Bus drivers blues...

Hello, loyal readers, it's me again. Yes i know i've neglected you of late, but my reasons are many, namely laziness, procrastination, and a lack of purpose in my working life that gave me the blues for a while. But hey... i'm back with a post Christmas and New Year pizzaz that will astound you, and will amaze me if it lasts.

So, having drowned my sorrows with eggnog, red wine and a curious cheese called Stinking Bishop, i threw myself into my first working day of the new year with a gusto rarely seen of a recently heavily rested camera operator. And there is nothing to get you back into the swing of things than rasping rain and a storm force wind to rip you from a seasonal gorge fest of epic proportions. Being made to step out into the winters caress certainly wakes you up and sharpens the senses, but that is nothing compared to what one rural bus driver in Surrey had to contend with on his return to work.

When trees attack...

I doubt the poor driver knew very much about it when a few tonnes of seasoned hardwood came crashing through the roof of his place of work. The explosion of his world must have lasted a mere nano second before darkness overtook him, leaving his fate in the hands of the local villagers who cared for him until the Air Ambulance and its Doctor arrived. Last i heard he was critical but stable in hospital, and i wish him well.

As i stood there spooling tape around the camera innards, i wondered just how fickle the world is when the weather conspires to uproot a tree that has witnessed the passing of a few highwaymen, the horse drawn carriage, through to the invention of the motor vehicle, a few world wars and probably thousands of cocked dog legs, eventually leading to the one root that held it in place to snap, just as the poor bus driver drove past.

Think about that... the history of that tree, and the life of that bus driver, forever in parallel, only to join at that one moment in time that changes everything. A second or two earlier or later, and it may have been a talking point at the bus drivers next meal with his family. But with pin point accuracy and timing, things are now a lot different.

Storm, plus tree, plus bus, equals...

Taking a look at the bus once the wreckage of the tree had been cleared makes me wonder just how the driver survived the initial impact in the first place. It certainly put my cameraman way of thinking into some sort of perspective. It's like a slap in the face on a frosty morning, returning to work at the coalface of news gathering after furring up the arteries with festive cheer. All i need tomorrow is the pouring rain, some court steps and a scowling perp with a fist fighting fetish... then i'll know i'm back.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

www.media-attention.co.uk

The Bowels Of London.

I had occasion to travel to this countries fine, noble and ancient capital the other day. Anyone who works in the TV industry tries to go for one of the three days that is the Broadcast Video Expo at Earls Court, London. Not everyone can make it, but on this day, i was able to take my wallet out on a cameraman's day trip to the big smoke. But first i had to get there.

I didn't want to drive into London. Excuse me, what i mean is, i mean i didn't want to pay the petrol, the extortionate parking charges or congestion charge, nor did i want to get stuck in the London traffic jams caused by two miles of traffic cones with one man on a tea break behind them. So, i decided to go by train. Now any freelance cameraman will tell you, we rarely travel by public transport, such is the amount of kit, lights, sound and batteries we normally lug around with us. No...  A large, petrol swigging, earth destroying, four wheel leviathan is my mode of transport in my day to day working life, so its rare that i step foot into the world of commuters, day trippers, pick pockets, drunks and other assorted scary people.

Trains... Multi coloured.

Public transport has indeed come a long way, but i still don't like to use trains. Or planes for that matter. Long steel tubes of sweaty people with no control over where they go, or at what speed. And no control of who sits next to you. It could be that a kindly old Army Colonel with a handlebar moustache sits next to you, with a pleasing waft of pipe smoke lingering in his tweed jacket. Or it could be the student, all gangly legs, boyband hairdo and pus. Or, as is likely in my case, the stoned gangsta wannabe with a blade in his pocket and his eye on my valuables. So i avoid it if i can.

The London underground therefore, makes my heart pound and causes beads of sweat on my forehead to rise. If anything should happen to this intrepid cameraman, there would be nowhere to go and everyone in your carriage would ignore you. It was packed with the what seemed like the entire human race. Every conceivable type of person wanted to stand next to me and make me smell their armpit, every language could be overheard, including a rather irate woman who swore someone tried to steal her mangoes. Bloody cheek, i never touched her....

However, my nosey journalistic instincts surfaced and i began to take in the seething mass of humanity that surrounded me, reminding me that us humans have always sought out the big crowds, the city life and the interaction between others. Not me though...

It wasn't the boots that gave it away...

You see, i was nearing my destination within the great metropolis, when out of nowhere she came. I say she because she was dressed as a woman, but no woman that i have ever met. ( Except that time in Hong Kong... but i digress. ) Head to toe in shiny black leather, long blonde hair and kinky boots. She stood directly in front of me although there was plenty of room by this stage as many passengers had left at Westminster. She stared directly at me... and winked.  I looked left and right to see who she was winking at. I was alone.

The tannoy announced: next stop... Earls Court.

I had about thirty seconds before i could run, sorry... walk at speed to my final destination, so i smiled weakly and stammered something totally British like... " Hello.. Lovely day isn't it?"

She arched her eyebrow, and laughed in a deep masculine throaty way and said... " You're not from London are you?" At which point i came over all Hugh Grant and stammered that i was not. Too bloody right i wasn't. I'm a local news cameraman on a day trip to the capital city. I forced myself to suffer the cloying crowds, the smell and the niggling feeling that i was so very insignificant in the great scheme of things. It was then i realised just how detached i had become from everyday life. I normally eavesdrop and turn my lens on other unfortunates who succumbed to the advances of a mad, leather clad transvestite. Normally, some politician or other branch of the British nobility.

I can see the headlines now... "Local news lensman caught in Transvestite kerfuffle..." But to have it... Ahem... thrust in your face without the protection of seeing it through a lens, with a heavy density filter, shook me up a little.

I filtered what had happened via a large frothy latte when i arrived at the Expo. And you know what?... i'm a middle aged, unshaven news cameraman with a lifestyle to match, and she walked up to and winked at me... Yep.. Me.

I winked at myself in the reflection of a nearby window. Yep my man, you've still got it.....

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