Original Is Always Best.

Here at the ukcameraman institute of TV news studies, we know that when someone spends nearly £1000.000 on a few scribbled notebooks, it's going to make the news. And when those notebooks are the scribblings, writings and doodles of Samuel Beckett, including his first novel 'Murphy' then the story takes a different turn.

The original ukcameraman with Dr. Mark Nixon and Beckett original manuscripts.

Bought by the University of Reading the manuscripts will give a great insight into the workings of one of the greatest writers of modern times, who wrote plays, novels, film, TV and radio scripts. So it was with pleasure that I got to go along and peruse at my leisure some of the many original manuscripts in the Beckett collection.

I guess it's another one of the rare times that as a TV news cameraman I get to do something that very few others will get to do. To look, to read and to handle the original article. I did this once many years ago with the original manuscript of Mary Shelly's Frankenstein, but have no photographic proof that I did, which I regret to this day. (It was before i had discovered blogs and social media.)

Covering the day to day news is covering history as it unfolds for good or bad, big or small, but to actually feel and touch these small parts of literary history is a pleasure that few will relish. Now, if you will excuse me, I have another assignment and must wait for someone to film an interview. I hope his name is not Godot... or it may be a long wait.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

www.media-attention.co.uk

Order..! Order..! A TV News Cameraman In Parliament.

Not only have i stepped in plenty of dog poo over the years, I have stepped into many, many rooms as a TV News Cameraman. Yesterday though, for the first time in my long and illustrious news gathering career, (Stop laughing...) i stepped into the mother of all rooms.

The Chamber of the House of Commons, in the Palace of Westminster, appears on the TV news on countless occasions every week that Parliament sits, yet i had never entered it.

The Palace of Westminster...

I was not in a privileged position, the chamber is open to the public for daily tours during down time, and the cut and thrust of British politics can be witnessed from the public gallery when MP's are shouting Boo-Yah at each other, and generally cocking things up.

But yesterday, whilst waiting for an interview with a local MP, i was given a peek. Apart from the very kind security lady who took me in, i was alone in the chamber... and apart from being surprised at just how small the chamber is, i was taken in by the deep polished wood, green leather benches and history of that room.

In my minds eye i could see Churchill standing at the very dispatch box that i now touched. The Duke of Wellington, Sir Robert Peel, and the protectorate under Oliver Cromwell. This small chamber, although much changed throughout time, just oozes history from the 14th Century onwards. I let it sink in.

In around 24 hours or so, the current Prime Minister will take his seat where i now sat, (I tried to squeeze out a fart... nothing) having recalled Parliament on the death of Baroness Margaret Thatcher, a figure who in her time here, caused passions on each side of the chamber, and on the streets, to reach boiling point. I too, wanted to leave my statesmanship like mark...

My inner Dennis the Menace mind began to wander... A whoppee cushion under the Prime Ministers seat..? 50p under the Chancellors seat, with a note telling him to spend it wisely..? I could possibly even leave an A4 sheet of hastily written policies under the seat of the Leader of Her Majesties Opposition... Super glue on the Speakers chair... Oh the possibilities.

A small 'Ahem' from my minder brought me back to reality. I asked if i could take a picture of me in the chamber, but i was warned that if i did, an encounter with Black Rods implements of death would be my fate... followed by an unceremonious ejection at high velocity from Parliament by a big hairy policeman, or a big hairy policewoman. (She exists, just outside St Stephens Gate).

Pah. You pay for all this in taxes and not even a photo to prove i was there, my little part in its history. A wave of revolutionary 17th Century fervour kicked in. I took one last look... And a well known phrase came to mind...

"Guy Fawkes... The only man in history to enter Parliament with honest intentions."  

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

www.media-attention.co.uk

A Newsreel Cameraman's Letters Home. Burma, c1942.

For anyone interested in the way things used to be done in the TV News gathering industry, a new book has been published by a good friend of mine in the USA, Amanda Emily, who runs a fine website called The Dope Sheet. To see if i could find anything for her next book i took a trip to BBC Bush house, London, where they are preparing to leave. During my visit i came across a small bundle of letters in the archives marked:

'Newsreels: Personal, Mr Jack Furtling-Titmuss. (Cameraman) WW2'

Now, being of a nosey disposition, i read one of the letters and what it revealed was a wealth of information as to life as a newsreel cameraman back in the days of WW2 and film cameras. For historical reasons, i have decided to publish the first of these letters for you to read. I hope you like it as much as i did.

Burma, 1942 with my ever faithful Char-Wallah.

 Burma. 6 January 1942.

Clarissa Furtling-Titmuss,
14 Ffarte Gardens,
Hardon-cum-Studley
Oxon,
UK.

My dearest Clarissa,

As you know my dear, being of flat foot and unable to serve in His Majesties forces, I rue the very day i signed on for this BBC newsreel filming job. Following the fall of Rangoon to the Japs, I and the BBC Newsreel team retreated into the jungle. I miss the hotels, crisp clean sheets and profligate gambling. I now find myself in a shell-scrape with the 14th Yorkshire (East Riding ) Regiment of Foot and Mouth ( Territorials ). We seem to be fighting off the Japs on a daily basis, who swarm everywhere in the jungle like bees.

Our dispatches to London are on at the cinemas next week. Amazing just how quickly we can send our films back what with an RAF runway close by, 8 days from camera to cinema. An amazing feat of modern technology i'm sure you will agree. 

The jungle humidity is stifling, making my BBC issue camera easily susceptible to rust. Oil is reserved for weapons only, so i find myself making do with the Char Wallah's curious oil substitute to loosen the spigots and shutter. A white sticky concoction consisting of i know not what, but only comes in thimblefuls once a day. He's always got a sweat on that chap… but it does the trick. May have to get you to make some upon my return to Blighty when i get around to getting the recipe. Not speaking the local lingo, sign language prevails, but it seems to involve a lot of whisking….

My dear Clarissa i miss you so. Sleeping in the mud next to my BBC correspondent James, is a trifling disconcerting. Regular consumption of the local whiskey means the chap snores frightfully, bringing our location under Jap sniper fire on many an occasion. This earns us a severe berating from the Sergeant Major of our rifle company to whom we are attached.

My BBC Correspondent, James Gaultier Stickleback Jones, is an ex Coldstream Guardsman. 3rd generation. His father Crispin, was the Colonel in charge of a British forces expeditionary unit during the ill fated attack on Reims by the Germans during WW1, Terribly good show. Being the only survivor of that attack earned him a bar to his DCM, which he won by attacking a Boche machine gun position dressed only in his scanties and tin hat.

Made of good stock though is James, only last week he saved my life. When attacked by local Burmese tribesmen, he fired a warning shot straight between the eyes of their chieftain, with his fathers service revolver. All the while taking notes for dispatch to the BBC in London.

In other news, there was much rum goings on in the camp last night, Gunner Perkins fell asleep in his bunk with a lit cigarette. The resulting fire and screaming brought the entire front line on stand-to, until the fire was put out. Clean water being a scarce commodity in the jungle, the fire was extinguished by the combined bladder efforts of 6th and HQ Company. By morning Perkins and his bunk had disappeared and there was much mumblings amongst the troops.

The Regimental Sergeant Major boosted morale though, by announcing a suckling pig barbecue for that very evening. Lord only knows where he got the lumps of pork from, but morale has indeed lifted. When the Char Wallah produced an unexpected pot of his relish that seemed very similar to his camera oil substitute, smiles were returned all around in the enlisted ranks. Made a delightful change from the daily bully beef with rice.

Now, do not be alarmed my dear Clarissa, but crotch rot has returned with a vengeance. Please send more of mothers goose fat and bandages, as much as you can manage. Filming becomes hard with a camera on your shoulder and the other hand down your trollies to relieve the itch, i'm finding it hard to focus. James's pustulating bum boil was finally lanced last week at the first aid post, using a rifleman's sharpened pull through spike and wire wool pilfered from the Officers mess tent. I must say he took it like a man. Much mirth for the Dhobi Wallah's though, they find it all highly amusing and highly profitable.

Well my dear Clarissa, it is time to sign off this letter. A big push along the Jap lines is expected for the morning and i am tasked to film it for next weeks newsreel films. I do hope you get to see them.

Toodle-Pip,

your loving husband,

Jack.

Well, there you have it. They were certainly different times back then, a world away from the modern technology we have now. There are more letters which i am taking the time to read, and i may post more of them here on this very blog. If i can be arsed.

You can buy Amanda's sparkly new book HERE.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

www.media-attention.co.uk










 

Waking Up To The Eighties.

Having slept the sleep of a news cameraman last night, i woke up this morning to a strange feeling that i had travelled back in time to another era. The 80's in fact. You see, the first thing i do after waking up (following a fart, cough and scratch) is switch on the tellybox and tune into the news to acquaint myself with the worlds machinations over the last 12 hours or so.

This morning, i woke to a BBC Breakfast News report about plastics recycling. Fair enough. They even managed to link said recycling with the upcoming Olympic Games... Genius. (This is going to happen a lot from now on)

Then... they linked straight into a story about the recycling of the favourite 80's stage show Starlight Express, which is being reanimated and thrust onto the west end stage to delight and enthrall those of us who couldn't be arsed to go and see it the first time around.

Following that trip down nostalgia avenue, they then linked to an upcoming piece with everyone's favourite 80's pop star, Morten Harket, the impossibly good looking chap from the popular beat combo, a-ha. Remember them..?

I could feel the mullet growing on the back of my head as memories of my youth flooded back to me in a haze of spots, alcoholic experimentation, and trying to get girls to like me. So i watched the news for 10 minutes or so and having been appraised of what was happening in the 1980's, i got dressed into my cameraman action slacks, pulled up my Fame style ankle warmers, poured a coffee, and went to kick the tyres on the news van to make sure it was still roadworthy.

The more dynamic ukcameraman in the 80's... Memories are hazy.

Now here is where it got weird. In the news van, Radio 2 were playing a medley of hits from the early 80's so i switched off. I then pulled into the petrol station, where, as i payed the exorbitant bill, the dulcet tones of Duran Duran's seminal hit Rio wafted into my ears and has, as yet, to clear from my head.

"Her name is Rio, and she dances on the sand..."

Go on, sing it... i dare you. I've been suffering it now for around four hours or so and it won't leave. I find myself humming it, even though i don't want to. It was like being in an episode of Ashes to Ashes, except without Keely Hawes.

I blame the media, and the very industry i work for. It seems that wherever i go i am watching, listening to or reading things that evoke memories of another time or bring be bang up to the present. There is no getting away from it. I suppose i am just going to have to roll with it today...

In my mind i am currently firing up the Quattro, as i wind down the window and start to sing...

"Oh Rio Rio dance across the Rio Grande..."

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

www.media-attention.co.uk

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When opening a modern facility, we British wear Tricorn hats.

A long awaited, modern, state of the art bridge is just about to be opened in Poole, Dorset. A testament to modern planning, design and forward thinking into the 21st Century. So this is just the time to put on your highwayman's outfit, topped off with a Tricorn hat.

Bright, modern... Opened by 18th Century highwaymen.

You see, us British are funny like that. If we could we would go the full monty and have horses, swords and flintlock pistols. We like the past, the history and the nostalgia of better days when your local Mayor and Councillors actually did dress like this 24/7, and the locals weren't invited.

Yuor Council Tax or your life...

It was my duty today, for the local news, to film such a spectacle for the consumption of the masses, or in olden times, the masses that had consumption. The ribbon got cut, the crowds cheered, and the Mayor overdid the thankyou's in a looong speech that nobody could hear. A typical opening ceremony you may say, and I would agree except for the strange feeling I had whilst rolling tape, that I may be robbed of my money by a Tricorn hatted councillor, extolling the virtues of handing over my money or paying with my life.

I should not have worried, for they already do that very thing in the form of my council tax... And I blindly pay it by direct debit, no questions asked.



Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

www.media-attention.co.uk

Rule Britannia... No money returned.

It's not every day that you get to witness another small part of your country's military decline. But that is what i did yesterday as i filmed the homecoming of HMS Ark Royal, the only ship capable of carrying and launching fixed wing aircraft from the UK's once mighty fleet. In a short sighted and swift decision the UK Government decided to scrap our only aircraft carrier due to our nations straightened circumstances. Basically we can no longer afford it.

As the ship slipped quietly into Portsmouth Naval Base for the last time, it seemed fitting that she was shrouded in fog and sea mist, lest the rest of the world see what, in my opinion, is a very short sighted error, which in today's world of small wars, localised conflict and occasional disasters, may come to haunt our current governments decision.

As i filmed for Channel 4 News and the ITV Networks, i couldn't help feel a sense of sorrow for those aboard such a great warship that could have served for many more years to come. I myself served aboard HMS Ark Royal during my time in the Army and have great memories and photo's of my time serving alongside the Royal Navy. So the day had a double meaning for me personally.

Me aboard HMS Ark Royal. 1991. (Rear row, centre)

I know, good looking, rugged chap wasn't i ...? Those were the days though, single and travelling the world, meeting interesting new people and places... and nicking their country. Ah, back when the British had an empire and Britannia ruled the waves.

But those days are long gone, along with my hairline, and sleek muscled, toned body. Still, at least our government hasn't decommissioned me.... Yet.


So here is the film that Channel 4 fashioned from my days labour. A fine effort, even if i do say so myself, but i can't help thinking that i may have been a witness to just a little less of Great Britain than when i woke up that morning.

Rule Britannia... and God save the Queen in full chorus.






http://www.media-attention.co.uk

That Reminds Me...

Having just pixelated my brain on the interweb looking at all sorts of rubbish like short films that quality passed by, regurgitated articles with piss poor photography and so called news items that just had to include a celebrity, i was really thankful to Christian Parkinson for tweeting a link to the blog pages of someone i knew of, but have never met.

Greg Marinovich is a photographer that some of you will know, and some of you will not. If you don't know him, you are maybe a little too young to know of his exploits in Africa and other parts of the world, resulting in a book called The Bang Bang Club, co written with fellow photographer Joao Silva. So exited was i at seeing the link, i dug out my 9 year old copy of the book and reminded myself of the journey that Greg and his fellow photographers took through the Township wars of South Africa in the early 1990's.

Found it.....

I remembered reading the book the first time around, so hooked into the story that i read the book in a day. Yes, it's an old book now, read by anyone who was around at the time who had an interest in photography, news, and what it took to get the stories and the pictures out to a wider world. But that was not the story that gripped me. Anyone who has even an inkling that they would like to get into this line of work should read this book, not just for the stories of how they went about their work, but for the human misery, death and innocence lost, not only of the people of the townships of South Africa, but also the photographers themselves.

An old book, but still very relevant to the world today.

This post isn't meant to be a book review. I am many years too late. And i will not go into what happens to the members of the bang bang club, for it is a story best told by the authors, and the conclusions best left to your imaginations. But i tell you this... you will read a book that is both thoughtful and yet savage. It will churn you up inside and give your brain and your conscience something to think about weeks after you have read it, even now, so many years after the events themselves.

So for now, i am going to turn off my computer and my mobile phone, and get to grips again with a real piece of substance that is still relevant in todays world.  I urge you to do the same.

Paul Martin
http://www.media-attention.co.uk

I Am A Bloodsucking Leech ... Apparently.

Another quick one from the old memory banks here. I have lost count of the amount of times that i have been called a bloodsucking leech, a scumbag and various other expletives that get hurled in my general direction. At the moment, the press seem to have a social status around that of estate agents, politicians and criminals.

But i do remember back in 1997, when apparently, i was in a Paris underpass, where, according to members of the public at the time, i hunted down Princess Diana, and murdered her. Seriously, according to many people that day who approached me and my reporters believed that we, as scumbag members of the paparazzi, had chased her down the underpass and killed her.

Do i look like a Pap? ... Don't answer that.

Listen up people. I was at home in bed with the missus that night in Hampshire. And she can vouch for me. Although as she is fond of reminding me, nothing earth shattering happened that night that she can remember.

Although i have learned to live with what some members of the public think of us, it still rankles with me that while hurling abuse in my general direction, they are often carrying a newspaper, or following said abuse, will walk home, switch on the telly and watch the news.

There are times of course when i will point my camera at someone who did not ask for it. But most of the time they will have been someone who deserved to be exposed for their involvement in some crime or corporate goings on that need to be brought to a wider audience. Generally though, i am filming someone because we have been invited to do so, or asked to film. I don't go chasing celebrities into underpasses looking for the up skirt shot so favoured by celebrity mags these days. No, i'm a news cameraman.

So if you see me out on the road filming, please remember this. I am not out to hunt for innocent people to feed on their life force and suck them dry of their celebrity juices. My life is not that exciting.

A Small Part In History.

I had quite forgotten about this. Sometimes in a cameraman's career you get to train your lens on a special occasion. Not a worldwide story, but a small local gathering to commemorate the life of a person who at one point in their life, was a part of one of the biggest news stories of all time.

Everyone reading this will have heard of the Titanic, and it's fateful voyage across the Atlantic. It never arrived at it's destination of course, and a great many people died as it hit an iceberg and sank. You are right in thinking that i was not around at that time, but i found myself at a small church in Hampshire to remember the life of someone who was.

Her name was Millvena Dean, who died on 31 May 2009, and she was the last living link to the Titanic. The final living link to an awful tragedy that was reported around the world, and still makes news even today. Films, Documentaries and more have been made, remade, and talked about ever since the sinking took place and is now a pivotal moment in our modern history.

Filming the scattering of the ashes ... Southampton.

Millvena was a small child at the time and freely admitted that she remembered little of what happened on that night. The fate that was to befall her and her family. But over the years, as other survivors passed away, she became the last living link to the Titanic and the celebrity of sorts that went with it.

But on the day that i got to hear her story was when we were to scatter her ashes in the sea at berths 43 and 44 at Southampton docks, from where she sailed aboard the Titanic. A fitting end i think. Now i have seen the films and watched many documentaries about the Titanic, but on that day, i filmed a small part of history as we said our goodbyes to the last link to a worldwide story that will, without doubt, outlive the rest of us.