скачать книгу бесплатно
There, my brief extended beyond sport to a bi-monthly
(#ulink_847f9e84-12fa-5d91-bf2a-d1aa10679597) magazine show called Scoutabout, which I took over from amateur DJ and Scout obsessive Peter Flint.
‘Fall in, Troop! Fall in!’ I’d shout into the microphone. And then as the specially commissioned theme music ended with a rom-po-pom-pom, I’d say, ‘Aaaaaaaat ease.’ And the show – a high-spirited hour aimed at Boy Scouts and to a smaller extent Girl Guides – would begin.
It was great, great fun, but my sports reporting was obviously my top priority. As such, I became a valuable and well-known asset to Radio Norwich. The controller there, Bett Snook, was a chain-smoking woman who sounded like a chain-smoking man whose chain smoking had called for an emergency laryngectomy.
She gave me some solid gold advice. ‘Dickie Davies, Barry Davies, Elton Welsby, Jimmy Hill, David Coleman, Tony Gubba, Ron Pickering, Ron Atkinson, Bob Greaves, Stuart Hall, Gerald Sinstadt. What do they have in common?’
‘They’re all sports broadcasters,’ I said. ‘Some more successful
(#ulink_84f590c6-ed92-5707-bf67-f7b8c3df69c1) than others.’
(#ulink_4da5788f-ba33-55f6-b7c3-b1275ca99c80)
‘And what’s the difference between them?’ She sat back in her chair, smoking her cigarette using her mouth.
‘Some are more successful
(#ulink_698cbbf4-1561-50d1-8c9b-80a8816bd117) than others,’
(#ulink_0bd41334-e730-5295-aaed-2118b4663cd0) I repeated.
‘No, more than that. Think about it. They’re different types of sports broadcaster. Some are anchors, others commentators, some are analysts, some are reporters.’
I realised what she was getting at.
‘Alan, it’s all very well being Norwich’s Mr Sport [which I was]. But you’re spreading yourself too thin. Work out what it is in sport you want to be, and then be the best at it.’
So I did. And I was. I became the best sports-interviewer-cum-reporter/anchor on British terrestrial television.
In 1990, I was fortunate enough to see a steward badly hurt at an archery competition. In a funny kind of way – and at first, it was very funny – this single mishap provided the springboard to a career at what was, in my view, the biggest publicly funded broadcasting corporation in the United Kingdom. The BBC.
I’d been extremely reluctant to report on the contest, but had agreed to cover it live as Taverham Archery Club was playing host to the British Archery Championships that year and this was apparently a big deal for Norfolk.
‘Whether you regard it as an ancient art form, a woodland hunting technique or just a big version of darts, this is archery,’ I boomed. ‘And we’ll be following every twang, whoosh and gadoyng of what is shaping up to be a classic British Archery Championships.’
It was sports broadcasting with real panache, that much should be obvious, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. That was until, mid-way through the event, second favourite Chris Curtis accidentally discharged his bow and it issued a rod of arrow into the arm of a female steward. (And for the billionth time, I didn’t accuse Curtis of being drunk, I merely speculated that he might be drunk.)
Suddenly, I was hurled into the middle of a breaking news story. This was live radio and all ears were literally on me.
‘The poor woman’s wailing like a banshee over there and, as concerned officials gather round her to stem the flow of blood and presumably discuss what, if any, rule has been broken, I’ll do my best to describe the scene.
‘Basically, archers are standing round chatting – none of them have approached the stricken victim, but that’s what archers do. If this was in the wild, the archers would stand there high-fiving each other while the carcass was retrieved by a young bushwacker or loyal gun dog.
‘Not that she’s dead. She’s hit in her upper arm, which must come as some relief. If it’d been her neck, it would have been curtains for both her and the rest of the afternoon’s archery action, coming to you live from Taverham.
‘And while the lady steward squeals like an impaled but quiet pig, I can tell you she’s gone into shock – you can see that from here. The colour’s drained from her and she’s all a-quiver. And actually … like “a quiver”, she has an arrow in her.
‘Erm … it’s an unusual sight, certainly. A person lying there with a big rod coming out of them, like a human kebab or – if you prefer – some kind of lady lolly. And a not unattractive lady lolly, I must say. One that I’m sure every man here would dearly like to lick.
‘But that’s not to in any way trivialise what is clearly a distressing situation.
‘Er … St John’s ambulance are nearby. Not doing anything, of course, but I’m not sure they’re trained to administer medical care. They’re to a real paramedic what the Salvation Army is to a special forces soldier. Still, they look smart enough.
‘And the arrow’s out! The arrow is out! It’s been plucked from the woman like a pointy Excalibur. Well done that man …
‘Right. Next to shoot is Mark Allen …’
When I played the tape back to Carol the next morning, she agreed (in an uncharacteristically effusive show of support) that it had been ‘a powerful and moving broadcasting tour de force’.
(#ulink_2d83df8f-5cac-5a7d-8ce1-1370c81b96f7)
And she wasn’t the only one impressed. With my commentary played out on BBC radio news bulletins up and down the land, I was thrust into the national limelight. Suddenly, I was hot property.
And so it was that, six months later, I was included on a round-robin circular memo to BBC reporters, asking for applications to join the team of a new Radio 4 current affairs show. I was a wanted man!
45 (#ulink_e2d74ed4-3341-5a0e-ab9f-efdbfffffc23) Press play on Track 10.
46 (#ulink_cf5dd2b9-424f-5052-90a8-b13b9641ad9d) Listen to.
47 (#ulink_ae49c6a2-0abf-5444-88b7-e86f06ce80f2) Biographical shorthand for: alcoholic.
48 (#ulink_ae49c6a2-0abf-5444-88b7-e86f06ce80f2) I just did a click with my fingers.
49 (#ulink_5a4919cf-635b-5cc7-bea1-318f9e0c1dc5) He explained that this was ‘radio tradition’, and I diligently kept the practice up until years later at Radio 4, when I was challenged about the existence of Wetwipple Dog Track. A subsequent BBC disciplinary was only made bearable by the presence of the kindest BBC HR adviser to ever discipline me. NB – false greyhound racing results are not a radio tradition.
50 (#ulink_2e2ed515-e2c7-5e88-8739-b4036d633b65) I once retorted with ‘Alright! Keep your hair on!’ (He has chronic alopecia.) He wasn’t that impressed.
51 (#ulink_05272d86-afc1-5f9d-bbbc-b407f1bf3716) Press play on Track 11.
52 (#ulink_c6131228-a151-5b1f-8b26-b877c79de0a8) ‘Bi-monthly’ is a funny word. Twice a month or once every two months? In this case, it depended on audience demand. Mainly the latter.
53 (#ulink_91d381d2-5dfb-536b-84af-257ce29eb280) Dickie Davies.
54 (#ulink_91d381d2-5dfb-536b-84af-257ce29eb280) Elton Welsby.
55 (#ulink_4e0d13aa-a22e-5b41-8376-37706645c78e) Barry Davies.
56 (#ulink_4e0d13aa-a22e-5b41-8376-37706645c78e) Tony Gubba.
57 (#ulink_161680de-1b2d-5ffe-a396-783d5666e295) My words. Her agreement.
Chapter 7
Joining the Bbc
I’M STANDING IN FRONT of a building that is literally steeped in history. Behind me is London’s swanky Regent Street, home to the Café Royal, Hamley’s toy store and a genuinely impressive two-storey McDonald’s.
Ahead of me, as I say, is a formidable structure, headquarters to broadcasting magnificence. Inside its browny-coloured walls are rooms, studios and cupboards that have played host to some of the greatest moments in broadcasting: Just a Minute, Gardener’s Question Time, John Birt’s 55th birthday party.
I’m about to start work for an organisation that needs absolutely no introduction, qualification or explanation. Reader, I’m about to work for Radio 4, the BBC1 of UK radio.
(#ulink_936f523d-974b-553a-940b-e6eedf392143)
Before this big break, I’d been to London before: once for Carol’s birthday when she was going through an ‘unfulfilled’ phase and had ideas above her/Norwich station, and another time when I had to pick up a cagoule that had found its way on to the Charlton Athletic team bus after a fractious post-match interview.
But working in the capital? This was quite unexpected. I’d received the good news during an intervention – Carol’s brother Tim was drinking too much, so we’d effectively ambushed him in our lounge – and I was pleased that my own success could in some small way deflect attention from his enormous failings. To provide a bit of levity, I left the room for a moment and came back in wearing a bowler hat and umbrella, saying ‘I’m going to work in London!’ while marching up and down. I thought that was absolutely hilarious. After a stern word from Carol, the intervention continued in earnest and I’m delighted to say it was a success. Tim’s barely touched a drop since then, apart from wine.
Although it was a Sunday, I thought it best that I telephoned every one of my Radio Norwich colleagues to tell them I’d been plucked for national stardom and I’d be leaving Norwich. It was best they found out from me, as I knew that the loss of the station’s Mr Sport would hit them hard. Most of them took it well and showed tremendous stoicism, displaying almost no emotion.
I began to make arrangements for my new life. But it was only after I’d completely cleared my desk weeks later that I found out that On the Hour was to be a weekly show, which meant that we were only required in London on a Friday.
I spoke to the station controller of Radio Norwich, quickly unresigned and set about returning the items to my desk. There were a few snide remarks from colleagues but I was unperturbed, glad even, that I’d made the error, as the process of clearing and then restocking my workspace was an absolute pleasure. It allowed me to conduct a full stationery audit, think seriously about the strategy and ergonomics of my desk, and devise a new layout that was fresher, simpler and more logical.
The telephone was switched to the far left, on the grounds that I tended to wedge the receiver under my left jowl and use my right hand to scribble notes or gesticulate. To that end, my pen jar and notepad were migrated from the leftermost reaches of the space to a new position, just by the right hand. The computer monitor – previously slap bang in the middle – was perched in the right-hand corner, angled jauntily in my face’s favour. Snacks and chocs were housed in a new Tupperware box in the top drawer, a radical departure which freed up a good quartile of the desk’s surface. Staplers, hole punches, sticky-backed plastic, Post-it notes: gone, in a hard-headed cull of underused items. The angle-poise was placed – nice touch, this – on an adjoining cabinet, not impinging on the desktop at all and casting its beam from an unusual angle which gave a quality of light that was genuinely different from that of the desks of Elaine Clark (news), or Sophie DeVault (weather).
It was a pared-down and original layout that was user-friendly and looked good too. I’ve tried several other designs since but have honestly never bettered this one. If I have the time, I’ll sketch it out and put it in the appendix, entirely free of charge.
(#ulink_fa981af1-30df-55a6-afb2-4831089e96dc)
It all felt like a fresh start for me. A new city, a new job, a new desk system, even a new brother-in-law who could speak clearly and wasn’t over-affectionate with my kids. I was cockerel-a-hoop.
Radio 4’s On the Hour was a weekly news programme with seriously big balls. It made Newsnight look like Newsround and The Nine O’Clock News look like Newsround. If other shows were a normal-sized packet of crisps, On the Hour was very much a grab bag. And for those of you unfamiliar with the denominations of crisp bags, that means it was large.
It was a serious break for me and I knew it.
(#ulink_2281aae2-3257-559a-89dd-43f7d67302bf) I’ll never forget my first week in the job. On the morning of the show I’d arrived at London’s [CHECK NAME OF STATION] with nothing other than a Slazenger back-pack, a selection of snacks and sandwiches, a spare shirt and tie, a notebook, pens, pencils, pencil sharpener, first aid kit, an emergency 50p for the phone box and (I hoped) a glint in my eye.
I hopped on the tube and made my way over to the BBC. (By the way, for anyone reading this overseas or in Wales, the ‘tube’ is a means of public transport.)
(#ulink_0db7d62d-f7ae-5b6b-af17-6d1a19c04741) The show was to be recorded in the august surroundings of Broadcasting House. And what a building! As soon as you walked through the doors, you could tell these people knew what they were doing. Quite simply, the place stank of news.
But this reek of pure BBC quality only added to my sense of apprehension. With only an hour to go until the opening editorial meeting, nerves fluttered around my stomach. It’s a hard feeling to describe but it was almost as if someone had put moths in my tummy.
It was of some comfort to me that I knew one of the team already. On the Hour was edited by the redoubtable (love that word) Steven Eastwood. I’d met him when I came up to London for my job interview. Things had begun, as they so often do at the BBC, with a handshake.
‘That’s a good handshake you’ve got there, Alan.’
‘Thanks,’ I replied. ‘I practise it in front of the mirror.’
‘And how was your journey?’
‘Real good, thanks, Stephen,’ I said, briefly forgetting that his name was actually spelt ‘Steven’.
‘So tell me, young man, how much do you want this job?’ he probed.
‘What’s it out of? Ten?’
But Eastwood didn’t want a number – if he had, my answer would have been ten, maybe eleven – he just wanted to see a flicker of true passion. Thankfully for me, that’s exactly what he saw. And incredibly that was all it took – along with a 90-minute interview, a written exam, a series of psychometric tests and the submission of a full portfolio of my work – for him to offer me a job. Well from that moment onwards, our professional relationship went from strength to strength to strength to strength to strength.
On a personal level things were slightly different. He and I were just chalk and Cheddar. At the height of the show’s popularity I was receiving five, sometimes six, pieces of fan mail a quarter. It was pretty relentless and if I’m honest, I think it stuck in Eastwood’s craw. Sure, I tried to build bridges from time to time. I’d take him to the BBC bar and order us each a pint of bitter and a meat-based sandwich. But he’d take a few sips (of his drink) before claiming he was ‘dead drunk’ and needed to go home.
Maybe it was possible to get drunk that quickly. I’ve certainly heard it said that Chinamen can’t hold their booze. But all these years later, when I think back to those aborted evenings out, there’s one tiny detail that just doesn’t add up: Eastwood wasn’t Chinese.
Okay, he had a soft spot for a portion of Chicken Chow Mein on a Friday night. But, be honest, who doesn’t? And besides, even the most berserk Sinophile would struggle to argue that ingesting industrial amounts of egg noodles actually makes you Chinese. No, Eastwood was from Hertfordshire, and there was nothing anybody could do about it.
But as I made my way to that first editorial meeting, I knew I still had my fellow reporters to wow. Questions tumbled around my head like trainers in the washing machine I have mentioned on two previous occasions. Would I pass muster? Would I cut the mustard? Would I pass the mustard?
I was panicking. There was no point spending my time conflating two well-known phrases or sayings into a third that, while making grammatical sense, had no value as a metaphor. Or was there? I thought for a moment. No, there definitely wasn’t.
Somehow I needed to chill the eff out. If I was a drug-doer I would probably have spliffed myself into the middle of next week. But I wasn’t (although – full disclosure – I had taken two paracetemols from my first aid kit and administered a splodge of Savlon to an ankle graze sustained at London’s [CHECK NAME OF STATION].)
In the end I sorted myself out by using a simple but effective visualisation technique taught to me by either Paul McKenna or Russ Abbott, I forget which. Hang on, no, it was Ali Bongo. Taken from the teachings of Buddha (I’m guessing here), the idea is to imagine yourself as someone with the characteristic you desire. In the case of Bongo, he would think of a cuddly old cat lying in the sunshine. Before a big show he would spend 15 minutes purring, licking his imaginary paws and hanging his head over a bin trying to bring up fur balls. And by the end of it? He was as cool as beans.
For me, though, cats weren’t the answer. No, the answer was Roger Moore. I locked myself in a toilet cubicle and spent the best part of a quarter of an hour visualising myself in A View to a Kill, taking on the evil Max Zorin, sailing under the ocean in a submarine disguised as an iceberg and having it off with Grace Jones, the first black woman I have ever slept with.
And by the time someone started banging on the door wondering what all the noise was about, I had reached a zen-like state of calm. As it turns out, though, I was right to be anxious about the editorial meeting. There were some seriously large-brained people in that room. Those in attendance included Christopher Morris (anchor), Rosie May (environment), Kevin Smear (roving reporter), Peter O’Hanraha-hanrahan (economics editor) and yours truly (sport, plus the Paralympics).
I picked a chair and sat down quietly and effectively. It was a good start but I needed to do more. I took a deep breath and prepared to introduce myself. But as soon as I heard the level of their chit-chat, I froze. They were using words, ideas and concepts that you simply never heard in Norfolk. Not even in Norwich.
I resolved to keep my mouth shut until I’d acclimatised. Phrases swirled around the room. ‘Where does Labour stand on that?’ ‘It’s over for Milosevic.’ ‘Alan, could you pass the biscuits?’ ‘This Rodney King thing is going to be massive.’ ‘GDP’s down by 0.5% this quarter.’ ‘Alan? The biscuits.’ ‘The Home Office aren’t going to comment apparently.’ ‘Fine, I’ll get them myself then.’
How in the name of holy living heck was I going to bust my way into this conversation? I don’t know, I answered, inside my head. On the table next to me was the tea urn. Now this was a plus point because I loved tea urns. Still do. There’s something very reassuring about the concept of hot beverages dispensed from a lovely big drum.
(#ulink_33bc222d-1b52-5bb9-9ca9-42a56ebb43ff) Of course your problem with any kind of communal drinks station is the sugar bowl. People put the spoon back in the bowl after stirring in their sugar. No problem with that, you might think. Well think again. The residual moisture acts as a caking agent, forming the granules into unsightly asymmetric clumps. Worse still, those clumps are stained a grubby brown by the tannin-rich tea. Not nice, not nice at all.
And let’s not forget the germ issue. Putting a damp spoon back in the bowl is the tea-drinking equivalent of sharing a needle. And I did not want to end up with the tea-drinking equivalent of AIDS.
Instantly it struck me that if their ‘thing’ was intimidating intellect, my ‘thing’ could be beverage-related hygiene. Of course I later remembered that I already had a ‘thing’, namely sport (plus the Paralympics). But I wasn’t thinking straight, which should go some way to explaining what happened next.
Kevin Smear (roving reporter) approached. This seemed somehow appropriate because while the others had stayed where they were, he had quite literally roved over.
‘Hello, Alan.’
‘Hello.’
‘Guys, I’m just saying hello to Alan.’
The rest of them nodded in my direction, using their heads.
‘What are you doing sat over there?’ said Rosie May (environment).
‘Nothing much,’ I smiled. ‘Just thinking that you lot have probably got tea AIDS!!’
Wham! I knew it was a winner as soon as it’d left my lips. If you’d stuck me in a room with a typewriter for ten years I would never have come up with one that good. But in that room, fuelled by nothing other than raw nerves, out it plopped, fully-formed and ready to go.
Of course it wasn’t a winner at all. Not being privy to my train of thought, they had no idea what this ‘tea’ prefix was. As far as they were concerned their new colleague had just accused them all of having AIDS. Yet they didn’t have AIDS. And though the colourful lifestyle of one of them certainly put him in the ‘at risk’ category, he wouldn’t go full-blown until 2003.
