12 years after retiring as breakfast presenter on BBC Radio Jersey, I still get the occasional nightmare, where I press a button on the desk in front of me, and nothing happens. There is silence on air. The worst thing that can happen to a radio presenter. I get this huge techno failure at least once a month, but at least it’s only in my dreams.
To recall something worse than that, which happened in real life, I have to go back to my years as a rookie sports reporter. And I have to introduce to you a piece of equipment that accompanied every radio reporter back in the day. I give you the magnificent recording machine, the Uher.
Beautiful, extremely robust, and exceedingly heavy for its size, it certainly did the job. High quality recording onto magnetic tape, and provided you kept it fully charged, it rarely let you down.
So, to the failure one day, which had enormous ramifications. One of the most famous living English sportsmen, a world-class cricketer from Yorkshire called Geoffrey Boycott, now Sir Geoffrey Boycott, was due to visit little old Jersey. I was asked to go and interview him. What could possibly go wrong?
Long since retired, Sir Geoffrey was still ensconced in the public domain as a highly respected commentator and summariser for international cricket. I was to meet him in the boardroom of an international bank that had its headquarters in Jersey. I sat down with him around a solid oak table, and, in hugely plush surroundings, began the interview.
It was going so well. And then, from underneath the table, I heard the unmistakable sound of a rapidly revolving empty spool. I had run out of tape and nothing was now recording. I didn’t have the courage to admit I’d fucked up by not ensuring I had a full reel, so I kept the interview going until the bitter end.
Somehow, after a particularly cringeworthy begging kind of phone call, I managed to get Sir Geoffrey to agree to another interview. He told me to meet him at Room 6 at the Grand Hotel. Which I duly did, accompanied by a fully-loaded Uher, and two full reels of back-up tape.
I tentatively knocked on the door, which he duly opened – start bollock naked! I’m not kidding you. It was as if this was absolutely normal. We sat on the bed, me fully clothed, and he without a stitch on, and I conducted the interview. Afterwards, still showing all his wobbly bits, he bade me a fond farewell.
I got back to the studio still in shock at what had happened. It was a cracking interview, so I told no one. Looking back, it was probably his way of saying: “Don’t fuck up again!” I kind of admire him for it. And I never again ran out of tape.
My greatest techno failure
I am not a technical person. Since my school years, I have hated maths, physics, and chemistry, and I only have a little experience with machinery. Still, I drive a car but have never tried riding a motorbike. I can drive a snowmachine. Yes, a ‘snowmachine’; that’s what they call these things in Alaska, unlike a ‘snowmobile’ in the Lower Forty-Eight. I have good experience driving a four-wheeler in off-road conditions, too. I can even manage to drive a sled with dogs.
I can’t recall any impressive techno failure.
When I was learning how to drive a snowmachine in Alaskan taiga – and it took around ten minutes – my first try ended in snow. I lost control and fell out. The damned thing moved a couple of meters more and stopped among the spruces as it couldn’t move without being accelerated by the driver’s arm.
It can hardly be defined as the greatest techno failure, though.
Back in 1996, when I bought my first car, a 1984 BMW 528, I crashed it three days after I started to drive to my office. It was December 17, I remember the date perfectly. It was a dark winter evening, and I was driving home in Moscow. The road was slippery, and the tyres were old. That was a powerful rear-wheel drive car with an inexperienced driver. I lost control trying to make a turn, started to slide, and hit a tree on the sidewalk. I was fine but terrified. It took around $1,000 to repair it, which was quite a considerable amount for me. Once I fixed it, I sold it as I was frightened to drive this car.
I’m not sure that was a techno failure. It was more like reckless driving in winter conditions.
Also, I once dropped my laptop. It fell onto the concrete floor. Its exterior was damaged, but the thing continued to work well. I was really shocked until I checked it, as losing my laptop was like losing my job as a writer.
Like I said, I can’t recall any serious techno failure like being lost in space in a starship on the way to Mars.
My biggest techno failure…
In broadcasting, there is no greater sin than not treating every microphone, everywhere, as hot. ALL microphones are on, no matter what that red light says. Of course, you already know where this story will end – a sad tale of woe and despair.
In radio, there is something called a patch panel. Remember the old, big headphone jacks? A patch panel jack is slightly bigger. You need two to change the way the radio station is set-up: left & right channel of course. With these panels you can input any piece of equipment to another. Let’s say Roger Bara is covering a big soccer game, I think he calls it football. We could patch his T-1 line right into the main studio and put him on the air. These things end up looking like those old pictures of telephone operators from the early 1900s, crazy wires everywhere.
I would have been around twenty and working at Q102, a rock station in East Tennessee. I had to cut a spot (make a commercial) in the production room and needed to patch something. I don’t even remember what now. You already know what I did. I put myself live on the air.
I read the copy (script) a couple of times and even answered a phone call. Even now, I typically don’t cuss a whole lot but I did say hell and damn a couple of times. The lady who worked next door at the flower shop burst in and was dancing in the hallway, arms flailing. She must be drunk. I finally went out to see what HER problem was. Nah, no body’s that stupid. Mmm – OK, almost nobody.
The radio Gods were smiling on me that day: Nobody in management was listening. I didn’t exactly get away with it, they knew but they didn’t too excited. Of course, the next day, the Chief Engineer put a cover over those ports and a little sign saying to be careful. And no, I never made that mistake again. Ever.
