“Get some questions ready…you’re interviewing Rio Ferdinand later.”
It’s not exactly the opening line of War and Peace but if primary school English lessons taught me nothing else then it’s to open with something punchy. Yes, Nigel Brown - esteemed editor of Sport.co.uk- asked me to prepare some questions for a Manchester United and England footballer, with an interview to take place that very evening.
Rio Ferdinand? Really? How? It’s hard enough getting hold of Paul Konchesky. Exciting stuff, though. Time to put aside personal feelings (not particularly strong either way, since you ask) and focus on a piece that could do wonders for me on a professional basis. Unable to contain my excitement, I felt obliged to tell pretty much everyone in order to a) show off and b) source questions in roughly equal measures.
Ok, it was 70-30 showing off. Maybe 80-20.
It transpired that Rio Ferdinand was to hold a launch party for his ‘Live the Dream’ foundation, which was established in order to “raise levels of aspiration, opportunity and achievement for all young people, as well as those living within some of our most marginalised communities both in the UK and overseas”. That’s good stuff.
Tickets are £500-a-head for your average paying punter but I’ll be getting in for free. That’s also good stuff.
So, let me get this straight: I just bowl up to the Old Billingsgate Market, declare myself and then follow a bubbly PR gal to a specially cordoned-off VIP suite where I shall sit in a throne of velvet and have a good chinwag with an England international footballer while scantily-clad women feed us grapes and champagne?
Ok Nigel, I’ll do it. But you owe me for this.
Off I trot, then, wielding my trusty Dictaphone and replaying best case scenarios in my mind. “Oh Jonny,” chortles Rio after my latest witticism, “I like you. You’re funny. I’d like to present you with my week’s wages and a lifetime access-all-areas press pass to Old Trafford. Are you up for a game of poker tomorrow night? I’m sure that Fabio Capello, David Beckham and the England women’s beach volley ball team would love to meet you.”
Since you ask, Rio, I was planning on watching Everton vs Bate Borisov tomorrow night but if you can get Channel 5 then I guess I could swing by with a few frosty ones.
Yeah. This is it. I’ve made my first million for sure. Be there at 6.30pm, said the bubbly PR gal. I know; I’ll get there early. You never know what manner of off-the-record preamble might be floating about.
“Sorry, press won’t be getting in for at least an hour,” says one of the blokes at the door. Not to worry. A nice drink will help me gather my thoughts.
After an hour or so, I returned to a scene of significantly more carnage than that which I’d left. A cue stretches out of sight and round goodness knows how many corners – perhaps even into and across the nearby River Thames – while a glamorous blonde lady pouts and poses for the cameras on the red carpet of the VIP entrance. I have no idea who she is. Oh well…time to go about my important business and strut in through those transparent double doors leaving a trail of bowing security staff in my wake.
“Where do you think you’re going?” asks an incredulous policeman, grabbing my shoulder and swinging me back roadside. There are two of them. In different outfits. The significance of that is lost on me, but they’re very clearly on the same side in this particular battle.
“Er,” I splutter unconvincingly, caught off guard by this instant hurdle. “I’m press. Got an interview.”
“Sure you are,” said the not-so-cheerful copper, stopping just short of folding his arms and lisping “a likely story” in an exaggerated Mel Blanc voice.
“No, I am. Really. Interviewing Rio Ferdinand. Yup."
“Do you have a press pass?”
“Er…no.”
“Do you have a ticket?”
“No. No I don’t.”
“Then go away.” (Or words to that effect.)
I thought desperately for a moment and, perhaps rather unwisely, began to protest. Quite what my cunning ruse was, though, escapes me now.
“Look,” said the second bobby, looming over, “why don’t you have a press pass?”
“F*** knows,” I shrugged.
“Don’t swear at me.”
“What? No, I technically wasn’t swearing *at* you…”
“Look,” repeated the second rozzer (he might not actually have said “look” twice, if at all, but his mannerisms and expression were those of a man who you could very clearly imagine saying “look” whenever he’s angry), “I haven’t got time for this. We’re not letting anyone in unless they’ve got a press pass or a ticket.”
They were as good as wise-cracking by now, laughing at me derisively and, having engaged me for a surprisingly considerable amount of time considering Number Two’s assertion of “I haven’t got time for this”, they shuffled me out of the way and went about their business.
Hmmm. Best call Helen, this evening’s designated bubbly PR gal.
“Hi Helen. They’re not letting me in.”
“But your name should be on a list at the door,” she said.
“I can’t even get as far as the door,” I whined, feeling like some trembly-chinned child who’s just had his ball snatched by playground bullies.
“Wait there. I’ll come and find you.”
“Ok,” I sniffed, before blowing my nose into a comedy oversized hanky with a loud parp!. Helen sounded friendly and helpful, so I stood a chance.
Ten minutes elapsed. Fifteen, maybe. It was freezing. Heck, it had even been snowing earlier. Where’s Helen? I call her; no luck. She’s probably very busy, to be fair.
Another five minutes passed by before I received that glowing, warming return call. She’s here to save me! Take that, the police!
“Any luck?” she said.
This brought my celebratory jig to a sudden halt. “Excuse me?” I ventured.
“Any luck getting in?”
“Er…no…”
“Is your name not on the list?”
“No. I…*sigh*…”
Fortunately, this instance was the end of the dynamic and she eventually sent a colleague, Rick, to come and find me. “Rick!” I cried franticly, as if to a passing ship while stranded on a deserted island. “Rick!”
“I told you before, I’ve had enough of…” said one of the policemen with a mix of irritation and aggression.
“Let him through,” announced Rick. “This man is a journalist.”
There was no applause, there were no mass celebrations but, as I strode away towards the entrance, I felt like I was on a victory march. “Evening!” I called out sarcastically behind me, in a move which may yet come back to haunt me.
I’m in! I’m in! Yowzers. Look at all the glamorous people. I bet they’re all spectacularly famous and I have no idea who any of them are. It’s fantastic.
Helen came to meet me, apologised – no need, Helen, no need - and then lead me to an area which makes me now fully appreciate the term ‘press pit’.
This could only be described as a ‘pit’: the standard luxurious blue/purple backdrops in front of which ‘celebs’ are briefly grilled at premieres and the like…well, I’d always imagined them to be beside a catwalk of elegantly parading glitterati just waiting to be intercepted for their precious time and thoughts, but only if you’re lucky enough, or if they’re in a good mood.
Not this place. This was more akin to the starting traps at the dogs, with each attendant press designated a small and delineated lane marked by their company’s name on a piece of paper stuck to the floor. There was ITN, Talksport Magazine, Oh TV (it’s on Sky, apparently)…and one or two others. Hmmm...no Sport.co.uk, though.
I’d not experienced the likes of this before, but there was no need to worry about the protocol just yet as the only ‘celeb’ present was Rudolph Walker, with a lady whom I took to be his wife.
Rudolph Walker. You know, the guy from Eastenders who used to be on The Thin Blue Line.
He seemed like a lovely fellow – “I’ve never done this many interviews!” he said, half-way between amiable joshing and wanting to scream into a pillow – but my printed list of questions held nothing for him. Unless he happened to be worried about injuries costing him his place in the England team, or knew how Anton was enjoying life at Sunderland.
Next up on the assault course of baying hacks was Simon Webbe from the boyband Blue. Would it be too harsh to say “whoop dee f***ing doo”? It’s just that I’d read that the Prime Minister was going to be here.
By then, I was starting to feel a little cheated. Unlike the other attendant media, however, who gleefully lapped up Webbe as they had Walker, who was hailed by the T4-by-numbers Oh TV presenter as “a legend”. You can only push it so far, though, as I found out when Rick came into the pit and asked aloud if anybody wanted to speak to Tamer.
That’s Tamer Hassan, by the way. You know, the Patrick to Danny Dyer’s Spongebob. The second copper from earlier to Danny Dyer’s first copper from earlier.
You know. Him.
(That’s Tamer on the right.)
So, anyway, Tamer Hassan is now just plain old Tamer. Just as Kylie Minogue begat Kylie, as Brad Pitt and Jennifer Anniston begat Brad and Jen, and so on and so forth. Apparently. But he’ll need further PR if the general reaction from the various media types present was anything to go by. No-one wanted to talk to him. Oh TV had never even heard of him. Undeterred – or at least unaware – Tamer came along anyway and started to cheerfully field all sorts of high-brow questions from ITN.
“Believe it or not,” he imparted in his permanent Lock, Stock impression, “my hangover cure is shellfish.”
Other highlights include Tamer’s explanation to Talksport Magazine of his lateness. “I’m on Jamaican time,” he said. “Always four hours behind!” Larks.
An announcement about where to go if you were wearing a black VIP band bellowed over the PA. I recognised the voice immediately: it was only that of Graham “Our Graham” Skidmore, the voiceover guy from Blind Date and Shooting Stars amongst others. Nice.
James Corden entered the press pit. After much umm’ing and ah’ing, I decided to give it a go. I had to come back with something. It was a pretty lame contingency plan, but it was a contingency plan nonetheless. At least he’s a West Ham United fan. Probably.
After several thwarted attempts at grabbing his attention – “get involved” was pretty much the extent of the advice I’d received thus far – it was explained to me by a patient lady that I had to stay in my lane and wait my turn. If only I had a lane.
“Did you say you were from TalkSport?” she enquired.
“Er…yeah.” Quick-thinker, me.
Soon it was my turn and – having briefly once met Matt Horne – the completion of a rather underwhelming celebrity set. Now, Rob Brydon: he’d be good.
Hi James Corden. So, what do you think of your assistant Steve Clarke coming out and taking the blame for your current slump?
JC: I think it’s an admirable thing to do. It’s a difficult time at West Ham; it feels like there’s stuff written every day about takeovers, or non-takeovers, or transfer budgets, or players being sold: I can’t imagine what it’s like to train and manage a team under those circumstances. I absolutely believe that we can get out of this and not be relegated, I really do, I’m just a bit worried about losing any players because we really can’t afford to. But, by the looks of it, we can’t afford to buy any new ones either. So who knows?
It just seems odd. Do you think it’s fair for him to exonerate Gianfranco Zola of any blame? What do you think of Zola’s future?
JC: (Clearly interpreting this as an attack on Zola and looking suitably annoyed) I think Zola’s fine. I don’t think for one minute that they’ll be thinking about sacking him, for the main reason that I don’t imagine they could afford to. They can’t afford to sack him and they can’t afford a new manager. (His phone goes) Hang on, let me get this. (Fields call, in which he tells someone that he’ll come out and find them “just now”)
Ok, last question: who have been the standout players for you this season?
JC: Carlton Cole, obviously. And Scott Parker, for me. He’s incredible, an absolute midfield general. His work rate is unprecedented; I’ve never seen a player cover so much of the pitch. And Jack Collison. That’s the point: no individual players are playing badly, we just don’t have the ability to cope with injuries. If our strongest XI played every game then we wouldn’t be in the position that we are. The other day, we had two 18 year-olds and a 17 year-old starting. You can’t have that sort of thing; not in a relegation fight. So I don’t know what’s going to happen but I hope to god we don’t go down.
James Corden, thank you.
As I’d began talking to Corden, though, I couldn’t help but notice who was getting the ITN once-over a few lanes down: Rio Ferdinand and David Haye, no less. Well I’ll be. If I could just get one of them, it would be worth it.
Again, my pocketful of questions for Rio did not really lend itself to the world of boxing and “How much has your life changed since you knocked out that massive Russian bloke?” was all I could think of in the intervening time before my imminent one-to-one with…
…and they were gone again. I must have turned away as they fled, as I didn’t even notice them leave. “I reckon Rio didn’t like the line of questioning,” hypothesised one of the chaps from Talksport Magazine. “It’s annoying. I wanted to ask him if his fitness was down to his drop in form.” Good one, genius.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome James Corden!” boomed Our Graham’s voice from outside.
“Will they be back?” I asked Helen forlornly, like Homer Simpson asking if Mr T would ever visit the Springfield Mall again. She assured me that Rio at least should be back at some point but that he would probably only answer questions about the charity over a maximum of about two minutes. ‘Have you ever seen Sir Alex legless?’, I reasoned, was probably out of the question.
“Ok,” I said, hoping to escape the intimate confines of the press pit. “Am I allowed to have a look around in the mean time?”
“Not really.”
I looked down at the press pack that I’d been handed earlier. Part of it was a stylish, black programme, bearing a picture of Rio sitting at a table in smart clothes, holding his fingers together in the Mr Burns “excellent” style. Everything you needed to know about the ‘Live the Dream’ foundation was pretty much listed right there.
‘Have you ever merked Anton?’. No. I’d probably be asked to leave.
So I left of my own accord, plotting a descriptive account of the evening that would have to do in lieu of an interview with Rio Ferdinand or any other decent ‘celeb’.
It wasn’t until I finished writing the piece that I realised how many costly fall-outs it could lead to, not least the police and my editor. And Tamer, of course. Don’t forget Tamer.
Cheers Rio, and good luck with the foundation. You would have loved me.
