Making Television: My Way E-Book

Brian Bigg

• Herausgeber: Bigg Communications
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

TV and movie producer, journalist, editor and writer Brian Bigg provides a humorous behind-the-scenes look of his experiences making television programs in Europe for the world's fastest growing television production company.

Leseprobe

Feeling shaky

I

knew there was a serious problem even before I opened my eyes. For a start, I was face down on the floor, and not in the bed of my very expensive international hotel room in Istanbul. Secondly, I had dirt in my mouth, which is never a good thing. And finally, I had a huge headache, warning me not to open my eyes under any circumstances. The last of these was the most easily explained.

My job involved travelling from country to country helping local television producers make shows bought from my employer company. We invented the program, a television company bought the idea of the program from us and the locals got me as a sort of walking bible on how to make it.

I had been in Turkey several times before, helping to prepare one of our big game shows for a local production company.

The first episode of the program had been broadcast the previous night and had been a major hit. The network was happy, the local producer was happy and so was the presenter, a bull-like Turkish man who was professionally unshaven and unprofessionally smelled like a garlic factory.

The presenter was over the moon at his newfound fame. So, after the program had been to air and we had wrapped for the night, he insisted on taking the local producer and I to dinner to celebrate.

He brought along a large bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label whiskey to keep us company.

As a result, the end of the evening was deep in the mist. I remember him kissing me at one point. Turkish men like to kiss you for some reason. It takes a bit to get used to. It takes a lot of Johnnie Walker whiskey to get used to.

The long celebrations explained my throbbing headache, but why did I have dirt in my mouth? Despite the warnings from my fluid-deprived brain about the pain which would hit me, I cracked one eye open. I had to risk it. I had a plane to catch.

The picture was not pretty. I was face down on the carpet in my hotel room. Hmmm. Next to me lay pieces of a beautiful crystal vase which, the previous day, had sat on the expensive windowsill of my expensive room. Now it was in pieces. Worse still was that I could see that the expensive flatscreen television, which had perched next to the expensive vase, was also on the carpet in pieces. Lots and lots of pieces. What the hell?

I sat up abruptly, which turned out to be a mistake. It was several moments before I could get my eyes to focus on the scene around me. I couldn’t get the message into my whiskey-soaked brain. Every object in my room was on the floor and broken. My clothes were scattered about and the mini bar fridge door was open, its contents spilled haphazardly onto the carpet. How could that be? What had I been up to?

For the record, I am a very placid drunk. Whenever I have too much, I just fall asleep. I don’t get into fights. I don’t get rowdy. I tend not to do too many embarrassing things because I go to sleep before they can happen (although there have been several noteworthy exceptions, if I’m honest). I don’t get violent. I don’t trash hotel rooms.

Specifically, I don’t trash expensive hotel rooms when I’m on a work trip. I gingerly climbed to my feet, cautiously stepped around the broken glass and made my way to the bathroom. The scene in there was just as bad. The widescreen mirror was cracked in several places and the expensive-looking complimentary toiletries scattered around and smashed.

The only explanation I could come up with was that I must have gone berserk for some drunken reason. But what could have set me off? Did it mean I was going mad? I kept shaking my head as if to make it all go away. Then a second, more important, realisation hit me. I was on a work trip. Imagine the surprise of my assistant when she tried to book me into this hotel again in a few months’ time and they refused to take me. And told her why.

Trashing a hotel room might be okay if you’re an international rock star, but it is not considered wise practice for television producers – certainly not for the people who employed me. And even more worrying, the damage was going to cost thousands of dollars to repair. The only money I had was in the form of company credit cards.

I would definitely have to pay for the damage (once the maid had knocked, entered and taken one look – her hand going to her open mouth in shock). As soon as the company accountant saw my credit card statement in a few weeks’ time, I would be fired immediately. No question.

I spent half an hour trying to think a way out of my predicament, all the while battling a savage headache and waves of self-pity. I considered inventing a story involving the Turkish men coming back to my room to celebrate boisterously. Ultimately, I came to the conclusion that I would just have to take my medicine like a man. Own up to what I had done and face the accountant’s wrath.

My job had been a good run, but now it was over. Because of my own stupidity.

I showered and cleaned myself up as best I could. Then I went around the room picking things up from the floor and creating neat little piles of rubble, trying to make the room look as nice as possible for the poor maid who was about to get a nasty surprise. Then I headed to the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby, my head throbbing and my heart heavy.

On ground level, there were a lot of people milling around, the usual sort of busy checkout time at an international hotel. As I walked towards the desk, the same young receptionist who was on duty when I had checked in the day before, looked up at me and smiled.

“Good morning Mr Bigg,” she said cheerily.

“How did you go in the earthquake last night?

“I hope it wasn’t too frightening for you?”

Earthquake? Earthquake!

My mouth fell open and my legs came to a stop all on their own. There’d been an earthquake? For a few moments my mind held a blissful peace. Then a broad grin spread across my face. An earthquake! A wonderful, destructive earthquake! Yes! You bloody beauty!

To the amazement of the crowd standing around the reception desk, I started dancing in circles, pumping the air and singing the word “Earthquake” loudly. An earthquake! A miracle! Praise be! The crowd edged away from me as if I was a madman. I didn’t care. I was saved.

I went home a happy but hungover.

As unbelievable as it may seem, a similar thing happened to me several months later, again in Istanbul after another show.

The second earthquake wasn’t as bad, just shook things a little and didn’t bother me in the least.

But it has allowed me forevermore, to be able to say that I’ve slept through two earthquakes in Istanbul, thanks to the wonderful anti-earthquake medicine made by Johnnie Walker.