THE DAY I CAUGHT FIRE

by

OLIVE DONG

MY LIFE IN THE BdotBpointC AND OTHER STORIES OF TV

(All names and places have been changed to protect the guilty)

This all happened a long time ago. I was nineteen. I had not been at the BdotBpointC very long. In fact I was on a three month review of my first year's probationary training, still called a JPTO, a junior probationary technical operator, awaiting reports of good behaviour and diligent work as a cable basher, the lowest position on a TV camera crew.

The Head of Tech Ops, at that time lovingly known as Potts as his name was Pottingale, was the one person vested with the authority to extend my probation or terminate my employment.

On June 3rd , I had my second interview with Potts and was I apprehensive.

I knew that my crew TOM, the Tech Ops Manager, Gordon Summerly, had submitted a pretty damning report about my irresponsible, subversive and irregular behaviour in a very long drawn out and detailed letter accompanying my three month report, which did include the following damning evidence:

(a) I had worn jeans on a rehearsal day at the TV Theatre, when BdotBpointC regulations specifically stated suits to be worn in that recording area (even if there was no audience), and I had been sent home.

(b) I had been espied by Gordon Summerly, the TOM, showing a make-up girl, how to balance and walk along a camera cable, which was strictly forbidden

(c) I had been stopped from tying a tubular canvas chair to the back of a motorised camera dolly and operating the controls with my feet

(d) I had put my feet up on the control desk while watching the "Test Card" with the rest of the crew during a break from rehearsal in the Gallery of Studio G.

I lived in Wimbledon and either went by bus or cycled to work, occasionally I walked (see anecdote 1). June 3rd was a particular beautiful and forecast warm summer's day, so as it was a scheduled off-day for me, I had plenty of time, so I decided to cycle in. The afternoon of my crucial interview with Potts, a Wednesday afternoon and I would take a leisurely 6 mile cycle ride into White City, plenty of time to get there, for 2.15 pm sharp.

I wore a rather tight charcoal flannel suit, (I didn't own such a thing as a summer-suit), bri-nylon white shirt, clean collar, red tie, and red braces, plus polished black shoes; fitting gear for either a crucial interview or for working in the TV Theatre in front of an audience. I could dress for the occasion, and had had my hair cut very short in the morning, and prepared myself for the inevitable.

Unfortunately June 3rd turned out to be not just a nice forecast warm English summer's day, but an extremely, extremely hot day. The sun had been blazing since noon and the temperature at Hammersmith Bridge must have been in the upper 80's. I was pretty fit and usually managed to cycle to the Centre in 17 minutes at speed, dangerously weaving in and out of the traffic. It was very hot work, especially in a suit, but I made good time.

As I passed the Hammersmith Palais, I lit a fag, which was an act of 'no-hands' balance and crazy skill. I had been smoking Capstan Full Strength since I was sixteen and a half.

As I approached the traffic lights at Shepherd's Bush I felt very hot. The sun was blazing down straight on my newly shaved head (it was called an 'american cut', shorter than a 'crew cut' , but was to be the last time I had my hair cut for some time as I progressed into beatnik mode soon after). I felt especially hot under the left armpit, scorching hot in fact and was quite surprised on looking down to see that flames were actually emerging from the top pocket of my unbuttoned jacket and I was in fact really burning in that region. I literally fell off my bike as I grappled to get out of my suit jacket which was now well on fire, and threw it to the ground in front of the traffic.

Standing there or rather jumping there, stamping on my jacket to put the fire out took a minute or so and caused a minor hold up at the traffic lights, although not one individual actually came to enquire whether I was all right. A helpful motorcyclist did kick my fallen bike out of his way. Maybe I was not helped, because I did look insanely like a dancing dervish performing a ritual fire dance in the middle of the junction, a performance act more often than not seen in the middle of the Green itself. (Or I might have been a Hari Krishna buddhist demonstrating)

Once the flames were out, I pulled my bike to the gutter edge and investigated the cause of my spontaneous combustion. The traffic proceeded to run smoothly again throughout Shepherd's Bush, all obliviously unaware of the 'Miracle of the Bush' fire!!

Apparently the conflagration had started because of three factors, none of which were connected to the heat of the day or the blazing sun.

One: I had the top kerchief pocket of my suit full of used bus tickets and….

Two: When you smoke and cycle, the burnt ash blows off, leaving just the scorched paper as a burnt tube. Normally but alarmingly this smouldering tube suddenly detaches itself with a few sparks and flies over your shoulder and is wafted harmlessly with its flammability weakened into the air behind you.

Three: This sparky bit of burnt paper decided to enter the top pocket of said suit jacket and set light to the bus tickets, and burnt paper, silk lining, nylon and flannel from the inside, out.

To my horror, my suit had burnt through at the armpit completely, and the left side front of my new clean white bri-nylon shirt had melted away leaving a nasty hard-edged scorched hole. My armpit hairs had been singed AND my left nipple had been burnt.

I was in pain and in trepidation of another sudden conflagrating outburst, so I took a final drag on my fag, spun the butt into the gutter with a flick, and jacket tucked over the crossbar re-mounted and cycled on down Wood Lane to the Centre.

I must say there was sincere consternation by Potts and Paula, his secretary, as I turned up with blackened smouldering jacket, melted shirt and burnt breast.

"I really think you ought to go to the sister, Doyig" Paula said, though she did know me as Clive outside the confines of work, at the tennis club.

"Oh Dowig" exclaimed Potts most concerned behind his neat moustache, "You really must get that seen to. Go and see the sister"

But I would have none of it, "It is nothing, a mere trifle. I'm perfectly all right, sir. Just spontaneously caught fire at the lights. No, I'm fine. No I do not need medical attention, honestly"

I hung my slightly smoking suit jacket on a hook in his office and sat down attentively and submissively, the other side of his official interviewing desk, with half a shirt, braces and a burnt blistering nipple showing.

Later I have been able to realise how disconcerting this must have been for the poor old boy, to tear a strip off a young insubordinate he could see was bravely biting his lip to allay the third degree burns suffered in the course of duty on a scheduled off-day. He did not recognise the reason I was biting my lip - to hold back tears of fear that I was about to be sacked, to have my employment with the BdotBpointC terminated because of untoward behaviour.

It was in solemn tones that he read out verbatim the lengthy letter accompanying my report by Gordon Summerly:

"I was proceeding through the observation room overlooking studio 3 when I espied Dorg, [amazing how my name cannot be pronounced outside Scotland], a probationary dolly operator 3, walking down the length of a camera cable in front of a number of other studio operatives...." etc. [failing to mention how and when I had completed the task everyone had cheered and then they had all had a go, including Ann, the make-up assistant who was destined only a year or so later to marry the Managing Director of BdotBpointC TV, Billy Button]

Half way through the letter, with the possibility of the Post Office being my only future employer (I had been offered a full time job in the parcel service after my Christmas student extra work), Paula buzzed in on Potts's intercom

"Excuse me Mr Pottingale, would you and Doyig like a cup of tea?"

Paula was my saviour. She knew I had been or was still in a state of shock, and a cup of BdotBpointC sweet tea would help, or did she know Potts was just about to get to the 'terminal' part of the report. Mr Pottingale was a man of great compassion. He also realised my subdued and unlit attitude and proclaimed,

"I think Dowig would like a cup of tea, wouldn't you Dowig?"

Enough to give me strength for the inevitable conclusion of the interview, eh?

"Yes, sir, one sugar please" I warbled

"And two for me, Paula, thank you" click!

Where was he? He had quite forgotten after he again asked me whether I was all right. Oh yes! In th middle of the letter. Oh heck, why was it the one passage he had to re-read after Paula's brief interruption was my apparent refusal to get off the canvas backed tubular chair tied to the motorised camera dolly...

"...I asked Dorg to get the chair off the dead-man's switch as it was a dangerous and foolhardy practice and he replied, 'I can steer and control much better in this position'.......I relieved him of his duties as camera dolly operator for the duration of the day"

Nothing was going to save me now. Authority was supreme at the BdotBpointC, the ladder of the heirarchy, the grades of excellence and managerial position were sacrosanct and I had answered back, a Junior Probationary Technical Operator with no established grade had disobeyed a B1- (fuller explanation in Information and the BdotBpointC Handbook and Staff Instructions Issue K - also I had been officially reprimanded by the Head of Catering - see Anecdote 3)

Potts looked up. He had now become Mr Pottingale, the Head of Tech Ops, the Headmaster weilding the cane, the chopper, the pen of instant dismissal, the highest authority, the BdotBpointC itself, although he was a mere vassal in the further pyramid of power and rank above him.

I trembled. There was a knock on the door which made him say "Come in!" instead of "On your bike, Dowig" and through the intercommunicating door, between his inner sanctum and the outer secretary's office, wafted the very beautiful Paula in her flowered dress (trousers were not allowed to be worn by female BdotBpointC employees).

With a tray, upon which was the tea. His, in a BdotBpointC emblazoned light green china cup and saucer; mine in a waxed white paper cup, also with printed BdotBpointC in black on the side. Such were the privileges and perks of BdotBpointC rank.

But, as Paula came to his desk, my suit jacket - hanging on the peg on the wall, suddenly spontaneously burst into flames again, for the second time in its short life.

Burning virulently and scorching a streak of black almost instantaneously up the green wallpaper to the ceiling, the freshly fired material caused a shriek from Paula, a gasp from Potts and a daredevil action by yours truly. With bravura unknown, I grabbed the waxed paper cup just offered to me and dashed to the wall with it and doubly dashed its hot steaming contents over my blazing jacket.

The sweetened BdotBpointC tea, well aimed, doused the flames and did the trick, if only leaving both my jacket and the wall a little wet.

Potts had risen to his feet in great consternation and Paula had spilled his own cup of tea in her surprise at my firefighter's leap.

Apologies were all mine, and such was the unexpected circumstances of turmoil, that all my indiscretions…. (I had also, of course, now not complied with staff instruction 52 clause 8:- "....in the event of fire summon an official BdotBpointC fire officer" - but then neither had he) were immediately forgotten, rescinded, abrogated in the face of my act of heroism.

"I think it better" stuttered the flustered but calming boss, "That we call an end to this interview Dowig. You better go and see sister in the medical unit, I am a little worried about your ahem"

He was either referring to my left nipple or my character.

And indeed the interview was at an end.

It was never reconvened, and all I knew further of the outcome, was from a 'personnel' memo that informed me that my probation period had been extended for a further three months. At the end of this period I would become a full member of staff and a proper JTO, obviously if I behaved myself and did not catch fire again.

"Just think" said Fell, the Number 2 dolly operator on Crew 4, puffing on a woodbine in the crew room, "Doggy was saved by a smoking jacket"

"His blazer, wasn't it?" laughed Atkins, and everyone laughed with him, as he was the senior cameraman.

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