Roving (TV?) reporter

I wasn’t ready for my close-up.  I was ambushed by an eager Frenchman – that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

I went to watch some Amazonian tribesmen bless tree stumps from Ghana in Trafalger Square last week. We had to do a story about it for a class so the place was packed with wannbe journalists from City. Morade is not in the class but he had decided to come along and put together a TV piece for it.

Fiona who was also with us had been commissioned to write an account of the event for the Latin American Bureau website. With this angle in mind Mo got a lot of footage and I was recruited to be the interviewer. So I came up with the questions and interviewed a few people.

We were packing up and I was looking forward to joining some of the others in the pub when Mo decided he wanted a conclusion. I hastily composed some words and just as hastily forgot them practically every time Mo tried to film me saying them…

With a conclusion taped we needed an intro – walking and talking at the same time! As you can see from the video – these apparently are skills I can’t combine :$

The next day we had the fun of putting it together – I feel bad for Mo’s poor date – he kept putting her off as we found more we wanted to do. Journalism brings out the inner workaholic.

The will supposedly be published on the website but I haven’t found it up there yet.

I’ve always resisted suggestions that I should venture into the murky world of broadcast journalism – until recently.  It was fun – I really enjoy the editing process – you have to be very precise.

It is also incredibly restrictive – you have to always be aware of your technology. With TV especially there are so many aspects where you are limited in what you can do. You must have the pictures to illustrate what you are saying and the timing has to be on the button. Fast track to frustration when things don’t work out – and ultimate satisfaction when they do.

I made a video with anther Frenchman while we were embedded with the marines (execution footage – it’s pretty cool and also very wrong on many levels). I would choose this week to spend a lot of time with the French guys… though it was kind of nice to hear someone muttering ‘putain’ beside me every 2 minutes.

Despite the ethical dilemmas, I’m really proud of it (& very happy that it doesn’t feature my dopey-eyed face – do I really look that sleepy all the time people?). I haven’t managed to upload it here or to youtube unfortunately – I’ll ask someone with more of a clue and keep you posted…

Embedded

My companion snapping a shot of the executed men

Microphone in hand to catch the full sound of the gunshots, I watched the first victim crumple on the ground. Fear was etched across the face of the second as he looked from his friend’s slumped body to the executioner. His body jerked awkwardly as he attempted to face the man who was about to kill him.

After he had dispatched the two policemen, the insurgent leader turned back to our camera, still intently trained on him. He held aloft the detonators connected to explosives – explosives tightly bound to two more local policemen.

A stark warning was issued: “If Nato attack our position I will blow these men up and myself with them.”

I asked him if anything could be done to save the lives of these unwilling human timebombs. I felt sick with fear for them – this man had already dispatched two others in front of us – their only crime was to uphold the local rule of law.

“These men are traitors. They have collaborated with the infidels. They will die no matter what,” came the harsh reply.

Safe and unthreatened, we returned to our transport – we were being used to deliver a message and to inspire fear in the local population.

Back at the Nato base where we have been embedded with the troops there is a dispute. Should we broadcast the horrific images of two men being put to death? I argue that we shouldn’t but my companion feels the images are so powerful that we must.

A problem – there’s no audio. We don’t have the words of the militia leader. It makes our editorial decision for us – we show the images but with a voice-over – hopefully our package is more than just propaganda. The escalation in violence and the threat of retaliation that the local people live with is our justification for the sensational images.

The piece goes out and I hear back from military officials – they thought the guys wrapped in explosives were suicide bombers – when they attack they will now try to rescue these men. So the attack is to go ahead and we are to join them…

Night has fallen, it’s dark and there is surprisingly little noise as the line of soldiers makes it’s way across the heath towards the insurgent stronghold. The sky is clear and I am seeing the stars for the first time since I moved to the UK. We stop to regroup before the assault begins and I see a shooting star so bright that I think it’s a flare for a moment…

Troop-sergeant Seacroft is our minder. He is in command of the attack and so he stays to the rear unless there are casualties at which point he reassures me “I will hand you over to someone else and deal with that situation.”

We’re held back from the front as the troops rush through the trees in which the militia have their stronghold. They’re quickly spotted by the sentries and we can see the bright bursts of gunfire. Two loud explosions momentarily drown out the sounds of the battle – I know whose sad demise the sound marks…

Seacroft is on the move, low and quick. We struggle to follow through the vegetation, unused to jogging in body armour and helmets. We’ve smeared our faces with camouflage paint but my impractical navy and cream rain jacket practically glows in the inky atmosphere.

Our helpful minder explains that the two groups are attacking from different sides but have arranged their angles so that they are not shooting across at each other. We’re moving left towards the main force but we venture a little too far toward the centre – the point where the insurgents are still in control, the troops have not come this far yet.

An ‘enemy combatant’ jumps out of the trees ahead and lets off a quick burst of gunfire. A few feet ahead of us the troop sergeant falls to the ground and we, the four ‘impartial’ media professionals fall victim to the same hail of bullets. As I slide to the ground the shadows above brighten as light from a flare brings the foliage into relief…

…

Or that is what would have happened if this had not simply been a training exercise – for the young officers of the Royal Marines and equally for us journalism students.

We continued on with Troop-sergeant Seacroft until he reached the casualties. Men who had been picked by the supervisor of the exercise to play ‘almost dead or wounded’. At this point however we had been showered with blank rounds several times over and our valient troop-sergeant was declared dead.

Chaos ensued for the next 30 minutes until the insurgent threat had been eliminated. It was now time for me to enjoy myself and bother the poor guys trying to reorganise themselves with an endless stream of questions. ‘How many have been killed?’ ‘Did you take any militia captive?’ and so on.

We were on our way back – the ‘tactical’ route i.e. not straight – we had stopped to allow the brass time to discuss and plan what to do and how to get home. I wrangled an interview with our miraculously regenerated troop-sergeant but his brother-in-arms decided I had asked too many questions. I was roughly grabbed by the arm and pulled away. “He’s very busy and he doesn’t have time to answer your questions now!”

The fun continued back at the base.

Two huge explosions not far from the camp resulted in a scrabble to investigate. I bagged an interview with the commander of the base. A few questions in I get a gem of a quote. “These kind of occurrences will happen in the early stages of an invasion,” said troop sergeant for Nato headquarters 2nd Lieutenant Perks.

It was just a slip of the tongue and he quickly corrected himself but I couldn’t help the smirk and he gave me a look that said ‘Damn, you caught me’.

Hard at work

Being embedded with the military was an amazing experience. The fictional country the soldiers were dealing with unsurprisingly had several similarities with the situation in Afghanistan. Though it was always clearly an exercise rather than the real thing, it was important and simple enough to take it seriously. Many of the men involved had already been to Afghanistan and Iraq. Most of the ones who haven’t already been have signed up to go when they graduate (in two weeks).

I talked to as many soldiers as I could during the two days to try and understand why they sign up for this. One of the most interesting conversations I had was with one of the training officers on our way back from the chaotic attack.

He made the point that there is a new generation of soldiers now – they knew the UK was at war when they signed up and they knew what kind of war it was. He had decided to join the marines when he was 17. He was 15 when Nato invaded Afghanistan.

We lay on the ground during a break in the march and watched a shooting star. We didn’t know that we were watching the Leonid meteor shower. He promised to let me try on his kit when we got back to base to feel the weight of what they have to carry.

But when we got back I was busy chasing interviews and writing stories.

I couldn’t see his face in the dark so I didn’t know which one he was. He has signed up to go to Afghanistan as soon as he passes out. By now, he’ll know if he’s being granted his wish.

Scumbag or battered wife?

A bedraggled Big Issue seller was shouting at passersby as I went foraging for my dinner this evening. He was about to ask me to purchase a magazine when he suddenly closed his mouth, looked at the ground and turned away from me.

I looked so rough that I managed to scare him off without a word.

My left eye is puffed up enough to make me resemble Jabba the Hut. My sorrowful yet dead-eyed expression forced the homeless guy to avoid meeting my gaze.

It's all in the expression - and the bulging eyes

I had just come from the hospital and the off-putting swelling around my left eye is a result of an injection I was given – the doctor didn’t have the same delicate touch with a needle as my consultant in Dublin. I’ll probably have a black eye in the morning.

The way the Big Issue guy recoiled from me reminded me of how bad it looks when you have an injury on your face – it is always a bit shocking but particularly so for girls. I was knocked off my bike while I was in college in Dublin and I had nasty looking grazes on one side of my face and half a black eye. Walking around the city I could practically see in other people’s expressions what they though had happened:

• Giving her a wide berth – Scumbag – likely to start on me
• Poor girl – she lets him away with smacking her around

I’m not looking forward to tomorrow – I didn’t realise that my eye was so swollen so I went into college after I got out of the hospital – not the best idea.

I terrified one of my neighbours when I bumped into her in the corridor – she’s really sweet and offered to get me anything I need.

So naturally the evil, exploitative part of me is now considering the feasibility of cultivating a Jabba-esque voice to issue orders in. Everyone who encounters me will be subject to my will out of a sense of fear or misplaced sympathy.

Published

A piece I wrote is currently the front page lead on The-Latest.com. I’m very happy and they’ve asked me to write more about the topic.

Just a wee update on my progress in college. A debate about media in one of our lectures focused on the issue of censorship and media self-censorship.

I’ve felt for a while that the media has been deliberately ignoring the situation in Northern Ireland – until two soldiers and a police officer were killed in March the gradual growth of dissident activity never made it onto the agenda of the national press. I think this was a deliberate downplaying of the situation by the papers – they were going along with the government take on the situation – de-emphasis what was going on to help the political situation progress, don’t give the extremists attention to try and curb their growth.

I talked a little about it in class – and gave my opinion on the self-censorship and its positive efffects. My lecturer, Marc Wadsworth, asked me to write something for his website – a collaborative effort between journalists and non-professional reporters.

You can see the result here.

The Future

One of my classmates, Anna, told me that she does Tarot readings in our first week here and promised me a glimpse of my future at some point – I laughed, said “yeah!” and forgot about it. Then this evening over our post-deadline drink she suddenly produced a tarot deck and performed a gripping reading for the girl beside me.

Post deadline relaxation - predictions included

I was hooked and demanded my future be told too. I shuffled the cards and had to think about a question I wanted answered which did not have a yes or no answer.

The good news:

I’m going to survive financially. The left-hand card on the last row of three in the picture below indicates that I might not be rich but I won’t be completely broke.

Able to pay rent!

I seriously hope this reading is accurate – but then maybe I don’t because there was also…

The odd news:

She asked me if I was seeing anyone seriously – a negative – so she was a little confused and asked if anyone I knew was getting married (cause otherwise I have some fiancé I don’t know about and dont’ want).

Cathal and Shona – I apologise – apparently I am not happy about you guys getting married. I was completely unaware of this. I must be in love with Shona and not even realise how deeply I feel for her. And of course there is…

The warning:

“Do you know or are you involved with a charismatic, older guy?”

Hmmm, I’ll skip over the accurate answer to that one.

“He’s untrustworthy – so be careful,” continued Anna. Then one of the girls suggested that it could be Paul, my wonderfully charming writing tutor. He’s full of encouragement and praise for us all – I’ll have to ignore the flattery and not let my new title, “Queen of the Quiz”, go to my head.

The bad news:

The Tower - worst card in the pack

Spot the card at the top – in the middle – the Tower. The Tower struck by lightning that people are leaping from… Anna drew in her breath when she placed it on the table (the very first one she picked) and said: “I’m sorry, there’s just no good way to interpret that one.”

Vox Pop

With the sunshine on my side and about 30 Greenpeace protesters on the roof of the Houses of Parliament beside me I decided it was time to run the gauntlet of the dreaded vox pop. For my story assignment in college this week I decided to ask people on the street if they thought that Greenpeace’s demonstration was effective – not something I was relishing given what happened last time I did a vox pop…

A little context: I did a vox pop in Cavan for the Anglo-Celt during my last week there. It went ok – on a sunny day it’s much easier to get people to stop and talk. One person gave a very passionate response to the question of whether town councils should be abolished. Some of what he said would definitely be libel if we had printed it – rumours about a councillors  – so it was edited a fair bit before going in the paper.

After it was printed he denied that he had said any of it, luckily I was using my tape recorder that day and not relying on badly scribbled notes. You can see what he we put in the original article here.

When it was clear that he had said it all and he was aware of the tape recorder – quote: “I’m not telling you who I’m talking about when that thing is on” – he asked for space to apologise in the next edition.

To my surprise I found it easier to coax a response from busy Londoners than from people on the streets of Cavan town. It was interesting and a little exhausting – my smile had frozen onto my face by the time I had spoken to over 30 people.

It was great to get out and be at the place where the news was actually happening. A nice mix of thoughtful responses and people not listening to the question but giving their own take on the important point in the story. The papers and the individual clearly diverge on what the news is…

Some Greenpeace propaganda:

Clothing Lust

Is it wrong to fall in love with a piece of clothing? Or is it just a bit narcissistic?

I decided that the safest way to avoid spending money on things I can no longer afford was to remove all temptation and not go into any shops.

I broke my pledge on the first day when I went into a shop with my sister and promptly fell in love with a leather jacket. It is beautiful, looks really good, makes me look really good and is naturally much more than I can currently afford. I can’t stop thinking about it.

This weekend I wandered around Harvey Nichols with my mother and aunt. I very foolishly tried on a dress – it’s an exercise in perfect tailoring. I think I was dreaming about it this morning.

Clearly I can no longer spend any time with my mother or sister – they just lead me astray. I’ve also started some aversion therapy to get over my obsessions – I picture the clothes being made somewhere like this.

Scummy Tea and the Victorians

It was all going so well – Argos won’t sell me knives (even when I have ID) but they did sell me a kettle. Kettle = tea = comfort. Or it would if the quality water here wasn’t superficially even worse than that of Galway.

The water mains were constructed a good 200 years ago by the wonderful people known as Victorians. I love the Victorians – they were supposed to be so staid, well-mannered and very civilised. I love them because they weren’t.

Victorian society was a swirl of polite intercourse layered over social upheaval. The industrial revolution was stirring the established values and economic order. Gladstone chopped down trees to relax, the masses developed an appetite for penny dreadfuls and about 25% of the world’s population was technically subject to Queen Victoria.

I was a little disappointed every time I walked past the signs declaring that the road works on my street were to ‘replace London’s Victorian water mains’ – as if this was a good thing. I also resented the very loud manner in which they dig up the road from around 8am everyday.

Then I got a kettle and realised how terrible the state of the water is here. It’s not like Galway – where it looks fine and you think you should survive drinking it. This water makes it clear that should you drink it, you’re going to regret it…

My scummy tea

Near stabbing at Argos on Old Street

You must produce identification to prove that you are over-21 in order to buy knives in the UK. I didn’t know this when I went on my knife buying expedition.

Even if it had occurred to me that there could be restrictions on the purchase of kitchen knives I would never think that it would be extended to the humble (and blunt) dinner knife.

Before you assume that my rampage has already begun, let me explain: I went to Argos to sort myself out with some kitchen stuff. I decided I’d get a kettle because I was dying for a cup of tea and while I was there some knives and forks. The busy young guy at the checkout asked me for my id. I thought he meant for my cashcard so I gave him an odd look and produced my student card. “I can’t sell you the knives without something that proves your age,” was his reply.

I was surprised but not shocked so I did what I usually do when I get asked for id (it happens regularly and I never have any). I put on my surprised and slightly harassed voice and my slightly indignant expression, explained that I was 27 and didn’t think I needed id to buy this. It didn’t work.

I tried again explaining that this was a bit ridiculous and I had my credit card and I really am that old. It didn’t work.

He started to look around in a slightly panicked fashion explaining that they’re really strict and he’ll get in a lot of trouble if he sells them to me. At this point I took pity on him and decided to move up the ladder.

Customer Service desk: Sorry I can’t help you. I’ll get the manager.

Manager: I believe you but I can’t sell you the knives. I feel like an idiot telling you this but I can’t.

This would never happen in Ireland is what I think to myself as I flounced out of the shop. I didn’t get really angry with the people there – not the way I am capable of if I am pissed off with the way I’m being treated. That was because they weren’t antagonistic but were resigned to not making any exceptions to the rules restricting them.

It seems that the stores get checked my undercover regulations enforcers fairly regularly and if they do sell a restricted item the cashier responsible is liable for a fine of up to £10,000. If those regulations existed at home I’m fairly sure that most shopkeepers would use their own discretion about it (perhaps not in the Argos chain (gang)).

I understand the need for restrictions on knife sales (the story a classmate pitched earlier that day about a knife amnesty box brought it home) but my immediate reaction was to quesion why the regulations don’t allow some room for common sense on the part of the sales person.

Potential discrimination of course is the answer to that. Why should I feel that I’m more entitled to buy a knife – and why should sales people have to or get to judge who is more entitled?

My father calls cutlery “weapons”, saying it in a Cavan accent strong enough for a caricature, but the significance of the word never really dawned on me. Then I remembered that horrible killing by the 22 year old student in Bray over the summer.

I then couldn’t help musing that if the all night shop he had gone to had had the same regulations and enforced them as stringently as the Argos on Old Street, the tragic events might have been avoided. It’s not a guarantee but I can at least see the regulations here as an attempt at a safeguard against a problem which has plagued London.

Lesson 1: Register with your doctor

I moved to London on Sunday 20th – though that statement is more momentous than what actually happened – I flew over without booking a flight home or onwards and I checked in an (overweight) bag.

It felt less like moving home and country and more like a longer than usual weekend in London – and in some respects it still feels that way. Perhaps this is why I diligently filled in the registration form for the local GP but didn’t drop it in to the office.

I regretted this on Friday morning after spending Thursday night throwing up. I was still getting sick on Friday morning so I gave up any thoughts of going to college and followed my friend’s advice to go to the student health centre. (I was very lucky to have a good friend from my previous assault on college staying with me on Thursday night.)

I would have just crawled into my bed for the day but I needed to see a doctor for a few reasons:

• I felt terrible and wanted to take something for it but didn’t know if I could because….
• …I am on medication and have to see a doctor when I get sick in case it’s connected
• I needed a doctor’s note for college – a fact drummed into us several times last week

The nurse in the health service was lovely but couldn’t tell me if I could take anything so we called the GP where I was told that I couldn’t be seen until 48 hours after I had registered. So we were sent to the NHS walk-in clinic at Liverpool St. Station.

Walk-in clinics are a brilliant idea – you’re going to have to wait but you will be seen that day – great. Unless you need to see a doctor which the nurse behind the desk decided I did. “We’re a nurse-led service, you’ll have to go to Hackney.”

An hour and a half later on the bus and we were sitting in A&E in Hackney waiting to be seen in the GP walk-in clinic. At this point I was exhausted, feeling marginally less sick and desperate to simply go home and go to bed – but we still needed to make sure it wasn’t anything it shouldn’t and I wasn’t going to go back without some note justifying the whole goose-chase.

Four hours later a very capable and thorough nurse-practitioner was taking blood and giving me an anti-nausea injection. I felt a lot better and didn’t feel like I had wasted a day of my life coming for treatment that wasn’t forthcoming – a feeling that I rarely shook in all the time I spent hunting doctors at home.

Fourteen hours of sleep and two days of avoiding food and all the horrible associations and I was recovered. I promise that I’ll drop down that GP registration form tomorrow…