TV News cameraman and the Cornish pasty pandemonium.

You know as a TV News cameraman that your day is going to be a long one when you are hired by an outlying newsroom 87 miles away and it takes you 2 hours to get there through the rush hour traffic. You also know it's going to be a tough working day when one of your stories include an investigation into a double murderer who was let out of prison on day release only to go and kill again that very day...

(For my American readers, Yes, they actually do this here... I know, i know...)

The Cornish pasty mountain near Liskeard, Cornwall.

However, when another story comes along that involves gangs, large amounts of cash and 20 Million pounds worth of Colombian marching powder, crack and heroin, you just know that your day is going to involve driving, waiting, copious interviews, pieces to camera, GV's and not a lot of time between, in which to scratch your arse in a contemplative, serene moment of rest.

So you think i would have brought some lunch with me...

You see, believing Oxford to be a city of fine cuisine and a journalistic life of eating punnets of strawberries whilst punting on the river, alongside big brained Oxbridge graduates studying the works of Oscar Wilde, Nietzsche and Dan Brown, i wrongly thought that lunch would come easy. I know... What a twat.

Instead, it was a day of flitting between location (Dodgy) and location (Shit hole) resulting in a day with a 297 mile drive and a brief stop at a fuel garage where fifty pounds was duly spent on fuel and two pounds on a rather delicious looking, hot Cornish pasty. Not having time to stop and eat, my meat and potato repast was consumed on the tail end of traffic queues and traffic lights.

At each stop i would force as much of the pasty into my face as was possible, forcing my cheeks to bulge and flaky pastry bits to fly everywhere, much of it down my front and into my lap... At one such stop, i noticed a young girl in a car next to me, giggling at the fat faced, hamster cheeked idiot in the news van, and i could imagine the conversation with her Father...

"Daddy..?"

"Yes princess, what is it..?"

"Why does that man in the van look like a hamster..?"

Daddy looks over towards the van and sees a stressed looking, fat cheeked cameraman covered in flaky pastry with a lump of potato and gravy resting on his chin, masticating furiously before the red light turns to green, then disappearing in a cloud of tyre smoke...

"Oh... It looks very much to be a TV news cameraman, princess... and that's why you need to do better in school. Take a good long look sweetheart. You don't want to end up like him..."

Well, that's how i imagined it anyway, and having arrived at my next location to interview a rather pleasant Senior Investigating Officer from the fine body of men and women that is the Thames Valley Police, i got out and introduced myself. I shook her hand warmly and returned to my news van to gather the tools of my trade... It was then i realised what i must have looked like, and i again imagined the opening conversation between my journo and the police officer...

"Hello, my name's Leggy Hairdo... BBC... Pleased to meet you."

"Good afternoon, i'm detective chief inspector plod...  (Leans in and whispers...) Why is your cameraman covered in flaky pastry, gravy and potato pieces..?"

"Well, that's a TV news cameraman for you, chief inspector... Don't worry, it's normal."

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter, and his life is a mess.

TV News Cameraman And The Brazilian Burn Misunderstanding.

If you are a regular reader of this blog, you may think that we TV news cameramen don't get to eat during the day due to constant filming deadlines, travelling between news stories with too much to do and no time to do it in... And you would be right. But on occasion, we do get to stop for a while, much to the chagrin of your average news producer who thinks that by stopping to eat, we are killing his first born and wrecking his freelance budget for the next quarter.

Bolinha's to this...

For the first time in a while though, I got to stop for lunch... At lunchtime. I did however make the monumental mistake of listening to my reporter who 'knew a little place around the corner...'

'Fancy a Brazilian..?' He said.

'A man's personal hair removal regime is a private matter... And you're not going anywhere near my nether regions with an electrical clipper and a hot wax spatula you utter lunatic...' I thought.

'Ohh... You mean food...' I said.

'What did you think I meant..?' He replied.

'Nothing... Nothing at all... Yes, let's go for a Brazilian...' I said, burying any thoughts that my reporter had taken a fancy to me and wanted to shave me bald before whisking me away for a romantic weekend in the country...

You see how easy it is to get yourself into a mess with a reporter whilst on the road..? Too easy. Misunderstandings can arise from seemingly innocent conversations about Brazilian food. It's a minefield I tell you.

Anyway, my reporter took me to a hip looking building that is quite obviously the meeting place of local hipsters, world food enthusiasts and Brazilians. I looked at the menu and was shocked... Shocked I tell you, at the lack of anything recognisable.

'How do you like your rissoles..?' Said my reporter.

Do you see..? There he goes again. One misheard mention of a rissole and this cameraman is rolling on the floor laughing. I just can't help myself.

Dip comes in two varieties... Hot and Scorchio.

 I scanned the menu for bacon, sausages, lumps of beef or chicken. Nothing. Not even a bottle of brown sauce. But being the adventurous sort, I opted for a coxinha, a sort of chicken dumpling with a spicy dip. This was not to be your average Cameraman's lunch of something bland and rubbery from a petrol station forecourt.

My reporter on the other hand, a fit, rock climbing, surfing kind of dude relished his choice of Brazilian cuisine with the gusto of someone who has been here before and knows nothing of a TV news cameraman's normal day to day diet of fatty roadside food. It is nice though on occasion, to try something a little different, even if the dip does blow your head off and leaves your tongue burning like... Well, like a Brazilian wax to the nether regions.

Next time, I'm taking charge and we're off to sample the culinary delights of Fat Mike's roadside hotdog van on the A34... And I can ask my reporter how they like their sausage.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

Awkward situations for a news cameraman: Part 1.

I placed my camera on it's tripod at a respectful distance. I wanted to film the group of people in front of me, but didn't want them to know i was specifically filming them. Or for what purpose. As they sat and unpacked their takeaway burgers and fries, cokes and side orders, i rolled.

As the Death Star approached, i switched to using 'The Force'.

Trying to film them anonymously was hard. As they faced each other across a large wooden outside table, faces managed to pop into my viewfinder. Big, large, round faces. The faces kept pushing more fries into the holes at the front, along with about a third of a burger in one bite, washed down with sugary goodness. I concentrated at their midriffs. cracks of arses revealed themselves in large quantity. Bellies protruded from underneath too tight T-Shirts. Bingo wings flapped.

Are we getting bigger..? Are we killing ourselves with fatty foods and sugary beverages..? This is why i was filming. The news has taken upon itself to see, to find the truth, however much it wobbles. My task was to find the overweight amongst us, and film them eating their dinner without revealing their true identity for fear of national embarrassment on the nightly bulletin.

As i focussed in on another gargantuan burger mastication scene i looked up, they were looking at me as i was filming them. One, then two, until finally, the whole family were staring in my direction. I could see them talking about me with general nods in my direction, between mouthfuls of prime beef and potato. I was going to have to explain myself.

As they finished their meal the larger of the two men aimed his not inconsiderable frame in my direction. His bulk getting larger as he filled my vision with girth not seen since the Death Star made its first appearance.

Death Star: "Wotcha filmin' mate..?"

His wide neck glistened with a film of sweat, brightening the colours of the union jack tattoo just below his collar. I wasn't going to lie to the gentleman, as he blocked out the sun, ready to destroy the feeble planet with his overwhelming might.

Feeble Planet: "Oh, nothin' much, just a film for the news about fast food and the dietary need of the British nation as a whole, with an emphasis on glandular over expansion within the general patronage of said establishments."

Death Star: "Oh, right. You weren't filmin' us woz ya..?"

Feeble Planet: "No.. no.. no.. just, y'know, general burger joint scenes..."

Death Star: "Nice camera..."

Feeble Planet: "Thanks."

With that, he turned as nimble as an oil tanker, and rejoined his family, who by now had eaten his fries and finished his coke. My luck was seemingly coming to an end and not wishing to push it further i packed up and left the scene in search of another. My encounter with the Death Star a mere fleeting threat of annihilation.

The news watching public would not be aware of the bravery of this particular rebel of the news alliance, and the dark protruding secrets of the Death Stars exterior would be broadcast for this sector of the galaxy to watch.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

www.media-attention.co.uk

What Lies Beneath...

This is a tale for both news cameramen and TV Journalists alike. For the cameraman, a lesson in looking before you kneel. For news journalists, a metaphor for not believing everything is as it looks. You see, i was filming at a country show with farmers and countryside folk who were gathering for their annual shindig of animal showing, machinery twiddling and cider drinking.

It's a place where the suburban elite come to eye their countryside cousins with suspicion and the country folk eye them back with derision. Farmers try to teach the suburbs where their food actually comes from, and the suburbs whisper that there is something nasty going on in yonder countryside tool shed, that sort of thing.

Anyway, there i was filming a rather large piece of live steak in the cattle tent. 'Bullocks..!' i here you say... No, it's true. Whilst doing so, i knelt down in the fresh looking straw that surrounded the uncommonly clean beast which was ready for show.

The beast turned and sniggered... Right in the sweet spot.

I realised something was amiss as the warmth oozed through my trouser leg and that funny squelch sensation connected with my brain. I knew what i had done without even looking down to inspect the damage. I filmed my shot and stood up. The face of my reporter, Ben Moore, lit up. A guffaw of unsympathetic laughter erupted as he started to take picture evidence that yet again, he had landed his cameraman in the shit.

That Icky feeling...

However, despite the laughing and the unsavoury comments hurled at me by my reporter and assorted countryside folk, i carried on filming and ignored the people avoiding the smelly bloke walking towards them and the innocence of children when pointing at me and saying 'Daddy, that man smells of poo..'

Oh, the humiliation.

But herein lies a lesson for anyone out there who are just starting their Journalistic career or are thinking of doing so. It is a metaphoric lesson learned by yours truly whilst kneeling in the brown stuff... Here it is.

The picture before you looks as it should. It is clean, tidy and is a true representation of what people are telling you. (Clean Straw) Nothing to see here. But look a little closer. Apply a little pressure (Kneel) and you will feel a strange sensation. (Squelch) Apply a little more pressure and something that was covered up (Shit) will rise to the surface. The lesson here is that no matter what the PR machine tells you, there will nearly always be something foul smelling and brown just beneath the surface... If you kneel hard enough.

Oh yeah... and shit sticks to trousers.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

www.media-attention.co.uk

My Dander Has Risen.

The blood is pumping again. I've re-found my news Mojo and my dander has arisen... In the words of the late, great Frankie Howerd... Oo'er, Missus. Yep, Olympic silly season is now over and my attention returns to chasing after the lost, the dead, the wrongdoers and the nay saying, lying, shysters of the business and political world.

But first... The unions. Together they stand. Brothers and Sisters united in proletarian angst against the management. Fighting the Bourgeoisie for the rights of the working classes. Normally, they gather in tight groups on street corners, flags fluttering, brazier burning, hatred seething. Picketing the entrance to big business, handing out leaflets to passing cars, singing their slogans on the kerb and breathing in the fumes from a working day in the city of Southampton.

"Oi.. Barry, fancy a drink..? They do a lovely iced latte frappe at the cafe de malmaison..."

But look guys, i have a better idea. This is the south of England. Just down the road there are harbour side cafes, ice cream vendors and bars. Couldn't we all just move about half a mile along the road so you can vent your spleen with a nice iced latte..? That would be nice eh..? We could do the TV news interviews following a nice drink with a Danish pastry under a sun umbrella at the local eaterie, followed by a brie and bacon baguette with sliced tomatoes drizzled in extra virgin olive oil.

In the words of the great working man's icon Homer Simpson... Mmmm, Brie.

I reckon that all the news could be done in this way. Press conferences in the local pub. Police appeals for information at the local diner, that sort of thing. Come on Britain, we can do this. It certainly beats hanging around street corners, basement rooms and Police stations.

So let's get a new, improved union slogan trending. When the massed, helmeted ranks of an oppressive police state stand before you, I will hold my camera aloft to film the news. You will link your arms in brotherly union and chant...

"What do we want..?"

"Fair pay.."

"When do we want it..?"

"After a brie and bacon bap.."

De-camp the angry mob to the nearest eaterie, preferably a french style cafe with street seating and umbrellas called the 'cafe de malmaison' or equivalent derivative. Do that, and i will follow you anywhere you want to go.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

www.media-attention.co.uk

Countdown for a Countess.

So it's the middle of winter, and i find myself in a cold car park, gently shivering, waiting for a minor member of the British Royal Family to open a new medical center on the outskirts of Bracknell, Berkshire. Now i'm not moaning, this is quite a normal part of the working news cameraman's day. The waiting in the cold part, that is, without any lunch. We wait in the cold a lot.

But i wasn't alone, the great and the good of the local parish had arrived in force and patiently shivered alongside me. Local Mayors, distinguished guests, Senior Medical staff and associated bean counters were all given the once over by the Royal protection officers of Her Majesties Constabulary, who glanced a beady eye over the serfs as frost gathered on our eyebrows. I thought about taking a picture of them but thought better of it, preferring not to have a 9mm automatic pistol inserted up my left nostril.

The Bracknell Entry for Britain's Got Talent.

 
The meet and greet was inside though, and having gratefully moved into the warm, i started to drip nose fluid as the others practiced how to bow, tug forelocks, and smile like a loon. I knew Royalty was close when the sturdy men with armpit bulges started talking into their sleeves and double checking the dripping, sniffing cameraman with suspicion. I knew that they would rather the press were not there. Dodgy looking blokes with shifty eyes and a knack for getting in the way are not a close protection officers favourite, so i flashed a winning smile, and hefted my camera onto my shoulder, ignoring the rumble from my stomach as hunger kicked in.

Now, whatever your view of the Royal Family, there is no doubt in my mind about the work that they do. Yes, they are privileged, rich and feted the world over, but on a day like today i saw Sophie, The Countess Of Wessex, arrive at her third local visit of the day. She must have shook hands with hundreds of people, made small talk, smiled constantly and pulled the cord on a great many opening curtains. Oh... and been followed, filmed and snapped at all of them by guys like me. Living life in a fish bowl doesn't come close to describing it.

Sophie, The Countess Of Wessex, with patriotic clutch bag containing hairbrush, lippy, picture of the hubby and possibly a Walther PPK.

 
So, as she lives her life in a fish bowl, i trained my lens on the Countess and followed her around, just to make her feel at home you understand. I filmed the shaking of hands, the small talk and the pulling of the cord on the opening curtain. Sophie... for we were on first name terms by now, wafted serenely around the new facility like she had done it a hundred times before. Which she has. And when it was time for her to leave, the great and the good waved and cheered her goodbye as i, ever the professional, piled into the sandwiches, sausage rolls, cake and cups of tea, before the plague of locusts descended, leaving bugger all for the working man.

So i tip my hat to you, your Royalness, for another job well done and for providing a very hungry cameraman with a free lunch.  

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

www.media-attention.co.uk

Flabtastic News..!

You know what? it's a wonder that when the sun does finally come out here in the UK, that i don't melt... literally. Most travelling news cameramen must be made of a substance closely akin to playdough... Being on the road and eating the crap that passes for roadside cuisine makes for a wobble around the middle that would put a Turkish belly dancer to shame. When you realise, that as you type into your laptop that is perched on top of a mound of flesh protruding from where a finely tuned six pack once resided, it's time to rethink the way in which i feed this temple of mine.

Roadside dining at its very worst...

Sometimes, it's unavoidable. whilst racing from the scene of one local catastrophic event to another,     ( For that, read minor union squabbles or courtroom steps rumpus) i may not have time to visit the nearest fine dining restaurant or purveyor of mung bean soup with which to sate my bodies desire for fresh, wholesome sustainance. No. In any case, at those prices the bean counters back at the ranch would ruin their computer keyboards with all the spraying of coffee as they read my expenses account...

My usual encounter with food is that of unwrapping tightly bound foodstuffs from a petrol station and throwing it down my neck without much thought to chewing. And anyway, chewing it may release the flavour of the said foodstuff, and you really don't want to do that. Usually a sandwich with indeterminate fillings with a few wilted leaves of green stuff that has not seen sunlight since being ripped from the earth god knows how long ago.

It's either that, or something swimming in grease in a bread roll, a slice of processed something or other and a splat of tomato sauce... Hmm, yummy. Try eating something that has the ambient temperature of the surface of the sun, with gooey shlop leaking over your finest white T-Shirt as you drive to your next location to make another deadline. I once did just that... and during a rather rash braking incident, the inside of my newsmobile resembled the carnage of a murder scene... Burger bits, Goo and red sauce spattered on the inside of my windscreen made a passer by scream in terror... But i digress.

I do try and eat sensibly, honest i do. Mrs ukcameraman makes a delightful pasta bake, with salad bowl and rustic brown bread. It makes a lovely meal for the elderly guy next door as i fail yet again to turn up on time for our evening meal... Sorry dear, they want me on the lives tonight.

So i guess that i will resume trying to find the best that i can at roadside diners, burger vans and petrol stations, and continue to sweat Piri Piri sauce from the meatball sub that has become a particular favourite of mine.

Now if you will excuse me, it's lunchtime. And in the news business that's about 3.30pm... just in time to ruin your evening meal.  

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter

www.media-attention.co.uk

A Cameraman's Lunch.

The subject of food is high on the list of many a cameraman's agenda. Oh, and a good stiff drink also. So when we find a place that makes good solid cameraman food, we tend to remember where it is. It is with pride that I announce to the world outside of Reading, Berkshire, the Pie Shop to beat all Pie shops. Sweeney & Todd.

Situated at 10 Castle Street, Reading, it makes and bakes the best quality pies known to any cameraman. And trust me, I've eaten a few pies.

A Steak and Ale Pie is the food of the cameraman gods. Like this one which lasted all of three minutes.

Hmmm ... Pies.

Posted via email from Media Attention Ltd