The Runner Strikes Back

So I had a job interview last week - I bet your all wandering how I got on. Its in Soho and I got there with plenty of time to spare. Made sure I got my classic runners garb on - got to make sure they think you can fit in, always good to make a good impression and first impressions always last. The interview flew by; I seemed to get on well with them and fielded there questions like a pro, but you can never tell what they really think of you. They toured me round the facility and introduced me to the other runners; this was going more than well! But they still left it hanging saying they were interviewing all day and would get back to me within the week.

So fast forward to today. The phone rang.

I only got it!

Its a bigger facility but very similar to the last. I start on Monday. Really looking forward to a fresh start and meeting new people. I can finally draw a line under Rudyardgate and get on with my life, and try and get my career back on track. But the best thing? No more fucking Dixon!!!

Things are on the up again.

A New Hope

I've got a job interview today!

Wish me luck..........

"Alan, can i have minute.........."

"..........of course, in fact you can have two." I answered to the facilities manager's question.

There was a sense of foreboding in the air; my outburst last week had hung heavy round my neck like a particularly overweight albatross. In fact I was amazed it hadn't been a instant dismissal, it can only have been the madness and anger in my eyes that had stopped them sacking me on the spot. Perhaps they were now afraid of me, worried that i might really snap and do a Soho version of Columbine. The thought had crossed my mind a few times while playing Call of Duty 4 on my X Box at three in the morning, but I had concluded that a murder spree was a bad career move. In the last few days I had become a social pariah, no one talked to me. I hadn't even been asked to make any cups of tea since Rudyardgate.

So there she was, shepherding me into a empty edit suite clutching a brown envelope, containing without doubt my P45. My mind wondered to the scene in Goodfellas when Joe Pesci's character thinks he's gonna get 'made' and instead gets a bullet in the head; what differs is that I had no misapprehension about the subject of this 'meeting'. One thing that unites the lowly runner and the channel exec is that at some point you will probably cop a bullet, get the boot, the sack, shown the door, sling your hook - and it doesn't help if you have called the boss a cunt. So here's how it went down:

"Alan I'm sure you have an idea whats this about."

"Sorry I'm not sure." I answered.

"Last week Alan, your little outburst."

I went silent and let her talk. Don't really see your future here, don't fit in as well as others, not sure what direction you want to take, think you might find a better fit elsewhere.... My eyes glazed over, I nodded and refrained from telling here to go fuck herself.

Sometimes its best to take whats coming to you on the chin, talking only makes it worse. I need to find a new job and any more discrepancies in my reputation will spread round the industry quicker than a fire in a Japanese tea house. This looks like the end.

For now.

Fickle Hearts of Darkness

I was briskly walking through Dean Street on the way to work when I noticed a single lily tied to the railings at the side of the road. It was beautiful, almost poignant - a solitary beauty shining through the grit and stress of the city mid-morning. I was suddenly overcome with emotion, but I couldn't put my finger on it; this sight had triggered something deep within me. I wanted to stop and absorb the moment but couldn't as I was running late, so had to quickly move on.

When I got into work, people were gathered round in the lobby talking. Several runners, the facilities manager, Dixon and even the MD. Just my luck - late for work and I have a welcoming committee. Then Erika on reception calls me over and greets me with her dulcet tones (shes a bit thick and has this really dull voice, she stretches out my name so it comes out more like Aaaaaaaaaaaaaalllllllaaaaan, its really annoying).

“Alan have you heard the news?”

Great - not even been in the office for five minutes and already I’m going to have to pretend to be interested in Fincham’s latest career move. I replied no, resisting the temptation to admit that I have better things to do than surf Production Base and Broadcast Now all evening.

“That editor up in the Yentob, the old dude - Rod - or whatever he was called, him in the Yentob suite”

“Rudyard… I thought they finished up last night.”

“Yeah they did, but not until early this morning after the executives changes. It was light when he left, and he was on his way home. But he only got as far as Dean Street. Oh Alan its so sad.”

The flower.

Then Toby piped up.

"A Soho courier on his bike smashed into him. He got a bike wheel in one side of his head and the kerb in the other. Well fucked him up. They said he died instantly. The courier didn’t even have a scratch on him.”

It can't be. Rudyard. He can't be dead. I only saw him yesterday. We were going to work together - he was going to give me my big break.

Then Dixon, cuntface Dixon, chips in. “Did you see how he cut? It was like watching someone in slow motion. If he crossed the road the same way no wonder the poor bugger got a bicycle wrapped round him .” Toby (who has recently become Dixons fucking sidekick) sniggered.

No-one else seemed to hear them, but I was in utter disbelief at these cunts - a good mans died and they find it fucking funny? Something exploded within in me like a reactor. I wanted to scream, I wanted to put them in their place. I wanted to say:

“You bunch of self obsessed fickle heartless fucking cunts, all of you. ALL OF FUCKING YOU.”

Then everyone went silent. All eyes were suddenly on me, their faces painted with a look of utter disgust. The MD's jaw dropped like someone had just keyed his Porsche (or stuffed prawns under the lining of his seat). And it was then that I realised.

I realised that I had actually said it out loud this time.

Run Love

Been hanging out with Rudyard again today - its his last day before his holiday so hes been showing me loads of tricks and telling me stories while he waits for his viewing and no doubt a late night after a million changes by the executive producer.

We got on to the subject of the king of porn, Paul Raymond passing away last week. Back in the sixties, Rudyard used to edit blue movies in the heart of Soho before getting his break in films. "Good old Raymond, he gave me one of my first jobs. Even though it was on the blueys, it got me that vital experience and I'm eternally grateful to him, god rest his soul." He welled up talking about him, it seemed they were close and he was obviously moved by his death so I quickly changed the subject.

I found out that he was also a edit assistant for David Lean on Doctor Zhivago. "Mr.Lean started as a teaboy himself so he was always very good to me; in fact I've never heard anyone ask for a cup of tea with the politeness of Mr.Lean, he was a absolute gent. Some of the directors and editors of today could learn a lot more than just the art of film making from a great man like him".

We also joked about the other edits in the building "Have you seen those two in the Attenborough at the moment? Theres a short one and a taller chubby one, both wearing those awful spectactles - they look like the two ronnies!" This was a man right after myself! We laughed long and loud. Then all of a sudden he stopped laughing and went all serious. I wandered if I'd said something out of turn, or if my blog had been rumbled. I was shitting myself, I'd never seen Rudyard look like this before. My hands went clammy. Finally after what seemed like an age, he began to talk. "Alan dear boy, I'm getting to old for this business. I need a break, I need to enjoy life - the time has come for me to retire. But I feel like I need someone to replace me, someone who I can pass all the wonderful things I've learned on to who I know will appreciate it. I've been struggling to find someone suitable; everyone I meet talks hot air about grading and vignettes and never about the art of storytelling. But then you walked into my edit and I knew instantly. I'd like that someone to be you Alan."

Milk.

And.

Fucking.

Two!

This is amazing! When he gets back from Tuscany, hes going to give me a job as his assistant and start getting me work cutting as much as possible - that way he can start to enjoy his free time and his vintage wine collection. He's also going to get me a broadcast credit as his assistant for the sequence I cut on the weekend dropped in on the online, he just needs to check with his producer tomorrow before he catches the plane. This is my big break, this is it! No more making tea, running across fucking Soho dropping tapes off, collecting lunches and all the other shit that goes with being a runner! This is a life changing moment. My name up in lights on the BBC for everyone to see. All my dreams are coming true!

Maybe I can update my blog: The Secret Diary of a Broadcast Editor! Don't worry I won't forget my roots, I know where I've come from and I won't ever treat runners the way I've been treated.

I know where to get my own fucking latte! Run love.

On The Edit Bench

Often due to overrunning, executive changes or generally just because they can, editors will want to work on the weekend. This of course involves me having to come in and make tea and collect lunches for them, and generally sit around for most of the day doing nothing.

This weekend though was different.

Rudyard wanted to come in as he needs to leave his edit early to take a holiday in Florence. Normally, the editors will just get on with what they have to do - not Rudyard. He appears to have seen the potential in me, as he insisted I sit in on his edit all day today so he could teach me the art of cutting.

It was amazing; one on one tuition from the best editor I've ever met. He showed me the importance of a creative approach to the material while also considering the impact of your choices on the viewer. Where Dixon shows off and throws all manner of worthless plug-ins at a shot and only considers how cool it looks, Rudyard only considers its worth in the programmes overall narrative.

Then something amazing happened - he insisted I cut a sequence! Alan Runner, taken under the wing of the best editor in the business and now cutting a broadcast television show! Today was quite possibly the best day of my life. If I can stay in with Rudyard, who knows what the future may hold for me. Freelance wages, the respect of my peers - maybe even the odd holiday! Things are looking up for me, this has been a very good weekend.

Thankyou Rudyard.

Home

As a runner and living on a measly wage, it generally means you have no choice but to house share with as many people as possible. I'm currently sharing with 8 people; a mixed bunch, and we're all crammed into a spooky old Victorian house on the wrong side of the tracks.

The kitchen is the social hub of the place (we don't have a front room as the landlord wants as much rent out of the place as possible, I'll come to her later), so you generally only ever see the other inmates when they cook, otherwise they just hole themselves up in their rooms. First theres Aron, or as I like to call him 'The Man With The Red Face". Aron's a big lad and carries a lot of weight. He works on the underground and his cheeks look like he lives on a permenant diet of game birds - its as red as a smacked ass. He spends the majority of his time talking guff about the internet to me; I really couldn't care less about his avatar in Second Life. With all this time spent in front of the computer, Aron likes to spend as little time as possible cooking. Hes the only person I've ever known to buy pre-sliced mushrooms. His fingers look like chipolata sausages as well, just in case you wandered.

Then we have Kate. Kate has lived in this house since time began, and therefore thinks she has 'squatters rights' and first dibs on all the best cupboards and the most freezer space. She hordes shit in every corner of the house - like Mr.Trebus from life of grime. I've taken to calling her 'Bakery Squirrel', as when shes not alphabetically storing tupperware boxes full of her own faeces, she bakes cakes (a lot of fucking cakes) for her friends at work. I think shes probably got the ice man buried in the garden as well.

Steffan is a city high-flyer from Germany with a penchant for lap dancing. He has a membership at Spearmint Rhino, and Peter Stringfellows personal phone number. The rest of the week he spends his evenings traveling across London to various Salsa classes, as he swears this is the best place to pick up Women; apparently they love the rhythm in his hips. I think its probably because they're all quite ugly and gagging for it, but he doesn't seem to really give a shit.

Every now and again while cooking my cheap pasta meal I bump into Glynn; a crazy welsh lad who seems to be permanently fucked in one sense or another. Hes the kind of person who is able to juggle a impossible intake of drugs and hold down a utterly amazing job - hes my favourite of the bunch. The only part of his personality I can't take is that when we run out of toilet paper he will use what ever is to hand - mainly the Yellow Pages - if we ever need a plumber we're fucked.

There's three more house mates, but I'll come back to them in the future. So that just leaves me with my landlord.

Gabriella looks like a Brazilian prostitute. She struts around in mini skirts and skimpy vests, and is often accompanied by her boyfriend who looks like a club owner from Phoenix nights (he actually wears a sequiened jacket). She aspires to be a actress, and has dreams of going to RADA. I haven't the heart to tell her she'd be about as useful as a chocolate teapot on stage at the National. Fortunately for her, she has her singing to fall back on. She entered the X-Factor last year, and was featured in the show - during the montage of the shittest auditions of the series.

So thats my home life - expensive, cramped and cold but home all the same. At least it gives me a break from the toils of the facility.

And even more blog material!

The Nightwatch Man

Because Editors such as Dixon always insist on working late (probably becuase its more fun at work then going back to your Mums house where he still lives), the facility employs a night security guard.

Of course this doesn't get me off the hook, I've still got to sit around and wait till all the poncey fuckers decide to turn it in for the night, just in case they need to call their 'bell boy' for anything. More and more each day it begins to feel I'm working in a Hotel, but the great thing is I can go and play cards and listen to the ever amazing stories of Albert.

While you've got all the people in the building fabricating documentary stories (Fatman Slim is one we've got in at the moment - they just put fat people on a fucking crash diet but they keep sneaking off for fry ups, how interesting), if any of them spent five minutes talking to Albert instead of just loving the sound of their own hot air they could produce some of the best television in years.

Albert used to be a spy. He's killed men with his bare hands and survived in the coldest, remotest Russian wildernesses. Ray Mears hasn't got shit on this dude. He regales stories of espionage, winding tales of escaping the Russian secret police and smuggling East German informants across the border at the height of the Stasi. Apparently hes only working in this post house as part of his re-integration back into society, he's a wanted man and needs the cover provided by working as a humble nightwatch man.

Albert, to put it simply is a legend. For all I know everything that comes out of his mouth could be utter bollocks, but the way he tells his stories, make me feel alive again. Then the phone rings. Fucking Dixon wants some sushi.

"Same time tomorrow Albert?"

The Buddha of Soho

There's a edit on at the moment where the director has just returned from a six week shoot in Nepal and Tibet. Of course she wants the world to know what an amazing place it is and how it effected her spritually. "I got there a few weeks early before the shoot started. I felt at home as soon as i landed in Thamel, all the locals there wear North Face - it was like being at a TV conference!" I overheard her tell Dixon. This female director now seems to think she is some sort of buddhist spritualist, its like the Dalai Lama is in the bloody building.

She wears a pashmina, gets runners to leave thier shoes outiside the edit suite when they bring in drinks, and does a little bow of the head and puts her hands together in some sort of psuedo spritual way whenever she finishes a sequence she's happy with. Its a shame she's working on "Kyle Mclachlan: In Search of Snowcats" for Discovery US - not exactly going to change the world with that one! Also, I'm no expert on the ways of buddhism, but I'm guessing this director hasn't quite mastered one of its fundimental principles - not being a cunt to people. At the moment she is sending me all over london in search of Dhal Bhat "Just like you get in a Himilyan tea house." The smell of her now strict vegan diet filtering through into the edit suite come late afternoon nearly had me feeling sorry for Dixon having to sit next to her as well.

Well nearly.