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I’ve never shied away from the big jobs.

In the course of my long and storied career in national radio I’ve been at the helm for Champions League Finals, one World Cup Final, produced the breaking news of the Michael Jackson trial, covered the live broadcast of the funeral of a famous footballer, improvised two and a half hours of coverage of the Glasgow airport bombings and sat up all night on the evening of July 7th 2005 preventing callers from coming on the air and sparking jihad. Yet none of these jobs comes even close to the significance and sheer scale of the mission I was charged with last night. It was all thanks to these two CDs:

The return of Russell Brand to national radio had been a project many months in the making. Even when the tabloid press broke the news that a collaborative radio show between him and Noel Gallagher was in the pipeline (itself something of a first – when was the last time additions to the talkSPORT schedule were front page news?) we were assured internally that nothing was a done deal and that negotiations were still far from finished.

Then suddenly they were, and that was when things went a bit mental. Search twitter for talkSPORT normally and you get about three hits a day, either from people randomly telling you what they are listening to or from guests plugging their upcoming appearances. Suddenly it seemed as if everyone was talking about us and in particular talking about the two hour show set to be broadcast on Sunday evening. Most of them appeared to be from rather emotionally disturbed women firing messages dressed in baby talk at their idol which made me wonder just what they were expecting the broadcast to be, given that it had been billed as a show all about football. Still, an willing audience is a godsend, however literate it may be.

Turning up for work on the Saturday morning I was more than a little nervous about what to expect. Would the streets be thronged with newsmen and adoring fans in turn, eagerly awaiting a glimpse of their heroes? At 10am there was nothing more than a single freelance photographer who was almost grateful to be advised that nothing worth photographing would be present until at least 5pm. He scurried off to spend the day sipping coffee.

The arrival of the two legends in the building later that evening was planned like a military operation. The master studio was cleared, plants were arranged, signs were polished and food platters were laid on. We had been warned that a swarm of media outlets would be descending on the building, with film crews from TV news channels likely, ahead of the camera crew who were filming Russell Brand everywhere he went for a forthcoming film project. Those of us who normally populated the office on a Saturday were a little nervous about the amount of disruption heading our way, but in the end it seemed that it was all confined to the main hospitality area. Instead we meekly peered through the glass as the startlingly slight Noel Gallagher and the wispy meandering form of Russell Brand (wearing a white top last seen on my mother circa 1978 it appeared) materialised in the office and were escorted through to the studio accompanied by various hangers-on.

The exact content of the show at that time was known only to the production team buried away in the studio (behind a rather stern looking notice that said “DO NOT ENTER”). Our only clue that something interesting would take place was the appearance on the switchboard of an outgoing call labelled “Jonathan Ross”. It appeared the rumours were true.

I left the building at 8pm on Saturday night still not knowing quite what to expect. Across the road a handful of photographers lingered on awaiting the exit of the superstars, whilst just to their side stood the Russell Brand fanclub. Or at least those who worked out where he would be and at what time. I’m not sure what I was expecting really, but I’m sure my imagination would never have conjured up the gaggle of about eight rather dumpy teenagers who were gathered on the steps with cameras and autograph books. Hollywood it certainly wasn’t.

All I then had to do was await the final edit. Post production of the show apparently went on until four in the morning with everyone from the managing director of the company downwards being presented with a copy to listen back to and contribute further thoughts. Throughout the following day I was updated regularly with reports of further edits and references that nervous managers felt should not be broadcast. Was this level of scrutiny warranted? Yes, most probably. Given the hysteria that had been generated by the last notorious radio broadcast by Russell Brand, it was wise to assume that there were vultures circling, people with nothing better to do than complain and tabloid newspapers with space to fill and who would eagerly jump down the throat of any off-colour remark made by either man. The more focused the show was on entertainment rather than controversy the better.

That is when it hit me. What I was about to do was possibly one of the most important jobs I had ever been charged with. News of the show (and the antics we now knew it contained) had been distributed across the world. An audience of thousands would be tuning in, many for the very first time to our radio station and all about to hear just what it is that we do. Under no circumstances would this be allowed to go wrong. Hence I arrived at work an hour before the show was due for broadcast and carefully made sure each copy of the CD would play and that there were other duplicate sources on other playout systems ready to be called into action if required.

The possibility had occurred to us that people might still converge on the building in anticipation of the show being live. As a result I walked up the road with even more nerves jangling, wondering just what I would be confronted with. In the event it was nothing more than three bearded men in casual clothing. One presumes they were more Gallagher fans than Brand groupies but you can never really be sure. I smiled at them as I walked up the steps and left it to the chief engineer to break the news that the show was on tape and that no international celebrities could be glimpsed that evening.

Finally the moment had arrived. A thousand home tapers pressed their record buttons, hundreds of Sky Plus and PVR units whirred into life and the online streaming services nearly groaned under the strain as Brand and Gallagher appeared on the radio.

Once the nervy moment of “would the CD fire” was over, there wasn’t actually much else to do other than sit and wait for the commercial breaks. Instead I contented myself with answering the telephone calls that trickled in. There were those who wanted to talk to the presenters (and who gently had to be told that it was all recorded), the drunken women who wanted to tell Russell they loved him (a fair few of those) and needless to say the complainers. I’ve never really got my head around the mentality of people who ring up and say they don’t like a radio show or what they are hearing. There is after all and easy way to fix that particular problem. Of particular amusement were the people who were clearly determined to moan no matter what, calling up after just ten minutes to berate us for broadcasting what one lady called “the most gratuitously offensive piece of disgraceful programming it has ever been my misfortune to hear”. When I asked if there was anything else I could assist with I was half expecting to be asked the answer to 18 Down on that days M
ail On Sunday crossword.

Part of me was tempted to do something unique at one junction in the show. Lots of people would be recording it and those recordings would almost certainly go into circulation on torrent sites within hours (one enterprising soul has even put the whole thing up as a series of YouTube videos I’m told). Wouldn’t it have been fun to play something in the wrong place, or fade a part too early, just so I could listen back to the recordings and say “that was me – that was my part in the event”. Sometimes my life just isn’t empty enough.

So was it worth all the effort, all the headaches in planning, the disruption to the office and the unrelenting pressure upon us all to get it absolutely right? I’d have to say it was.

The whole point of the exercise was hammered home by a comment Russell Brand made at the very start of the show. Referring back to the incident that caused him to leave his old job at the end of last year he remarked: “I created an EVENT. Remember those Noel, you used to do them all the time in the nineties”.

Television is very good at creating events. Staging programmes that attract attention, become appointment to view affairs and provoking comment afterwards. For the last fifty years radio has almost been the silent partner in all of this, generating hour upon hour of programming but without ever being subject to the same popular or critical attention as its bigger media brother. Here for a change was something different, a proper radio EVENT. One which was on the front pages of the newspapers due to what it represented, one which had news crews lining up outside for the chance to see it happen and one which had a huge audience across the world all converging onto our radio station just to hear what these two men had to say for two hours. When I pressed the button last night to play out the show, I wasn’t just preventing dead air. I was playing my own part in a broadcast that just for a change was wallpaper, wasn’t part of the background or part of the daily chatter of peoples lives. It was something people had gone out of their way to hear, something that they would all have an opinion on later and something they would come back to again and again. It was the simplest of jobs, but far, far bigger than any of the other events I’d been a part of in the past.

Some people in the office wondered just why we were bending over backwards to persuade two busy stars to make a radio programme for us given that we weren’t exactly short of ways to fill the schedule. At that moment I understood perfectly well why we were doing it and still have to marvel at the brilliance.

So was it worth it? Well if you missed the show, you can still get hold of a copy. Just click below for the exclusive and official podcast of Brand and Gallagher on talkSPORT. If you ask nicely and for the right fee, I’ll even come round and press ‘play’ for you to add to the authenticity.

A shocking (or possibly not) revelation: I’ve never actually been on any kind of march or demonstration. This was despite my formative student years which were spent surrounded by agitated wannabe trots of all shapes and sizes who began the early 90s staging sit-ins of the university offices over campus rents (the Great Lancaster Occupation of 1991 which resulted in the Union paying for a nice new secure revolving door for said building as compensation) and ended it by arranging coach trips down to London for interested parties to wave placards over whatever government initiative had outraged them that week. I quickly twigged it was more about the social aspect of it all than anything else, with plenty of friends to be made along the way, but given that I had all the friends I wanted and none of them seemed to have anything to protest about, the whole scene passed me by.

Since then I’ve discovered that most of the things that get me agitated (banks treating potential customers with contempt, estate agents being full of shit and extortionate pricing of UK residence visas) are not particularly populist and unlikely to provoke mass agitation. Hence marches or sit-ins are kind of out the window.

This week however, I think I broke the habit of a lifetime. Well it seemed rude not to. As you may have read elsewhere, the marvellous decision was taken to hold the huge G20 summit involving most of the leaders of the free world (and China) in the glamorous surroundings of the Excel centre at the Royal Victoria Dock in London. Much was made by sniggering feature writers in the press about the notion of inviting important people like Barak Obama and Nicholas Sarkozy to a giant warehouse in the middle of nowhere, but this was to overlook the fact that as well as being (apparently) the middle of nowhere it was also where people like myself live. The management of the Excel centre don’t have the greatest track record in minimising the impact of their events on the local neighbourhood and have had to resort to sending every household free tickets to some of their biggest consumer occasions to minimise the complaints, but the G20 was a whole new level altogether.

The required level of security lockdown meant that there was almost no way to avoid impacting on the lives of those of us local to the event. Advance notifications of road closures and bridge closures went up, busses were diverted, entire segments of the Docklands Light Railway were rendered off-limits and those unfortunate enough to own flats within the security cordon (thankfully not including us) were incredulous at the instructions for them to carry photographic ID with them on the day to ensure they could come and go from their homes.

So with the G20 summit coinciding with my day off, and one of my colleagues informing me that he was being dispatched to report live on any protests that would result, it seemed appropriate to wander along and catch some of the atmosphere. From the moment I set foot outside the house it was clear this was no ordinary day in the neighbourhood. Earlier in the week a complete security sweep had taken place of the surrounding streets, with police looking inside just about everything that could conceal something untoward. Hence every manhole cover, every lamppost had a red SECURITY SEAL sticker on it, to indicate if anyone had been inside since the start of the week.

Plans for a pre-show cup of coffee were halted by the mysterious presence of locked gates at the Thames Barrier Park (“open every day from 7am, including Public Holidays” proclaim the signs). I wasn’t the only bemused soul walking up to the fence and peering over hopefully as there were no signs, no apologies and no warnings given as to the closure of the facilities. Even the nearby policemen were puzzled and told us that they had no idea the park would be shut. The only conclusion was that the management had panicked that they would be overrun by rioters and had closed for the day – a decision that made them look a bit stupid given that there was barely a soul around and the area would remain deserted for most of the day. If I ran the Thames Barrier Park, I’d be feeling a bit stupid right now.

Instead I proceeded up the road and at West Silvertown station ran into my colleague Mike who was in search of a) a coffee and b) a place to stand and watch. It was here that we had the first indication of not only an influx of visitors but also the wonderfully diverse nature of it. From the people wandering around with national flags and banners in every language it was clear that this wasn’t going to just be a gathering of the great white unwashed. One group that caught our eye were the ones carrying placards that read “END THIS REPRESSIVE REGIME”. We concluded they were British.

By the time we got down to the dockside, the party was in full swing, even at 10am. An area just in front of the main Excel estate had been set aside for people to congregate and shout. Positioned as it was at the start of the main driveway to the centre, it was a good half a mile from the actual doors to the building yet the police were clearly taking no chances. A parade of yellow jacketed officers (“pawns” as one bored chap cheerfuly confessed to me) lined the road leading down to the dockside. Lines of double barriers and padding indicated the point beyond which You Must Not Cross, and a further line of riot squad and mounted police stood idly by just beyond that just to reinforce the point.

Aside from that, the crowds were having a whale of a time. Remember what I said about it being a diverse occasion? It was almost as if every regional pressure group going had taken the opportunity to stand and make a noise in the presence of their own local leaders. Thus the usual hard left and not-in-my-name mob were joined by people protesting about corrupt politicians, political prisoners and freedom and rights for just about everyone who they believed did not have freedom and rights.

In truth it was hard not to get caught up in the euphoria of it all and I understood just why for many people it is an important part of their lifestyle. There was a buzz and an energy to the crowd and a spirit of enthusiasm which was quite intoxicating. Yes people were there to be angry and to protest, but the crucial point was that none of them were angry at each other. Instead it was several hundred souls all with the hopeful but ultimately misguided belief that they were there to change things for the better. Then it struck me than in actual fact I was probably something of a disgrace given that I wasn’t there to care about any of the issues involved, and more to the point was walking around struggling to find something I did want to care about.

Hence my more cynical side kicked in and the sheer ludicrousness of it all became apparent the more you looked around. The question of where the people on these marches get their professional looking banners and placards from was finally answered, thanks to a bloke wandering around with his arms full and dishing them out to anyone who l
ooked like they wanted something to hold. At any of these events, the notion that one might be already preaching to the converted seems to be wasted on the men with rucksacks who always turn up with freshly pressed copies of their left wing newspapers. Back at university, I always took great delight in saying rude things to sellers of Socialist Worker, but today contented myself with just telling one hopeful that whilst I was a worker I didn’t consider myself particularly socialist and asked if I could have 50% off as a result.

My search for an issue to care about drew me to one merry band requesting “Full Rights For All Immigrants” which would have saved me £2000 over the past five years had they had their way. Their banners suggested they were from the International Bolshevik Tendency which made me wonder just what a Tendency actually was. Were they saying that they had vague notions in that particular direction of belief but weren’t quite prepared to commit themselves yet? It seemed such a waste.

My colleague Mike suggested I ask them if their approach to the issue meant they weren’t more Menshevik than Bolshevik, particularly since there were only two of them. I decided this was going to get me punched and opted instead to ask him to pose for a cheesy “I’m going to broadcast on the radio in a moment” picture next to the satellite gear, which he cheerfully did.

We’ll gloss over the whole new level of wrongness created by the man walking around trying to sell copies of the Communist Manifesto (assuming of course he had a profit margin in there) and note that the one thing above all else that was likely to make tempers fray was the sheer amount of noise that was being created. If the noise from people banging on tubs and indeed empty bottles from water coolers (aren’t you supposed to recycle them?), the people walking around selling whistles for a pound a throw were only adding to the bedlam. “Yes, blow a whistle” I thought to myself, “that will change the world!”

On top of this were the people with megaphones, and it was here that the “everyone in together” nature of the demonstration hit its most serious flaw. Moving around the crowd there were about three different core groups, each with a cheerleader chanting slogans and exhorting their followers to do the same. Over and over again, for what must have been the best part of several hours. Camaraderie be damned, stuck next to one of those for any length of time I would have been on the verge of converting away from their cause. Leading the way at the very edge of the cordon were the Stop The War mob, and I fought my way through to get a glimpse of just who it was who was leading the charge for the endless “jobs not bombs” mantras being recited with glee by their followers. To tell you the truth I was quite disappointed. Wielding the megaphone was your generic spotty student, surrounded not by the people from all walks of life whom we are led to believe participates in these things, but groups of mates of a similar age who I’m sure all genuinely thought they were trying to change the world one step at a time but who almost certainly would gain a new perspective on things the moment they got their first Council Tax bill.

“Can they hear us in the Excel?” bellowed Tarquin in an attempt to raise the enthusiasm of the crowd. “No!” shouted my inner comedian, “they are half a mile away inside a soundproof conference room you fool”. That is the problem with initial euphoria. After a while it fades and reality sets in. Maybe I needed a whistle. Indeed the only people being distracted and influenced by the crowd were the poor souls in the apartments just inside the cordon, many of whom peered down from their balconies having clearly abandoned any hopes of a nice relaxing day. Or maybe they just didn’t have any photo ID to guarantee they could get back in if they popped to the shops.

Although more people drifted down as the morning wore on, the crowd still numbered no more than a few hundred, clearly a long way short of the vast masses the police presence was geared up to deal with. Indeed the most amusing thing was that there were probably as many journalists present as their were actual protestors, mingling with microphones and cameras poised and ready to talk to anyone who looked like they might have something to say. Even outlets you never knew existed were hovering around. If ever there was a time to learn that there was a BBC Brazil and they had a spare reporter and camera crew, I guess this was the time to do it.

This was where I learned possibly why people came in interesting looking costumes. It meant you got canvassed for your views by people looking for character. Why else would the sour faced girl in the pink suit and orange peace symbol earrings be having her point of view so intently scrutinised?

Nonetheless a line has to be drawn somewhere. Sadly I failed to get a picture of the chap dressed in a giant billboard containing what amounted to an extended essay on the problems that the G20 summiteers should be dealing with (a manifesto so large it extended to a supplementary board suspended above his head). “Can you tell us why you are here…” asked the bright eyed reporter from some student television service. “I’m an exchange student from Ohio, and I’m deeply concerned about the plight of the planet” he began in a monotone which had me rushing from the scene lest I spoiled the take with too great a hoot of laughter.

In the end I’d had enough. My protesting duck had been broken and it was nearly lunchtime. I still needed one souvenir shot of my presence at the event, so persuaded Mike to take a shot of me posing. I chose “the thinker” for satirical reasons that I’ve now forgotten.

Job done, I walked back up the hill and over the railway lines into town to grab some sustenance, pausing only to grab a snapshot of the roadblocks preventing people from even driving down the road alongside the estate.

It was while taking the picture that for the only time that day I incurred th
e wrath of a riot suited policeman who implored me not to linger on the bridge and “just keep moving sir”. For fear of spoiling the atmosphere I suppressed an urge to point out that as a local resident I generally pay my council tax for the privilege of being able to stand on the bridge when I want. In truth he was probably as bored as the five men who left the area at the same time as me, muttering that they were off to the Bank Of England again as there was more chance of some action.

Oh yes, and in case you were wondering the biggest issue of the day was indeed resolved to the satisfaction of all. My thanks to the staff of the local Costcutter on the dockside who were open that morning and happily served up an instant Cappucino. I don’t know how we and the police would have survived without it.