Watts Happening

We won a Bafta! After eight years with the athletics team the hard work and time spent sitting in the same truck in a different car park somewhere in the world editing features and turning round replays has paid off. It's brilliant and a tribute to everyone in this photo. It's a fine way to sign off as a staffer at the BBC but also tinged with sadness. One more summer of athletics and it's all over. It's Norway, Paris, Barcelona, Stockholm, Zurich, Brussels and Delhi before the final farewell, so there'll still be stories.

If you watched the London Marathon coverage on Sunday you may have heard the commentators talk about Martin, who's leaving the BBC after steering our ship for many years.


This is he, keeping an eye on Micky as he directs the marathon coverage. Martin's a maverick, an amazing director and a fantastic line manager, in fact he's one of the very few people who knows how to manage me! Missing you already Webby.

"I'm going through fat balls like there's no tomorrow" complained Phil as we were driving in Manchester on Saturday night. Both being grey and middle aged, we were discussing his new bird feeder that had been hijacked by the squirrels. Apparently, they merrily shimmied up the pole, balanced on the birds' perch and helped themselves to the birds' food on a daily basis. "I wouldn't mind if they were hungry, but they're just squirrelling it away. Enough is enough."

I sympathised, since installing a bird feeder in my garden, I've had a whole array of new feathered friends visiting number 29, however, some of them have taken it a step further and have moved in, bed and breakfast bird style. I'm sure I have at least one nesting in the guttering or under the roof tiles. Give them an inch...



Anyway, the reason I was with PJ was because we were filming with Ollie and Georgie Battye on Sunday. Ollie's recovering from bone cancer and Georgie's running the London marathon for Ollie and Clic Sargent. We had a brilliant day with them.

It's been an interesting Easter weekend. Yesterday, I saw Jesus and Herod's men walking up the hill in Halstead. Apparently, it happens every year. Then on Good Friday I spent a day photographing butterflies. Not real ones of course, but they still proved too difficult for my little helpers to catch.


If you want to read more about the flutterbugs/butterflies, check out www.flutterbugs.co.uk.
Happy Easter!

I'm staying in one of my favourite hotels for a couple of days: The Prince in St Kilda, Melbourne. It's lovely, apart from the building work that's going on. The early morning banging noise aside, everything else is great, the colours, comfortable beds (I have 2 bedrooms) and the beautiful shower room complete with Aesop products. Plus, the internet is free. One of my biggest gripes about hotels is that they charge extra (£18 for 24 hours in Sydney) for the internet. Why? It should be included. Anyway. It's 28 degrees outside today, so I'm off for a wander along the beach before drawing up the running order for next weekend's MotoGP from Malaysia. Must dash. Laura

Did I tell you that I went to Rick Stein’s new restaurant in Australia last week?

You know, Rick Stein’s new restaurant that had only been open a week?

I didn’t?

How rude.

TC, Dave and Lesley organised it as a special treat for me on my first trip to Mollymook, a place as cute as it sounds. It’s a perfect seaside town, 3 hours south of Sydney. Apparently Rick thinks so too, which is why he’s bought a place there.



My first ever RS experience involved seared (melt in your mouth) tuna with guacamole, red snapper and Chinese greens and a part share in a passionfruit meringue. I don’t want to make you too jealous, so let’s just say it was an altogether very pleasant meal made even better by the company of my new friends.

Thanks Rick.

Sydney’s a big city.

So big in fact, that you’d think you could escape the local drunks.

This was not the case yesterday.

I made my long-awaited and much anticipated trip into the city, excited by the prospect of sitting by the harbour, watching the world go by while lapping up the sun’s warming rays. In reality, and stark contrast to Surfers Paradise, it was cold, windy and I needed two jumpers on to keep warm. I’m sure many of you will find that amusing, I didn’t.

The fact that it was probably the same temperature during spring in Sydney as it was in Essex in autumn did not deter me. I carried on round to the opera house, keen to get some photos. I found a sheltered spot and sat down to watch the busload of tourists decked out in bright red hats as they climbed the steps to the opera house, taking photos all the way. That’s when it happened. He sprung out of nowhere. The drunk. “Why are you sitting there?” “Where are you from?” Time to move before he sat down next to me.



About half an hour later, I was taking some photos, absorbed by f stops and shutter speeds and waiting for clouds to blow out of my shot, when I heard: “Why are you standing so close to that?” He’d found me again and proceeded to tell me that other people take photos from over there. Well, I’m taking one from here, I said and moved away again.

I followed the red hats as they wandered through to have their photos taken with the bridge in the background and then left the opera house. I mooched about in the Quay, watching the boats come and go, then headed for home.

There are hundreds of bus stops in Sydney.

So many in fact, that you’d think there’s no way on earth the drunk you’ve been dodging all day would turn up at the same one as you.

Think again.

There I was waiting for the 433 to Balmain, when I saw him. Walking towards me.

Noooooooo!

He proceeded to talk to me about the Storm washing away the Eels. He wasn’t talking about the weather, but referring to the Grand Final in which Melbourne (Storm) had beaten Paramatta (Eels). Not wanting to engage with my new stalker I turned my back and studied the timetable.

Thankfully, he jumped on the next bus and left me standing there, checking over my shoulder in case he’d got back off at the next stop and sneaked up on me again.

Imagine this: walking barefoot along the beach, the sun on your back as the waves come crashing in. The surfers are bobbing around, making the most of their ocean playground before going to work. It’s October and you have nothing on your mind but what to have for breakfast.

That was my reality this morning, strolling along the beach at Surfer’s Paradise. Add to that a sighting of whales playing about 200 metres offshore and you’ll appreciate that it was an amazing start to the day.

I’ve been on the Gold Coast for the weekend, in the role of official photographer for TC, Fox and Marto as they took part in the half-ironman triathlon (2km swim, 90km cycle and 21km run) under the Queensland sun.



It’s the first sporting event I’ve been to in a long time where I haven’t been working and I loved it. It was made even better by the fact that they all made it to the finish line in one piece and there were no unscheduled trips to the hospital.

Variety is the spice of life. Fact.
Last week, I found myself photographing the Olympic champion and world record holder over 100m and 200m, Usain Bolt. A cool guy, relaxed and friendly, he responded with a smile when I called from behind the camera: “work it baby, work it.” He was posing with Ronald (my friend and commentator) who, I’m sure, is one of the few people Bolt’s met who’s taller than himself.

Having completed the interviews with Phil Jones, Mr Bolt then posed proudly with a football scarf presented to him by PJ, giving me one of the best photo opportunities I could have hoped for (see the portrait gallery).

I also had the pleasure of meeting Haile Gebrselassie, one of the greatest distance runners of all time. I challenge you to find a smilier man. It’s been proven to me time and again that many people who are truly successful are gracious and genuine. Gebrselassie shook hands with every member of the crew before sitting down to smile his way through the interview with Phil. Having seen him run so many times from the back of the BBC truck it was a real privilege to meet the man himself.

Talking of privileges, I got to don a boiler suit and hard hat and ride a cherry picker on Monday. I was photographing the CPD Powerline crew busy at work replacing electricity cables. I even got to try out as a water diviner (pictured). I’m told the two rods should have swung towards each other and crossed over if water was in the vicinity. Mine didn’t move, but the pro’s did. I've chosen to believe that I wasn't having my leg pulled and am now working on being at one with my surroundings in time for day two of the photo shoot.

I’m back in Manchester now, for the paralympic world cup. Keep your eyes peeled for the Oscar Pistorius film that I shot in South Africa, going out during the coverage on Monday.

I tasted my first ever cappuccino yesterday. Not just any old cappuccino I’ll have you know, but one with spices and froth and made by Goran. He’s the man responsible for assembling our crack team in South Africa: Dusko, the former Yugoslavian sharp shooter, South African Tony who doesn’t like ties and the silent but deadly ‘M’, our driver.

We were gathered in Goran’s office to say our goodbyes. Whilst sipping cappuccino, and working on my froth moustache, my circle of friends with names ending in ‘o’ doubled with the introduction of Vesko. Suddenly, I felt like I was in a very bad soap opera for former Yugoslavian ex-pats. This last week, however, has been anything but a drama. It’s been hard work and exhausting, but relatively smooth considering.

When we left London half of the trip was organised, 8 days later we returned clutching hours of rushes waiting to be knocked into shape in the edit suite. We’ve had so many highlights during our sojourn in South Africa, most of which are detailed in the previous watts happening entries. To round it up simply, everybody we’ve met, has been fantastic.



As well as the people, there are everyday moments that stand out. In fact, I’m sure the following snapshots will continue to make me chuckle for years to come. You know the kind of thing, driving along an 8-lane highway and opening the sliding door of the van to film the city skyline rushing by. Unfortunately, the only the thing that went whizzing by was Dusko’s jacket, flying out the door faster than you can say “catch it!” Clearly, the obvious thing for Dusko to do was run up the inside lane (no hard shoulder) into the oncoming traffic to retrieve it. He sauntered back towards us as if he was on a Sunday stroll, jacket and phone intact. Of course, Africa being Africa, everyone just went round him, not one beep of the horn.

Then there’s the time the guys were filming and Matthew was home alone in the crew vehicle. He called me over: “Laura, Laura” in hushed tones. Busy thinking about the shot list, schedule or something, I was slow to respond. “Laura!”

I turned to see him pointing at the glove compartment. I couldn’t make out what was inside, so Matthew picked it up. Of course, it was a gun. I mean, keeping a couple of empty CD cases, a road map and some used tissues is so passé when you can have a pistol in your glove box. Ironic too, that our driver had a weapon to protect us when he clearly wanted to scare the life out of us on ‘Death Highway’ to and from Jo’burg. At least ‘M’ entertained himself, turning to laugh every time we flinched, shouted “slow down” or just adopted the brace position.

Our week in and around Johannesburg will live long in the memory. Places are what they are because of the people in them (and the sunrise), so for me, this has been a very positive experience. As for the future, we’re already planning our next project, all I can say is, watch out Afghanistan, we’re on our way!

We were up before the sun this morning. As we drove along the highway, passing a massive township in the west, the sun popped its head up and over the horizon in the east. I love sunrise. Especially when the colours are as amazing as they are here. At least it went some way to compensating for the lack of sleep.

So, why were we up so early I hear you cry? We had to get to Centurion Park to film the fans going to the South Africa v Australia one day cricket match. The gates opened at 8 so we had to be there before they all disappeared and we're staying 2 hours away.

We got what we needed from the South African fans and rewarded Matthew and Tony (our soundman) with a bucket of coffee, Dusko recharged with a double espresso in a large cup with hot milk on the side and a glass of water for the berocca, whilst I had an OJ and pot of tea with one bag, no milk please.



Refuelled and ready for action, we returned to the roads and headed for Soccer City. It's due to host the opening and closing matches of next year's football world cup. What's done looks amazing, but, as you can see, there's a little way to go yet before it's ready to welcome the world.

Beep.
Be beep.
Be be be beep.

Snooze.

What seems like one second later…

Beep.
Be beep.
Be be be “Alright, stop! I’ll get up,” beep.

It’s day 5 on our South African odyssey. First stop today, Johannesburg, to see Nick Kotch a British journo who’s made Africa his home.

I always take time to set up a shot. After 3 days it’s clear that Dusko shares the same attention to detail gene so getting everything to look right involves a fair bit of time and fiddling. This morning we ushered Nick outside with Matthew and proceeded to move all of the furniture round in his living room, using 3 lights and plumping numerous cushions to get the look we wanted.

45 minutes after we arrived, Matthew began the interview with Nick and was 2 questions in when, the dog of the house, a cheeky little Jack Russell, decided to take its place in the shot: jump, boing, stretch, she settled along the top of the sofa in the top right of the shot. Nick, her slave, was the only person who didn’t see her trying to claim her 15 minutes of fame.

We stopped the tape, the dog was locked outside and we conducted the interview without any further incidents. Nick proved not only to be a great contributor but a brilliant host too, and once we'd finished recording he made us a pot of proper coffee. Dusko, not to be outdone, went to the van and came back with a box of home made cookies. Ready to sit down and tuck in, my phone rang.

“Hi Laura it’s Philip here.”
“Hello Philip, how’re you?”
“Good. Michael Hussey (Australian cricketer) has a window at 1.30pm can you get here for that?”
“Yes we can. Thanks, see you soon.”

Pack up the van, jump in, drive across Johannesburg.

Arrive at the hotel, 4 of us have an opinion on where to park: over there on the left, no right, not that way, head for the exit, there’s a space. Park. Phew.

Unpack the kit. Into the hotel, up in the lift, set up in Philip’s bedroom.

Hotel rooms are generally horrible to film in. They’re too small, have a huge bed in them and dodgy artwork on the walls that you can’t avoid. We swapped the chairs round, moved the table and got rid of the lamp. The attention to detail gene was not happy. With 10 minutes to go before Mike Hussey arrived, we reset the shot completely, got him into position and were ready to roll at 1.30pm. Did I mention that the attention to detail gene has a perform under pressure partner?

For the record Mr H was incredibly nice.

Pack, thank you, goodbye, down in the lift, out to the car, pack, drive.

We filmed in and around the city in the afternoon, culminating in Matthew’s piece to camera on top of a hill overlooking the city. What you won’t see when the feature goes out on Inside Sport are the two guys lounging on the grass about 5 metres away from Matthew, smoking some very pungent herbal cigarettes.

Pack. "Thanks guys". Meet our taxi driver Eric. Home, eventually. Order breakfast boxes for the morning. Call people, email people. Set the alarm for 0530. Sleep.

Zzzzzz.



Beep.

Last night I was very excited about the breakfast on offer at the hotel. I’d already planned what I would have in what order. I’d start with the fruit kebab (melon, pineapple and strawberries on a skewer), followed by a small bowl of crunchy muesli and then maybe some beans on toast. It’s a bit different to the usual bowl of Kellogs at home, but we rarely get to eat properly throughout the day when we’re filming. So, it’s normal to stock up at the start and end of the day and grab a snack on the run during it.

It was the thought of that breakfast that helped me drag myself out of bed this morning, after very little sleep. The smell from the kitchen had already woken the crew and they’d followed their noses to the verandah, a bit like the bisto kid following the gravy. By the time I arrived at the dining room, the guys had finished their gourmet meal and my tastebuds were jumping up and down in anticipation of the fruity fruit. Just as I sat down and ordered a pot of tea with one teabag, my phone went.

“Hello Laura, it’s Jitendra from India!” Jitendra had been helping me fix an interview with Mr Big from the IPL (India Premier League) and he’s always very enthusiastic with his greeting.

“Hello Jitendra, how’re you?”

“OK. How soon can you get to Johannesburg?” (Where Mr Big was staying).

“We can leave now and be there as near to 10am as possible.” (We’re staying an hour and a half away.)

“OK. Come now and Mr Big will be here.”

This was great news. This is the reason I didn’t sleep last night. We had no definite day or time for the Mr Big interview and one of our four films is totally reliant on it. Finally we had it, after days of speaking to numerous helpful people, we’d landed the big one, but at what cost? I’ll tell you. I had time for the fruit kebab, but that's all, I missed out on everything else on offer.

On the plus side, we made it to Jo’burg, filmed in one of the most exclusive hotels I’ve ever been in (thank you Michael for accommodating us) and then headed over to hang out with Oscar ‘Bladerunner' Pistorius (more about our time with him later). It’s been a long but very productive day with a few ticks appearing on the shot list. Hmmm, I’ll definitely deserve a good breakfast in the morning.

There are some things you don’t really expect to do in your life, sitting chatting to the Afghanistan cricket team is probably one of them. Add Matthew to the mix (see South Africa, we’ve landed) and a Serbian cameraman named Dusko and you’ll understand that this South Africa trip is way out there in terms of new experiences.



The Afghanistan team is creating ripples in the cricket world as it makes steady progress towards the 2011 World cup. In the space of a year they’ve become contenders to qualify and, as well as that, a friendlier team you couldn’t hope to meet. What a joy they are to work with. We’ll be spending more time with the guys over the coming week, so I’ll keep you posted on their progress and you’ll be able to see the products of our labour, as shot by Dusko, on Inside Sport sometime soon.

As we disembarked the plane, crumpled and creased after 12 hours of flying south, I turned to my travel companion and said: “Well I can safely say that I never thought I’d be strolling through Johannesburg airport with Matthew Pinsent.” But I was and I did, all the way to the queue for passport control which stopped us in our tracks, for quite some time.

At least 4 other long haul flights had landed within minutes of us, causing consternation to all the new arrivals. It’s that age-old conundrum; you know the one. Whether you’re in a traffic jam, supermarket queue or standing in line with post-flight swollen ankles, clutching your passport, waiting to be granted entry into a country thousands of miles from home: which queue is going to clear quicker? And why, when people are arriving in their hundreds, don’t the authorities open up all of the desks? After all, they do at the supermarkets.

“Bing bong, would all available cashiers please return to their tills.”

“Bing bong, would all available customs officials please return to their booths and help the tired travellers on their way.”

“Bing Bong, no chance. I’m off on a break.”

What? No! Really? Is she really closing? With all of these people waiting and backed up to the escalator? We’ll all topple like dominoes if any more come down.

So, with only 3 counters open for our section of the queue, we anxiously watched as our people failed to move to the vacated counter quickly enough, therefore leaving an opening for the person at the front of the rival queue to jump in and take control of our escape route to the baggage hall. As the minutes passed our cries of: “go go go,” “keep your eyes on the prize” and “oh no, the space cadets have lost us our place” became livelier and louder. But we didn’t move any faster.

Needless to say, we made it through customs, experienced the usual joy that you get when you’re reunited with your suitcase and felt that extra tingle of excitement when we spotted the taxi driver. For the record, Matthew won the: spot the name board game as we emerged into arrivals.

Now we’re ensconced in our hotel, planning the week ahead, occasionally looking up from our makeshift office on the verandah. It’s sunny, mid 20s and a long way from London. Just how I like it!

It's 2 hours since CNN announced to the crowds gathered in Times Square that Barack Obama’s the new President of the United States of America. That was at 11pm, and the place erupted: Obama, Obama, Obamaobamaobama from the crowd and beep beep beep from the taxi drivers. It’s 1am now, and I can still hear people shouting out the name of the man who promises change and carries the hopes of not one nation, but many across the world.

Today was truly exciting. In fact, the whole week has been. This election has dominated conversations on the streets while I’ve been walking the length and breadth of Manhattan; and my interpretation of events over the handful of days that I’ve been here is that nothing but an Obama win would do: expectation and inevitability mixed with a dash of fear and ‘what if he doesn’t win’ thrown in.



The sheer numbers that came out to watch and witness the result speaks volumes. The cheers for Obama and boos when McCain won a state were pure pantomime, but it was no laughing matter, not until the final announcement anyway.

Never before have I been so absorbed or excited by a Presidential election, let’s hope the next 4 years live up to the hype.

I’ve been dancing around a Manhattan apartment to that classic 1975 hit tune ‘The Hustle’, celebrating the completion of my Calzaghe masterpiece for Inside Sport. There are times when I can’t believe my luck. Having suffered sleepless nights due to the painfully loud plumbing in my Midtown hotel, I’ve moved to the East side for a couple of nights.



This is the view from said apartment, which has been kindly provided by an out of town New Yorker. My week here has been brilliant due to the people I’ve met, from friends of friend to the staff at the post-production house, who have all made me welcome. Whilst the skyscrapers are great to look at, I would love to feel the warmth of the sun on my back more often than they allow. I think I’ll be heading up to Central Park for a wander tomorrow. Now, back to the dancing. Altogether now…Do the hustle!

Yesterday I shared my personal space with a 20-year-old Jewish guy and an older businessman who supplies vegetable hair colour to retailers worldwide. I had seat E on a Virgin flight to New York, the first time in years that I haven’t had a window seat when flying solo. In fact I can’t remember the last time that I was ‘in the middle’ (flying parlance for squashed in a space far too small for one human being let alone one and 2 halves because inevitably the people in the seats next to you will try and invade and steal valuable centimetres especially the men who always seem to sit with their legs wider than God intended but they do it on the train as well so it’s not a surprise.)

The 20 year old’s legs were way too long for the space provided by Mr Branson, so he tried to combat that by leaning them in my direction. At such times I followed the in-flight health instructions by moving my legs ferociously, bend and stretch, rotate ankles, extend leg out and whack, get over your own side. The businessman’s legs were less of a problem. It was his arms that I had to contend with. We had to jostle for position on the armrest, taking in turns to sit with our elbows pinned to our sides.

It wasn’t the best or worst flight in the world, but the queue for passport control was of gargantuan proportions. An hour. It took one hour to clear immigration. When I finally made it to the front of the queue, my friendly immigration officer told me he had a communications diploma and did a bit of work in telly before realising that it didn’t pay. I sympathised (oh how I sympathise) and went on my way smiling, with just the bag carousel craziness to contend with and a niggling doubt that my airport pick up may have given up on me.

The bags were there, jumbled and deserted on a stationary conveyor belt, which had long stopped moving having spurted out the final bag at least 30 minutes before the passengers made it to the baggage hall. It’s always such a joy to see one’s bag. Joy and relief that I won’t have to spend another day in already tired clothes. With one last hurdle remaining I wheeled my trusty pink and red suitcase to the arrivals hall with trepidation. Would my taxi be there? Out I strolled into a trickle of faces (previously a sea, I’m sure) scanning the signs. Laura Watts, does that say Watts? No. Can’t read that one, no, no, no, nearly at the door now, there it is! Laura Watts! That’s my lift to Manhattan. My eyes moved from the sign to the person holding it, he can only be described as one of the most curious looking people I have ever had the pleasure to meet. My driver. Round and well, round and kind of squashed looking. Welcome to New York!

The press conference at Inter Milan was mad, I have never experienced anything like it. We were kept waiting at the gates to the training ground until Mourinho was ready for us. We'd been warned that the room for the press conference was very small and that we had to get there early. We did, but had to queue up in the car park with the rest of the media interested in hearing Jose's words of wisdom ahead of the Champions League match. When we got through the gates, the crews that knew better were dumping their cars and running for a space. Off went Andy and Dennis, to get us our spot. Having bagged a spot, Andy turned his back and another cameraman was moving his tripod from the vantage point in the line of cameras.



Up on a podium, watching all these grown adults running round like headless chickens was Mr M, cool as cucumber, enjoying the scene in front of him. He's a man in control. He's just great. He speaks Italian fluently, and therefore, manages to put the media in its place in any language. Oh to be able to attend more of his press conferences, he's entertaining, enigmatic and egotistical. He's honest too and that's so refreshing.

Four weeks after returning from Beijing, I’m off again, this time, to Milan. My Mission is to film the charismatic football manager, Jose Mourinho, formerly of Chelsea, now in charge at Inter Milan. So far, the pursuit of Mr M has taken me to the world famous San Siro Stadium and resulted in a pleasant encounter with Patrick Vieira. Inter Milan train today ahead of their Champions League match, be warned Mr Mourinho: We’re on our way.