14 April 2016, 3 pm
After the tea break, we have a talk about the UPC, from a barrister. The barrister is convinced that the UPC will be a fabulous tribunal and wonders why anyone would ever want to opt out. She has possibly not heard the rumours about the training of new UPC judges, which by all accounts begins with a module on “What is a patent?” and culminates in “What is a court?”, with some intermediate lectures on what I believe they call “Judgecraft”. Some of us are concerned that the Hogwarts School for Muggles Who Fancy a Bit of Light Judging might not be the complete solution to the problem here, which is that the courts of some EU countries have never seen a patent. The barrister also implies that Monsieur Le Battistelli was wrong about a Brexit scuppering the UPC. If there is a Brexit, she says, our government will still want there to be a pan-EU patent system, because a pan-EU patent system is a Good Thing. I wish I shared her confidence that our government can recognise a Good Thing when it comes to the IP context, or indeed that the pursuit of Good Things is one of its priorities. But I confess I had not previously thought of this possibility: that we might ratify the UPC, then leave the EU anyway, and subsequently do the IP law equivalent of standing at the edge of the pitch hurling abuse at the linesmen. Our final talk is an IPO update from a senior patent examiner. Amongst other things, she tackles the thorny subject of examiner-attorney relations. She tells us lots of helpful things we could do to make examiners happy, like, only claiming what you’ve actually invented, and only claiming it once, and claiming it in plain English. Oh, and not writing fractious and pompous letters in reply to exam reports. We agree that these are eminently sensible suggestions, apart from the one about fractious and pompous letters, which is outrageous. Unfortunately, we explain, the situation is often beyond our control. Examiner-attorney relations would be excellent were it not for the intervention of clients. Because just when the attorney and the examiner are starting to get along nicely, and have agreed what to do with the claims so as to make both their lives bearable again, the client will step in with some darned inconvenient request, and suddenly there you are writing another fractious and pompous letter. Still, everyone agrees that it is nice of the IPO to talk to us about these things. And that it would be even nicer if the EPO could do the same.
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14 April 2016, 2 pm
Now I am chairing my final regional meeting as President. We are in a proper lecture theatre with proper tip-up theatre seats and a proper AV system. So it is a shame, CIPA having pushed the boat out like this, that we do not have a proper Chair. But I do my best, and in a proper sound and lighting booth at the back of the theatre, a helpful man called Ross keeps an eye on me and adjusts the microphones and moves the slides on when I forget, and generally fixes the things that are needed to make a bunch of amateurs look like they know what they’re doing. First up, the EyePeePee gives a talk about building an IP portfolio. She says: Don’t worry, we all make mistakes, and we all come across problems with chains of title and freedom to operate; the main thing is to have a proper thought-through strategy about it. But of course for every mistake and every problem, no matter how well thought through, you can expect a potential investor to subtract a little something from the price. If this rather basic algebra yields a negative number, you have probably got yourself what is referred to in management bollocks as a Deal Breaker. Oh, and by the way, “If I close my eyes it might go away” does not constitute a proper thought-through strategy. And might well be a Deal Breaker. 14 April 2016, 10 am
Two years ago, at the annual Scottish meeting, CIPA members forgot themselves and accidentally approved a ballot list with my name on. Shortly afterwards, because nobody could think quickly enough to do anything about it, I got elected as VeePee. The rest is history. So, really, it is the Scottish members of CIPA who are to blame. This is why I have returned to Edinburgh, along with Mr Davies and the EyePeePee, to tell them off. But also to say: there look; it wasn’t so bad after all, was it? CIPA is still here. We haven’t been taken over by the solicitors, or the Germans. We haven’t been exposed in the Daily Mail. We still have a ceremonial gavel and our minutes are still better punctuated than those of any other membership organisation on the planet, thanks to the diligence of the Onssek and his magic comma-spotting spectacles. True, we are a little more namby-pamby, but only on the surface: deep down we are still razor-sharp, hard as nails, and all those other macho expressions that describe a profession allergic to compromise. And we are still 125 years ahead of ITMA on the Charter front. (Though we don’t want to rub it in, of course.) Folks, I will say, it could have been so much worse. They may or may not swallow that. 13 April 2016, 8 pm
Bristol Airport is almost deserted, which is rather pleasant. I am on the Sad Person’s 21.15 flight to Edinburgh. It will be the last plane to leave, after the shops and cafés have shut, after the cleaners have gone home. Footsteps echo. Rows of empty seats grin like keyboard teeth. Starbucks® is manned by novices, who burn your fruit toast – and there is no greater crime than that. I am hoping the plane is not also going to be manned by novices, because actually, come to think of it, that might be a greater crime than spoiling fruit toast. I sit down with my fruit toast attempt #2, which unlike attempt #1, has not been torched. It is accompanied by a cup of something tastelessly frothy: this was also made by the novices, apparently out of soap suds. I open my laptop which is one-third broken, and on the remaining two-thirds I write up my Secret Diary ready for the day when I can publish and be damned. That day is only four weeks away. Though I am not especially keen on late evening flights, nevertheless I feel something approaching optimism. Later, I watch EasyJet® complete a half-hour turn-around between the flight I have just seen come in and the one I am destined to board. During this half hour, rigorous safety checks are completed by the evening shift of novice flight engineers, who wave their torches vaguely in the direction of the plane’s turbine blades. They appear worryingly disinterested in the exercise, as though aware that the novice pilot doesn’t know how to make the blades turn anyway. My optimism fades. I finally reach my hotel at 23.15. I have been upgraded to a room that looks lovely but smells like they only painted it this morning. I am concerned that I will be woken early tomorrow by an electrician wanting to finish the snagging. 13 April 2016, 3 pm
Mr Roberts has asked me to write something for his “Six Things We Love About…” column in the Journal. To prevent me using my initiative too much and writing “Six Things We Love About Gin”, he has given me a title. I am to write “Six Things We Love About Being the President of CIPA”. Darn. Six whole things. Hmm. Eventually, with the help of some Red Bull® and a thesaurus, I come up with the following ideas: 1. You get to meet all sorts of interesting and important people. In my case, these are people who would not otherwise have come within 100 yards of me, for fear of catching a Wess Curntry accent. Or because of the Red Bull fumes. Some of them are not entirely sure who I am or why I am there: I enjoy watching them try to work it out. 2. You get to influence the shape and direction of our beloved Institute, and thus of the entire UK patent profession, at the highest possible strategic and policy level (going forward). Ha ha; in my dreams. Better scrub that: Council would be livid if it thought I’d been attempting such skulduggery. 3, sorry, 2. You work right at the throbbing (yes, throbbing!) heart of the IP profession. You know everything that’s going on, even if you don’t understand it. You will never want for CPD again. So long as you stay awake in the right meetings, that is. (No one can tell you which are the right meetings. You have to guess. It is a game.) 3. People have to listen to you. For me, this is quite a novelty. By implication, of course, you then have to think of something appropriate to say. If this is a problem, there are plenty of folk at CIPA who can tell you some appropriate things to say. They can also give you a list of things Not to Say, but it is quite a long list and I don’t always bother sticking to it. This is why Mr Davies keeps a roll of ceremonial gaffer tape. 4. Wherever you go, people pay for your drinks and lunches and dinners. Sometimes these are posh affairs, with almost as many courses as pieces of cutlery (there is always one extra item of cutlery, to test for Imposters. It doesn’t bother me: I use the extra one to pick the straw out of my ears). If you consume all these free refreshments you get to acquire a Presidential waistline. And then you will need to acquire a new, wider-fit Presidential wardrobe. People will not pay for that. 5. You get to write letters on CIPA headed notepaper. Dear reader, you have no idea how exciting this is. Mind you, people at CIPA have no idea what chaos I’ve caused with the last batch I wrote. 6. You get a Presidential badge and lapel pin and business cards. Plus a Presidential swimming gala medal, or rather, a kit of parts of a Presidential swimming gala medal and if you’re lucky a tube of Presidential super glue. Also, you get to use the ceremonial gavel in Council meetings: this is excellent fun if you regard the ceremonial gavel as a percussion instrument as opposed to a procedural device. So, these are my six things to love about this delightful role. I am only allowed one Thing We Hate. I find this somewhat limiting. But in the end I decide I ought to bow out graciously, so I scrub the 99 things I’ve already written down – which were in any case probably libellous – and instead put: 1. You don’t have much time to spend with ordinary CIPA members. Like, last year I wandered all round the country letting myself into folks’ offices and stealing their biscuits, reminding them that CIPA existed and why they were so glad to be members. This year I have to be Dignified and Stately and go where people tell me to and be careful not to drop straw. To be fair, not everyone would regard this as a Thing We Hate About Andrea Being the CIPA Pee. 13 April 2016, 9 am
More yay! ITMA have been granted a Royal Charter! So they are now officially 125 years behind us, but we will try not to rub it in. I am glad because for too many years patent attorneys have been looking down their noses at trade mark attorneys, as indeed they have at most everyone else who isn’t a patent attorney, and believing we are more important because we have a couple more legal documents in our stationery cupboard. It is about time we treated trade mark attorneys with more respect. So what if they don’t all have science degrees? Let’s face it, I have a science degree, but my brain is wired in such an unscientific and illogical fashion that the thoughts can’t find their way out anyway unless the Uncertainty Principle Vector is blowing in the right direction. A science degree on its own proves nothing. I say this only partly because ITMA organise good parties. You don’t look down your nose at someone who throws a good party; you make them your Best Friend Forever, chartered or not. I hope that now the Privy Council have finished with ITMA’s Charter application, they can get their fingers out and progress our Bye-laws. Although there is presumably a more dignified version of getting your finger out for Privy Council members. |
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