News Where You Are

4

Corny jokes had been one of the trademarks of Frank’s predecessor, Phil Smethway. Each programme would contain at least one baffling pun or tortuous play on words. Smethway got away with it somehow — he’d look rueful and his co-presenters would groan and it was a nice bit of shtick. Phil had had some kind of televisual gold dust — viewers loved him; there had been something in his DNA that seemed to make him affable to everyone. He’d long ago moved on from regional to national television and from news to entertainment. He had been hosting a primetime blockbuster show every Saturday night when he was killed in a hit and run accident six months previously. Frank missed him. He had lost a friend and a mentor.

Frank often thought back to the days they worked together, with Frank as reporter and Phil as presenter. Every day around the same time Phil received a phone call from someone called Cyril. Phil never mentioned the calls, and always conducted them in a low voice. Frank asked him about it once.

‘Who’s Cyril?’

Phil tapped the side of his nose.

‘It’s very mysterious. Are you having an affair?’

‘With a bloke?’

‘You wouldn’t be the first married man to do that.’

‘With a bloke called Cyril?’

Frank shrugged and Phil said nothing more about it.

Phil had made his move from Heart of England Reports in 1993 and the phone calls stopped. One morning a few months after he’d taken over from Phil as main anchor, Frank received a call at his desk from Lorraine at reception.

‘Hello, Frank, sorry to disturb you.’

‘Lorraine? Can you speak up a bit?’

‘Not really, love. Can you hear me?’

‘Just about. Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine. Listen. We’ve had a few phone calls for you over the last few weeks.’

‘Oh right. Sorry, I didn’t get the message.’

‘No, no — there wasn’t a message. It’s the same man that kept calling, but he never wanted to leave his name and number — always just said he’d call back — which was quite annoying, to be honest. But you know it was probably just a little power thing with him, maybe wanted to feel like he was in control.’

‘Maybe he just liked speaking to you, Lorraine. You know you have a very attractive telephone manner — particularly this new husky whisper — most affecting.’

‘Yeah — funny — well laugh away, because he’s here now, waiting to see you.’

Frank stopped eating the Frazzles he’d been enjoying.

‘I can tell him you’re busy if you like.’

‘But he’ll be back, won’t he?’

‘Oh yes, he’ll be back.’

‘I suppose I should get it over with, then.’

‘Might be for the best.’

‘Where would you place him on the scale?’

There was a pause. ‘It’s hard to say.’

‘Is he wearing a baseball cap?’

‘No — no hat at all.’

‘Okay — that’s not too bad. How many carrier bags?’

‘Er … none. He has a briefcase.’

‘Oh — a briefcase — that could be worse. What do you reckon’s in the briefcase?’

‘I don’t know.’ She hesitated. ‘Do you remember the one with all the coat hangers?’

Frank sighed. ‘I remember. Okay. I’m coming out.’

Lorraine was right. On first impressions the man was hard to place on any scale of eccentricity. He was maybe in his mid-sixties, wearing a leather blouson jacket and Reactolite glasses that had yet to react to the light. Frank walked over to him and held out his hand.

‘Hello there, I believe you’re here to see me.’

‘Oh, hello, Frank. Good of you to see me. I was a business associate of your predecessor Phil Smethway. Cyril’s the name. Cyril Wilks.’

Frank hid his surprise. ‘Hello, Cyril. Pleased to meet you. How can I help you?’

‘Well, as you know, Frank, Phil’s moved on to bigger and better things now. I always thought he would. No offence to you, but regional telly was too small for him.’

Frank agreed. ‘No, I understand. Phil has star quality — always had.’

‘He certainly does. Phil Smethway’s A-list now and of course he has a whole team of people surrounding him. I’ve had to face up to facts: he doesn’t really need me any more. I won’t lie, it hurts a little, but I understand.’

Cyril looked as if it hurt more than a little. He looked like a dog left locked in a car. ‘Phil and I go back a long way — back to the Jurassic era — or pirate radio as it was known in those days. Phil had his morning show and I was a glorified tea boy, but that’s how it started.’ Cyril stopped. ‘I’m sorry, Frank, I’m wittering. I’ll cut to the chase. The point is, I’m sure Phil told you all about the kind of service I provide and, well, not to beat about the bush, I was rather hoping you might pick up where he appears to have left off.’

Frank wasn’t sure how to handle this. He didn’t want to hurt Cyril’s feelings. ‘I’m afraid Phil was always very private about his business affairs.’

Cyril sighed. ‘I should have guessed it. Course he wouldn’t say anything. That’s the curse of our profession, always the dirty secret hidden in the corner. No one wants to confess to hiring us.’

Frank tried to suppress the alarming notion that Cyril was some kind of senior rent boy. ‘I’m afraid I still don’t understand. What was it that Phil hired you for?’

Cyril seemed to experience a small flush of pride as he answered: ‘Gags.’

Frank took a moment to let this sink in. ‘Gags? As in jokes? The kind of jokes he used to tell on air? He paid for those?’

‘Well, Frank, if you want quality, you have to pay.’

Frank’s mind was reeling. It was overstating it to even call them jokes. Half-puns and leaden one-liners. To have planned them in advance. To have paid for them.

Cyril appeared oblivious to Frank’s incredulity. ‘It was a very reasonable rate; he’d pay a pound for each joke, three if he used it. I’m willing to maintain those prices for you.’

Frank had to think fast. ‘Look, Cyril. Thanks for the offer, but it’s not really my thing. I can’t tell jokes; I’m terrible at it. They just die on me — turn to dust on my tongue.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Cyril, ‘no such thing as a bad comedian, just bad material!’

Frank resisted pointing out the obvious.

Cyril continued. ‘Name a great comedian. Go on, name one. I’ve written for them all. Name one British comedian of the last forty years and he’ll have hired me as a gagsmith.’

Frank thought for a moment. ‘Okay, Ronnie Barker.’

‘No, not Barker. Someone else. Go on. Name one.’

‘Tommy Cooper?’

‘Keep going.’

‘Eric Morecambe …?’

‘No. Try again. Name one.’

‘I’ve named three!’

‘Yes, but you managed to pick the three I never wrote for. Uncanny.’

‘Cyril, look, it doesn’t matter, the point is …’

‘Bryce Spackford — do you know him?’

‘Erm … no, sorry.’

‘What about Big Johnny Jason, “the lad with all the lines”?’

‘No.’

‘Paddy “Sure, I’m only having you on!” O’Malley?’

‘I don’t think so, sorry.’

‘Do you watch any comedy, Frank? These are big names. Look at this.’ Cyril started rooting in his briefcase, pulling out a blurred photograph of what appeared to be a TV screen. ‘Do you see that there?’

‘I can’t see anything; it’s just a blur.’

‘With respect, Frank, it’s not easy; the titles were flying past pretty fast. Here.’ He held the photo a foot in front of Frank’s face. ‘Now let your eyes unfocus, like a 3D picture. Do you see it yet?’

‘I don’t really know what I’m looking for.’

Cyril grinned and shook the photo for emphasis. ‘Those, Frank, are the credits for You Gotta Laugh 1988 Grampian TV. And that, my friend,’ said Cyril, pointing to a particular patch of pixels, ‘is my name.’

Frank looked at Cyril and then spoke slowly. ‘Cyril. It’s good of you to come in, but the truth of it is that I’m not going to buy any jokes from you. I don’t need a gag writer. I don’t want a gag writer. I’m not Phil Smethway. I’m a local news presenter, not Paddy O’ …’ His mind had gone blank.

‘Malley! Paddy “Sure I’m only having you —” ’

Frank cut him off. ‘I’m not him. So I’m afraid I’ll have to say no.’

Cyril stared at a point above Frank’s head, his lips pressed together tight and then his eyes started to leak. Frank looked over at Lorraine in panic, but she shook her head and ducked behind her monitor.

Frank found a handkerchief in his pocket and handed it to Cyril. He got him to sit down and tried to calm him. ‘Come on, Cyril. Come on now. It’s not that bad.’

Cyril continued to cry and it was some time before he could control his voice enough to speak.

‘I’m so sorry, Frank. I’ll go. What a ridiculous spectacle. I’m just … sorry.’

Frank put his hand on Cyril’s arm. ‘It’s okay. You don’t have to go. Get your breath back. It’s all right.’

Cyril tried to breathe deeply. ‘I’m so embarrassed. I don’t know what’s come over me.’ His voice went high again. ‘I don’t go around crying like this, you know. Please don’t let Phil know. I couldn’t bear for him to think of me like this.’

‘Just take it easy for a few minutes. It’ll pass.’

Cyril sat with his head down taking deep breaths. Frank went and got him a plastic cup of water. When he returned, Cyril seemed to have collected himself.

‘Are you feeling all right now?’

‘Yes, thanks. Again, I’m so sorry. I was just taken unawares.’

‘I wasn’t expecting you to take it so badly. I mean it’s only a few quid a week. It can’t be that big a blow.’

Cyril shook his head. ‘It’s not the money — I can get by on my pension. Phil and I went back a long way — he was all I had left. Since he’s moved on I’ve tried some of the old clients, but they’ve all got new writers or packed it in. Paddy O’Malley’s training to be a geography teacher. Can you believe that? Phil kept me going. I could meet with the other writers once a year and hold my head up knowing my material was still out there.’ He paused for a moment to take a long drink of water. Afterwards he looked into the empty plastic cup. ‘Writing jokes is what I do. What have I got aside from that?’

Frank grimaced. ‘I’m really sorry, Cyril, but I just don’t think I could say those things.’

Cyril sniffed and looked Frank in the eye. He sensed that Frank was softening. ‘Frank, look, if you’re not comfortable doing jokes, I’ll give you really subtle lines — those that aren’t looking won’t even notice them, but those that miss Phil’s gags will appreciate the odd little play on words, just a hint. Not every day, just once a week, on a little story, tucked away somewhere, just enough so that I can still say I write.’

Frank said nothing.

‘Please, Frank. I won’t make you look a fool.’

That had been fifteen years ago. Since then co-presenters had come and gone, the studio set had been transformed by various makeovers and just six months ago Phil Smethway had died, but the jokes remained. If anything, they were even more noticeable than when Phil used to drop them in as they were now only occasional and Frank appeared so ill at ease with them.

Shortly after he started inserting the occasional joke, Frank’s producer discovered through a friend of his son’s that Frank was developing a cult status amongst students in the city — the bad jokes were actually pulling in more viewers. Eventually a website was dedicated to him — www.unfunniestmanongodsearth.com — with clips of Frank delivering his more excruciating one-liners. One forum thread focused on his ‘anti-timing’ and some contributors thought that Frank must in fact be a comic genius to be able to misplace the beat so unfailingly in every gag. Frank went from a dull but credible newsreader to a bit of a joke in a matter of months and the increased viewers meant his bosses had no intention of letting him make the step back. He started being asked to do more public appearances, and he found it hard to say no. He’d managed to develop a persona that fitted him as poorly as the cheap suits he’d worn as a reporter, but neither the suits nor the persona ever really bothered Frank. He held on to the belief that people saw beyond the surface.