When I was asked to do a memory piece on ABC’s Features Department I found it difficult to start. Individual shows fade from memory and when I tried to recall them it was the faces of colleagues, friends, that remained as vivid as ever.

They were a remarkable group of men and women who served the Features Department. The resolute, brave and intellectual Penry Jones, now Head of Religious Broadcasting for the BBC; Penry going to bat with Geoffrey Gilbert when there was a major row over A Man Dies; Geoffrey, now Programme Controller of Ulster, tackling every problem with his own unique combination of gaiety and drive which never deserted him whether he was on a rain-drenched Other Man’s Farm, wrestling with the network when we started World of Sport, or taking a new look at Religion or at Adult Education, or motoring, or any of the many jobs that he tackled. Geoffrey had a unique idea of a working week – as far as I could make out he used to deduct about 30 hours for sleep, and spend the rest of his time on Company business.

In the office next door in the Features corridor, was Reginald Collin riding herd on a strange anarchic collection of talents under the banner of Tempo. Never phased by temperaments or disasters because, as he would airily put it, after current affairs with Tom Brennand and Roy Bottomley nothing bothered you! And we all knew what he meant! Tom and Roy, of course, were our Billy Foulkes and Nobby Stiles (don’t ask me which was which), but neither of them ever intended to lose in any conditions, on any pitch, home or away no matter how many goals behind. And they seldom did.

The Features people were a stroppy bunch – ostensibly I ran the Department, but I sometimes wondered whether control of such a collection of individualists was far more myth than reality. One recalls the clowning and brilliant Joe McGrath with a degree of temperament that had carried him from Scottish First Division Football to Spain to Rediffusion, to us, to the BBC, to feature films. Not only a fine talent but one of the most engaging of human beings. But flair is not always the prerogative of the extrovert as the quiet Ben Churchill proved. A producer of enormous tact and sympathy and as fine a gallery director as I have ever seen. Another quiet man was Ted Childs, whose sense of humour and wit surmounted some very tough problems. Anyone remember the University College of North Wales at Bangor?

We will not forget the ladies: Helen Standage, who called a spade a damned old shovel (to put it mildly), without ever losing her dainty femininity. The resourceful and versatile Margery Baker. Pam Lonsdale who never stopped worrying, and never turned out a show that did not look polished, sure of itself and intelligent. Marjory Ruse, whose hardheaded Northern intellect was always tempered with a sympathetic and loyal approach towards her colleagues and the Company.

Back to the men and Geoffrey Ramsey, a strong, competent man from my own side of the water; the genial and charming Mike Vardy, and those talented guests from other quarters, Michael Mills, now Head of Comedy at the BBC and Peter Luke who is writing in Spain – so he says. The steadfast Malcolm Morris, who was there at the beginning and came back at the end and is now the Programme Controller of Tyne Tees. And, of course, Mike Hodges, the bearded red-head (you can never trust people who look like that for a start!) whose first contact with ABC was as a teleprompter operator at Didsbury and who has now become a national name as a producer/writer and disciple of Marshal McLuahan.

Then there was sturdy Tom Clegg, Ian Mackenzie, David Wickes, loyal, clever John Kershaw, and those three indispensable ladies – Iris Pratt, Rene Bloomstein and Jean Smith (Trinder). Some great P.A.s, too – Nora Fielding, Verity Lambert, Ruth Parkhill, Jackie Davis and Anne Summerton.

Possibly I should have listed “shows” and “firsts”, and there were plenty, in religion, in the arts, in sport (John Bromley & Co), in late-night television, in Adult Education and in current affairs, but to me people are always far more important than occasions and it is the people that made the programmes.

If I had to select one memory to epitomise the way the Features Department functioned it would be the occasion of the tragic death of Hugh Gaitskell. I heard the announcement on the radio and within 10 minutes, believe it or not, I had been rung by every single producer and director in the Features Department volunteering their services if we wished to do some sort of extra programme. Tom and Roy, within hours, had located a miner in Leeds who had been the victim of an industrial accident and whose entire way of life had been preserved by his M.P. – Gaitskell. Somehow Terry Pace and the Mobile Unit managed to get cameras across the Pennines in appalling winter conditions and ABC delivered probably the most singular and moving obituary on Gaitskell in the entire range of British broadcasting.

This incident was to me typical of the incredible energy, goodwill and co-operation that we experienced together in those exciting years of Feature Programming. I doubt if I will every enjoy broadcasting more and I am sure I could never find a better collection of men and women anywhere at any time.

If my reminiscences of the Features Department has become a salute to the Programme Staff and the production colleagues that so ably serviced them, I do not apologise. I think that’s the way it should be. That is the way it was.

The post People count… appeared first on THIS IS ABC WEEKEND from Transdiffusion.

THE heart of the World of Sport doesn’t beat. It ticks relentlessly.

Tick-tick. It’s the first sound heard by three typists, four sub-editors, two pools advisers, eight results men, three editorial executives, 40 sound, lighting, camera, studio, props and make-up staff when they arrive at Teddington Studios at 8.30 every Saturday morning.

Tick-tick, tick-tick. That’s the sound of the enemy – the small black clock with white figures on the studio wall. It reaches a pounding, panic-stricken peak at around 4.40 p.m. And stops at 5.15 p.m.

But for eight hours 45 minutes every Saturday, that clock is the god of World of Sport.

Morning. Staff arrive quickly, without fuss. No time to chat. There’s equipment to check. Telepronters, soon to chatter their frantic messages; scripts to recheck; schedules to go over.

First tea of the day. Steaming. Good. One tea lady makes 25 gallons [~114 litres – Ed] of tea every Saturday for the World of Sport team.

Control room. One long desk. Six monitor sets.

Sports editor John Bromley, tall, rather pale, intense, sits in the middle seat. Assistants Ian Marshall and Olympic runner Adrian Metcalfe flank him. Already they’re checking on outside broadcast teams. John Rickman at horse racing… Freddie Trueman on a roving commission… Bill Fallowfield at Rugby League… Kent Walton at wrestling.

Late instructions for all of them. Last minute link with cricket correspondent Ian Wooldridge in South Africa.

The line’s faulty. Needs attention. Are the telephonists on the switchboard happy? Everything OK with the 16-man O.B. teams?

No troubles. Not at the moment. Anchor-man Eamonn Andrews arrives.

Teleprinters start tapping mid-morning messages. A game off here… a team change somewhere else. Each message carefully scrutinised; weighed up for news potential and rushed to Andrews.

No time for lunch. Just tea. It’s nearing zero hour. 12.50 p.m.— when World of Sport booms across your screens.

Strangely, no outward excitement. A sense of calm. Of expectancy. Of relief. Who was it that said waiting was the worst part of war? Countdown … three, two, one … IN. Perfectly synchronised. The face of Eamonn Andrews appears on the two centre monitors in the Control Boom.

Tick-tick, tick-tick, bang on 12.50 p.m. The war is on. The enemy is the clock.

First film report. Bromley waves his hands in the air as the flashover from studio to film seems to be seconds out. Sighs with immense relief as it flicks on in perfect time.

Pictures from Catterick racing appear on the two monitors on the right. John Rickman tuning in. Teleprinters going. Everyone has a job. News flashes from Bloemfontein to Birmingham are plonking into the in-tray.

Over to Catterick. First race. John Rickman selects his tip. Editorial racing man Ian Marshall duly notes. Eamonn Andrews, off screen, gets a few facial flicks with a powder puff from a make-up girl.

In comes the result of the first race. Jubilation in the Control Room. John Rickman tipped the winner. Eamonn does a double-handed “thumbs up” across the studio floor. Tick-tick. Everything going fine.

The soccer programme has kicked off. Flash. Denis Law has scored. That’s quick. And worth a mention. Skilfully, Eamonn’s voice is superimposed over snooker with the news. Another quick score message. Passed to Eamonn.

Panic, panic, panic. That last score … it was a Combination League score, not first team stuff. Frantic waving of arms in the Control Room, trying to attract Eamonn’s attention through the window. A messenger boy gallops away at full throttle with the correction.

“Now steady down, lads,” shouts Bromley. But is he just reassuring himself?

Executive producer Geoffrey Gilbert sails into the scene from his studio control box in the gallery. Declares that things are going smoothly.

Back again comes racing. John Rickman back on the screen, weighing up the next race’s prospects. “Tell ’em about your first race winner, Rickers,” implores John Bromley. (Nicknames are rife: Rickers, Bromers, Matters. I swiftly became Lanners!)

“OK, OK, Eamonn can do it,” said Geoffrey Gilbert. “Not to worry, lad. It’ll all work out.”

Tick-tick, tick-tick. Trouble. The 2.45 p.m. race starts 13 minutes late. Big trouble. Timing thrown out. The odd minute is allowed for. Thirteen minutes is a lifetime.

Schedule running late. Urgent readjustments. Cut Jimmy Hill interview. Get back snooker.

Soccer results coming in. Results “king” Dave Richmond collates the mass of teleprinter messages thumping on to his desk. All around a cacophony of clattering, typing, shouting. This is full stretch.

Yet on the studio floor, complete calm.

Wrestling over. Eamonn Andrews sums up the headlines. Into result sequence. Result reader Martin Locke is allowed exactly four minutes 40 seconds to cover all six leagues. He takes his time, standing casually before a mike, reading from a monitor in the studio. Ian Marshall does the same for the racing round-up.

All eyes on the clock. Tick-tick. tick-tick. No longer a menace. Eamonn signs off. Bang, theme music. Bang, advert for toothpaste.

John Bromley strides out of the Control Room, thanking everyone loudly. The clattering has stopped; plenty of chatter. Eamonn Andrews sits back, pours himself coffee from a couple of thermos jugs.

The news room is tidied and emptied within five minutes. One Saturday’s war is over. Next Saturday’s starts at 5.31 p.m. that same evening.

But at least you don’t hear the tick of the clock any more.

The post What makes World of Sport tick? appeared first on THIS IS ABC WEEKEND from Transdiffusion.