Andy Richardson: Terms of reference... it's a right Game!

He'd been concentrating hard as we'd allocated stories to pages, selecting the wheat from the chaff, separating The Stone Roses from The (Tone Deaf) Roses – an elderly tribute band for the hard of hearing who play an annual gig at the Bilston Deaf Institute.

Our conversation had turned to music and the merits of The Game, AKA Jayceon Terrell Taylor, a man who grew up watching both his parents prepare for drive-by shootings. The Game has led a colourful life, though not so colourful as to permeate the consciousness of Mr Reliable. While The Game was watching his parents chase the dragon, Mr Reliable was learning the lyrics to Puff The Magic Dragon; while The Game was watching his parents fix cocaine, Mr Reliable was watching his parents fix bamboo canes in their garden. Well, how else would their broad beans have stood up straight?

America's West Coast hip-hop-meister, The Game, plays Birmingham's O2 in a week or so and Mr Reliable was unconvinced that we should afford him column inches.

I fought the good fight, pointing out that The Game is a man who brings new meaning to the phrase 'tough life'. He watched a friend being murdered for his clothes, his father was a Nutty Block Crip and his mother was a Hoover Crippelette. Drugs and guns were as common as peanut butter and jello sandwiches.

Mr Reliable came straight back at me. He'd watched a friend buy clothes from Next, his father liked the Nutty Professor and his mother also had a Hoover; though she used it to vacuum her carpets rather than pump lead into deadly rivals.

I sensed Mr Reliable wasn't that interested in The Game. He switched off halfway through my eloquent discourse and started doodling pictures of Boba Fett, from Star Wars. So I did what all people do when they're making no sense: I decided to shut up.

"So, that's that," I said, ending my pitch. "We should write about him. He was from Compton."

The word 'Compton' triggered something deep within and Mr Reliable's ears picked up. "Compton?"

"Yes. Compton."

"Brilliant. Let's put him on the front cover."

"Erm, are you sure. . ."

"Yes, Compton's only down the road, it's not far from Wolverhampton."

The silence hung heavy for half a second. Then I burst out laughing. "Not that Compton."

My disinterested compadre had confused crime-ridden Compton, in south central Los Angeles, with its affluent and leafy namesake near Tettenhall. His terms of reference extended only as far as the A454, rather than the roughhouse district that gave us Kevin Costner, Kendrick Lamar and Ice Cube. Mr Reliable was as likely to know about Compton, LA, as NWA are to dress up in Arran jumpers and start singing ye olde folke tunes over pints of frothy ale at Ironbridge.

Terms of reference can be decidedly amusing. They are a source of frequent mirth. When terms of reference don't match up it's like speaking to someone in a different language. One man's rubber band pistol quickly becomes another man's weapon of maths destruction. One woman's early morning espresso is another woman's Don't Give A Sip.

When the World Trade Centre was blown up by damn nasty terrorists, there was a moment of confusion in the newsroom. The peace of a relatively quiet day had been shattered by al-Qaeda numbnuts who'd flown American Airlines Flight 11 and United Airlines Flight 175 into the Twin Towers.

A veteran reporter, the elegantly-named Vince Bufton, saw a newsflash and responded quickly. He dashed into our office to seek more details, stopping beside the desk of a charming man called Craig.

Sadly Craig's terms of reference didn't extend to the treachery of terrorists. He was as familiar with Sunni supremacists as Hugh Hefner is with fidelity.

The pillars of Craig's world were built on football, Tennents Super and an inexplicably passionate love of swimming. He knew nothing about planes-disguised-as-bombs.Craig hailed from Hamilton, in Scotland, and was a sort of anti-reporter. He liked chatting to people about the things they'd been up to but wasn't that fussed about writing it down. Bless him.

On 9/11, the wizened old Mr Bufton was like a cat on a hot tin kennel. "It's a disaster," Vince told us, as he sat down at a computer. "Terrorists have flown aeroplanes into the Twin Towers."

"What, Wembley?" said Craig, slumping in his seat. "What'll happen to Saturday's friendly against Portugal?"

In our age of globalisation, I'd like to think we could all adopt standard terms of reference to avoid miscommunication. And then Mr Reliable would know all there is to know about 21st century America.

He'd know the difference between Crips and Crisps and tell everyone proudly that Americans are free to arm bears.