A brutal reality check for Anne this week, as her new radio boss gently explains that she's got the perfect voice for newsprint...
Anita started, continued and ended her broadcasting career in a totally professional and competent way. It was a joy to listen to her mellifluous delivery, command of language and distinctive, amusing take on life. I, on the other hand, crashed disastrously onto the airwaves and Foyle’s listeners must have heaved a collective sigh of relief when Libby came back to assume proper control of her programme. Those two weeks of holiday cover were the longest of my life.
Poor Maureen Gallagher was tasked with keeping me in line. My stint on the afternoon magazine slot was my first as a presenter and Maureen’s first as a producer of other than her own material. However bad I was, everything would have been a lot worse if it hadn’t been for Maureen and her expertise. Most of the programme was live and, in the midst of chaos, we did have some laughs. Like the time we covered an agricultural show and a goat attempted to eat my clipboard. Or the interview I managed to do with a sex-change model (man to woman) without once mentioning ‘penis’ or ‘vagina’. For some reason I reckoned those words would give the vapours to Brandywell housewives and find disfavour with Tullyally farmers.
Some items were pre-recorded and I clearly remember one morning interviewing a jeweller from Hatton Garden. We were going to insert the clip in the afternoon by the way the phone-call was live. I kept making mistakes and referring to morning. About the third time I did this, I got so frustrated at myself I blurted out, ‘Oh shit!’ Maureen calmly came in with, ‘Cut out the crap, Anne.’ How apt.
The one thing Maureen couldn’t control was my lazy, drawly speech. In what amounted to a debrief after Libby’s triumphal return, Ian Kennedy said, ‘Anne, you’re great on the radio - if it weren’t for your voice.’ Woe was me. I went from Foyle straight to Anita’s where I exhausted her supply of tissues and wine. And sympathy no doubt.
So, the end of my broadcasting career? Not at all. Ian seemed to like my ideas and interviewing style, so I moved to producing recorded pieces where I could largely edit out my own voice or keep trying out the links until I got a bit of life and speed into them. God bless Mr. Kennedy.
Some months into contributing to Foyle, Anita and I walked into reception to a wondrous sight. We’d been allocated our very own pigeon holes! Proof positive that we had our feet under the table. Those of you who have only met Anita fleetingly will find it hard to imagine this largely composed and unflappable public figure jumping up and down like a two year old and shrieking with delight. I, of course, took it all in my stride. ☺☺
There was only one problem. Most days we’d see everyone else’s pigeon holes bulging with interesting-looking communications, whereas ours only tended to house the lonely – but welcome – payslips or periodic memos. Enter John Friel, the perfect gentleman who was about to present his new classical music programme, in between headmastering a local school. John must have heard me bemoaning my lack of mail because a couple of days later I was ecstatic to see a respectable duo of proper letters in my box. A wee white envelope and a long white one, both posted, one typed, one hand-written. And both from John. What a darlin’ man.
Anita never threw anything out. Her capacious roof-space absorbed clothes, shoes, books, teaching notes, debating speeches, article drafts, theatre programmes – you name it, it went skywards. She was even capable of getting sentimental over used biros. I used to rib her mercilessly . Then I unearthed my huge store of Derry memorabilia. Pot, kettle…..she’d have the last laugh now. I’ve even found newspaper clippings about a series I don’t recall doing. But that’s another story……………………..