Through the Viewfinder

I like my days to be like books or films. No I don’t mean full of action and adventure, gunfights and disasters, car chases and love-scenes (Though the last would be nice). I mean it should have a beginning, middle, and an end. Yesterday was panning out nicely like that until the evening when during a post committee libation, the subject of “Professionals” came up. In particular “What makes a person professional?” And that question started taxing my brain for half the damn night, and my insomniac musings are thus;

Now with a lot of the professions it’s easy to work out. A Doctor for instance has that title added to their name. John Smith goes to university for X number of years and he earns the right to become Dr Smith. In education the higher up you advance in the teaching profession the more titles you can add to your name. In industry we have professional bodies whose membership denotes “Professionalism”, or should I say we did have.

Let me take my own line of work. A cameraman who worked on real film once he had learned his trade to a standard was invited to join the BSC and that was a sign that s/he had “Made it”.

But that no longer happens. Somehow the British Society of Cinematographers lost its status and it became possible to buy your way in etc, thus a lot of people who worked in the industry of TV or film did not bother to join. Losing the “BSC” from behind their names did that make them stop being professionals?

The point I am trying to get to is; in the modern world, what tells us that someone is professional? In fact what does being a professional actually mean?

Wikipedia suggests;

A professional is a member of a vocation founded upon specialised educational training.

The word professional traditionally means a person who has obtained a degree in a professional field. The term professional is used more generally to denote a white collar working person, or a person who performs commercially in a field typically reserved for hobbyists or amateurs.

This seems to me to be an apt description, but it also has a few holes in it. For instance I was once paid to write an article for a trade paper. I was paid for that article but does that make me a professional writer? I doubt it as on the whole I can’t write my address and have it make sense most of the time let alone a book or news report.

If there is no body to oversee a profession, and decide who should be granted that honour. Or if the existing body that supposedly overseas a profession becomes a “paid membership” organisation open only to those with deep pockets, how do you decide who is a professional and who not?

Letting them do the job and looking to see if the quality of their work is up to standard is one way I suppose. But then again that would also be true of those who are somehow not considered as professionals. After all there is a good chance that a so-called amateur could do a better job than the so-called pro’s … With that question asked I can now sleep maybe,

Zzzzzzzzzz.

Oh boy … Gather around, pull up a sandbag and swing the light, smoke um if you got um for I have a tale to tell to thee.

Scene I

Location; Ruislip Gardens, West London

The year was 1979, a time before many of you were even born I should expect. Just out of the winter of discontent, and Margaret Thatcher was just about to come to power. At the time I was a lowly Corporal stationed at RAF Northolt, just about to come to the end of my tour there and move off to RAF Odiham. My favoured mode of transport at the time was a BSA 125 Bantam motorbike that was older than I was. The only problem with it was (Aside from the lack of brakes and constant oil leaks) was it’s fairly terminal lack of bird pulling power.

It was therefore time that I purchased a motor vehicle in which a young lady could travel in a little black cocktail dress to a nightclub, and not arrive looking like I had carried her there in a sack of marris pipers. So clutching the sum total of my collected 20 year old worth of £215.20, I set off for the Ruislip Gardens car lots.

Even back in those days of a pint of bitter being 35p and 20 quality (Read stylish) fags was 45p, £215.20 was not a fortune. In fact it was not so much a pool of resources as a damp puddle of despair, but the promise of nights of passion with girls of high class and low morals drove me to desperate measures. After about 4 hours of fruitless search I returned to Northolt a broken man. No flash motor to sweep a girl off her feet in my possession I was sure I was going o die alone, and celibate.

As luck would have it however, as I wombled back past the guardroom onto the airfield, there on the side of the road, bonnet up was the car of my dreams. A cursing, swearing, very red, two seat sports car. The cursing and swearing was coming from the pair of overall encased legs that was sticking out from under the bonnet I should point out, not the car herself.

Now the observant of you will no doubt be wondering how a vehicle that was obviously broken and incapable of movement could have been the answer to my equally immobile and dwindling sex life! Well the answer is that this vision of loveliness was none other than an Austin Healey Sprite MK IV. She was wonderful. She was red. She had wire spoke wheels in chrome. She was CONVERTABLE!

From the muttering from under the bonnet I rather gathered that the current, and soon to be ex-owner was getting rather fed up with the F&%@$£g thing always breaking down.

“What’s the problem mate?” Said I trying desperately to keep the excitement out of my voice.

He poked his head out the side of the engine compartment long enough to spit the words;

“Fu@#%$g fuel pump has Bl%%@y well packed up and I am fed up with the Fu@#%$g thing!”

The just the words I wanted to hear;

“I’ve had enough I’m getting rid of it!”

“How much?” I asked a slight tremble in my voice.

“£200 quid as I have just had new tyres on it” he said

“DONE!” I said

“You have been” He said …

One hour, and the unofficial use of the duty Sergeants air portable Land Rover later, my new car was safely tucked up in the corner of the section hanger surrounded by some of the finest engineering minds the RAF could muster at 19:30 hours on a Friday night. Now whereas this skills collective, in its time, could have taken a fast jet interceptor like the Tornado apart and put it back into service within the run-time of the average biblical movie, its knowledge of the BMC 1275 cc A Series I4, 65 hp at 6000 rpm engine was somewhat limited. After a fair amount of head scratching and tea it was decided that the fuel pump was well and truly Cat 5. (Cat 5 was the standard military terminology for totally Fu@&%d!)

Now the fuel pump on the BMC engine was a diaphragm job that was lever operated from the camshaft and … (This is the point in this story where the female readers eyes usually glaze over and they start thinking of shopping or cleaning the oven) … well to cut a long story short it was broke and to fix it I would have had to take the engine to bits. At this stage on a Friday night it was not going to happen, trust me. It was at this point that Chalky White suggested replacing the mechanical fuel pump with an electric one. That would be an easy, two hour at the most fix. Right tomorrow morning I will go buy a pump.

As soon as the shops were open on the Saturday morning I shot off on the Bantam to Paddy Hopkirks motor spares shop in Ruislip.

“Have you got an 12 volt electric fuel pump by any chance buddy?” I ask the shopkeep who was lent up in the corner as if he had grown there.

“Yes” he said, not making any movement from the wall he was holding up with his shoulder.

“Could I buy it then please?”

He grunted, moved and shuffled off to get it.

“12 quid” he said as he smacked it down onto the counter.

“Oh piddle!” I thought remembering the lack of weight to my wallet, no point in buying a pump if I could not afford the petrol to put in the bloody thing, and I wandered out.

The answer therefore was a scrap yard, and clutching the basic toolkit of screwdriver, pliers, adjustable spanner and club hammer I set off. Two hours later I returned covered in shit, with a lump of oily mud with two wires sticking out of it that I hoped was a fuel pump.

With the aid of the UK taxpayer supplying the c-spares, tools and nicely heated workspace, a couple of hours later this manifestation of all that was right with the British motor industry roared into life.

Scene II

Location; RAF Odiham main gate, Hampshire

The year is 1982 and the country was at war with the Argies over the Falkland Islands. I was leaving the RAF with my life packed up in two kit bags in the boot of the Sprite and a tank full of RAF petrol, with the Beach Boys on the 8track, driving off out the main gate.

“COUGH, SPLUTTER, GASP” Said the Sprite as the engine died.

“Bugger!” I said knowing that the tool kit was underneath my life in the boot

I turned the key and suddenly there was a rapid clicking noise followed by a roar as the engine caught again and off we sped to a new life.

The clicking noise was the fuel pump of course. Three years before when I had fitted it, I had known it was not new, and it was only supposed to be a short term fix but I somehow never quite got around to replacing it. And now it was starting to stick. Now this in itself was not a problem as if you turned the engine off and back on again it was enough of a jolt to start it running again. Until of course it got worse.

Eventually turning the engine of and on again did not un-stick it. However banging the bulkhead on which the fuel pump was mounted with your foot would jar it back to life again. A week or two later even that failed to do it. If however you opened the door and slammed it the pump would shake enough to make it pass petrol again so all was well and life could carry on as normal until even that did not work … The only way to get the pump back into action was to tap it with a hammer. Now of course this was not very convenient and frightfully wet if it was raining as you had to get out of the car, open the bonnet and reach in to get at the pump. So after a few experimental designs I came up with a cunning way of keeping the pump going. I screwed a hinge to the hammer handle, added a short bungey cord, mounted this against the side of the pump, connected to this a length of string that was routed over the SU carbs, around the brake cylinder and through a hole in the bulkhead to attach to a split-ring on the dashboard. Pump fails, pull string, hammer swings, taps pump and the pump works …. Easy init!

So to the final picture for you to think on, how some 8 weeks after leaving the RAF, I was sat on the side of the A4 in Bath, in the company of a rather bemused constable after I had broken down, blocking the road, in a rather rusty, past its prime British sports car. Explaining that all I needed to do was replace the string before I could continue ………

I would like to see that happen these days J

Friends, readers, fellow peasants. I am not one to complain but ………

Ok so I am one to complain, but this time I think I have something to complain about.

Living in a remote location such as Orkney with its widespread population, communication is vital. News about what is going on in the community is as important, if not more so, than what is going on in the nation as a whole. So we should concern ourselves if the longest standing, and most trusted means of communication is in danger.

Today, Mark Thompson, the DG of the BBC, released a report and blueprint for the future of the BBC. As unpopular as some of its more drastic, headline grabbing cuts are proving to be with the population as a whole, there is a less obvious but far more damaging strand hidden in its many words. This document, if you read it carefully, is outlining the demise of local radio and television as we know it today.

“What the right balance is for local services between meeting audience expectations of BBC local content and

leaving a clear space for commercial providers”

This is a direct quote from the document published today as something that the board was being asked to consider. And consider it they have. But have they focused on the important bit “meeting audience expectations of BBC local content” or the bit that will save them the most money i.e. “leaving a clear space for commercial providers” Here is what they chose to recommend on that particular question;

“Increasing the quality of local radio: boosting investment in local news at breakfast, mid-morning

and drivetime using resources released by sharing content at other times”

Looks good to start with does it not? Suggesting boosting investment in local news … Great bring it on …. Except there is another bit “using resources released by sharing content at other times” Now I could be wrong but that suggests to me that aside from 3 news broadcasts a day local radio will actually not be local at all but “Regional”. No programmes about local people, events, sports, Arts, Music or even local current affairs unless it can be “Shared”. Who prey would want to “Share a broadcast about the going on in Orkney council for instance? Not someone who lives in Kent or even Glasgow that is for sure.

Or does the BBC in London seriously think that others will cover that sort of thing? Maybe by “leaving a clear space for commercial providers” they believe that the likes of Superstation Orkney, our “community” radio station will be making “Local” programmes?. Somehow I doubt that the same Superstation that can’t even be bothered to get local presenters on the station or even locally sourced news, will suddenly start to produce the auction mart report on a Tuesday morning do you?

This document of doom then goes on to say;

Local radio in England

BBC local radio is of great value and importance to audiences up and down the country. It

provides a vital space for debate and a key source of reliable, independent news. The BBC’s public

purpose to serve communities could not be fulfilled without it. However, it can

nonetheless improve in its quality and originality, and this strategy therefore proposes reforming

local radio in England to achieve just that. Specifically, investing in better quality local journalism

within the core listening hours at breakfast, mid-morning and drivetime will be enabled through

the sharing of some content across services in non-peak hours.

Local websites will be refocused, meanwhile, to carry only news, sport, weather, travel and local

knowledge content. A new ‘contract for local’ will define a series of BBC commitments and

limits, including a commitment to never becoming any more local in England—that is, never to

increase the BBC’s number of local services on television, radio and online or to make any

existing services more local.

Will someone explain what the fuck “including a commitment to never becoming any more local in England” means? They suggest it means “or to make any existing services more local.”

So it means that the BBC won’t become more local than … Well “Local” Oh that is ok then …Is it? It’s so confusing you might just skip it which I guess is what the BBC want as then they hope you will miss the bit about;

“never to increase the BBC’s number of local services on television, radio and online”

Ah ha now we see what you are doing … Not only are you going to cut local programming you intend to commit the BBC to never ever going back into local programming in the future!

I could of course be wrong. Everything in the garden could be rosy. BBC Orkney could be as safe as a RBS banker’s bonus under Thompson’s stewardship, but I lived through the days of John Burt at the BBC, I know a snake in the grass when I see one and Thompson has got government hitman written all over him.

Regional BBC Scotland did not even warrant a mention in this document. That could mean one of two things. Either it is not going to suffer any cuts in the coming months, or it is going to BE one of the cuts in the coming months. More likely the fate of BBC Scotland is being held over until after the election as it would cause a riot north of the border if we found out sooner.

I suppose all we can do is wait and see then huh?

“How much”! I screamed down the phone

“You are joking right”?

But alas the poor woman on the end of the phone was deadly serious. Despite stating free delivery to the UK on the website, the cost of getting two trestle tables to Orkney from Kent was going to be £40.

“So …” I enquired, “How much would it cost to send it to Thurso, a KW14 postcode”?

“That would be free Sir, Thurso is on mainland UK” she smarmed down the phone.

“Well … “ said I, “Thurso is only 7 miles away from Orkney, a short ferry trip. You telling me it will cost me £40 to get two trestle tables 7 fracking miles”?

“But Orkney is overseas sir” she said.

“Orkney is not fracking Norway or Greenland you know? It is part of the UK (Unfortunately), I have to pay fracking UK income tax so it must be”!

“Our normal courier (TNT) classes Orkney as overseas Sir, sorry” She whimpered.

“So anything over the water is classed as overseas then is it”?

“Yes Sir”

“What would the cost be to send them to the Isle of White then”? said I with more than a touch of sarcasm.

“Oh the Isle of White is free Sir. We class that as the mainland”

Silence broken only by the sound of a phone slamming back on the cradle and boiling blood …

Right in the middle of the drama bits and bobs at the moment, so posts are going to be a bit scratchy sorry. As soon as this period of chaos is over I will get back to a more regular posting schedule.

Had a meeting last night with a lot of likeminded souls about an event planned for later on in the year. Really quite excited about it to be honest as I think it will go from strength to strength and become a part of Orkney culture. More information later when we have things firmed up.

The weather is really not sure what it wants to be at the moment. Some parts of the day it likes to make me think that spring has sprung and just as I start to get used to the sun it goes and bloody well snows on me! Just wish it would make up its mind so I know what to wear in the mornings.

I think it’s time I made an appointment to go see my prosthetisist (Spelling???) and get a new leg made. This one is getting a bit loose now and is starting to throw my knee and hip out. The problem is that for one, 1 hour appointment it can take two whole days out of my week as it requires a drive to Aberdeen. And on average a new prosthetic will take 4 visits to get it made and adjusted. I could fly of course but that is just a horrible way to travel these days with the security checks you have to undergo. But that is a rant for another day…

Despite it looking frightfully spring-like out over Eynhallow sound, I have a feeling that winter has yet to throw the last of her white wrath at us. I feel it in the air still and my bones are saying blizzard!

The return of winter aside all is well at Islander Towers, the rat population has not recovered from the biological warfare inflicted upon them early on in the year. I intend to keep on top of it this year mind you as I hates rats.

Opened up the coop and discovered one of the chooks was dead this morning. Did not give any signs it was about to pop its clogs so it must have just been it’s time. Fortunately it was not the one that has just started laying again, I will not replace it until the point of lay start coming in the Spring and keep my eyes on the others as they are all about the same age. I am tempted to get 3 more but to be honest I had way more eggs than I could use last year with only 4 so …..

Lots to do this week getting sorted for the festival and the Luvvies bit-of-a-do. I also need to get the Landy MOTed before the end of next week too. Why is it as soon as I see some money coming into the bank within a few weeks it starts going out again fast ….!  

Wonder if I can barter my MOT for some eggs?

Two productions are coming to a head in the next two weeks. Not a feature film you understand, not even a paying job but two local amateur productions.

For the village group the “Luvvies” I am sorting out the sound and lights for them. What a great group of people they are to work with, they enjoy what they are doing and that is infectious in a way that most of the time working with pros is not. I find myself coming away from the rehearsals with a smile on my face and a giggle in my throat. They are not even seasoned am-dram folks just friends having a great deal of fun. The production dates are the 19^th and the 20^th if you would like to come along and tickets are available from the Mistra here in Evie.

Shameless plug over J

The second production coming up is for the Orkney Drama Festival and again I am twiddling knobs and stuff for the Arts Club third age group. That is a much more serious production and I hope for the sake of all the cast and the director that it does well in the competition.

That lot aside it looks like one, maybe even two of the filming jobs I had planned for the start of this year have been hit by budget cuts. Not sure just yet if that means I have to shave dramatically the shooting costs or if they are going to get canned altogether. I know times are hard for everyone but past downturns have proven again and again that cutting back in promotion is the wrong thing to do. When a recession hits if you stop advertising and letting people know you are still there they will think you have gone under. I have been in this business for over 25 years I have seen it happen before. Never mind it will give me time to work on my wartime DVD series that starts shooting in the summer. The pilot programme out this year and then two more a year until I am either too old or too knackered to carry on filming LOL.

Still looking for good dialogue writers for a radio play I want to produce here. I have found some excellent writers here in Orkney but so far not one who has done or feels like trying a radio play. Subject is anything to do with Orkney past present or future for that matter and to be timed at either 28 or 58 minutes. Do let me know if you feel up to the challenge or know someone who is. If it goes in to production it is a paying gig … You know real money, folding stuff and all at union rates…

One excellent bit of news is that it looks like I have finally sold my boat on the Thames. That means I can buy a small one up here. So if anyone has a small Dory they want rid of let me know please.

Just realised that this blog today has mostly been about work … Maybe I am growing up at last … Na never happen J

Today all of S.W.E.A.R,s stuff is going out of the door. The removers are coming this morning and off it goes.

There will be a huge hole in my life from that point on. A hole that will take some time to fill I have been told. Thing is I know it’s not going to be just one hole … Not only where the couch was but the armchair, the two bookcases and all of her fracking boxes full of crap! I will not know what to do with the space! The new couch and bookcases will not be arriving for about 4 weeks so the lounge will seem very empty for a while. Bliss!

On the subject of new furniture, when I first moved here to Orkney I got held up on the drive and had to catch a later boat over. The problem was that I did not have a bed to sleep in as my old one down south I dumped. I had been told of this furniture shop in Stromness that was quite good so all I had to do was unload the trailer and go get a bed. Problem was that catching the later boat there was just not enough time to unload and go to Stromness before the shop shut. “No bother we will stay open for you” said the friendly voice on the end of the phone. And he did just that. It was that act of kindness, when I had not been on Orkney for more than an hour that made me know for sure I had made the right choice of where to live.

Since that first day every stick of furniture I have brought in two and a half years has come from John Allans shop. All the furniture and all of my fishing gear too I should point out. So of course when it came to buying a sofa-bed and a brace of bookcases to replace the outgoing crap, there really was nowhere else I would even think of going other than to John.

Just one of the wonderful people who have made my life here fantastic and made Orkney the only place in the world I would now live.

Thank you John, Thank you Orkney ….

We have a youth element on Orkney that to my mind defies all categorising. It is male, aged somewhere between 18 and 25, obviously has disposable income and, (this is the most obvious part), absolutely no understanding of either aerodynamics or basic engineering.

You have to understand that the car industry on the whole does not (Aside from the old British Layland that is), employ morons in its design departments. Designing the modern motorcar takes intelligence and a flair for style. You have to look not only at the look or the handling but also the safety and the practicality of the vehicle. Dozens of engineers pour over every aspect of the design, knowing that a change in one small section of a car, can drastically affect a different characteristic in another area.

Once the design is complete, the automobile is then (On the whole) built to a high standard, with components checked and tested by fully qualified fitters and engineers before being added. The safety of the driver, passengers and, should the worst happen, pedestrians is foremost in the minds of the manufacturer as it rolls off the production line.

The chances are that the first owner of this car took it for its services to an approved dealer who fitted only original, manufacturer parts, even the second owner would have it regularly maintained by a trained professional. By then of course the car is about 6 or 8 years old and falls into the hands of this target group. The car modder!

For reasons known only to this group, they take the carefully designed, engineered and maintained motor car and bolt the elevator from a 747 to the boot, change the wheels and tyres for something the width of a barn door, replace the springs of the suspension with four breeze blocks and weld a pair of chrome scaffold pipes where the silencer and catalytic converter used to be. In short they take a perfectly safe environmentally aware and fairly quiet vehicle and turn it into a smoke belching, ground shaking, ear drum busting, over revving 1.5 ton combination steel and idiot projectile!

It has all the road holding of a hydrogen filled ribbed condom and all the subtly of a spiky knuckleduster, and guess what guys … The addition of that purple fleck paint and little red pinstripe does not make it go faster!

it’s fucking MADNESS!

Now it is the morning after,

The self pity, has all gone.

I resorted to the bottle

Thankfully though, not to song.

All that’s left is throbbing temples,

Dry of mouth and sweaty brow.

Just one job is left to do here

Remove that post, and do it now.

For now it is a Monday morning

Bright Orkney skys are all round

Can’t be depressed, with views that we have

All is well now …. Safe and sound