hired to produce radio programmes without apparently having what might be considered the relevant skills to do the job. Months later, I looked in ‘Radio Times’ and, sure enough, his name was listed as producer of major daytime programmes on BBC Radio Three.

Perhaps this event, which seemed insignificant at the time, had been sent to me as a sign. Perhaps the gods were telling me that I should heed their advice, that I must stop believing in ‘meritocracy’ and that I should find myself a career ambition other than radio. If that was the case, I stupidly ignored their heavenly intervention. As a result, I expended a huge amount of effort during the next three decades, making dozens of applications for BBC radio job vacancies, being interviewed for many of them, but always being rejected. On occasion, I knew the person whom the BBC appointed and I knew the brevity of their CV … but they did possess a posh voice.

Fast forward to 2009. I was crossing London’s Shaftesbury Avenue in the company of John Myers, for whom I was writing a report for the British government’s Digital Britain initiative. Having finished a work meeting together in a nearby café, I was about to catch an Underground train home, whilst John was heading to his chauffeur-driven car. As we stood on the kerb, waiting for the traffic lights to change, John said something casually to me that started with the words: “Posh boys like you …”.

I immediately laughed out loud. Without thinking, my reflex action was to declare to John: “I’m not posh”. The words fell out of my mouth immediately without considering any potential consequences.

“Really?” said John.

“Yes,” I said. “I was born in a council house and went to school on a council estate. I am definitely not posh.”

“Oh,” responded John … and then we moved on to discussing other topics.

On my way home, I reflected on why John might have thought I was posh. He had a broad Lancashire accent and could never himself have been described as posh. He had worked his way up the radio industry from a start as programme assistant in BBC local radio in 1980, ending as chief executive of Guardian Media Group Radio in 2008. I could only guess that most of the people John was meeting at his present level of work were undeniably posh. He had been commissioned by the government, its ministers and its civil servants to produce a significant report on the regulation of the commercial radio industry in the digital age. Almost every one of his contacts for this work must have been posh. Perhaps, to him, I appeared to be just another of these posh ‘boys’.

Whatever the reason for his off-the-cuff comment, I sensed during the weeks and months that followed, that John’s attitude to me altered perceptibly. He continued to hold daily conversations with me by phone, email or in-person, as was necessary for me to ghost-write his report. In parallel, he had regular conversations and meetings with senior people in the radio industry, government and the Civil Service. But I was never invited to meet any of these people, even though it would have proven a lot more productive for me to have taken notes at these meetings rather than having to wait for John to relay me their content and outcomes. John convened and met regularly with a ‘committee’ of seven senior people and with a separate ‘consultation group’, both of which are listed at the end of the written report. I was credited merely with ‘research and support’, despite having transformed John’s handful of pages into a coherent 104-page document.

As a result of the report, John was invited by the radio industry to give the keynote speech at the 2009 Radio Festival event. As with the report, John sent me his drafted notes in advance, which I converted into a speech and an accompanying presentation. He did not invite me to attend the event. One morning, I woke to hear the bedside radio on BBC Radio Four broadcasting a live interview with John concerning the report. Once the written work had been completed, John did not keep me informed of the publicity it was receiving or its impact on government policy.

I was disappointed. John had needed my skills to research and write what came to be known as ‘The Myers Report’. However, after our ‘posh’ conversation, he had been careful to keep me away from the radio industry people who might prove useful contacts for me to find a job in radio, but who might see that it was really me writing the report rather than John himself. I understood how difficult it must be for a significant document bearing your name to be ghosted by someone else who had never been chief executive of a radio business, as he had, and by someone who was not even posh like his peers. 

I consider John an example of how ‘posh’ not only commands respect amongst similarly posh people, but equally from people who are not at all posh. Posh equals clever. Posh equals superior. Posh equals special. Posh equals the ability to make people of every class believe you deserve to be treated as someone who can rule, can manage, can order, can tell the rest of us what we do. Whatever comes out of a posh person’s mouth is believed and, even if evidently untruthful, is retained as ‘gospel’. Posh people maintain their superiority only because the rest of us let them, encourage them and look up to them in the master/servant, upstairs/downstairs deference we have implicitly imbibed since childhood. Posh is superpower.

I had worked with John only as a result of sending him an e-mail attached to an analysis paper for MA studies that I had written earlier about the same regulatory aspect of radio for which his report had been commissioned. He had offered me a £10,000 fee to provide research support. Very quickly, my responsibilities went much further and led to five months full-time work on this report, during which time I had to reject offers of other freelance work. I shared my concerns with John that my work with him had deprived me of income and he promised that, although I was underpaid for this commission, he believed it would lead to further reports on which the two of us could continue to work together. He recognised that we had complementary skills and we worked well together.

The first negative signal arrived when I invoiced John for my fee once the report had been published by the government. I was registered with HMRC for VAT (sales tax) and was legally required to add an additional 17.5% to my invoice. John responded that he was not registered for VAT and therefore could not reclaim any VAT he might pay to me. As a result, he did not want to pay the VAT on my invoice. This response confused me. I had no knowledge of the amount he had been paid by the government to write the report that I had just ghosted for him. I was certain it must be at least ten times the fee he was paying me. He was disputing a payment of £1,750 that was required by tax law, when he had probably earnt one hundred times that sum for the same work. I persisted but he refused steadfastly to pay the VAT of my invoice. I was not at all happy.

In 2010, I read in the news that John had been commissioned by the BBC to write a report about its radio services. This was exactly the kind of further work that John had promised me and which I was hoping to be considerably more lucrative for my contributions. I met him at a café near Broadcasting House to discuss this next project. Initially, he wanted to know about the online blog I had been publishing since 2008.

“How much are you paid for your blog?” John asked me, betraying his lack of understanding of online social media platforms.

I had to explain that a blog pays nothing but its author hopes that their online presence would lead to connections, work and income in the long run. It was a marketing exercise, but intrinsically unprofitable. He still seemed enthusiastic.

“How did you get your book published about DAB?” John asked.

My anthology of blog pieces about DAB radio had just been self-published as a book, so I offered him a free copy and explained the basics of creating a book for sale online and in bookshops. He seemed intrigued by the potential. Finally, our discussion moved on to the BBC report which John had been commissioned to write. My expectations were high. I was excited by the prospect of much needed work.

“You will not be involved in this report,” John said suddenly. “But I hope there will be something we can work on together in future.”

I was in shock. So much shock that I cannot recall the remainder of the meeting. I left feeling disappointed, deflated but mostly … betrayed. I had had to reject work the previous year because of the intensity of work on our last report. I had been paid a pittance. I had been promised work that now had not materialised. Because of the minor contribution with which I had been credited in the last report, I had received no unsolicited approaches to write similar reports. My work had been unacknowledged, unrewarded and now I felt I had been side-lined altogether.

I never received further offers of work from John Myers. But he started publishing his own blog about radio, much like mine. Imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery … but it does not pay the bills. Eventually I noticed that, in his blog, John was citing analyses of radio data that I had done and published in my blog, but he was neither crediting me nor linking to the source. As a result, I stopped publishing further blog entries after August 2011. It seemed pointless offering John further examples of my skills in analysis for him to claim the credit and make money.

In 2011, John Myers was appointed chief executive of The Radio Academy. In 2012 he was appointed visiting professor at the University of Cumbria. He published his own book about radio the same year but did not send me a copy.

At a Tribunal in 2015, John Myers was found guilty of tax evasion on earnings of £6.3m in 2005/6, for which he had paid only £130,000 in tax.

[Originally published at https://peoplelikeyoudontworkinradio.blogspot.com/2023/02/one-door-opens-another-is-closed-by.html]

The year of living namelessly : 1986 : Grant Pearson, Radio Thamesmead

[pic: Lorraine Holloway, The Radio Thamesmead Survivors’ Forum]

 What’s in a name? Well, first impressions are lasting impressions (as The Impressions’ song goes). When our names are usually the first thing that strangers know about us, we are judged solely on the basis of two words. So many people have met me and said “I thought you were American”, a belief based on nothing other than my name. I recall a colleague at The Radio Authority, Janet Lee, confiding that when some people met her for the first time, they would admit “I thought you would be Asian”. All our prejudices and preconceptions are poured into imagining who someone is, even before we know anything about them beyond their name. If you have an unusual or foreign-sounding name, in Britain you are much less likely to be selected for a job interview and your career will be considerably more difficult to pursue in many professions.

In radio broadcasting, your name takes on even more importance. Most radio presenters do not use their real name on-air because it is either too boring, too common or, conversely, too difficult to enunciate easily. Sometimes, like former Metro Radio colleague ‘Giles Squire’, they might choose their on-air name to match a voice that is supposed to convey authority and superiority. So many radio presenters I have worked with have asked me “What is your real name?”, anticipating that I must really be called something quite plain. They are surprised when I respond that ‘Grant Goddard’ is my real name and always has been. The only exception was, as a fourteen-year-old, I had used the name ‘Kid Grant’ when presenting shows on London pirate radio stations, mainly because I thought it would avoid the Post Office tracking me down and prosecuting me. It was also a childish homage to Kid Jensen on Radio Luxembourg, one of my favourite presenters on one of my favourite radio stations of the time.

I have always had difficulty making people understand my name. Grant was an unknown first name in the 1960’s and 1970’s. I never discovered anyone who shared my name until I was amazed to meet another Grant in Durham in 1977, a fellow student with whom I instantly shared a bond of name difficulty. Names I have mistakenly been called include Graham, Grunt, Gram, Gran, Great, Green and Greet. As an adult, I have given up correcting people who call me ‘Mister Grant’ in their belief that it must be my surname. I thought that this identity problem was going to be my life forever. Then, unexpectedly, the landscape changed after February 1990 when Grant Mitchell was introduced as a character on popular British TV soap ‘Eastenders’. The power of television suddenly created an avalanche of people named Grant. I have always wondered why the show’s writers chose this particular name. Was it connected to me having just appeared as the subject of the lead story on the front page of Broadcast magazine, the weekly trade paper for the TV and radio industries?

So why was I named Grant? Once my father had returned from National Service in the Suez, my parents decided they would emigrate to Canada. Had they visited Canada? No. Did they know anyone who had emigrated or visited Canada? No. But, in the 1960’s, no paperwork was required by Canadian authorities. You just booked a flight to Canada and there you were, ready to start a ‘new life’. In preparation for this family adventure, my younger brother and I were both given what my parents believed to be common North American names, thinking it would help their children integrate. However, by 1966, my parents had changed their minds and, instead of emigrating, they decided to buy a plot of land in Britain and build their own Frank Lloyd Wright-style house. Do I mean they contracted builders to construct their house? No. They built their house literally with their own hands. It took years … but that is a story for another day. Anyway, the outcome was that my brother and I were saddled with ‘foreign’ names that would forever elicit “Can you spell that?” in phone calls to customer service staff.

After a lifetime of name difficulties, I was totally resigned to owning a name which had been designed for an existence elsewhere that my parents believed would somehow resemble lifestyles seen in ‘Bewitched’ (our dog had been named Samantha), ‘I Dream of Jeannie’ and ‘The Dick Van Dyke Show’. It was now January 1986. I desperately wanted a job working in radio. My applications to the BBC and commercial radio stations had all been rejected. I took a job as programme manager at a tiny community station called Radio Thamesmead. The pay was so low that I barely broke even. I was living at my mother’s house 30 miles west of London and spent four hours per day commuting to and from its location 10 miles east of London. It was crazy … but it was work.

I arrived for the first day in my new job and was greeted by Radio Thamesmead’s station manager, Grant Pearson. He was only the second person I had ever met with my name. Quite a coincidence, I had thought. Sat behind his desk, this older man explained the basics of my work and then suddenly said something that I could never have anticipated in a million years.

“It would be too confusing to have two Grant’s working here. You will have to choose a different name,” he said. There was a gap of silence. I thought I must have misheard him.

“Sorry?”, I said eventually.

“Your name,” he repeated. “We cannot have two people working here with the same name. Do you have a middle name you can use instead?”

“I have no middle name,” I replied truthfully. I was still baffled. Never in all my years had anyone told me I could not be called by my real name. I stared at him, sitting behind his desk in the former living room of a converted flat on a council estate in one of the most deprived areas of London, managing one of Britain’s smallest radio stations. He was strangely wearing a suit in a community project where everyone else I had seen (including myself) was dressed casually. He resembled a salesman in a Bexley hi-fi shop. I later learnt that this had in fact been his previous job. He apparently had no prior experience in radio. Whereas my resume had shown that my career in radio had started more than a decade earlier, during which time I had worked at stations with audiences measured in millions.

“Do you have a nickname that you can use instead of Grant?” he asked, continuing to press his point.

“No, I have never had a nickname,” I replied. “Everyone has always called me Grant.” In the bafflement of the moment, I believed this to be completely true. I was momentarily too floored to delve so far back as to recall that Mrs Keep, the very elderly lady who lived next door when I was a toddler, insisted on calling me Little Jo. She had heard my father calling “Jo” in our garden and had assumed it must be the baby’s name, whereas it was my mother’s pet name (but not her given name). To this one neighbour, I remained Little Jo until we moved house when I was aged ten. But, now sat opposite this seemingly bizarre man in his smart suit, I was too preoccupied with the here and now to access memories from almost thirty years earlier.

“You will have to choose a name you want to be called,” said the man who evidently enjoyed flexing his powers in this miniscule community project. My new role did not even report to him. My salary was to be paid from a job creation scheme funded by a national charity commissioned by the government, not from the project’s own resources. My line manager, who I had never met, apparently worked in an office located miles away in central London. I reflected that it would not be a good start to this new job to argue with someone in my workplace with whom I would have to work so closely. I could judge in my mind that this was not the day to start a name war.

“I have always been called Grant. How can I choose another name?” I asked him, sounding somewhat desperate but accepting of my fate. I was wondering what other craziness I would have to endure in this job, beyond this jumped-up man in a suit. Should I leave now? No. I knew I needed a job, any job right now, and I would have to suffer the humiliation that he seemed eager to direct my way.

“You need to choose a name right away,” he insisted. “I am about to write a press release to post on our noticeboards. In a few minutes, I will introduce you to each of the team working here and I need to know how I should introduce you.” I considered what name to choose. It was a task I had never imagined I would be required to do in the first hour of my first day. His insistence was so illogical that I decided I would substitute one of the most uncommon first names with the one that was the most common in Britain.

“If I have to change my name,” I replied, “then I will be called John.” My logic was that there must be someone else in this workplace who was named John. Would that prove to be an equally problematic choice in the mind of this evidently crazed man? Would he reject John too? Or was this just a case of him flaunting his egoistic power over his own name?

“Okay,” he said. “Here you will be called John Goddard.” Question answered. It was apparently all about his inflated ego. That day, he went on to introduce me as John to everyone at the radio station. He put my new name on the noticeboard. For that entire year of 1986, I was known at Radio Thamesmead as John Goddard. Nobody else and nowhere else knew me by that name. It was confusing for me. At first, when one of the staff I was managing called “John”, I thought they were addressing someone else. The madness continued until, by December, my one-year contract ended and I left to join what I thought might be a less bizarre employer, London’s Capital Radio. Grant Pearson was still working at Radio Thamesmead when I left. I had moved on, he had not. Did I ever run in to him again in subsequent decades? No, I did not.

During the following three years, I never gave another thought to this strange episode in my career. By 1989, I was involved in London black music pirate radio station KISS FM with whom I was preparing a licence application. I was attending a radio industry conference in Birmingham with some of my new colleagues. After one seminar in a lecture theatre had ended, our group got up and joined the crowd in the aisle headed towards the exit. I noticed that someone who looked familiar was rushing up to us.

“John, it’s good to see you again,” said this person. Close up I recognised him as Cemal Hussein, the chief engineer (and much more) of Radio Thamesmead. He was one of the cleverest people and also one of the friendliest of the wonderful team I had worked with there. We hugged and chatted a little. It was great to see him again. After he left, my colleagues from KISS FM looked at me quizzically.

“John?” one of them asked.

“It’s a long story,” I responded.

This is that story.

[Originally published at https://peoplelikeyoudontworkinradio.blogspot.com/2023/01/the-year-of-living-namelessly-1986.html]

What are words worth? : 2003 : Professor Anthony Everitt’s community radio report, The Radio Authority

 I like to be helpful. If I have a skill, I will offer it to help solve a problem at work. I thought that was what working for an organisation was all about. The bringing together of people with different skills to work together to move things forward. But, in reality, I have often found that demonstrating a skill you have at work can get you noticed, but not necessarily in a positive way. Bizarrely, someone in a workplace who can demonstrate proven skills can be seen as the enemy. Why? Because, in the British media industry, most people are appointed not on the basis of the skills they bring to the job, but on the basis of who they are. Are they ‘one of us’? Did they go to the right school, usually a private school? Do they speak with a posh accent? Do they know the ‘right people’? Once given the job, these incumbents do not take kindly to some upstart colleague or underling who demonstrates in the workplace that they have proven skills which their posh colleague or manager have never had … and have never had to have. They have been granted their role because they are simply ‘the right stuff’.

The Radio Authority had commissioned a report about the potential for a new community radio sector in the United Kingdom. The Authority had no real interest in launching community radio, but it had suddenly become convenient. The British commercial radio industry had lobbied to be relieved of its responsibility to provide local news bulletins on its radio stations. News was expensive, compared to DJ’s playing records. News was unionised and journalists were relatively well paid compared to non-unionised local presenters. After 30-odd years of having had to provide local news bulletins, commercial radio owners demanded to their regulator, The Radio Authority, that this requirement be stopped. But how to succeed in proving that doing less, cutting its services, making journalists redundant, could be argued as good for commercial radio’s listeners? It needed a good wheeze that was believable.

Although there had been demands for a community radio sector in Britain since the 1970’s that had consistently been rebuffed by the regulator and government, thirty years later it was suddenly the perfect time to accept and promote the idea. The plot went like this: new community radio stations would broadcast local news to their listeners, so what was the point of local commercial radio stations also providing a similar local news service? The commercial radio industry cooked up a scheme with the regulator under which community radio stations would be licensed nationwide for the first time. However, those stations would be shackled to a licence regime that denied them the technical resources to reach many people, the financial resources to be sustainable or the ability to generate revenues by selling on-air advertising. As a result, these stations would prove no threat to existing commercial radio owners, either by stealing their listeners or their revenues. Starved of sustainability, community radio stations would likely go bust very quickly. The stations themselves could be blamed for their failures, not The Radio Authority and certainly not commercial radio.

For the commercial radio industry, this was a win-win proposal. This new tier of community radio stations was to be licensed to fail but could relieve them of having to continue the expensive job of providing local news. Their stations could later lobby that they no longer needed to be local at all because they no longer broadcast local news. Their stations could be regional, or even national, cutting their operators’ expenses even further. The British government went along with this bizarre scam. I sat in the front row of a conference and witnessed a government minister argue from the podium that, by licensing a new tier of community radio stations to broadcast local news, commercial radio owners could no longer be required to provide regular local news bulletins. I wanted to jump up and shout “bullshit” but everyone in the audience nodded their heads sagely as if it all made perfect logical sense. Not for the first time, I felt like the upstart in a room of worthies who could not see the reality unfolding in front of them because their only evident skill was having ‘the right stuff’.

It was 2003. I desperately wanted a job working in radio but all my applications for vacancies had been rejected. So here I was unexpectedly working for The Radio Authority. By now, I had sat at my desk for several months without doing any work. That sentence is not an exaggeration. My managers had not given me a single task to do, so I had been able to sit there, getting on with my own projects on my desktop computer, but looking busy. I had no idea why I had been recruited for a job that seemed to involve doing nothing. Now they had commissioned a report on the potential for community radio from an academic. I had had no involvement in the commissioning. Nobody at The Radio Authority had ever asked me anything about community radio, despite the fact that I was the sole employee to have worked in a British community radio station. In 1983 I had been a founder member of the Community Radio Association. I was the only person at The Radio Authority who had attended the Association’s last annual conference. I had circulated to colleagues a short note on what had happened at the conference. Nobody responded.

Somebody in the office shared with me a Word copy of the professor’s completed report to read and told me it was about to be sent to the designers commissioned to put fancy graphics and a cover around it. I read it and realised immediately that the document was not ready to print. Nobody at The Radio Authority had even thought about editing the report, correcting the layout, correcting typos or doing all the little stuff that a sub-editor has to do prior to publication. I had not been given this Word document because it was my responsibility at work or because of my experience as a writer and editor since the 1970’s. A conversation ensued that seemed rather baffling to my colleague. I suggested the document could not be published as it was because it had not been ‘subbed’. Bafflement. I tried a different approach. If the document was published as is, it would prove an ‘embarrassment’ to The Radio Authority. I had already learnt that my workplace only acted decisively when it needed to avoid ‘embarrassment’. It worked. I offered to sub-edit the document prior to publication because I had the skills that apparently nobody else in my office possessed.

During the next few weeks, I communicated regularly with the report’s author whilst editing his document. I was pleased to have something to do that could use my skills and was connected with radio. I knew about community radio, I knew about editing. I had honed these skills over several decades. In the back of my mind, I must also have been thinking that I might be given some actual work to do by my managers at The Radio Authority in editing and/or community radio if I demonstrated my skills with this document. I wanted to be able to use my skills in my job. Until now, I had had no opportunity to show what I could do. After completing the editing of the document, I shared it with the author who was fulsome in his praise for my contribution and commented that I had been the best editor he had ever worked with. I handed back the edited version to my colleague. It was passed to the designers and printed.

I was not even sure that my line mangers knew or cared that I had edited this report. Internally I did not receive any credit or thanks for my work. On the contrary, I was the only employee denied an end-of-year bonus that year. My hope that it might lead to my involvement in the licensing of new community radio stations was quashed when it was announced that the person responsible would be Soo Williams who worked in the same office as me. I had never heard her express any interest in community radio. She was initially charged with organising a large meeting with community groups interested in applying for licences. She seemed fearful and asked me how to organise such a meeting and to suggest a suitable venue. I helped selflessly, once again with the hope it would lead to involvement. She accepted my suggestion of hiring a room at the London School of Economics. The meeting went ahead. I was not invited. I had no further involvement in The Radio Authority’s work on community radio.

In 2019, Soo Williams was awarded an MBE for her services to community radio.

[Originally published at https://peoplelikeyoudontworkinradio.blogspot.com/2023/01/what-are-words-worth-2003-professor.html]