The Sunday Showdown.

Getting up early on a Sunday morning is always going to be a bitch. But when it's around -5 or 6 outside, you've scraped the ice from the car, crunched through the leftover snow with your camera and nearly slipped arse over tit, giving a good go at making yourself look like a windmill on acid, makes for a Sunday morning you would rather forget.

But having left the Missus to deal with the kid when it's your turn to cook breakfast, is a sin of the highest order. And i was looking forward to Bacon, Eggs and other assorted breakfast things served up to my families culinary delight. But i had to cancel my family Sunday morning, having been booked the previous evening to film a national Politics live into a major news programme, so i found myself outside getting ready as described above. The satellite truck was booked and on it's way, containing an engineer who had probably had the same morning as me. All systems go...

Now we all know that this is nothing new in the news business, things change, people move about, the story changes or moves on to a different level. But this was a simple live on a Sunday morning with a very influential person who had agreed to do the interview into the show. All they had to do was wake up and get dressed. Oh... and do what you agreed to do.

The story is a long running one here in the UK, about newspapers, phone hacking, the passing of illegal monies to underhand people and the arrest of many journalists on charges yet to be proved. A scandal of the highest order in my own business. Oh the shame...

Anyway, to cut a short story even shorter, the principal guest cancelled and pulled out of the interview. I guess they got out of bed and stubbed their toe or something. But for reasons unknown to me anyway, my job was cancelled by a very apologetic producer in London.

"Sorry dear chap... job's gone away, guest pulled out."

"No problem," Says i... "Call me back any time..."

"Cancelled you say...? Oh well, never mind eh...?"

What i actually said having ended the call cannot be repeated here, except it contained the words, F*ck, Boll*cks and what a Wan*ker.

So to all of the influential prime time news guests and talking heads out there, listen up... We put a lot of effort and work into coming around to your house, trailing in mud and slush through your living room, draining your electric sockets and knocking valuables off shelves, just so you can give up your Sunday morning and spout forth on the telly. Do you honestly think that i want to be in your nice house, drinking your tea, mentally undressing your Missus, and teaching your sleepy eyed kids to say rude words...?

Do you think i enjoy being paid to give up my family Sunday mornings, just so that i and a few other dodgy looking geezers can invade yours..? Hmmm...? I should think not. And seeing as my now ex guest is in the print news business, i would have thought that having a journalist and cameraman rooting around in your unmentionables drawer was second nature to you.

So come on guys, when everyone's Sunday morning has been ruined, yours and ours, the least we can do is go through with it and get it over and done with. We come round, ask rude questions and generally turn your life upside down for a few hours, in exchange for you to get your ugly mug all over the airwaves and generally ruin the viewers Sunday mornings. It's a win win situation and we should all play the game.

But to pull out at the last minute means that you have sent some lowly news producer into a head spin, put the shows director into a really shitty mood, and generally upset the smooth flow of a news day, never mind the smooth flow of this particular cameraman.

So come on, play the game....

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

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

Videos And Vlomo...

Any of you that follow my @ukcameraman Twitter feed will know by now that i am taking part in a strange internet phenomenon called Vlomo. This is the shortened net speak for Video Blogging Month, which takes place every November. Should you wish to take part, the challenge is to post a video blog at least once a day for the whole 30 days of November, On any subject. I had never done this before...

Video Blogging Month. 30 Videos in 30 days. It's harder than you think...

Now before you go asking what a middle aged, bearded bloke is doing posting videos to the interwebs, it's because i liked the challenge. I film the news most days using expensive video equipment. The content is heavily produced, shot and edited by professionals and broadcast to the masses on the TV. Videoblogs, on the other hand, can be what you want, on any subject, at any time or place, and uploaded to the web unedited direct from the person who made it... and the whole world can view it, should they wish to. This is what i like about it. The rawness and the immediacy of the video can be somewhat revealing to the person watching it, it can give an insight into a persons life and behaviour that you wouldn't otherwise get to see or hear. I have seen places that i will never get to visit, and have listened to people i will never get to meet, other than through the net.

Call them throw away videos if you like, many of them are. They may not be groundbreaking in any way, but the short glimpse into other peoples normality, quirks, and eccentricities, reveal a side to those who made the video that i, as a person who tells video stories on a professional level, would never be able to achieve by filming it for the news. And i like that.

Sex, Lies And Russian Spies...

Now this is my kind of story. Worthy of a John Le Carre novel written after a night on the sauce. Members of Parliament, Diplomats of various nationalities, shady Russians called Ivan, unknown British Intelligence Officers with names like x, y and inexplicably... u. You can imagine the confusion when the judge asks...

"So what did 'u' say..?"

"I said nothing your honour..."

"No, i mean 'u'..?"

"Me..? As i said your honour..." Etc... Etc...

I could go on but you get the drift. Yep, every now and again a Member of Parliament gets his... 'Ahem'... member out, pillow talk ensues, and months later it turns out that his secretary has more Russian FSB contacts than Vladimir Putin ever knew he had.  For you young people, FSB is what we used to call the KGB, the Soviets, the red menace, commies if you will... Either way, they are spies, the whole damn lot of them, and it would seem they are still capable of fielding a good old fashioned honey trap for diplomats and politicians to get their teeth into.

The Cameraman from Russia Today... I spied on his movements for hours. Turned out he was as bored as i was, hanging around street corners.

You have probably realised that i have mentioned no names. There is a reason for this. I don't want to drink my morning Latte at 9am and go to bed tonight glowing like a lava lamp following an ingestion of Polonium, courtesy of a shady bloke called Boris Tvistabollokov... Oh no. I will leave the fearless reporting to the fearless reporters. And anyway, i have a bad back. So why am i telling you this?

Well i found myself in London this morning covering the deportation hearing of said honey trap/Spy/Secretary. Deportation? i hear you say... Well yes. You see the lady in question was not a high class hooker, a disenchanted socialist bent on the downfall of British imperialism, nor was she an upper class English rose, turned by the FSB whilst her diplomat father traded cocktails at the Russian Embassy. She is a Russian... From Russia, with a well known liking for bumping uglies with diplomats on a regular basis, yet still found herself hired by a British MP, given a pass for the halls of Westminster, and all this with added benefits from said MP which involved pillows, beds, and oodles of sweat.... I will say no more.

I am not making this shit up... Honest.

So there i was, standing in my usual place on the street corner, whilst the plot of an early eighties Bond film played out inside the hearing rooms. And having filmed the protagonists entering and leaving the building, i guess that a few spying careers may have gone down the gurgler. I imagine it thus...

"Ah... Mr Bond, i've been expecting you. I saw you on the BBC News..."

But no matter. The world of treachery, spies and the shagging of important people by undercover Mata Hari's goes on as it always has, and always will. And if a good looking woman approaches me and introduces herself as Pussy Galore, then sign me up... MI6 with a license to kill. But if i were a Member of Parliament, in my fifties and over the hill, and were romanced by a pretty 19 year old Russian girl with a keen interest in defence matters, alarms would start ringing, and so would the phone on M's desk.

But i guess some people just don't see it the way i do...  Nope, instead of hosing them down with bullets from my trusty Walther PPK, I shall do so through the lens of my camera. Bring the whole sordid mess into the glare of the public eye... But from now on, if you call me on the phone or meet me in the street, the phrase you must remember is...

"The wind is cold on Westminster bridge..." And i shall reply, "It is the winter winds from the East..."

Then i will know it is you.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter

www.media-attention.co.uk