Confessions of a trade show addict

Before I applied for the Project Manager role at Photosound, I had absolutely no idea that a massive global trade show industry existed. I knew I loved science and I had a degree to show for it, but I also knew I was drawn to design, communications and the way good ideas become things that people can actually see and feel.

I wanted a role that sat somewhere in the middle, something that let me stay close to the science while still flexing the creative side of my brain, though I didn’t yet have the vocabulary to describe that properly.

Photosound fixed that very quickly.

Long before I had even started, they told me I would be heading to Singapore in my fifth week to manage a full installation for Schering-Plough and I can still remember the mixture of flattery and mild panic. I was young, keen and highly aware that I had absolutely no clue what a five-week-old project manager was meant to do in an exhibition hall on the other side of the world. But the excitement was outrageous and it eclipsed the nerves almost entirely.

I didn’t have to wait five weeks anyway. Two weeks into the job I was suddenly on a plane to Barcelona to help my boss install a major booth for Astra. One moment I was being shown how the office printer worked, the next I was watching a forty-person build crew assemble a stand the size of a small townhouse while forklifts zoomed past my knees. It was the fastest confidence test imaginable and the kind that stretches you before you have time to overthink it.

From there the world opened up.

For several years I found myself on pharma booths for GSK, BMS, Serono, Merck and more, hopping between ERS, EULAR, EAACI, ESMO and just about every other acronym the industry can produce. You rarely see much of the cities when you are working, but every now and then I managed to tack on an extra day or two and that let me see places I simply would never have had the money or opportunity to visit at that age.

Jerusalem, Sydney, Pattaya, Buenos Aires, Florence, Tenerife, Rhodes, Athens, Istanbul. It was a gift disguised as work, sometimes glamorous, sometimes chaotic, always unforgettable.

And while the exotic cities were brilliant, I always had a soft spot for Stockholm and Amsterdam. Not the flashiest destinations, but perfect for trade shows, everything runs smoothly, the food is good, the evenings are lively and you never feel wrung out by day four.

The industry taught me more than I realised at the time.

It showed me how to stay calm inside absolute chaos, how to solve problems before they become disasters, how to keep clients comfortable even when things are wobbling behind the scenes and how much genuine pride goes into work that most visitors barely notice as they wander past. It also taught me that people are endlessly inventive.

And of course there were the stories, the kind you only get in a world this strange and brilliant.

This was back in the days when pharma booths used to give away far more goodies than they do now and I once watched a doctor wander over to our hospitality area, open his delegate bag and scoop in every single tea bag laid out for the staff without saying a word.

In Pattaya they gave the build crew and the booth team fresh fruit drinks each morning and my tech guy stashed one in the little cupboard where the computers lived. By day three it had fermented and exploded and we spent the next hour trying to work out why the entire back wall smelled like a tropical brewery.

In Buenos Aires we had demonstrators march through the hall, spray paint part of our booth, shout a few things and then wander off as if it was the most normal thing in the world. And yes, there was the time my trade show caught fire on the way to a flagship event, but that particular tale has already been told so I will leave it at that.

In time I moved beyond pharma into other industries and that opened up a completely different universe. CES in its heyday became the annual pilgrimage and there was something wonderful about starting the year in Las Vegas surrounded by ideas that felt wild, ambitious and occasionally prophetic.

And this, in many ways, is why it was such a joy to work all those years later on the trade show experience for Eurovision. A totally different audience to the usual pharma booth, a different purpose, a different energy altogether. Sitting in with the exhibit house and shaping the design and the floorplan together felt like slipping back into an old language, one I had learned years before without even realising it. I moved on from the project at launch, but the team did a great job bringing it to life.

And the funny thing is, they feel more relevant now than ever. After years of everything going digital and the post-pandemic push towards virtual-first solutions, people are craving real experiences again. They want spaces they can step into, ideas they can touch, conversations that aren’t flattened through a screen. For all the sophistication of online events, nothing quite matches the energy of standing in a hall as something comes to life in front of you.

All those congresses, all those builds, all those long days in exhibition halls suddenly fed into something far broader and far more public. It was familiar and fresh at the same time and I loved every minute of it.

Through all of this, the thrill never faded.

There is something oddly addictive about the smell of a convention centre early in the morning, that mix of carpet glue, overworked air conditioning and nervous anticipation. The moment before the visitors arrive when the lights warm up and the screens flicker to life and the design you have spent months agonising over stands there looking proud and ready.

It is the closest I have come to seeing an idea become a place, something you can actually walk into.

Looking back, those years shaped far more of my career than I recognised at the time. They taught me how to build things under pressure, how to stay curious, how to love the craft of making something temporary feel extraordinary.

And even now, many years later, I still get that thrill whenever I walk into a trade show hall.

That sense of possibility never really leaves you.