Lockerbie

It's 20 years today since the dreadful loss of PanAm 103, blown up by a bomb over the town of Lockerbie. I guess we all have our own personal "you know exactly where you were, when..." lists. For me, the night of Lockerbie is definitely on the list.

I was the late-shift television continuity announcer on BBC1 that evening, and we were into the network's main evening entertainment schedule when word came through from the newsroom that there had been a plane crash in the Borders. Probably a military jet on a low flying exercise, I thought, knowing the Borders as a prime area for RAF training sorties. Some more time went by, and then a clearer picture began to emerge. By the time it became clear this was a large passenger jet, we were broadcasting a lavish and hugely expensive drama production, which had been the subject of major-league promotion and and media buzz. Interrupting such a programme for a Newsflash was not something the BBC did lightly, but this was clearly a major story and - in the days before internet and tv rolling news channels - we ought to get it on air as soon as possible. As soon as Newsroom were ready, the Presentation Director faded the drama to black, I selected the "News Report" caption to my vision output, opened the microphone and explained to the viewers that we were interrupting the programme to cross to Nicholas Witchell in the Newsroom.

As Witchell broke the shocking news to the audience, up in the Pres suite, we faced a little concern of our own: how are we going to get neatly back into the play we interrupted? (This is typical of life in a Presentation department. World changing events may be going on outside, and we worry about the minutiae of making the channel look smooth! But, hey, that's what Pres is there for!) In this instance, luck was on my side. I'd actually been watching the play and enjoying it, rather than - as usual - reading the paper with my feet up. "Don't worry" I said to the Director "Rewind the tape by 30 seconds or so, I'll do a recap of the story so far, then you run the tape when I start waving." (no instant start video servers in those days. Programme tapes needed a 5-second run-up) At that, the newsflash ended, we put up an appropriate caption and I embarked on my impromptu recap, waved manically at the Director at an appropriate point, and we got back into the play. If you ever fancy testing your knowledge and observation of a drama you've just been watching, I heartily recommend doing it live and scriptless on BBC1 as a way of concentrating the mind!!

There was a further moment of mad juggling at the end of the play. News were all set to appear at the programme junction, with a fuller report on the incident. As the credits rolled on the drama, our preview monitors showed a shot of an empty chair on the news set. "You ok, News? With you in 1 minute." Yes, they'd be fine, they assured us. "30 seconds, News. You ready?" Still nobody in the presenter's chair, but still they sounded confident. The producer credit and BBC copyright notice froze, centre frame, and the theme music ended. As the vision began to fade to black, the talkback from News erupted: "Don't come to us, Pres, we can't go ahead!". It's at a time like this that human hands on buttons and faders score big time over a computerised transmission system. With a splendid display of fast fingerwork, we got the BBC1 network symbol up on screen, and I began to chat away on air about the delights to come, while the Director hastily shuffled her options in the main gallery next door. An adrenaline-filled few moments, but we got away with it!

So, that was my Lockerbie night, exactly 20 years ago.

The enormity of the incident itself was brought home to me soon after, as I made the drive from London to Glasgow, for a seasonal break. With me in the car, my wife and my newly born son, Jamie, just a few days old. The route to Glasgow took us up the A74, slowing to a crawl as we passed Lockerbie, since the road was down to half its normal width, on account of the damage the plane crash had caused to the southbound carriageway. Our slow passage past the site afforded us a clear view of the devastation wrought on Lockerbie. Houses, roofless and scorched, starkly illuminated by temporary floodlights, and the enormous crater gouged out at the roadside, where a wing laden with fuel had crashed to earth, unleashing the fireball that vapourised not only bricks and mortar but also the residents within. By now, the crash investigators knew it had been a bomb. On the back seat of the car, Jamie slumbered on. He'd entered the world on the 12th of December and, two weeks on, I couldn't help but wonder just what sort of a world it was that he'd entered.

Farewell, Mr Bagpuss

Today's News reports the death, at 83, of Oliver Postgate, the creator of some of the best loved shows from what people of a certain age like to recall as the Golden Age of children's television.

( http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2008/dec/09/oliver-postgate-bagpuss )

This was the man who brought us the Clangers, in all their knitted glory, complete with dialogue played on the Swannee Whistle. The driving force of Ivor the Engine, too, and Bagpuss.

Bagpuss image © BBC

These were simple creations, but utterly charming. No computer wizardry, just humane warmth. As the narration said, of Bagpuss: "Just an old, saggy, cloth cat. Baggy and a bit loose at the seams." For those of us who are also beginning to feel a bit baggy and loose at the seams, these characters evoke some very special memories. So, cheers, Mr Postgate and, as the Clangers' Soup Dragon would surely have said: "Whoo-woo-woop? Woo wu wooooooh."

Necessary journeys

Now then. Winter in the UK and we're having a bit of a cold spell. This means we'll soon be in for a forest of well-intentioned advice, from local authorities, police, the Highways Agency and others of their ilk, all rushing to warn Motorists not to travel unless their journey is really necessary.

This hardy perennial can be guaranteed to pop up every winter, and I swear it only does so to irritate me.

"Motorists" for a start. I'd like to see this term banished to the history books. It's redolent of a bygone age, of the illicit pleasures of Mr Toad, a new and daring pursuit for the well-to-do. It belongs in that era when a smart young cad-about-town would take a young filly for a spin through country lanes, or a family might pack the perfect picnic hamper and set-off with their perfectly scrubbed children for a charabanc outing to a summer meadow, there to meander without care, or bask in the afternoon sun, blowing dandelion clocks and taking in the heady aroma of wildflowers, as the ....... well, you get the picture. The point is, life on four wheels just isn't like that anymore! It may sound like a minor thing, but I actually think that the continued use of this term is damaging, as it allows governments and regulatory bodies to continue to paint the car user as somehow removed from the rest of responsible society. Once you've positioned them thus, it becomes a bit easier to clobber them with draconian regulations, of the sort that require the suspension of normal rules of evidence and legal procedure. After all, they're Motorists, they're not like you and me. Wrong! They ARE you and me, and it's time, I say, for those in authority to acknowledge that driving a car is something that people do, and will continue to do.

Oops...heading off on a rant. Calm down dear!

When is a journey necessary? Well, again, it's all anchored in the past, isn't it? Those jolly country jaunts weren't necessary, but who makes that sort of trip in miserable winter weather conditions? In fact, given the state of Britain's roads and the level of traffic congestion we have today, does anyone really head out there for pleasure? A dark night, blizzard conditions, floods, plage and pestilence? I know: let's go for a drive! I'm not convinced.

As I write this, darkness has fallen in London and it's started to rain again. You wait. Any minute now, some herbert will be on the radio with another of these infernal warnings. Well, I just don't care. Home is where I want to be and that makes my journey necessary.

Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye. I may be some time.

Anniversary

An anniversary for me this week. 30 years since my first paid employment as a broadcaster. It was this week in November 1978 that BBC Scotland were bold enough to take me on, as the youngest staff presenter the BBC had ever booked. In fact, they were so dubious about the whole thing that they had to send off to London for permission to give the job to such a callow youth. While they waited for the BBC equivalent of the Vatican's white smoke, they fiddled the issue and put me on a temporary Engineering grade. All was soon sorted, though.

So, 30 years of professional rabbiting, muttering, shouting and rambling on British radio and television. What fun, and what a privilege! And what changing times, not least in the technology of it all. From playing vinyl records, tapes and cartridges in radio, 2-inch and 1-inch video and even telecine in TV, to the era in which a hard-disk playout server seems to be the source of everything. It mostly whirrs along quite nicely, but there's not so much to get excited about when the equipment you're battling with is an inscrutable black box in a chilled server room at the other end of the building!

Anyway, enough Luddite rumbling from me for now. I hereby wish myself a happy Pearl anniversary. Send gifts of suitable jewellery to the usual address.

Istanbul this morning, homeward bound.

Last call on this mini-adventure is the exciting city of Istanbul. It's a big place, population upwards of 10 million, and an intriguing mix of the ancient and the modern. On crowded streets, trams glide past market stalls selling all manner of colourful goods, while moustached, leather-jacket-clad salesmen sweep towards you with an armful of rugs.

The famous Grand Bazaar is something to behold, though the most accurate marketing statement is probably the one offered, with a large grin, by one of the vendors near the entrance: "We won't cheat you as much as the others!".

I'm leaving the ship now, as duy calls back in London. Many thanks to the good folks of Cunard for such a memorable time and, of course, to the TOGS, without whom.....

See you back in Blighty!

Last Night at Sea

Well, I've made it to my last night on this glorious, windswept, TOGS' Voyage.

All going swimmingly, apart from one poorly TOG who they think might have appendicitis. Either that or she's getting her excuse in early for dodging Alan Dedicoat's karaoke efforts.

Today we anchored off the Turkish port of Dikili. Many of us braved the rain and went ashore to explore its delights. To describe it as a one-horse-town might be to do a disservice to the horse, who may simply have been on annual leave at the time of our visit. Actually, Dikili did have a very nice sweetie shop, a tremendously well stocked bucket emporium and a number of outlets selling shiny fresh fish. Outside each fish shop was a scraggy, but hopeful looking cat. There was also a cat seeking refuge from the rain in the engine bay of the local police car. We returned to the ship, pausing only to neck a Turkish coffee in a Turkish cafe.

I promised myself an early night tonight, yet it seems to have become unexpectedly late. I blame the two TOGS who detained me in the bar. And one of them stole the slice of lime out of my gin. Trying to ward off the scurvy, I suppose.

Must close now. I've just seen the members of the string quartet heading, instruments under arm, for the exit. If they put on warm clothing and strike up with Nearer My God To Thee, I'm heading for the lifeboats, or perhaps just back to the bar.

Still at Sea

To paraphrase Brian Hanrahan, I'm not allowed to tell you how many TOGS went ashore to visit the monastery at Volos, but I counted them all out and I counted them all back again. My last-minute decision to wimp out of the trip, on the grounds of inclement weather and inadequate personal cladding, was thoroughly vindicated. The TOGS returned chilled and windswept. A good time was had by all though. The ancient monastery comes highly recommended by today's visitors, though their initial excitement at discovering a 16,000 litre barrel of wine up at the mountain top turned to despair when they realised that it had been drained before their arrival. Coincidence....?

Dickie bows and posh frocks were required for this evening's Black & White Ball. A bit of a shock for me, as this was a late change to the schedule and I hadn't packed for a Formal Night. As luck would have it, Alan Dedicoat had left his DJ hanging in my wardrobe for safe keeping, ready for his return to the ship next week. Only one problem: he and I are about a foot different in height. Nothing the on-board tailor can't sort though. Which is good news for me but may be tricky for Deadly in a few days' time. Mind you, the extra braid round the cuffs may suit him. Don't tell him, will you? By the time he rumbles it I'll be safely back in Blighty.

We're sailing through the night as I write this missive. I was sitting in the comfortably appointed Commodore Club, listening to an entertainer who sounds uncannily like the late Hubert Gregg singing George Formby songs, while I made a thorough assessment of the accommodation for next week's live radio broadcasts, but then I heard the mournful sound of a foghorn off the starboard bow, which appeared to be gradually getting closer. Natural caution made me abandon my position near the front on the foggy side and take refuge with two TOGS from Holmfirth in the ship's Casino. I can't hear the foghorn anymore, which probably means the danger has passed. Or could it mean that those manning the foghorn have simply nodded off? Time will tell. Whatever, I have confidence in the crew of this mighty ship. I'm sure they have someone up at the bow with a decent torch.

Here's a pic of me in action at last night's TOGS' Champagne Reception, with Pudsey keeping a weather eye on proceedings.