In the autumn of 1991 I had been a television floor manager for approximately eight months. I knew very little....fuck all you could say.
I had next to no experience, a year at a music channel (most of that as a rigger/driver), and Middle Eastern Broadcasting Ltd (MBC), a brand new, Saudi owned Arabic language channel, had kindly employed me.
After only going on air that October, the news end of the channel decided to send an O.B. (outside broadcast) to Madrid in Spain to cover the launching of the Middle East Peace Process. They decided this about seven days before it was due to start. For five of those days they believed they wouldn't be needing a floor manager. 39 other people, ENG crews (that's the two person teams of camera and sound that cover all the roving stuff), technical and production teams were all confirmed and, two days before the off, I was the 40th and final person to be asked to go. I was told there was a going date - but no coming back date. It could be weeks, maybe a month.
I had done some O.B.s before, to floor manage they're generally harder logistically than studio work, well, I had given Pat Sharp a visual cue and a finger count to stop talking as he skied past me on an artificial slope introducing 'I've Got The Power' by Snap. Simple stuff.
Anyway, I went, and, in Madrid, I learned more about my job in those eight days than I had in the previous eight months.
When I returned I felt like the Buffy The Vampire Slayer of Floor Managers.
DFR 10/06/2009.
Contact : dominiczero@live.co.uk
Wednesday, 10 June 2009
Roll Call
Lee - ENG Sound.
Geoff - ENG Camera.
Graham - Engineer.
Raeff - ENG Camera.
Dom T - Picture Editor.
Omar - O.B. Sound.
Dom R - O.B. Floor Manager.
Simon - O.B. Director.
Estrella - Translator.
Jo - Studio Director (London).
Marney - Head Of News MBC.
Sean Something Smith - News Editor.
Nidal - Presenter.
Tony - Presenter.
Maha - Reporter.
Alloy - Mini Bus Driver.
Carlos - Mini Bus Driver.
Jazelle - Something To Do With Production.
Dave (Klunk) - Engineer.
Mudslide - Vodka, Tia Maria & Bailey's.
Geoff - ENG Camera.
Graham - Engineer.
Raeff - ENG Camera.
Dom T - Picture Editor.
Omar - O.B. Sound.
Dom R - O.B. Floor Manager.
Simon - O.B. Director.
Estrella - Translator.
Jo - Studio Director (London).
Marney - Head Of News MBC.
Sean Something Smith - News Editor.
Nidal - Presenter.
Tony - Presenter.
Maha - Reporter.
Alloy - Mini Bus Driver.
Carlos - Mini Bus Driver.
Jazelle - Something To Do With Production.
Dave (Klunk) - Engineer.
Mudslide - Vodka, Tia Maria & Bailey's.
Day One
Monday 28th October 1991.
Flew out the previous night, scum class, drinking Mudslides pretty much all the way and arrived fairly caned.
Loads of shit getting thirty-seven items of technical gear plus three big boxes of MBC sweatshirts through customs. A mere £1,700 short, which we had to pay. Luckily I have no credit card, so it was Geoff and Graham who had to pay the biscuit.
More shit at the Spanish end, but we finally got through without being shot or anything, spirits waning until we reached the hotel.
Turned up well late and got smashed while we listened to the good old 'pep talk'. Onwards to Dom T's room for more Mudslides without the Tia Maria and big, big hangovers. The shower in my room nearly killed me, it was like being gunned down. Flooded the bathroom floor. Haven't tried chucking the telly out the window yet. Bed at three forty-five. Ish.
Monday at breakfast I felt like shit on a stick, head full of cotton wool and major problems with balance as I navigated the breakfast room. The guy with the coffee kept ignoring us - fucking Englanders with attitude. Recognized the Frosties and the croissants, everything else looked weird. The scrambled eggs looked like someone had thrown up in there. No toast.
Packed into the mini-buses, turned south and headed for The Shit, otherwise known as The Press Centre. There were guns and sour-faced soldiers everywhere. The Spanish cops put the Americans to shame, all leather and mirror shades and big guns in low-slung holsters. You need a pass to get your pass. Everything gets x-rayed. Unloaded our shit-sized pile of techno gear, only to be told to take it around the back way. Of course, after loading it all back up it turned out there was no back way, so we sodded about, like you do, for an hour or so, before we got sent back to the front door. Unloaded it all again and finally got it through, then spent the rest of the day sitting around in the MBC room waiting for shit to happen.
Found a bar and drank some gin. The measures are huge, they just fill up the glass and there's barely any room for a mixer. Which is just fine. We got back to the hotel around ten, knackered from doing nothing on a long day, after Nidal insisted the bus driver took the scenic route back, to groans from the rest of us who badly needed the bar. I wanted to mention to him that he was a fucking twat, but thought better of it. After all, the presenter's always right.
Got there in the end. Big measures of bourbon at the bar. Hit the bed and blacked out.
Flew out the previous night, scum class, drinking Mudslides pretty much all the way and arrived fairly caned.
Loads of shit getting thirty-seven items of technical gear plus three big boxes of MBC sweatshirts through customs. A mere £1,700 short, which we had to pay. Luckily I have no credit card, so it was Geoff and Graham who had to pay the biscuit.
More shit at the Spanish end, but we finally got through without being shot or anything, spirits waning until we reached the hotel.
Turned up well late and got smashed while we listened to the good old 'pep talk'. Onwards to Dom T's room for more Mudslides without the Tia Maria and big, big hangovers. The shower in my room nearly killed me, it was like being gunned down. Flooded the bathroom floor. Haven't tried chucking the telly out the window yet. Bed at three forty-five. Ish.
Monday at breakfast I felt like shit on a stick, head full of cotton wool and major problems with balance as I navigated the breakfast room. The guy with the coffee kept ignoring us - fucking Englanders with attitude. Recognized the Frosties and the croissants, everything else looked weird. The scrambled eggs looked like someone had thrown up in there. No toast.
Packed into the mini-buses, turned south and headed for The Shit, otherwise known as The Press Centre. There were guns and sour-faced soldiers everywhere. The Spanish cops put the Americans to shame, all leather and mirror shades and big guns in low-slung holsters. You need a pass to get your pass. Everything gets x-rayed. Unloaded our shit-sized pile of techno gear, only to be told to take it around the back way. Of course, after loading it all back up it turned out there was no back way, so we sodded about, like you do, for an hour or so, before we got sent back to the front door. Unloaded it all again and finally got it through, then spent the rest of the day sitting around in the MBC room waiting for shit to happen.
Found a bar and drank some gin. The measures are huge, they just fill up the glass and there's barely any room for a mixer. Which is just fine. We got back to the hotel around ten, knackered from doing nothing on a long day, after Nidal insisted the bus driver took the scenic route back, to groans from the rest of us who badly needed the bar. I wanted to mention to him that he was a fucking twat, but thought better of it. After all, the presenter's always right.
Got there in the end. Big measures of bourbon at the bar. Hit the bed and blacked out.
Day Two
Tuesday 29th October 1991.
Up early, could have slept a lot longer. Last day before the peace conference actually starts, and security is heavier than ever. We have to take our passports everywhere. Not a great deal seems to be going on, it's looking like another fifteen hour lunch break.
It turns into a slow day with hectic intervals. Radio talkback on OBs is usually crap, but this is uber-chronic. Simon sounds like an imp talking to me from Greenland with a hanker-chief over his mouth. Dave the engineer wanted me to relay some info to Graham over talkback, but he talks in techno-speak, kind of like Clunk from Dastardly & Muttley so I just handed him my cans and shrugged at him. I swear, nobody except Graham understands a fucking word that guy says.
Some Jordanian big cheeses showed up amidst a press-bang that could rival a small war. Thought the walls were going to come down on us. There were camera men standing on each others heads trying to get a look into our room. After that it kind of went quiet again and the press centre looked like somebody had been chucking grenades around in it.
Met Estrella, the translator. Very Nice. But Dom T was hanging around her like a nasty rash with his tongue hanging down to his chest, so I moved on. She has nice eyes.
Got back to the hotel early, about twenty-three hundred, and proceeded to get smashed on Four Roses bourbon whilst swallowing ham and cheese toasties - the only available food.
Slept like somebody had killed me and buried me.
Up early, could have slept a lot longer. Last day before the peace conference actually starts, and security is heavier than ever. We have to take our passports everywhere. Not a great deal seems to be going on, it's looking like another fifteen hour lunch break.
It turns into a slow day with hectic intervals. Radio talkback on OBs is usually crap, but this is uber-chronic. Simon sounds like an imp talking to me from Greenland with a hanker-chief over his mouth. Dave the engineer wanted me to relay some info to Graham over talkback, but he talks in techno-speak, kind of like Clunk from Dastardly & Muttley so I just handed him my cans and shrugged at him. I swear, nobody except Graham understands a fucking word that guy says.
Some Jordanian big cheeses showed up amidst a press-bang that could rival a small war. Thought the walls were going to come down on us. There were camera men standing on each others heads trying to get a look into our room. After that it kind of went quiet again and the press centre looked like somebody had been chucking grenades around in it.
Met Estrella, the translator. Very Nice. But Dom T was hanging around her like a nasty rash with his tongue hanging down to his chest, so I moved on. She has nice eyes.
Got back to the hotel early, about twenty-three hundred, and proceeded to get smashed on Four Roses bourbon whilst swallowing ham and cheese toasties - the only available food.
Slept like somebody had killed me and buried me.
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