WHEN I JOINED Wide World of Sports in 1980, producer David Hill gave me two excellent pieces of advice. The first was to treat every microphone as though it was live and the second was a reminder that there are four words you don’t say on television.
What a pity I didn’t heed his words of wisdom Not long after, I managed to fit three of the four forbidden words into one sentence and they went to air because I’d forgotten the microphone was live.
It all started on a Saturday morning in the WWOS cottage. The cottage is one of the many freestanding houses in Scott Street, Willoughby, where the various Channel Nine shows are devised and prepared each week. The two presenters of that afternoon’s show, Mike Gibson and myself, were in a meeting with the producer, Stewart Richmond.
Richmond explained that some footage had arrived that morning from the Wallabies’ international match against Fiji. There was about forty-five seconds of their victory, but as ‘Stewie’ explained, ‘There’s no commentary. You’ll have to do voiceover if we use it.’ Both Gibbo and I nodded in agreement and then we moved on to the next subject to be discussed.
In those early days of WWOS we used to do two hours for Melbourne and four hours for Sydney. At the point where Melbourne was due to leave the show, we had to have a ‘common out’. That meant that while the host was wrapping up the segment, he received a countdown from the director via his earpiece, so that both stations took their commercial break at exactly the same time. At the completion of the commercial break, Sydney viewers would continue watching WWOS, while in Melbourne the racing coverage commenced.
Throughout the first couple of hours of the program there were a few mistakes. These were minor glitches that would only have been noticed on air by either a technical person or a viewer with an intimate knowledge of television.
With just a few minutes remaining before Melbourne was due to leave the show, Stewie came dashing onto the studio floor. ‘We’re about fifty seconds short,’ he explained, ‘so I’ll get you both to have a chat to take us up to the commercial break.’
‘Why don’t you use the Wallabies’ footage?’ suggested Gibbo. ‘It’s better to give them something to watch rather than just have two talking heads.’
‘Good point,’ nodded Stewie, ‘but just remember there’s no commentary. You’ll have to do voiceover and we’ll leave the mikes open.’
With that decided, Richmond left the studio and I said to Gibbo, ‘Mate, you know much more about union than I do, so it’s better if you comment on the Wallabies’ form.’
That settled, Mike was going to voiceover the Wallabies’ footage and then throw to the commercial break in time with the director’s count. This all went off reasonably smoothly, but right at the last moment there was another glitch. As Gibbo finished the throw and the commercial break appeared on screen, I was fuming: ‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ, how many mistakes can we make in one day?’
Thinking we were in a commercial break and in my anger having forgotten about the live microphones, I was unconcerned until I saw Stewie come dashing out of the control room.
‘That went to air, you know,’ he said, looking straight at me.
Perplexed for the moment, I replied, ‘What?’
‘That swearing,’ he answered.
‘Oh shit,’ I thought, ‘this could be a problem.’
As Stewie disappeared into the control room, I didn’t realise how big a problem.
The phone started ringing in the control room. Stewart was quickly back out on the studio floor giving orders. ‘You’ll have to come off air,’ he said, pointing at me, ‘and Gibbo, you’ll have to read an apology.’
I quickly left the studio and missed Gibbo reading the statement prepared by Channel Nine. He laughingly told me later he was pissed off, because ‘I had to say Mr Chappell apologises and I’ve never called you that before in my life.’
There was nothing left for me to do but head home. I did so with the knowledge that I’d be on a three-week ‘vacation’. Channel Nine had wisely decided it would be best if they disciplined me, rather than leave it to the Broadcasting Tribunal.
When I arrived home, my wife was up a ladder doing some painting. With a surprised look she asked, ‘What are you doing home?’
‘I’ll be able to help you with the painting,’ I said. ‘There’s a bit of a problem and I won’t be going to work for three weeks.’
Unbeknown to me, all hell had broken loose back at Channel Nine. Usually Saturdays only required one switchboard operator, as the weekends were generally pretty quiet. However, following my indiscretion, the switchboard lit up like the sky during the New Year’s Eve fireworks.
To help the switchboard operator cope with the influx of calls, Saul Shtein, a young producer who had been handpicked by Hill as having enormous potential, was quickly dispatched to the front desk. Saul was a born agitator and this wasn’t good news for me. I didn’t need him in possession of any more ammunition.
When we were first introduced at the cottage after I joined WWOS, Saul explained that although we’d never met before we did have a connection. He was living in the UK in 1972 and when the Australians played the first Test at Old Trafford, his father had taken him to the match. He then delighted in telling me that he was just about to catch the first ball I faced in that Ashes series until my soaring hook shot was intercepted by Mike Smith, the England fine-leg fieldsman.
It was bad enough that Smith’s catch made me Tony Greig’s first victim in Test cricket – in subsequent years I heard how I fell for the trap regularly from the bowler himself – without Saul reminding me of that golden duck as well. Now Saul was about to have more ammunition with which to give me grief.
Arriving at the switchboard, Saul was given a quick rundown on how to operate the system and soon he was answering calls.
‘Channel Nine, can I help you?’ was Saul’s response to the next caller.
‘Yes, you can,’ was the reply from a male voice. ‘I’d like an apology for Chappell’s on-air swearing.’
‘Sir, we’ve already apologised,’ explained Saul. ‘There won’t be another one.’
‘But you must,’ came the agitated reply.
Sensing the guy was pretty desperate, Saul asked, ‘Why are you so keen to get an apology?’
‘Well, it’s like this,’ came a slightly calmer response. ‘I played golf this morning and then had a few beers at the nineteenth. When I got home the missus was ironing and the kids were playing up. She wasn’t happy,’ continued the caller, ‘so I was ordered to take the kids into the den and keep them occupied. I followed instructions and turned on the television and then I must’ve dozed off. Suddenly I was awoken by this swearing coming from the television set.
‘With that,’ said the guy, starting to sound a little agitated again, ‘the missus came rushing through the doorway into the room. “Don’t you swear like that in front of the children,” she told me. “I didn’t,” I explained, “it came from the television set.” That set her off and she started slapping me. “Not only do you swear in front of the kids,” she screamed, “but you’re a liar as well.” The missus still doesn’t believe me so that’s why you’ve got to get Chappell to apologise.’
Hearing his story provided a bit of levity at a time when my own stupidity had threatened my television career. While the guy had my sympathies, he also deserved my thanks.