Jonny Dymond

Jonny Dymond is a brilliant journalist. When I worked at Stage 6 in Television Centre I learned a lot from watching his lives and listening to his dispatches. He is also the author of the best biog I have ever read:

Jonny Dymond, Washington Correspondent, BBC News

Jonny is currently Washington correspondent for the BBC, magically becoming North America correspondent when he leaves the capital. Jonny is that rarity within the BBC, a white, male, privately educated Londoner.

He joined the BBC way back in the mists of time (1995) working first at Millbank as a researcher and producer, then at Newsnight and various election and budget programmes. He became a reporter at Westminster for the World Service and then Washington reporter in 2000. He covered 9/11 from Washington DC, then went to Istanbul to cover Turkey and the Middle East between 2001 and 2005.

He spent five years in Brussels as Europe correspondent leaving, with impeccable timing, just as Europe became The Biggest Story in The Whole World. In the States he files largely for BBC radio programmes, but is allowed onto television when no one else is available.

On the Mic - Surrey Life - October 2012

October's column for Surrey Life magazine, which is about a word, or the lack of it...

I think it’s time for a confessional.

Sometimes the right thing to say doesn’t arrive in our heads until we are half way through a sentence. We’ve all paused mid-flow, waiting for the perfect adjective to trampoline up from the memory deeps and present itself for dispatch. Most of the time we get there. Occasionally, it goes horribly wrong.

When the word we’re groping for doesn’t arrive, sparkling conversation can quickly descend into a series of panic-stricken eyebrow movements and non-sequiturs.

“It’s the, er, you know…” 

“Do I?

“Yes!”

“I…”

“It’s on the tip of my tongue!” 

“I think I know what you mean. As I was saying...”

So annoying.

Sometimes an interlocutor will spare everyone’s blushes by supplying the mot juste. Often they can’t, to mutual embarrassment. This is bad enough in real life, but on the radio, speaking in coherent sentences is the essence of the job. 

Yes there’s a lot of reading, research, button-pushing and other stuff you need to do, but topping the list is trying to make sure what comes out of your mouth isn’t a load of incomprehensible tosh.

The other day I managed to surprise myself.

It’s one thing to have the right word dangling in your subconscious, tantalisingly out of reach. It’s another thing to attempt a formulation which may not even be part of the language.

I needed to describe a person who was taking on the penultimate leg of a relay. I also needed to describe the person running the leg before them. Live on air, with thousands of people listening, I picked up the microphone and started to do so. Bad move.

To use “third-to-last”, didn’t seem right. The person in question wasn’t losing a race. The last person in the relay wasn’t in “last place”. So what word should I use? 

I had no idea. I realised, as a self-created linguistic tidal wave of doom swept towards me, I had asked my brain to dredge up a word I had never used before. Or heard before. Or even seen written down. It was perfectly possible this was because the word I had set myself up to use, live on the BBC, did not actually exist. 

In that moment of tongue-tied confusion my mind convulsed, my eyes widened and my mouth flapped open and shut like a particularly vacant goldfish. Every millisecond became an hour. It felt like a slow-motion car crash, my brain screaming “Nooooooooo!!!!” as the familiar brick wall of total humiliation approached. 

I’ve since listened back to it and all you hear is a brief giggle with the admission I had fallen into a beartrap of my own making. Thankfully a colleague was on hand to graciously admit she had no idea what the word for “the-one-before-the-penultimate” is either. The whole thing was over in half a second, and no lasting damage was done.

That’s the thing about radio. You make a mistake. You apologise. You feel bad. You learn. You move on. 

Antepenultimate. I know that now.

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November's edition of Surrey Life is on sale now, at £3.15 a snip. You can find some of my previous columns below:

September 2012 - on my BBC microphone

August 2012 - on the Olympics

July 2012 - on being on holiday with three small children

June 2012 - on joining a gym

May 2012 - on making live radio

April 2012 - on being ill

How I got to write a column for Surrey Life magazine

Leaving BBC Surrey breakfast

On Friday 19 October I'll present my last weekday breakfast show at BBC Surrey. I've had a good three years and it's time to move on. 

I am going to continue presenting the breakfast show on a Saturday, which I am thrilled about. 

This is what my boss said: "Nick has decided to leave Surrey weekday breakfast at the end of his current contract. His last show will be Friday 19th October.

"Nick has always put 100% into his presentation and I am very grateful for the passion and commitment he has shown over the last 3 years. 

 
"I am really pleased that Nick will continue to present Surrey Saturday breakfast and will still be a part of the radio station."

and this is what I said: "Presenting BBC Surrey Breakfast has been a blast, but I felt the time was right to get on and do something else. 

"I would like to thank everyone at BBC Surrey for the immense amount of work they put into the breakfast show over the last three years and I would like to thank the BBC for giving me this opportunity in the first place. 

"It's a real privilege to present a regular show on BBC local radio, and I have learned a lot. I would also like to thank everyone who tuned in. It's been great getting to know you."

------------------

I haven't properly started looking for something to do after 19 October. That begins now. I'd like to continue working in media, so we'll see what happens. 

I'd like to thank Nicci and Sara for giving me the job in the first place, everyone I worked with on the show, everyone who gave me any feedback and everyone who listened. It has been a quite brilliant experience.

x

On the Mic - Surrey Life - September 2012

Here is my September column for Surrey Life magazine. An ode to my BBC microphone. 

I rather like my microphone. Not the studio one at BBC Surrey, but my reporter mic. 

It’s gun-metal grey, about eight inches long, perfectly balanced and heavy, with a rigid metal mesh protecting the business end. It has presence. And it’s very, very good at doing what it does.

My microphone was issued to me when I got a new job at the BBC, with all the ceremony a bored studio engineer could muster. 

For him it was just another bit of kit. For me it was a symbolic moment. I had somehow managed to wangle an on-air gig at the greatest broadcast organisation in the world. 

I went down on one knee, bowed my head and raised my palms upwards.

“Don’t be a cretin, Wallis.” said the bored engineer, putting the cold graphite wand in my hand. “And don’t break it.”

That was more than eight years ago. In that time I have used the same microphone to interview Bruce Willis, Halle Berry, David Cameron, David Attenborough, Mick Jagger, Madonna, Jarvis Cocker, Amy Winehouse, Dame Judi Dench and a couple of hundred other high-profile people. I have taken it into the penthouses and bowels of almost every five star hotel and crummy music dive in London. It has faithfully recorded the musings of politicians, actors, sports stars, broadcasters, doctors, nurses, farmers, protestors, firefighters, police officers, chefs, comedians, soldiers, teachers, students, parents, children and completely random passers-by. It has heard tales of heartbreak, outrage, injustice and joy. 

More than anything else it has become my passport to a conversation with the single most interesting person in the room. And it hasn’t let me down once.

All things must pass

Several hundred years ago, when I started out, reporters would struggle out to jobs with "portable" analogue reel-to-reel tape machines. These recorders were encased in sharp-edged, solid wooden boxes and weighed so much they had to be strapped to the side of a horse. 

Then along came DAT. DAT recorders had user interfaces inspired by the sleek, black obelisks in 2001: A Space Odyssey. It meant your machine might be switched on and might have recorded your interview in perfect digital quality, but there was no way of actually knowing this. Or ever finding out where inside the machine your interview might be. 

Now we’re in the future. When I arrived at BBC Surrey, I was presented with a heavy duty reporter microphone very similar to my own. Except this one had a solid state mp3 recorder inside it. No wires, no fuss. 

Three years on, we don’t even need to attach our micro-mp3 recorders to the insides of chunky specialist kit. The mic on a smartphone can do the job. And a smartphone, with the right app and a few sweeps of the finger, can edit, convert and dispatch an interview back to base for immediate transmission before slotting back into your jacket pocket.

Very cool. But I’m still using my old microphone. 

I like it. It doesn’t crash, freeze, run out of battery or make me feel faintly ridiculous when I’m holding it under someone’s nose (try interviewing someone with a phone and you’ll see what I mean). But that’s not really why I prefer it.

With modern technology nowadays, we can all be reporters. I like my BBC microphone because it makes me feel like one.

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October's edition of Surrey Life is on sale now, at £3.15 a snip. You can find some of my previous columns below:

August 2012 - on the Olympics

July 2012 - on being on holiday with three small children

June 2012 - on joining a gym

May 2012 - on making live radio

April 2012 - on being ill

How I got to write a column for Surrey Life magazine

The future of journalism

This is one view of the future of journalism. If you have a moment, please take the time to read it:

http://grist.org/politics/as-romney-and-ryan-lie-with-abandon-how-should-journalists-navigate-post-truth-politics/

It's just about the best blog post I've ever read (although these reviews of Mamma Mia! and Sex and the City 2 come close)

It obviously comes from a left-leaning perspective, but I think it transcends it, because the left will adopt the horrors articulated within, if they haven't already.

And then, the implications for journalism (which, let's face it, has compromised itself in so many areas) are grindingly predictable.

.

On the Mic - Surrey Life - August 2012

Do you want to, er, read a preview of the Olympics? Sure you do. September's edition of Surrey Life magazine is in shops now. Here's August's column.

The countdown has finished. The torch has been and gone. The Olympics are here. Now. On our roads and in our faces. Faster, higher, longer, wetter... medal-ier. Woo. I’m in the zone. I’m stoked. I’m hyped. I’m…

There’s no doubt London 2012 has been a huge story for BBC Surrey from the moment it was announced that Surrey would host the Olympic cycle road races. We’ve covered every single aspect of the preparation and organisation, and I’ve enjoyed every second.

It’s just… I haven’t got excited yet. 

Put it down to being a comprehensively-mortgaged father of three young children. I don’t have the time to get energised about anything until it’s properly begun. Not when I’m so busy dealing with thrill-a-minute stuff like car insurance, the leaky roof or my children’s whereabouts (actually… hold on a moment...)

It’s okay, they’re fine. It wasn’t always like this. Back in the olden days, events like the FA Cup Final brought a frenzy of anticipation. The three hour build-up, the goal montages, the interviews, the excruciating suit-measuring sequence. By the team Abide With Me came round I would convinced I was about to witness one of the greatest occasions humanity could muster.

No longer. Even the 15 minute build-up to a Champions League match on ITV doesn’t get a look-in. All I can manage for any evening televised sporting event is a vague hope I might have finished putting the kids to bed, tidied up and dealt with dinner before most of it is over. If anything is scheduled during the day when our darling charges are awake, forget it.

But this is the Olympics. The Greatest Show on Earth. Mostly happening 25 miles from where I live. On two particular days, thanks to the road race, happening at the very end of my street.

Excited or not, it’s time to get involved. Partly because I have a professional and personal interest in being able to say I Was There, and partly because I don’t want my children to turn around in ten years time and say:

“We had the Olympics on our doorstep for the only time in our lives and you didn't take us?!”

Fair point. So the tickets to Stratford 2012 have been bought and we are now approaching an exhausting, but hopefully memorable day. If I had any doubt the hassle would be worthwhile, it evaporated when my eldest daughter Amy returned from school, glowing. Her friend’s Dad had the privilege of being an Olympic torch bearer and he’d brought his torch in for the children to look at. 

“I couldn’t believe I actually held it in my hands”, said Amy, “it was so special.”

If you’re going to any of the Olympic venues this August or will be glued to the sofa, red-buttoning your way to glory in the ultimate orgy of sporting prowess, good luck. 

If you want to keep track of how Surrey’s representatives in Team GB are doing, make sure you tune in to BBC Surrey throughout the Games. We’ll turn you into instant experts on a series of obscure Olympic sports and tell you if there might be a new Olympic champion in our midst.

And whilst you listen, you might just hear a hint of excitement in my voice.

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Please disregard this blog post

I can guarantee it will not be interesting. It's about me and my family being ill. I don't even want to read it. I just want to write it.

On Saturday last we returned from holiday in Devon with just one of our three children. This was not an oversight. We had left our two daughters with their grandparents to enjoy an extension to their holiday. This allowed me and Mrs Wallis to return to work without having to find expensive school holiday childcare.

On Tuesday night James woke us with his crying at 11.30pm. I went in to find he'd vomited all over himself, his pyjamas, his cot and his toys. I'd say there was a good pint of half-digested gunk covering just about everything.

The clean-up took half an hour. Fifteen minutes into this process he puked again. This time Mrs Wallis, who was holding James at the time, expertly steered him towards the sink. Again, amazing volumes of semi-digested food splattered into the bowl. I was quietly impressed.

I wiped down James' mattress, whilst Mrs Wallis gave him a bath. We got out a new sheet, gro bag, new pyjamas, found some new toys and put him back to bed. He lay there for a few minutes before puking everywhere again. We went through the whole process for the second time and got into bed around 1am.

Whatever James had, he passed on to all of us. First Amy, who woke up on Thursday with a temperature, unwilling to eat any food, and then Mrs Wallis, who was up most of Friday morning from 1am, being sick.

I felt dreadful by 3am Friday morning, so called my dear boss and regular dep Mark Carter, who sprang into action and presented the BBC Surrey Breakfast show in my absence. Friday daytime was a bit of a blur. Mrs Wallis was in bed, I was feeling very queasy, but had to look after one ill child and two bouncy ones who wanted to get out of the house and do something.

By Saturday I felt sufficiently recovered to present the breakfast show, and Mrs Wallis was sufficiently recovered to look after the children. I can't pretend the broadcast was a triumph, but I was aided by the presence of the Redhill-based actress Zoe Battley, who was my studio guest for the bulk of the programme. She provided the vivacity and liveliness, I tried to keep up.

Amy was still tired and listless on Saturday, her third day without really eating anything. She also managed to bring up what little she did eat, which was nice. I still felt very grim and was stealing every opportunity to go to bed and sleep.

By Saturday evening Mrs Wallis and I were feeling well enough to contemplate a cheeky glass of wine. Nic was better, but I hadn't eaten much all day and wasn't sure I could cope.

The decision was taken out of our hands by Abi, who had hitherto been unaffected by whatever is going round. She had just gone down to bed when she puked up amazing amounts of the same kind of congealed muck James had produced on Tuesday.

After half an hour of trying to rinse this stuff off her sheets, and pushing the big lumps down the plughole with my fingers, I decided a glass of wine was out of the question, as, chances were, we would be up later in the night. I went to bed at 9pm.

Turns out Abi did puke again during the night. She managed to do it in the bucket by the side of her bed, then wandered into our room to tell us about it. She woke Nic up, but I managed to sleep through the whole thing.

James woke us at 6.30am this morning. He is now well. Amy, who I haven't seen smile for three days, just bounced downstairs and asked for breakfast. Thank God. Abi stumbled out of bed, not looking too good and running a temperature. My stomach is now churning again.

The last time I can remember throwing up was an August Bank Holiday weekend seven years ago. I was covering the Reading Festival for Newsbeat, and got food poisoning off some festival muck. I staggered back to my hotel room at midnight and called the newsdesk to report that I wasn't feeling too good.

During the call I had to run to the toilet to puke. My colleagues thought it most theatrical. It didn't stop them calling me at 4am the next morning to send me back into the festival after receiving reports there had been a mini-riot in the camping area. I know there is always a mini-riot in the camping area at Reading, but this had gone bad with a burger van being attacked and gas cannisters set alight.

I got the audio I needed and returned to the hotel room to file before puking up again.

That felt like quite at adventure. This doesn't.