A story of Pres A, by Roger Bunce

The following is as true as I can make it. I admit that there are holes in my memory and some of them may have been filled from imagination. If you spot anything that couldn’t possible be true, let me know (but not if it spoils the story!) I’ve said it was Pres A, but one brain cell keeps trying to tell me that we were actually doing Pres A duties in B, at the time, because A was closed for maintenance. But it’s easier just to call it Pres A. More worryingly I can’t remember the names (or faces) of any of the other characters involved. A nagging doubt says that the other Cameraman may not actually have been a cameraman (I can dimly recall a young, fair-haired face) but, if he wasn’t a cameraman, I can’t think why he’d have been chatting to me in the gallery that lunchtime. Maybe readers will recognize themselves. The heroic, fleet-footed Sound Man certainly deserves a credit.

Cast your mind back to the days when programme trails and the Weather Forecast were made in Pres A, a small studio on the fourth floor of TV Centre. The weather charts were large, wall-covering metal sheets, decorated with magnetic rubber isobars. The Tech. Ops. Offices were also on the fourth floor. But today is a weekend. The office workers are all at home. The fourth floor of TV Centre is deserted, and quiet – too damn quiet. It is lunchtime. A couple of Cameramen are sitting in the gallery of Pres A, eating their sandwiches, dripping coffee into the mixing desk, etc. A figure appears in the doorway. It is the Weatherman. He sees surprised at the lack of activity.

“Are we ready?” “Ready for?” “The Weather Forecast.”

Er – well – everyone’s gone to lunch. There’s no Production Team, no S. Tel. E. (without whom we’re not supposed to touch anything), no Vision Mixer, no Sound Crew, just a couple of Camera Blokes on their meal break.

We check the daily sheet. There’s no booking for a Weather Forecast until much later. But the Weatherman seems certain. Clearly, we must consult the Executive Document which, as we all remember, was – The Radio Times. In those more conscientious days, if we promised the public that we would do something at a certain time, we had to do it. A misprint in the Radio Times was a definitive misprint. Only the death of some serious royalty could change this.

We find a Radio Times. It says “News and Weathe . . .Err.” Oh . . . Kay.

Somebody ought to tell someone. Can we find the S. Tel. E.’s phone number anywhere? No. Does the Weatherman know the number of the production office? No. Tech-Ops management would be no use. Being a weekend, our office will be locked-up and abandoned. These were the days before Duty Managers.

Oh . . . Kay.

Someone who knows what they’re doing may arrive shortly but, in the meantime, it looks as if we might have to do this by ourselves: just two Cameramen and a Weatherman.

It should be possible.

There are three cameras, but only one shot on each, and they’re all side-by-side, pointing at the charts. I can hop between them and do all three: Camera One on the Atlantic chart, with possible zoom out; Camera Two panning from the Today to the Tomorrow charts; Camera Three on a summary caption. I can do this. (I know I can do this, because this is what we always did after the management went home. Don’t tell anyone!) My colleague can vision mix – just three buttons – all cuts – the Weatherman leaves one shot, cut as he enters the next – easy. We can do this.

It might look better if the studio wasn’t in complete darkness. Can’t be too difficult to turn some lights on. It must all be on one memory somewhere. Not that one. Nor that. Yes! That looks like the weather lights. And some sound. Again it’ll just be one channel. And it’s labelled! Fade it up. Better not touch the racks knobs. The pictures looked alright this morning. My vision-mixing chum can fine tune sound and pictures just before we go on air.

We can do this.

I go into the studio; set the cameras in position; line up shots. We have a bit of a walk-through. “Any chance of any make-up?” he asks.

Damn! I left my powder puff in my other trousers. “You look fine on camera,” I assure him. There are limits to my abilities. Network confirm that they’re expecting a Weather Forecast and give us the timings. I realize that I’ll also have to do a little floor-managing. After doing the three cameras, I’ll have to run round to the front of the lens and put my finger on the clock – to give the Weatherman his precise out-time.

I can do this.

Two minute lights. Still no sign of anyone who knows what they’re doing. But we’re feeling confident now. Who needs a production team? Who needs a Director, a Producer, a P.A., an S. Tel. E., a Vision Mixer, a Sound Crew? All it takes is a couple of good Cameramen and we can drive the whole damn studio, live on air. What could possibly go wrong?

It is at this point that the Weatherman says, hesitantly, in a not-wishing-to-be-a-nuisance tone of voice, “Should I have a microphone?”

Ah!

The man has made a valid point. My excuse is that I can hear him perfectly – being only six feet away. My colleague in the gallery hasn’t mentioned the silence. Perhaps he’s been assuming that I’d do something about it.

Oh . . . Kay.

We need to rig a microphone. That can’t be too difficult – if we can find one. Has the Weatherman noticed where they keep the mics? No. It’ll probably still be hanging on the wall box. It isn’t. Check round the studio. Nothing.

Ransack the cupboard in the gallery. Still nothing. What’s in that filing cabinet? Slam. Crash. Slam. Nothing. There is a panic-stricken search of all the areas we can think of, with no success. The clock is ticking. Let’s hope the News is overrunning.

Someone in Pres B must know . . . but Pres B is locked-up and in darkness.

The Engineers are just down the corridor and they . . . are also locked-up and out to lunch.

Tech. Stores is four floors down and the far side of the building. Even if they would issue me with a mic, I’d never get there and back in the time.

Oh . . . Kay.

There’s just one slight hope. We’re on the fourth floor. Our office is also on the fourth floor. Even at the weekend there is one room they leave unlocked: the room with the crew pigeon-holes. We didn’t have a crew-room in those days, but this was the one place that you might find a few techies sitting at lunchtime. If I run like hell, I might just get there, I might even get back again, before we go on air, and, if I’m very lucky, there might be a Sound Man there.

GO!

Hurtle down the Pres corridor – Crash through the fire-doors – Across the South Hall – Crash through the fire- doors – Run ninety degrees round the circle – More fire-doors – Sheer centrifugal force hurts me sharp right into the side corridor – Skid to a halt at the pigeon-hole room. A Miracle! There are two Sound Men sitting there, shoving sandwiches into their faces.

And I’m standing in the doorway going, “pant – gasp – wheeze – pant”. “Wot? – munch – munch.”

“Pres A! – gasp – pant – Where do they keep the mics?”

“You’re a Cameraman – munch – munch – Why do you need to know that?” “Going on air! – pant – Weather Forecast – gasp – Haven’t got a sound crew!”

“Well that’s nothing to panic about – munch – munch – They’ll be there on time. When’s it happening?” Fumble with watch. “About 49 – no, that’s 48 now – 47 seconds – I mean 46 – ”

There is a spectacular explosion of bits of sandwich; a Sound Man becomes a blur, and I’m left talking to an empty chair. I’m running back round the circle, but the Sound Man has left me standing. All I see of him is swinging fire-doors and a trail of breadcrumbs. I burst into the studio as he bursts out – having wired up the Weatherman.

“And now it’s time for today’s Weather with . . .”

He is throwing himself at the sound desk, as I throw myself at Camera One.

“Well, it’s been sunny morning, but there’s cold front coming in from the Atlantic . . .” or whatever. We did it!