A Runners Christmas Carol

I might go on a bit about some of the things you have to do as a runner. My hatred for shit TV and the idiots who make it, but I do actually love television. I think it can do great things. Contrary to popular belief I don’t hate everyone, just the idiots. Sometimes special things do happen in this job, and one such event happened recently.

It was the last day before Christmas holiday and I had to work through the night as an edit was desperately trying to get their cut down for TX in the New Year. The director was someone whose work I actually quite respected, so for once I was happy to stay late (not initially knowing they would be pulling a all-nighter). They were editing an observational documentary for Channel Four about a centre for old age drug addicts (its called Bus Pass Baseheads), and the footage was amazingly poignant, and not a celebrity in sight. The voice over will probably end up being done by Russell Brand, but this looked like a real documentary, the sort of thing I dream of working on one day. The director seemed like a really nice chap who was very passionate about his work. He told me he just wanted to get the cut finished and get home to his family for Christmas. He showed me a picture of his two young children (one four the other seven) all big hair and smiles - they looked sweet. He said he had managed to reserve them Nintendo Wii’s and Iphones for Christmas presents but was worried they would be gone by the time he made it to the shop.

It was about four in the morning when I took them in a cappuccino, and he asked if I would like to stay and watch them work. I felt really touched as he had obviously noticed I was interested in the film. It was great, the director and editor even played me a scene of an old lady smoking a crack pipe and asked if I thought it was too strong to go in the cut. I felt part of the industry at last. I felt more then just a glorified waiter. I sat in as they worked through the night. When they finished, the editor and director thanked me for my help - giving me a friendly pat on the back and saying my views were a great help when they hit a brick wall in terms of content. The director reached into his wallet and passed me a crisp twenty-pound note. I refused, but he insisted, saying “we couldn’t have done tonight without you - go on have a few drinks on me”.

So its 8:00 AM and I walk out of the office into a frosty Dickensian street scene. Soho looked quite beautiful, the frost crunched under my feet and a sunrise glimmered in the sky. I heard Fairytale of New York playing in my head. It felt special - it felt like Christmas. I was looking forward to catching the train home and out of London, and having time with my family. I felt like I loved working in TV, it was something special. There really were good people in this industry and I felt that at last, just maybe I could make it.

Then my mobile rang. It was the managing director. Had he phoned me to thank me for working through the night? No. He wants me to go to Harrod’s and pick up presents for his family. The massive cunt.