Football Italia
by Charlie
Britten
Everyone’s
on strike at the BBC. Well, not quite...
because Lionel and Frank from Music are still
there, also Tony, one of the managers.
“I NEVER
strike,” says Lionel the producer, from over
his glasses, which he’s pushed down his nose
in order to read ‘The Gramophone’.
“They’ll
have to send us home,” adds Frank, the
gaffer, “seeing as we’re the only ones
here.”
“The BBC
MUST carry on,” retorts Tony.
“Yeah,
right.” Frank rolls his eyes.
“England’re
playing Italy tonight at Wembley,” Tony
continues. “Lionel, you’ll have to
cover MOTD. 10 o'clock."
“Italy?
Verdi... Puccini... Rossini...” Then
Lionel rams his glasses up his nose. “MOTD.
Match of the Day. I can't do that.”
“You can,
Lionel. You’re a professional. Gary
Lineker’s coming in, so there’ll be an
anchor man. You’ll just have to improvise
for a commentary.”
“No, no!”
cries Lionel to his boss’s retreating back. “This...
is... outrageous. I'm taking this to the
union.”
“Go for
it.” Tony swings round.
“They’re all marching around outside
with banners, protesting about redundancies.”
“I NEVER
strike,” Lionel repeats.
“Er...
redundancies?” says Frank. “Yes...
um... yes. We can do MOTD. Can't we,
Lionel?”
Tony lays his
hand on the gaffer’s shoulder. “I
knew I could rely on you.”
Lionel stares
ahead for several moments after Tony has left. He
hopes his expression appears suitably glazed. “Frank,
how could you?”
Frank holds up
his palms. “I'm as much as musician as you,
mate, but... well...”
“Well,
nothing.”
“Redundancies,
Lionel. Redundancies.” Frank leans
over his armchair. “Look, Gary’ll be in
the studio and outside broadcasts’re working,
so they’ll get it in the can. We just put it
together. Ooh... and find a commentator.”
His colleague
backs away from him, jutting his chin into his
neck. “Well, don't look at me.”
“Someone’ll
do it. You’ll have to make a few phone
calls.”
Lionel
attempts this, but, amongst football commentators,
the strike’s one hundred per cent solid. When
the operator is, unaccountably, unable to find
Kenneth Wolstenholme’s number, the two men
go to the canteen for lunch. This is
something they have done before.
“It’s
ridiculous,” says Lionel, as if he were
saying it for the first time. (He isn't.) “I'm
going to Tony.”
“We’ll
think of something. Have I ever let you down?”
As Lionel sits
down to his rubber sausages, he has to admit,
“No.”
“When
Katherine Jenkins accidentally pulled out Camera
One’s lead with her heel during Rule
Britannia?”
“No.”
“When
Spotlight Three was on Pavarotti’s crotch
when his flies were undone?”
“That was
a long time ago.”
“Trust me
then.”
“You’ve
got to understand, Frank, that this time last
week we were at the Albert Hall. Bach Choir. St
Matthew Passion. And you were fixing the English
subtitles for the German libretto.””
“Subtitles? Hmm.”
At ten o'clock
that evening, Lionel sits in the control room
surrounded by monitors. Several Gary
Linekers bear down upon him grinning but, when
play starts in silence, Lionel’s stomach
plummets down his legs and into his shoes. Until
he sees on the screen the words ‘Allegretto
ma non troppo.’ This, he understands.
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