This story should have been written and posted a long time ago. Possibly in a galaxy far, far away. But it’s here, and now, and we’ll all just have to live with it. For longer than you think, as I got about halfway through this little scribbling and realised it was going to take longer than I thought. So here, finally, after not-much-ado-at-all, is Part 1 of the Chronicles of my time as an intern journalist at a TV Station Newsroom.

I’m in talks with Peter Jackson about the rights.

* * * *

Despite rumours to the contrary, I didn’t fall off the face of the planet, go bush to start a hippy commune or buy a Caddy down in Cali and drive down to Mex-i-co. I have, in fact, been doing an internship at a local TV station for the last two weeks.

Long story short, late last year I organised a two-week internship through Uni. And that’s where I’ve been for the last two weeks.

Inevitably, though, I am going to give you the long version.

It was a strange and varied experience. I think I was a bit spoiled on my first day. I arrived fresh-faced and eager at the front gate, only to be eyed suspiciously by the door guard. Like all gatekeepers before him, he was wary of newcomers, and rightly so. Who knows who might want to assail the fortress of the Mt Cootha studios. It must be a terroist target. Luckily I had shaved off my beard the night before, and was thus looking the least like a member of Al Queada as it is possible for me to look on a good day.

My entry into the compound attained, I went inside. I had to repeat the song and dance for the receptionist, who saw through by clean-shaven suited appearance to the latent terrorist underneath. But in the end I managed to talk her around. And be kept waiting in the lobby for twenty minutes.

Still, apparently my story checked out, and I was into the belly of the beast. Which turned out to be a very nice open-plan office with art-nouveau desk arrangements. Who would’ve thought?

There wasn’t a lot for me to do first up, so I got to help out, the Chief of Staff, an imposing man called Theophonous Tallywhacker, taking calls and generally organising things. First call I pick up…

“Hello, Newsroom, Stuart speaking”

“Stuart, Peter Harvey in Canberra”

I swear that he said that exact phrase. It was a surreal experience. He has the…hairiest voice in Australian broadcasting. Anyway. Next call I pick up-

“Hello, Newsroom, Stuart speaking”

“Stuart, Ken Suttcliff here, what’s the weather like?”

I suddenly had the enormous urge to say, incredulously, “Ken? Ken, the male model from Mudgee? You must be fucking joking!”

…

Ah. none of you have heard the Twelfth Man recordings, have you? A pity. For me.

Still, having Ken Sutcliff call and ask about the weather did seem a little strange, till I remembered there was a twenty20 match on that night. We chatted for a bit, exchanged phone numbers and recipes, and then he went on his way. I never did speak to him again. Still, we’ll always have that thirty second phone conversation.
Suddenly, Theo leaned across and spoke, urgently.

“Stuart, there’s a story just come in. It’s big. I don’t have anyone else to send. I wouldn’t normally send a cadet out on something like this, but you’re all I’ve got. I’ve got to get coverage. The public needs to know about this. I need to know…do you think you can handle it?”

“You can count on me, Chief! What’s the story?”

“The Australian Junior Chess Championships”

“…”

“…”
“…”

“…”

“So I get to go out with a crew and do the report?”

“Yes.”

“I”m all over it like a fat kid on a cupcake, boss.”

And so I found myself at the Carlton Crest, complete with Dave the Cameraman, doing a story about chess. Some girl was about to become the first girl to win the junior comp, apparently. Good for her. Why it was newsworthy was anyone’s guess, but apparently it was newsworthy enough to warrant staying THE ENTIRE DAY. I was there from about 11am till about 4pm. At about midday I called the studio.

“Theo, it’s Stu. Things are going pretty slowly here, if this chick draws the game they have to play again and that won’t start till 2, and she looks like maybe losing. If she loses there isn’t any story. Are you sure there isn’t something else you want to run for the closer?”

“NO! Stay there! I need TOTAL COVERAGE!!”

Every phone call to base reulted in this phrase. At one stage THE CAMERA MAN LEFT AND WAS REPLACED BY ANOTHER CAMERAMAN, but still, there I was, covering the event.

And let me tell you, those chess nuts? They take their shit seriously. The main organiser person chewed my ear off for a good twenty minutes. Think about it. That’s quite a long time to be talking, especially when the only question i asked him was “Hi, my name’s Stuart, you are…?”

(By the way, as a side note, it is so IMMENSELY cool and satifying to me, as a journalism student, to be able to say you come from an actual TV station. Kind of like when a pornstar says “and I don’t do anal”)

Now, I’ve been to SciFi-Fantasy conventions and met some scary people. People who take things just a little too seriously. People who should perhaps get out a bit more, get some fresh air and stop masturbating to seven-of-nine porn. And that’s just the ones in the ticket booth. But these chess people had a quiet intensity that was just scary. They love what they do, they are immensely passionate about it, and they seem to be enjoying themselves. To be honest, I don’t see the harm.

One kid saw the harm, though. I’ve told the story a while back, but basically, these kids we’re on the floor of the gameroom (they would have been about 8 and 10) and they were playing their own, muckaround, game of chess. For fun, presumably. One did something the other didn’t like, so he CLOCKED this other kid right in the arm. The part that I love is that at no time did they yell, or make any noise at all. The hit made a massive “thump” but other than that, it was all in silence.

In case you’re interested, the girl won. Eventually. And I got out of there at about 3:30, meaning I’d been there for around four hours. Watching chess.

I arrived back at the station. The security guard is still eyeing me nervously, but I’m with a cameraman this time, so he waves us through. But you can see he didn’t WANT to. He gives me a look as I pass that says “I’ll see YOU around, Osama.”

Theo rushed me as I walked into the newsroom. “My god, where have you BEEN?”

“Um, the chess championships. Remember? You made me stay there all day? Even through lunch? You said I’d never work in this town again unless I Got That Story? And you emphasized the capital letters?”

“Oh, yes, of course. How silly of me. You’re here, the story’s done, and there’s absolutely no need to get the lawyers involved. Yes.”

“So I should go write the story, yeah?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, go write something, we’ll slot it in, I guess.”

My day of work produced a 30 second end-of-bulletin piece that was read by the newsreader, not me. It was a trend that would continue in the days to come…