Laurence Middleton Jones is a freelance writer and part-time locum
pharmacist.
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There must be more to life than this,” I thought,
ticking little boxes on an endless check-list. That was how it started.
On the way to the car, after my shift at the supermarket, I phoned the
bank and asked for £10,000. To my surprise they put up no fight.
Cameras, microphones, lights, motherboards, cables and books littered my spare
room. I had decided to put together a media company with the help of a loan
and a set of screwdrivers.
Before too long I had a secretary, Maria, and a phone. The phone was ringing.
Someone wanted a quote for webcasting. “Where,” I asked. The contact
would not say. “How can I quote if I don’t know where,” I
asked Maria. “Or when,” she said.
The contact, let us call him “V” was not very forthcoming with
the details. In fact it took weeks. “London”, V confided, then “Westminster”,
then, finally, “Downing Street”. By this stage I was pressing the
panic buttons but there was no backing out — the quote had been agreed.
I was to interview the Prime Minister and members of the cabinet. It was time
to re-read the camera instruction manual.
“How do you want it to look, formal or informal,” I asked V, “to
the camera or to the interviewer.” These were important details. “They’ll
do what you tell them,” he replied, “just put them where you want
them.”
The date was fixed and I was as ready as I ever would be. Then the tanks rolled
into Iraq. Our subject had more important things to attend to and the whole
affair was cancelled.
Shooting
Six months later Maria got another call. It was V. The job was back on,
but this time at a different location and a different event.
“Where,” I asked. “When?” V could not say. I felt
like we had been here before. For security reasons, we did not find out until
just days before the event, which turned out to be the Government’s
2003 London Summit of World Leaders at the Hilton Metropole.
I had agreed to create 10 video interviews, each edited with the questions
converted into title screens, and with logos added. Each had to be encoded,
uploaded and checked in versions for broadband, midband and dial-up internet
viewers.
And they all had to be on the web within an hour. After this the world
must be able to click and view.
“By the way,” said V, “can you also organise an official
photographer and a press photo desk?”
“No problem,” I said. Then I wondered how I was going to do it.
Usually I do my own camerawork and editing. But that would be impossible
here because we had to conduct the interviews as and when subjects were
available. I could not be editing and filming at the same time. Also, I
had never organised a photo desk for the world’s press, or been an
official photographer.
My wife, Marcia (as distinct from Maria), was a dab hand at printing the
family photos. Ha! I had the answer — some Photoshop training, loads
of shortcuts on the desktop, and hey presto, press room!
The real difficulty arose when I asked her to organise total babysitting
arrangements for our two young children for three days. I was forced to
play the trump card and promise that a sum in excess of the minimum wage
would be involved. Wedding
My next problem was finding an official photographer to cover the floor
and, hopefully, the people on it. I had noticed the pictures in the window
of our local wedding photographer. In all of them the bride and groom
could clearly be recognised. This was promising. It also turned out he
had done some corporate work in the past.
I asked him if he be interested in covering an event in London. “Yes,’ he
said, “what kind of event?”
“Like a wedding,” I replied, “only bigger.”
Philip was on board. But V said he needed full details of all crew to get security
clearances so I now had to find a cameraman fast. Maria contacted a London
agency and they sent us a list of CVs. Roger’s name rose to the top.
It read like a commemorative issue of the Radio Times with highlights from
the last 20 years. He had covered royal events, the biggest national sporting
occasions, the soaps. I could not believe I would get the chance to work with
such an experienced professional. A few more phone calls and it was fixed — we
would all meet up in the Hilton. Hopefully.
Semtex
On the day of departure my wife’s Ford Galaxy was gutted of its family
seats and had cables everywhere. I had thrown in everything I could think
of, just in case.
We managed to navigate to the Hilton but found it cordoned off. Armed
police waved us on. I rang Maria in the office and she rang V. He rang
someone
else and the message came back to me to go around again but this time
to drive towards the armed police. I didn’t fancy that. Looking in the
back they’d think we were rag and bone merchants or worse.
We got through and into an area that looked like a building site, filled
with Portacabins. Immediately teams swarmed over us — one in boiler
suits, the other in SWAT battledress. In the car, under the car and under
the bonnet they probed and prised as we were led aside.
“If it’s got the Queen’s head on, its mine,” I ventured.
No response. It was not a place for frivolity. The tension mounted. Then
a woman surfaced from the driver’s footwell, bringing her hand up
from deep down the side of a seat. Her superior moved in smartly. As she
held out her hand we all focused on the large blob of greenish-yellowish
paste. Then they turned from it to me.
“It’s Play Goo, or Spooky, Sticky something,” my voice
tailed off, “We’ve got kids.” Fortunately they refrained
from a controlled explosion. El presidente
 Apart from Blair and Clinton, there were a dozen or so presidents and
prime ministers at the event, so no chances were being taken. Apart from
us,
that is.
We had been instructed to set up in the press room, but to get there
from the basement with our equipment was an operation in itself. We grabbed
a Porter’s trolley, stacking it high with the equipment, cables hanging
out all over the place. The thing steered with the back wheels so I must
have given a terrific impression of a drunk driver. Not the kind of entrance
you would want to make at an inter-governmental, airport-style security
check in, where SWAT is the fashion statement of the day. It felt as if
I really were pushing a homemade H-bomb, but every item was x-rayed, every
pocket emptied. You couldn’t have got through with a spoon. Mr Universe
As we stood there, I noticed a man in a suit discreetly move aside a
cordon tape and quietly usher four other large, suited men towards the
stairs,
thus bypassing the security check. One was carrying flowers, obviously
a trick to make him look like a hotel employee. “Hey,” I
said, looking up at the man at my side, Mr SWAT Universe 2003, “those
men, they weren’t checked!”
He stared at me for a moment and then, to my great surprise, grinned
broadly and tapped the side of his nose, “Don’t worry, Sir,” he
nodded, “Armed Officers.”
The wide, glass-panelled stairs swept upwards, and from the higher floors,
more big suits stared down watching for a single pin to drop. They were
everywhere, it was like being on a film set. Every corridor had a special
branch officer at each end, as well as at every turn, each in line-of-sight.
From behind, you could see that the suit below each man’s shoulders
was rendered asymmetrical by a large, angular, metallic bulge.
After queues for photo ID cards to be issued and further security clearance
checks, we finally arrived at the press room and began setting up there
and in a suite nearby, where we were to film for the next two days. Philip and Roger the Dodger
The next morning I think I had breakfast next to the prime minister of
Sweden. Back in the press room, Philip was already in a high state of
excitement. “You’ll never guess who I’ve just seen,” he
said. He was wearing his trademark white suit and had already started
to perspire.
I was perspiring too. I needed to ensure that we got the digital memory
cards from Philip, wherever he was filming within the conference and session
rooms, and that was dependent on the whims of the organisers. Plus my own
interviews and editing — to say nothing of keeping an eye on my wife’s
historically unpredictable relationship with Microsoft Windows.
My mobile buzzed. Roger was in the foyer. I went down to meet him. Blue-eyed,
tailored, urbane and quite, quite at home, Roger was the perfect Englishman.
I walked him towards the security scanners and we emptied our pockets.
Roger drew out an enormous Leatherman multi-tool device – something
I knew had a large and very sharp blade. There was absolutely no way he
would get that through. My miniature key ring version had already been
confiscated. As the SWAT man stared at him, Roger smiled warmly, “tools
of the trade,” he said, “I’m a cameraman.” And
blow me, if he
didn’t pick it up again as if it were a toothpick and walk away. “Nice
choice,” I said to myself.
With a few deft touches, Roger improved my arrangement of lighting and
backgrounds in the interview suite. This man knew his onions. Now we just
had to wait to see who, and when, was the first interviewee. Rough trade
A flurry of activity and assistants rushed in to tell us that Pascal
Lamy, the EU trade commissioner, was on his way. But at the same time I
got
a text. “NEED CARD NOW.” It was from Philip on the conference
floor. Had he got over 100 shots in 30 minutes? How were we going to
keep up with this?
I was trying not to break into a run and was thus attracting the attention
of every special branch officer en route. To compensate, I tried to pull
the kind of face that said, “I am not a terrorist, I am late, very,
very late.” In between the grimaces I texted back to Philip, “WHERE
ARE YOU?”
 “MIDDLE, FRONT,” came his reply. It seemed to take ages just
to cross the expanse of first floor foyer. Then I heaved open one of the
four doors,
and faced the conference hall itself. It was a daunting sight — the
audience, television crews, journalists and loads of security. Somehow
I had to get to the huddle of photographers, right up there under Mr Blair’s
podium. Oh no!
There was a walkway about three-quarters of the way up the hall which led
into the central aisle. I needed to cross it. Then I needed to get up the
middle towards the podium. Holding the one inch square digital media card
at arms length in the hope that it might excuse me, I shrank into an arthritic,
osteoporosed walk, thus taking up less than half of my normal height. The
audience probably thought I was holding a wafer of plutonium and had been
holding it for far too long.
Reaching the centre aisle, I now collapsed into a crawl and inched my way
up what seemed like a cliff towards a pile of boots and bags, sensing the
world’s
press on my soles — they probably found this performance much more interesting
than the politics. Like a character in a Spielberg movie about to drop into
the abyss, I strained upwards, trying to find a way through all the legs, while
Philip tried to get his arm through from the lens end of the beast. We just
managed to exchange media before I fell back — this time to face the
crowd and to repeat the indignity of my manoeuvre in reverse. Lunch box
Outside the press room I nearly bumped into Pascal Lamy. He was closely
followed by Roger, who passed me a tape. “Everything went fine,” he
said.
Editing with my headphones on, I was oblivious to the world. I had logged
into the Hilton network and now had a 2 Meg pipe up to upload to my media
servers in Holland. These were powerful enough to deliver the encoded video
to hundreds of thousands of viewers.
I clicked on the link. It was the moment of truth, and too close now to
the one-hour deadline to make many changes. The media player opened. “Connecting
to server,” it said, then, “buffering.”
“Come on, come on,” I said. And then, like a miracle, Pascal Lamy
appeared on screen, looking at me, talking. Now anyone in the world could
watch. I’ve done this so many times, but it’s still a thrill.
My wife nudged me. “You were very rude,” she said. I didn’t
know what she was on about. “Peter Mandelson was just talking to
you,” she continued, “and you grunted.” Apparently he
had been peering over
my shoulder, “Ah, is that Pascal,” he had said.
The press room was now busy. Associated Press, Reuters, The Times, The
Guardian, they were all here. Everyone was exchanging gossip, asking questions,
being in turns serious and frivolous.
We all stared when two men in identical workers’ boiler suits came
in, each carrying a small white lunch box, as out of place as Bob the Builder
would have been.
I had seen these men before. In fact I had done a double take because they
rounded the top of the corridor outside like twins, twice within an hour.
“Is it cheese and pickle today,” said a reporter, to general
amusement. But the two men had heard this before. They had their response: “They’re
Geiger counters,” one said.
The next five minutes were very sobering. They matter-of-factly told us
that intelligence had been received, and we were sitting in the middle
of one of the prime sites for a dirty bomb.
They turned back in the doorway after sweeping the room. “If you
see us running,” one said, “try to keep up!” Get there before Clinton
By the end of the day we were all totally exhausted. It was gone seven
o’clock, and I still had to finish editing the last interview.
V came rushing in: “They want you at the Guildhall. You’ve
got to go now. You have to get there before Clinton arrives. It’s
his big speech.”
This had not been part of the brief. We thought we were just covering
events at the Hilton. Luckily I had brought a spare laptop with a USB
connection
which I could use to download the images from Phillip’s cards.
“
You go on,” I said to Phillip, “I have to finish this. I’ll
catch you up.” He ran round in circles for a few moments wondering
what equipment to take and then he was gone.
Fifteen minutes later, when I got outside, it was chaos. All the taxis
were full and the traffic was going nowhere. I began jogging towards the
centre while trying to look behind me.
When I finally found a taxi the driver asked: “Which Guildhall?” There
were at least two. More phone calls. I said, “the big one”.
I had obviously picked my taxi driver on a bad day. “They’re
both big,” he replied.
Another text arrived from Philip: “I NEED YOU NOW.”
There were more police cordons so I had to jog the gauntlet for the last
few hundred yards towards the Guildhall itself.
I was stopped. No one else was allowed in, they told me. I had to ask to
see the head of security while making more phone calls, all wasting valuable
time.
Eventually I was ushered through and found Phillip standing by an antique
writing table, surrounded by enormous paintings. He grabbed the empty media
card with relief. “Just in time,” he sighed.
Moments later a man in wide pinstripes came up. “When I tell you
to film, you film,” he said, “and when I tell you to stop,
you stop. You’ll get about 15 seconds for each set up. And if you
don’t stop, you’re out. Do I make myself clear?”
Behind him, Bill Clinton and Tony Blair were strolling towards us. Bill
sat down at the table by my side, picked up an ornate pen, put on his warmest
smile and posed, signing the register. Next was Helen Clarke, the prime
minister of New Zealand.
Then the man in pin stripes stepped forward again. “The Prime Minister
will now sign the book, but you will not film,” he said, “do
I make myself clear?” Perhaps it was because Mr Blair had had a bad
day and looked visibly shaken.
He then arranged Mr Blair, Bill Clinton and the others in front of the
huge arras for some formal shots at longer range. I found myself standing
over Philip’s shoulder, grinning insanely at the PM in a subconscious
effort to assist Phillip in getting good photos. As the group grinned back
at me, I suddenly realised I was the birdie.
It was time for the formal meal and we were not invited or required until
the speeches began. But we were told there was something we could eat in
the crypt. This did not sound too appetising.
We flocked down — the esprit de corps of the press much in evidence.
Floodlit in orange and red, the crypt arches looked stunning, and so did
the buffet. Philip and I joined the press table where the half a dozen
photographers had laptops open where their plates should be. Their plates
had been relegated to side dishes. Everyone was transferring like mad and
comparing shots. We saw some brilliant ones that had been taken when no
one was looking during the signing upstairs.
Then our call came. We were led upwards through stairways in the ancient
walls, finally emerging on a small balcony overlooking the entire hall.
The perpendicular architecture soared skywards and heraldic banners hug
down towards the dignitaries at the long tables. It was a magnificent sight.
And rubbing shoulders with Reuters and The Guardian, I watched them all
finish their puddings.
Panic
The next day we felt like old hands and were much more relaxed — until
the event started. There were more private sessions to cover. V would rush
in and say: “Tony and Lulo, the president of Brazil, quick!” And
we would be running up stairs, down narrow corridors, pushing through the
entourage and sidestepping security, trying to get into the room, and then
struggling to get a good position in the throng.
Editing again, back in the press room, there was a sudden commotion as
a special branch officer stormed in. “This area is non-sterile. You’ve
got five minutes to get out.” No one moved. Someone said, “but
I’m filing a story”.
“I don’t care,” he replied, “you’ve got five minutes
to get out.” We got out. Fast. Apparently an unauthorised person
had been found inside the secure area. This breach meant that anything
could have got in — the whole area had to be checked.
Downstairs, we emerged into the normal hubbub of the Hilton. It was another
world, one which we half expected to explode at any minute. Walking ahead
of us was one of the photo-journalists from the press room. Thin as a
pin, lugging a huge camera bag over one shoulder and a rucksack over
the other,
he was carrying his open laptop and still typing with one hand. Grand ballroom
That night we got another surprise from V: “Now they want you to
cover dinner at the Dorchester and Tony’s speech. You’d better
hurry.”
Again Philip had to go ahead but this time it was the night of the Party
in the Park. The West End was at a standstill. When he finally got into
the cab, the cabbie said, “Dorchester? It’s just round the
corner mate!” And took him there for free.
When I arrived, I faced the SWAT welcome. They called their boss. He
stated categorically that no one else was allowed in, press or no press.
I was
straining to look past him, praying that someone behind the glass recognised
me.
I had been on the phone minutes before to one of the organisers explaining
that I was on my way, and this very person happened to be on the other
side of the doors and could see me waving as if demented.
My laptop was searched very thoroughly indeed. They checked the legs
of the tripod too. There was a huge pile of what looked like sandbags
in the
foyer but at least I was inside. Now I had to find Philip.
The grand ballroom in the Dorchester is a glittering spectacle. It is
a palace of chandeliers and gilded mirrors. They sweep your entire horizon,
a shimmering rainbow of gowns, punctuated with tuxedos.
“
I saved you a place,” said Philip, grabbing the fresh media card, “over
there by Baroness Amos.” The waiters wore starched white tunics with
gold buttons. They came to the tables in fleets, holding plates aloft until
the nod was given whereupon the delicacies descended simultaneously from
heaven.
It was exquisite. No other photographers were permitted and Philip would
dance back to the table for a bite and then off again. He was in his
element.
Except at one table: “Those pictures won’t be much good to
you.”
“Uh, why,” said Philip. “We’re all Special Branch
at this table.”
One time Philip came back particularly animated. “I can’t believe
it,” he said, “Tony Blair and Helen Clark! They just asked
me where I wanted them. Me. And I’m just a wedding photographer from
Wales.”
Each time a card was full I would, as elegantly as I could, take my leave
of the table to weave my way out to where my laptop was set up among
smokers seeking respite.
At this event, Mr Blair was in his element. He was a different person
from the day before. Perhaps the occasion and the meal had created the
perfect
ambience, but he held the entire room in the palm of his hand. Philip
was at his feet, literally. He told me they were working together and
Mr Blair
was helping him choose the moments and calling the shots.
And so the event drew to a close. In the taxi on the way back, Philip
and I were on another planet. What a night!
I immediately phoned Marcia. She had not eaten. “It’s £25
for spaghetti on toast here,” she said. “You’re not coming
back past a supermarket for a bottle of wine?”
It was definitely time for the Hilton room service to come to the rescue. |
