19

CAREER MOVES

Time was running out, so it was. As my final year exams approached I realised that I urgently needed to climb to the next step on the ladder of my career. In the past I had graduated from paperboy to breadboy and then from breadboy to student with relative ease, but I knew the next step in my grown-up career was going to be much more testing. Many graduates in Belfast ended up on the dole and I was determined that this was not going to happen to me. I had worked hard to develop skills in journalism and filmmaking, so I researched further training and employment opportunities that could lead me to Hollywood in California or the BBC in London or at least to Downtown Radio in the Kiltonga Industrial Estate in Newtownards. My search proved fruitful, and in addition to my speculative letter to the BBC in Belfast asking if I could read the news like Rose Neill, I sent off applications for journalism courses in Belfast and Dublin.

My first glimpse of a possible future arrived in a brown envelope from the College of Business Studies in Belfast. This letter invited me to attend the college for a written test and an interview. The College of Business Studies had nine floors and was one of the tallest buildings in the city so was, by Belfast standards, considered to be a skyscraper – the weather in Belfast was usually overcast with low clouds so the sky itself seemed lower than it did in big cities like New York, meaning a relatively small building could in fact appear to be scraping the sky. The College of Business Studies even had a lift!

I was already familiar with this modern high-rise building because the School of Music orchestra used to rehearse there every Saturday morning. Every week, eager young musicians got to travel in a proper lift with sliding doors to the eighth floor where, on weekdays, students learned how to bake cakes. I myself had often contributed to the crucifixion of Beethoven from the back row of the second violins, performing with the ever-present aroma of self-raising flour in the air. So at least the venue for my interview was familiar territory, and I knew how to handle all the buttons and the sliding doors in the lift. Marty Mullen had warned me that the journalism teachers in the College of Business Studies didn’t get on very well with the Media Studies lecturers at The University of Ulster and he said I was wasting my time, but I was certain that once they spotted my obvious talent they would put aside any minor institutional rivalries and let me on to the journalism course.

My mother warned me that as I had already been to university and received a student grant for three years, I would be given no further money to do another course at a college that you didn’t even need A levels to get into. This led to some tension at home, and my father was appalled at the idea that securing a degree didn’t actually train you for a job. Unlike the university, the College of Business Studies taught the practical skills of journalism like how to take notes in shorthand when you were interviewing sneaky politicians and then type up your report for the Belfast Telegraph or the Guardian or the Washington Post. I had previously attempted to gain the typewriting skills required to be a reporter by signing up for a summer course at Cairnmartin Secondary School, but I arrived late for the first class and all the women laughed at a man wanting to know how to type so I never went back.

The written test at the College of Business Studies seemed to go well as I knew what to do and I had just enough time to write a report like a proper journalist. I was nervous about the interview, though, so I practiced taking deep breaths and said a wee prayer as I waited outside the office. When I was invited inside there was an older woman with glasses who welcomed me with lots of pleasant ‘-ings’ and a man who seemed a bit fed up and didn’t even look up when I entered the room and sat in front of him. It all started off very well. The woman asked me why I wanted to do the course, and when I explained that I wanted to be an investigative reporter like Bernard and Woodstein the man looked up at me for the first time.

‘What’s his background?’ he asked the woman, as if I wasn’t in the room.

She looked at my application form, frowned and said, ‘I’m afraid he’s another one from the degree course in Coleraine.’

The man shook his head. ‘So what have you learned about journalism on your three-year Media Studies degree course?’ he asked, in a tone of voice which suggested the correct answer might be ‘not a lot!’

He doesn’t like me, I thought, but this was my chance to impress. Having a degree from the New University of Ulster clearly put me at a disadvantage, but this was my chance to prove that, in spite of that, I could still make a brilliant journalist. I told him everything I had learnt about how the media was being used as a propaganda tool by the state and how journalists could never be totally unbiased because they had their own views like everyone else and whoever was paying their wages usually had an agenda anyway and how women and disabled people and all the other minorities were underrepresented in journalism and misrepresented by the media, even in soap operas. The more I spoke the wearier he looked, and every time I used the term ‘feminist critique’ he rolled his eyes.

‘But can you give me any practical examples?’ he asked.

‘Well, the media in Northern Ireland think they are unbiased and just reporting the facts, but they are of course part of the system that sustains the conflict and they are only interested in bad news because they have negative news values, and journalists have their own sectarian biases the same as everybody else and the newspapers have either a unionist or a nationalist bias and when you read them it’s obvious and you would think they are reporting on two parallel universes!’

Silence.

The woman took a sharp intake of breath.

No one had nodded since I opened my mouth.

The man coughed and put his pen down beside my application form. I had never before seen a ballpoint set down with such a sense of exasperation.

‘They ruin good young people up there,’ he said to the woman, once again as if I was not in the room.

I was pleased that he had acknowledged that I was once a good young person, but offended by the fact that I was now apparently ruined.

‘His written test is surprisingly good,’ the woman said, offering a morsel of support for my application, but shaking her head at the same time.

She doesn’t like me either now! I thought.

I had obviously got it wrong and it was clear they didn’t want me. The interview was mercifully brought to a conclusion within a few minutes. Within a week I had received my letter of rejection, which wasn’t as rude as the interview. I was dejected. How would I ever become a journalist if everything I had learnt at university meant that no one wanted me? Maybe they had looked at my postcode and noticed that I was just some wee lad from up the Shankill? Maybe they’d spotted that I had been president of the Christian Union and didn’t want a good livin’ journalist? Or maybe I was just crap!

‘Well, as one door closes another door opens, love,’ my mother said after she noticed me biting my nails and not laughing even once the whole way through an episode of It Ain’t Half Hot Mum on BBC1.

I needed a door in Dublin or in the BBC in Belfast to open very soon, or I would be consigned to Snugville Street forever.

‘I’ve got a interview in Dublin!’ I yelled down the phone when the good news arrived in an envelope with an Éire stamp.

There were a few moments of silence before Lesley replied. ‘That’s brilliant! Sure it’s supposed to be a better course than Belfast anyway,’ she finally whooped.

I could tell from her initial hesitation that she was concerned about what might happen to our relationship next year if we were to be separated by the border and the Newry hills. This was a good indication that she may not be able to live without me.

‘Do you think I’ll get in?’ I asked, seeking reassurance.

‘Of course you will, sure your wee fillums are wonderful.’

‘I know, but they say it’s very competitive.’

‘Well if it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be,’ she said wisely. ‘Now I’d better go – Mummy’s taking me to the big sale in Logan’s in Cloughmills. You’ve no idea!’

Three weeks later I drove myself to Dublin in the green Simca for the first time. I bought cheap petrol with punts and followed the map in the college prospectus. After negotiating the traffic on the outskirts of Dublin, to my great surprise and relief I arrived on time without once getting lost. I couldn’t help but think that this was a good sign. During the journey I wondered about the logistics of moving to Dublin for a year. How could I ever afford to live there? Would I manage to make new friends all over again? Would Lesley forget me and transfer her affections to a farmer from Broughshane with an XR3? Of course, some of my friends’ concerns would be of a more religious or political nature. Titch McCracken would be appalled at the traitorous act of an Ulsterman moving to the Free State, but I hadn’t seen Titch around for years. Boyd Harrison from the CU would give me a hard time for choosing to live in ‘a priest-ridden country’ whose government was controlled from the Vatican. Still, I saw the chance to live in a different country of a different religion as an adventure rather than a threat. At least as a Protestant in Dublin I would finally be a real minority, and I could discuss the rights of minorities without everyone accusing me of being an oppressor.

I arrived early for my interview and sat outside the office practising my answers and reading a book on how to do good interviews, which I had borrowed from the library following my disaster at the College of Business Studies. The book said that a good way to calm your nerves at an interview was to imagine the interview panel naked because they would seem less intimidating with their wobbly bits hanging out. This time round I was much better prepared and ready to stand up for myself if I had to. At last I was invited into a room full of books, recording equipment and smoke, where two men with stubble welcomed me in the same accent as Terry Wogan (though they were much less charming than the great broadcaster himself). It all started very well, and when they asked me what aspect of journalism I was interested in I said I wanted to be an investigative journalist and report from conflict zones.

‘I’m also interested in becoming a consumer champion and exposing corruption like Esther Rantzen on That’s Life on BBC1,’ I explained earnestly.

I answered questions about my university course in as little detail as possible, just in case all journalism courses in Ireland hated Media Studies degree graduates. It was all going swimmingly until one of the interviewers began to examine my application form more closely. It was clear that something had caught his eye. I wondered if it was my experience of producing a documentary on glue sniffing in Belfast or my voluntary work across the peace line during the summer holidays. After a few seconds of intense silence he looked up from my application form and said, ‘So, why exactly do you people support Paisley?’

I was completely taken aback, as I had no recollection of mentioning Rev. Ian Paisley anywhere on my application form. I didn’t support Paisley anyway, because he seemed to hate Catholics far too much and some people took that as an excuse to kill them. The interviewer was staring at me, waiting for a reply.

He doesn’t like me, I thought.

‘Well,’ I replied slowly. ‘I suppose people who support Paisley …’ and I tried to remember what my granny would have said because she had supported Paisley until her dying day. ‘Well, it’s very important to them to be British and … they take the Bible very literally and only believe in a certain kind of Christianity and that you shouldn’t play on the swings on Sunday and all …’

‘I just don’t get you people,’ he interrupted. ‘Paisleyites are the biggest fuckin’ obstacle to peace in the North today.’

He thinks I’m a Paisleyite! I thought.

‘Well, actually, personally speaking, I’m not …’

‘What exactly do Paisleyites want?’ he interrupted again.

This was not what I had expected in this interview. There was nothing in my library book about how to defend yourself for being something you weren’t, and I was so flustered by this turn of events that I didn’t even remember to picture the interviewers naked. The other interviewer returned to the scripted questions, but it was clear that his colleague had no further interest in me. He set down his pen as firmly as the interviewer in Belfast had. As I stumbled my way through various questions about what I would do as a reporter on this story or in that circumstance, I noticed that the other interviewer was rolling his eyes. What was it that made interviewers for journalism courses want to roll their eyes at me? I rarely rolled me eyes at anybody – apart from Clive Ross and Irene Maxwell. The interview came to a quick and stilted end and I barely got a handshake as I left the room.

The rejection letter arrived a few weeks later and this time I was angry. I was certain it wasn’t my fault this time – the interviewers hadn’t even given me a fair chance. I had driven the whole way down the Dublin Road – in spite of being warned never to do so by Ian Paisley – and then when I got there they didn’t want me because of Paisley! When I had got my first job as a paperboy with Oul Mac and when Leslie McGregor asked me to be his breadboy on the Ormo Mini Shop I was chosen based on my experience and skills alone. How would I ever get a job as a journalist if people kept assuming I was something I wasn’t? What if no one ever gave me a chance? This was what John Hume called injustice.

It seemed that the BBC in Belfast was my last chance. I was sure the BBC would treat me fairly – after all, they produced Blue Peter and Songs of Praise, so I knew their moral standards were very high. I had almost given up when one day, to my great surprise, a white envelope with the BBC logo arrived. At first I thought my wee brother had applied for a Blue Peter badge, but when I noticed the Belfast postmark my heart leapt. Sure enough, inside there was a very pleasant letter inviting me to do a screen test.

‘The BBC are goin’ to try me out!’ I shouted down the phone to Lesley.

‘Oh. My. Nerves!’ she shouted back.

The screen test took place in Broadcasting House in Belfast city centre round the corner from the Ulster Hall. When I entered the imposing building I had to go to the security desk and show my letter before they would allow me inside, presumably because they didn’t want anyone hijacking the news. I waited for ten minutes until a nice lady in good clothes and make-up came over and welcomed me with lots of lovely ‘-ings’. I tried to respond with as many carefully pronounced ‘-ings’ as possible – after all, if I were to become a newsreader I would have to soften my Belfast accent and try to sound more like I came from Cultra. However in all the excitement of walking past the real live Rose Neill in the foyer I forgot myself when the nice lady asked me if I had taken lunch.

‘No, I’m starvin’, so I am,’ I replied.

She took me up in a lift to a proper recording studio like the one in the Band Aid video, only there was no sign of Simon Le Bon, Boy George or Bono. It was just me, a camera and a microphone in a little room with padded walls. It was so silent I could hear my heart beating. I was nervous. This was my last chance. Everyone else had rejected me. I took deep breaths, said a wee prayer and decided that I would do my very best. I would draw on my acting skills to enunciate my words and project my voice and look dead serious like the newsreaders between the bongs on News at Ten. The nice lady appeared behind a window to an adjoining room and sat next to a man wearing a sweater and headphones. Her voice crackled through a small speaker beside me.

‘Okay, Tony. Are you ready, dawling?’

‘Yes, please, thank you,’ I replied.

‘In front of you is a list of place names in Naawthan Ahland. I want you to read down the list as clearly as possible. Okay, dawling?’

This seemed very easy. I read down the list: Annalong, Ahoghill, Annahilt, Bangor, Ballycastle, Boho … I said the place names as if I was on the Eurovision Song Contest calling on all the different capital cities to cast their votes. When I got to the Ms there were one or two unfamiliar place names such as ‘Maghaberry’, but I tried to appear confident as I finished reading the list. When I looked up at the end, I noticed the nice lady and the man with the headphones were laughing. I couldn’t hear what they were laughing at through the glass, but I thought the BBC must be a nice place to work if people were telling jokes and laughing all the time.

Once the nice lady had composed herself, she pressed a button on the other side of the glass and said, ‘Now, Tony, dawling. Next you are going to be reading from the autocue in front of you.’

‘Okay, thanks!’ I replied politely, feeling the need to give her a thumbs up through the window even though she could hear every word I said through the microphone.

‘Just follow the words and look at the camera.’

‘Okay, thanks.’

‘Are you ready, dawling?’

‘Yes, please, thank you.’

I read the autocue, which scrolled down with a news report about a traffic accident, trying my best to sound authoritative but relaxed like John Craven on Newsround.

When I finished reading the report I noticed there was some smiling and nodding on the other side of the glass and I hoped this was an indication that they would at least want me to read the news when Rose Neill went on her holidays for the Twelfth fortnight. The nice lady told me I had done very well and said that someone would be in touch in due course. I was relieved that there hadn’t been an interview this time.

For weeks I monitored the post for any sign of a white envelope with the BBC logo on the front. I understood now how Peter Davison must have felt when he had applied to be the new Doctor Who. Finally, one Saturday morning, the letter arrived at my house in Belfast shortly after the Ormo Mini Shop had passed. When it landed on the fraying hall carpet I knew this small paper packet would determine my future. I opened the envelope and read the letter.

‘While we have no openings for you at present, we think you have some on-screen potential.’

I had failed yet again, but at least this time I had been given a fair chance, and the BBC thought I had some potential. I drove to Bellaghy that evening and showed Lesley the letter, and she agreed that I did have potential in many ways.

‘Look, Mummy, the BBC says Tony has some potential,’ she said, showing her mother the impressive letter on BBC headed paper.

Mummy was very impressed, and while preparing a mammoth spread of fancy pastries and triangular sandwiches she asked me about the screen test. As I attempted to decline offers of yet another chocolate coconut bun and more ice cream, I told her all about reading from the autocue and saying the names of all the places in Northern Ireland.

‘Och, Mummy knows everywhere in Northern Ireland. You’ve no idea!’ said Lesley. ‘She makes up wee quizzes and all for the GB.’

‘Well there were a few places I wasn’t sure about,’ I confessed.

‘Like what?’ said Mummy offering me a plate of perfectly symmetrical traybakes.

I wrote down ‘Maghaberry’.

‘How do you say that then?’ I asked.

‘Ma-gab-ree’ she said.

My heart sank. ‘I said Maka-Berry!’

‘Oh, Lessley!’ Mummy said, and put her hand over her mouth to suppress a giggle.

‘Well, at least I got Bangor, Ballycastle and Boho right!’ I protested.

‘You mean Bow?’ said Mummy.

My heart sank even further. ‘I said Boo-hoo!’

Mummy set down her teapot and put both hands over her mouth.

‘Oh, Lessley!’ she shrieked.

‘You’ve no idea!’ Lesley replied.

Lesley and Mummy collapsed into fits of laughter. Now I understood the reason for all the laughter behind the glass at the BBC. I was a failure with no future in the media, and I was seriously scundered, so I was.