A Long and short of it interview with: Kate Adie

If I happen to interview anyone of remarkable interest - which lets face it, doesn't happen too often in Perth - I will upload it on this here blog.

This interview is particularly interesting,
1/because it's with war correspondant, author and all-round amazing lady Kate Adie,
2/because she makes some very interesting remarks about journalism, and how she 'fell in' to the industry.
and
3/because whilst she's extremely admirable, she's also very scary...

Click here to listen

Let me know what you think.

Radio power

Two weeks into the launch of Perth FM 106.6, a bit of shmoozing and coverage on air, and myself, our sales exec. and our admin assistant were invited to the highty esteemed Perthshire Chamber of Commerce Business Awards 2008.

The night included a three course meal, followed by an awards ceremony to celebrate the success of businesses in the shire, but most importantly, a fantastic place to network.

In one place we had the Lord provost, councillors, MSP's, MPs, staff of most of the leading businesses in town (or is it city?!), and they were all pissed. Brilliant.

We managed to get a free year's membership to the Chamber of Commerce, a promise from the Provost that we'll be switching on the christmas lights next year (taking it away from the competition), good contacts with the local politicians and the possibility of a free landrover safari.

Go the power of radio and contra deals!

First job and reality...

Got me first job.

I'm a reporter at a brand new local station, Perth FM 106.6. After working there for only one week, I've realised a few things about University newsdays:
1/ We went to HUMUNGOUS lengths to get a 20 second audio clip, which no one has time time to do in the real world.
2/ We took three hours to edit something which really only takes about 30 seconds.
3/ Clips dont have to be perfect, a few umms and aahs go unnoticed.
4/ Sheffield is an AMAZING news patch. Barnsley, Peniston and Rotherham are all pretty good compared to Perth.
5/ About 20 of us did one persons job.
6/ No one actually listens to local radio news anyway, apart from the newsreaders mum and a few of her friends.

Now, lets give everyone a little run down of my day. I arrive for 9am. I usually get someone to come to the studio for an interview, and half the time I cant get rid of them till 9.30am. Then I have half an hour to find three stories for the morning (Tayside police/NHS press releases/a few vox pops I took the day before...). I have to write the bulletin, record it, fart about with the settings, edit my clips into it on a waveform, mix it down, then add financial news plus jingles and sports news plus jingles. All in 30 minutes.

This then happens on the hour every hour, but in the meantime, I have to prepare bulletins for the rest of the week, organise interviews, and on a Friday I go to the football stadium, wait for the football manager for half an hour, then get a 3 minute interview with him.

It's VERY stressful, long hours, and I'm on minimum wage.

But that's what we all knew anyway, didn't we?

Unemployment, job seeking and bad times

It has been almost a month since I wrote my last blog.

That is not because I have been so over-run with freelance work that I haven't had time to keep up with my blogging activities. Nor is it because I have finally (and in due time), been offered that all important first job.

It's because I've been working as a full time Jobseeker. I even get paid. And so I should think so, because it's the most difficult job I've ever had to do.

I'm receiving benefits of £47 a week to cover my £77 a-week rent plus living expenses. So I've taken a part time job at, of all places, a call centre. Where many of my 16-year-old cousin's friends work. I have to phone people from 8am-3.30pm and ask them to complete a survey about something they don't give a crap about, and it takes about 20mins. I feel my two degrees are being slightly wasted.

In the last month, I've filled out more tax forms than I care to mention, spent endless hours on the phone to the bank, the job centre, various radio stations who owe me money and the Inland Revenue.

I've begged, borrowed and stolen money from Bank of Scotland, Bank of Dad and Bank of Boyfriend.

I have done a grand total of one day's journalism work, unpaid, for the BBC.

The next person who tells me that my current benefit-taking status makes me a tax hoarding, money stealing coach potato is going to get a square punch in the face.

The Freelance diaries Part 1

I have, dear reader, finally been a bona fide freelancer for the last few weeks.

After weeks of moping around the house, not working, moaning about everything and smoking a lot, my time came.

I've decided that it has little to do with experience, talent, skills, or event pestering. I think some unknown force, the Broadcast God, decides it's your turn and picks you. Sometimes, he gives you an amazing job in London. Sometimes, he gives you a rubbishly paid job in Skegness. Sometimes he gives you a freelance shift at the other side of Yorkshire. I took that.

So, it is with glee that I can tell you, a radio station in Leeds have been giving me plentiful shifts and paying, yes, PAYING for me to be a journalist.

I get to drive round in a brand new Honda civic, interviewing all kinds of interesting residents of Leeds; from bank managers to the producer of Spooks, from the late Pat Regan's best friend to competitors of GMTVs Battle of the Bride, and from a British Olympic nuitritionalist from Leeds to a Child Psychologist.

I get paid the same as a BBC freelancer.

And whilst the driving is plentiful, the SatNav takes me the wrong way up one-way roads in Leeds, and sometimes I answer the phone with the name of the wrong station, the work has reminded me why I want to struggle to be a journalist.

Cos it's fun.

The Devil's Arse, Lord of the rings and clotted cream tea

After much discussion, my boyfriend Chris and I decided that we couldn't afford to fulfill our dreams of travelling round South America, we couldn't afford a week partying in Ibiza, hell, we couldn't even afford a weekend in Blackpool. But we really needed a holiday. So we packed our bags and drove twenty minutes up the road to camp in a field for a night.

The beautiful village of Castleton is a popular camping destination for families of four and little old ladies looking for a countryside retreat. It is rarely a holiday location for a couple of recently graduated students with a penchant for partying, travelling and being a bit wild. However, we decided that the popular Peak District haven, boasting the 'Devil's Arse' caves and an underground boat trip through a cave, may just instill a little excitement to tide us over.

The Devil's Arse was, of course subjected to photographs featuring Chris's bare arse beside the sign. (Picture to be uploaded...) Once paying the £6 fee to get in, we were looking forward to our little tour round the "unusual rock formations, the eerie sound of running water and echoes of a bygone age". What actually happened was we giggled hysterically at our dumpy yorkshire tour guide, who's accent was so strong, he sounded like he was speaking in some historic coded language to confuse us. The limited information (that we could understand) that he gave us into the history and insights of the Peak Cavern was the following:

Some bloke called Neil died there 50 years ago, and he mentioned him "out of respect, because it would be disrespectful not to."

On a paticular trip into the caves, our guide and a man named Richard were cementing the ground, when Richard's dog Jake left paw imprints in the cement, and they left them there in the hope tourists would think it was a cave monster.

Our guide informed us: "I love fossils, me."

It was very informative.

After our exciting day, we went for a traditinal english pub meal, followed by several pints and several Jack Daniel's. This was followed by a 3 mile walk, uphill through vast cliffs, in the pitch dark, as cars zoomed past. After giving up on hitchhiking, we pretended we were in 'Lord of the Rings.' It took about an hour to get back to the tent.

The underground caves were fun, though our 12 year old tour guide looked like he'd rather be at home smoking pot, and seemed extremely bored as he regurgitated appaulingly unfunny jokes and subjected us to shouting at another boat, pretending we had been down there for two weeks. Chris told them they were dead. We were frowned upon by the families and dear old ladies, partly because Chris was smoking in the queue, but largely because we are a young, unmarried, childless couple.

The highlight of the holiday was definately a good old fashioned cream tea, with clotted cream and jam, in Rose's Cafe. Delightful.

A guide to Scottishness

Following on from a conversation I had with a fellow Scot living in England the other day, I thought I should clear a few things up for those of you English folk who are not educated in the ways of us 'blue skinned rain merchants of the north' (thanks to Luke for that title):

1/Language
It is a common misconception that us Scots say 'och aye the noo'. We have never, and will never use that phrase in everyday conversation. We regularly say 'Och' and 'aye' as two separate words; which are basically the equivalent of 'oh' and 'yes'. 'The noo' is only used in certain parts of Scotland. It is common to hear in central Scotland, in the less privileged parts of society. Basically it's a chav way of saying 'now'. So 'och aye the noo' roughly translates as 'oh yes now'. Sex noises spring to mind, no? Any grey haired scotsman with a kilt looking at you with a cheeky smile and saying this is perving on you.

Also, accents do vary drastically across Scotland To the untrained English ear, it may sound "the same". That's like your parents claiming that Pantera sounded "the same" as Green Day when you were younger. They never thought that. They were just too obnoxious to listen to either band and admit there was a difference.

Aberdonians speak Doric, e.g. "Fit like" and "Foos yer doos." Glasgwegian speak Weeg, e.g. "Get it up ye" and "d'ya waant a burst mooth?". And let's not start on the Hebrideans.

2/Food
Yes, sometimes we eat deep fried goods. But no more than the rest of Britain. There are a lot more chippies (fish and chip shops) in Sheffield than there are in Perth, and I've seen more deep fried fish eating here than I ever have in my home town. I once ate the Scottish delicacy deep fried mars bar about ten years ago, and still haven't quite recovered from the shock.

And Haggis IS a real animal. Fact. Proof: http://haggishunt.scotsman.com/

3/Scotland does not need England. When Scotland had independence they were perfectly happy, and neither the Scots nor the English particularly wanted a union. The Scots are on the whole content with their own government, with SNP in power and Alex Salmond as leader. Compare: Labour and Gordon Brown. Plus, need I say it, we have the oil. Plus we invented everything:



This does not mean I necessarily back Scottish Independence. I'm just disagreeing with the Sassenachs who claim we can't live without England. I like England, hence the fact I now live here. Both my parents are (largely) English. However I have found some fairly backwards views about our bonnie country since moving down here, and I hope this clears a few of them up.

Teaching the intelligent a lesson in life...

Something truly horrendous happened to me today.

I'm one of these people that swims through academia, often getting between the minimum to average grades of the class, but always, ALWAYS passing. My Scottish Higher results were just enough to scrape through to uni and my university degree was a bog standard 2:1. I don't mind this, in fact I quite like it; I'm intelligent enough to do an average amount of work and gain an average grade at a higher education level. This is sufficient.

Many of my friends that I've met along the way are much more academic than me. They swim through academia achieving the highest grade possible, getting awards for being extraordinarily clever, having stacks of money thrown at them for their endless intelligence and immense skills. This is also good; I like to surround myself with intelligent people. One uni housemate of mine played the cello, spoke fluent Spanish, pretty good French and a little bit of Russian and Mandarin Chinese. She got 90-100% in almost every exam. That's great; go her.

I often find that people who are so high achieving at an academic level have, at times, limited common sense in relation to the rest of us.

And this brings me back to the horrendous thing that happened today. One fellow ex-struggling journalist is universally adored by lecturers and tutors. They even read her blog. She gets the best results on the course. She makes actual real money from journalism. She was the first of us to get a proper job. She's one of these intelligent types who, with a bit of luck and a bit of perseverance, does better than the rest of us. Pretty clever; but what she did today was unforgivable.

She hacked into our course leader's e-mail account, and sent me an e-mail, claiming there had been a mix up with my given results, and I had actually failed all of my exams.

It was pretty believable. I believed it.

Apparently it was a 'joke' in which I was supposed to open said e-mail in the company of her and fellow students, and believe it for all of five second. What actually happened was: I opened it in a private room, alone, let it sink in and realised the horror; I have failed. Everything. I'm not stupid. I work reasonably hard. I have never failed anything before. The others were supposed to tell me it was a joke, but I was so traumatised I grabbed my bag, flounced out the room before anyone said anything, and burst into tears on the stairs.

I met her on the way to the office, where I was going to shout at them about this awful mistake. She felt very guilty and bought me jelly babies.

That'll learn her.

Too much experience...

Oh dear. So I have temporarily given up on concentrating on getting a job in journalism, because I'm now so broke I have to get something, ANYTHING, that will enable me to buy a little bread.

So it was with great sorrow that I had to forcibly remove myself from bed and attend a two hour interview for a job as a 'kids club ranger'. What a joke.

The "interview" was held in a large gym hall that stank of sweat and cheesy feet. There were 30 of us getting interviewed at the same time. "How is this even possible ?" I hear you cry. Quite. We had to stand up and say a bit about ourselves. This 'bit' was not defined. I heard the following:

"um... hi... my name's Kirsty... I'm sixteen years old... I'm sitting my GCSE's... I used to come to this kids club a few years ago so I know it really well."

"Yeah, so, I worked for BMW for the last few years, and thats pretty much it."

"I love kids, I have one, so you know, I'd love this job"

Then there was me:

"I'm Jenny, Im 23, I have six years experience working with children, I taught English and worked in an orphanage in India for six months, I worked at a Kids club in Perth, I cared for an autistic child in Aberdeen and I now work at a school in Sheffield, where I help run the media club."

After this episode, they put us in groups of five. My group were five hapless sixteen year olds who were in the last throngs of childhood themselves. We had to come up with a game suitable for children, then the rest of the group pretended to be children and ran round our fun activities like overgrown idiots. It was unbelievable.

Our group managed to tick all the boxes: fun, safe, competitive, child friendly. One group's game actually required you to jump on a gym mat and slide it into some metal posts. Unsurprisingly, this was deemed unsafe for children. Idiots.

So, did I get the job? Did I hell. Not young enough? Not sporty enough? Ideas not good enough? I suspect I have too much experience, and am too over qualified for this one.

No place like home

"There is scarcely any writer who has not celebrated the happiness of rural privacy, and delighted himself and his reader with the melody of birds, the whisper of groves, and the murmur of rivulets. " ~Samuel Johnson

Waking each morning to birds twittering on the chimney top, a view overlooking tumbling fields of corn and farmyard animals, driving through villages full of little hamlets, thatched roofs and old fashined water pumps and spending each day playing in the hay and riding my pony. Yes, life as a child in Perthshire was idyllic.

I'm not sure if it's because I'm getting old and negative, the surroundings are too common or I'm now officially a city dweller, but my recent trip back to the shire was just tainted with stress.

I awoke at 7.30am this morning, not to the twittering birdies, but to some Polish immigrants that my parents have employed to lay a path. Why they have to start this task at that time is beyond me, and I wouldn't mind so much if a) they didn't speak in a completely gibberish language really loudly outside my bedroom window, and b) they didn't start up a pneumatic drill the minute I'm drifting off into sweet countryside sleep. When I eventually surfaced, they stared at me through the kitchen window as I made my breakfast. Then one came to the door to ask me for 'soup'. Turned out he meant soap, but I almost knocked him out.

I don't have a pony anymore. I still have a framed photo of our first cross country together. I'm wearing jodphurs that mach the colour of his saddle cloth. He looks happy and content. It hangs on my wall beside my bed. I have nightmares in which I still own said pony, and have neglected him for the last few years. In the dreams his bones are poking through, and he's half dead. Its horrifying. (N.B. I sold him to a nice family - it's just a dream.)

Sometimes, the field beside our house is occupied with sheep. They are the stupidest, most disgusting animals I've ever had the misfortune to live beside (apart from some unmentionable ex-housemates). They eat the rotten turnips in the field, then fart them out. Rotten turnip sheep fart is not a good smell.

I drove into Perth earlier today. It took about an hour to do 13 miles. I got stuck behind a grand total of two lorries, one caravan, two tractors and a combine harvester. And of course, the roads are all windy and idyllic so you can't overtake.

The murmur of rivulets, indeed.

Damn public transport

Today, I wanted to catch a train/bus or any mode of transport from Sheffield to London, just for the night.

This was clearly too much to ask.

The trains cost £60 for a single ticket with a young persons railcard.

The buses left at intervals of about 5 hours and they none arrived in London before 8.30pm.

I'm now at home, not in London, writing a blog.

Angry.

"Lack of experience"

So, I managed to impress a local radio station enough to merit me an interview, after sending off an mp3 featuring my dulcet Scots tones and my amazingly constructed CV, displaying all my current triumphs as a journalist:

• editor of the student rag, which I slaved at for four whole years and which practically ruined my social life, made me fall out with the larger part of the student body (apathetic bastards) and put my degree on the back burner.


• a recent diploma in Broadcast Journalism (BJTC approved, of course), which basically taught me everything one needs to know about the industry, from researching stories in the media haven of Barnsley to interviewing many 'high profile' politicians, and editing it all together to make neat little packages featuring barking dogs.


• Work experience at my fave radio station in Scotland, which required two weeks of kipping on a living room floor.
  

CV and demo accepted, I attended said interview and impressed the news team further with my burning ambition and desire for amazing, fantastic local radio work. And what was the response?

"We felt you don't have enough experience. Would you like to come in and work for free?"

No, dear radio station, I don't want to work for you for free. I HAVE NO MONEY. I'm living for free in my boyfriends house, because I can't afford rent. I just spent £8,000 on a damn course, which GAVE me experience.

Also, this begs the question, why did you give me an interview? You saw my CV. I am fully competent at driving your little silver Peugots around, interviewing media hungry residents.

So, what I want to know is, how is it humanly possible to gain work experience anyway? In an industry that requires you to have spent a fortune on a course, do endless hours of free work and even then the chance of getting any freelance work requires begging, how does one survive whilst using their expensive skills to work for massive corporations (with loads of money) for FREE? I'd like someone to enlighten me on this.