And now for the news…
I was on TV the other day. I say that like it’s a perfectly natural thing for me to do, but my bowels, given half the chance, would beg to differ. It’s been a tenderly held ambition of mine to be interviewed about my fantastic band in which I explain my moving and inspirational lyrics to thousands of adoring fans. Unfortunately, it wasn’t about that, not least because I don’t actually have a fantastic band (or any other type of band for that matter). Instead it was about some no-story and I was there for a spot of punditry in my capacity as a so-called expert in my field.
This is utter bollocks, of course. It was fellow skivey friend who fobbed the gig off on me – he blew them out for a radio interview and The Auteurs concert. I was *this* close to turning them politely down with some hastily constructed excuse when they offered to send a car to collect me.
Send a car and I’ll overcome any fear.
The car arrived bang on time. Unfortunately that time was 45 minutes before I was due on – far too late to get me into central London through rush hour traffic on time (what the fuck do I know – I don’t even drive). Five minutes before I was due on air and we were still sat in Camberwell. Not good.
For some reason this failed to make me more nervous. That’s because, by this stage, I had sunk into a slightly drunken torpor, my brain’s way of protecting me from the whole hideous ordeal. Halfway there and my glee at being driven about in the back seat of a smart car like Ms Big Pants gave way to motion sickness and I honestly thought I was going to puke right there in front of the nice driver. Fortunately, a day of petulant bowels meant that there was nothing at all in my stomach even if I did decide to vomit. Instead, I lay there groaning gently, my head lolling back on the head-rest hoping nice driver wouldn’t notice.
On arrival (more than 15 minutes after I was due on) I was escorted down to the studio by an attractive, but slightly eccentric, posh young female. The studio was tucked away in the basement and I was disappointed to discover that news studios are not the hive of activity I’d imagined. Four unmanned cameras and one lady in a headset were the only witnesses to the newsreaders’ reports. The room was also entirely bare and rather small.
The news readers chatted to their earpieces every time they were off air and the female presenter checked her hair and makeup in a small mirror up until the very last second of every one of her links. When it came time for me to go on, the headset lady plonked me in a chair, stuck a mike on me and wandered off again without even a word of instruction about where to look or what not to do. The news reader man was very personable, though, and after instructing him not to ask me anything hard we were being counted back onto air.
Afterwards my sisters gave me a full review. My hair looked shiny and I didn’t fiddle with it too much. I said “you know” too much. My teeth looked very white – had I had them whitened? My joke was funny, but I was too nervous at the start. You couldn’t see my bra through my shirt. I don’t think they actually listened to a word I said (apart from the gag and the “you knows”) but I looked good, so that’s ok. It was all over in minutes and I soon found myself getting back into a car to be driven (this time by a surly driver, unhappy at having to go further than W1) all the way back home again.
Milway showed up soon afterwards bearing a Chinese Takeaway and a bottle of champagne. Unfortunately, because I was on so late, the video hadn’t caught my white teeth or my “you know”ing so I’ve yet to see my televisual debut. Full of Chilli Beef and champagne, and drained from the fast-diminishing adrenalin, I fell asleep on the sofa early (earlier than usual anyway – I’m incredibly prone to armchair napping) with some show about mutant lab mice humming away quietly on TV.
This is utter bollocks, of course. It was fellow skivey friend who fobbed the gig off on me – he blew them out for a radio interview and The Auteurs concert. I was *this* close to turning them politely down with some hastily constructed excuse when they offered to send a car to collect me.
Send a car and I’ll overcome any fear.
The car arrived bang on time. Unfortunately that time was 45 minutes before I was due on – far too late to get me into central London through rush hour traffic on time (what the fuck do I know – I don’t even drive). Five minutes before I was due on air and we were still sat in Camberwell. Not good.
For some reason this failed to make me more nervous. That’s because, by this stage, I had sunk into a slightly drunken torpor, my brain’s way of protecting me from the whole hideous ordeal. Halfway there and my glee at being driven about in the back seat of a smart car like Ms Big Pants gave way to motion sickness and I honestly thought I was going to puke right there in front of the nice driver. Fortunately, a day of petulant bowels meant that there was nothing at all in my stomach even if I did decide to vomit. Instead, I lay there groaning gently, my head lolling back on the head-rest hoping nice driver wouldn’t notice.
On arrival (more than 15 minutes after I was due on) I was escorted down to the studio by an attractive, but slightly eccentric, posh young female. The studio was tucked away in the basement and I was disappointed to discover that news studios are not the hive of activity I’d imagined. Four unmanned cameras and one lady in a headset were the only witnesses to the newsreaders’ reports. The room was also entirely bare and rather small.
The news readers chatted to their earpieces every time they were off air and the female presenter checked her hair and makeup in a small mirror up until the very last second of every one of her links. When it came time for me to go on, the headset lady plonked me in a chair, stuck a mike on me and wandered off again without even a word of instruction about where to look or what not to do. The news reader man was very personable, though, and after instructing him not to ask me anything hard we were being counted back onto air.
Afterwards my sisters gave me a full review. My hair looked shiny and I didn’t fiddle with it too much. I said “you know” too much. My teeth looked very white – had I had them whitened? My joke was funny, but I was too nervous at the start. You couldn’t see my bra through my shirt. I don’t think they actually listened to a word I said (apart from the gag and the “you knows”) but I looked good, so that’s ok. It was all over in minutes and I soon found myself getting back into a car to be driven (this time by a surly driver, unhappy at having to go further than W1) all the way back home again.
Milway showed up soon afterwards bearing a Chinese Takeaway and a bottle of champagne. Unfortunately, because I was on so late, the video hadn’t caught my white teeth or my “you know”ing so I’ve yet to see my televisual debut. Full of Chilli Beef and champagne, and drained from the fast-diminishing adrenalin, I fell asleep on the sofa early (earlier than usual anyway – I’m incredibly prone to armchair napping) with some show about mutant lab mice humming away quietly on TV.
posted by Shinykatie at 6:20 pm
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