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“I’m Brian Derkin and this is TV-Three.”, I say it like I mean it. Hard hitting. I give a pause of about 5 seconds and then I say, “The world is ever changing. We’re here to tell you how.” Then, I release myself from the black leather seat. It’s time for lunch.

Later, the boys in after-effects will add in the ‘crisis’ montage and a big swirling TV-Three logo, there’ll also be these, like, revamped drum beats and a flash-through with images of Myself and my Newsreaders, and even the weather people will be in it as well.
The world is ever changing. That’s why we have to make harder hitting sequences and flashier intros. As your award winning media hub, it’s important not to be bested by rival networks.

Myself, my co-anchor Claire and Martin, the weather boy, are in the canteen at the newsreaders table. Claire and I are discussing a Wine and Cheese event we were both invited to for Celebrities supporting The African Children’s Right to Read Foundation.
Martin tries to get involved in our conversation, but I don’t speak Bray. Being polite, I pretend not to hear him rather than just outright telling him he’s not invited. His wandering attention span turns him to the table behind him, to talk to the Ireland AM crowd.

I smile to Claire and glance at my watch for presentational purposes. I look up, with poise, about to say something really funny, when Alan appears.
“Claire,” he says teasingly, “your recording earlier was just lovely. Well, everything after the ninth take.” Claire thinks it’s hysterical and beckons Alan to sit with us. Alan refused to do any recording for the new sequence. At the editorial meeting last Wednesday, he said “It’s plastic, theatrical and disheartening in its motives”.

Alan is fat. And smug. He’s just one of these… smug, fat people that just don’t seem to realise the world grimaces behind their back. Like, the man is almost obese. The ladies seem to like him, probably because of his status as a co-anchor or maybe because he makes them feel at ease. Fat people are non threatening to women.

Alan sits with us, giving us both a nod of salute. He is carrying a plate full of steamed vegetables. I gaze at his plate and  smile. Like, who is he kidding?
“Are those to lure an unsuspecting animal?” I quip. I look at Claire then back to Alan, but it seems nobody heard me, so I’m sitting up in my chair and, pulling my head back I begin to repeat it.

Suddenly, there’s a shout from beside us. It’s Martin. He’s shoutting  ‘Zidane, Zidane’ to Aidan over at the Ireland AM table, he’s flapping his arms around and nods his head about the place. He starts laughing. Aidan is smiling but doesn’t seem to find it as funny. I feel stunned by the interuption. Trying to recover, I look back to my co-anchor, Claire but now She’s totally mollycoddling the pie victim. “Ah now Alan, we can’t have it every way”. She performs that smile of hers, the one that makes her look so intelligent. “The price we pay.”, he says back.

He smiles, and there’s a layer of sweat on his forehead, I suddenly feel nauseous at the thought of the buttery flaps of flesh hidden beneath his suit. They’re both totally immersed in their chat. Talking about dramatisation. I’m fully aware I am not in this conversation.

I try for attention but I can’t get a good chance to interupt. Instead I decide to act like I’m listening. I furrow my brow and tilt my head to an attentive-looking angle. They don’t notice.
I ‘mm’, twice. Nothing.
I lean forward a little, legs folded. They carry on between themselves without a flicker of recognition.

Alan is saying, “ terrorists, as they’re being referrred to? And we feel propaganda isn’t alive and kicking in the West.” He looks like putty when he’s trying to be poignant.
I hear another laugh from Martin. My head spins and a dry hard lump builds in my throat. My eyes burn. I feel a sudden urge to leave the table. I excuse myself and rush to the bathroom.

I fall through the door of a cubical.
Bracing myself against the snot covered, chipboard walls, I vomit through a blur of tears.

I should have worn my navy tie.

An introduction.

I’m Brian Derkin, you know me as Irelands TV news anchor man.

Right now, I’m reading the prompter. I know I’m in peak form. I sound intelligent and well spoken. My lips purse the words with fluid timbre. As an anchorman, everything about my image is extremely important. It’s my job really.

My mouth flows with the words on the screen, , though I’m not really paying attention to what I say. I have to ensure my eyebrows are furrowing and rising in pleasant intervals, and this takes up my attention.

I’m a good newsreader. Actually, people always tell me how good I look and how well I dress. There is a break as the camera cuts out and right now some recorded footage is being played, a follow up to the Russian school thing? Whatever.

The prompter is telling me to stop talking, that it’s time for recession. It’s time for the camera to pan back out so that, for a brief moment, I’m no longer the centre of focus. The camera pans out to include both me and my co-anchor, Claire, so the viewer can see us chat. At this point I have to put my hand on the table top and turn my upper body casually towards my co-anchor, Claire.

 

My co-anchor, Claire, turns to face me also, as the lights fade down. “Brian, you’re looking well today”, she says. I smile and thank her.

My co-anchor, Claire is a dote. We’ve met up once or twice after work for a coffee and a chat; she’s a very interesting person. A great listener.

I compliment her outfit and her hair.

The camera is still rolling, so even though our microphones are switched off, we must appear like we’re volleying lithe political banter or something.

“Thanks Brian, but I think we both know who to thank for the hair”. She smiles and gracefully leans toward me to touch her hand to my forearm. She looks very intelligent.

 

My co-anchor, Claire, is on about Carl in set design, he was able to get rid of the last make-up girl and it’s really made an improvement, Claire is even more stunning now.

The turning point for Claire really was last Thursday’s 6 o clock. For the 6 o clock, she has to turn her upper body casually to the right, towards Martin who does weather. But when she did so I noticed there was like, a line of orange tan around by her ears.

That girl in makeup had not only blotched the tan, but she had actually missed a spot by Claire’s ear as well. I was actually mortified for my co-anchor, Claire, I really was.

 

I decided to take action and said it to her while the camera was on Martin and that blank blue screen. I told her to watch it, in case she revealed the blemish to the camera again at recession.

She was acting very casual about it but I knew she was absolutely fuming, the poor thing, so I made a very funny joke to calm her down a bit, it was a word-play, something to do with the Russian Massacre and rushed mascara. It was hilarious at the time but my co-anchor, Claire, was able to contain herself very well, as usual. Anyway, that was Thursday.

 

So, we headed over to the canteen and sat at the anchors table. Today one of the editors, Jane, was there. I hate when an editor sits in with us. They’re supposed to be there to discuss the current affairs and all that shit, but it’s so annoying. Like, you can’t even enjoy your meal. My job isn’t to write the news. I don’t need to know what’s happening really. Being honest I don’t want to know what’s happening outside Dun Laoghaire, never mind some Eastern European backwater.

 

The others at the table smile at me politely. I know I’m like, their hero really. You have to have balls really in the television business. You have to gain the respect you deserve, you know? So anyway, they’re digging in to this stuff about who cares what, Oil and Violence and the usual slog of politics, you know.

I got the Chicken Kiev with lemon garlic brochette and broccoli, but the base of the broccoli is resisting the cut of my knife. I like my broccoli when it’s got a bit of crunch, you know. But this is just too much crunch, really…

Everyone is looking at me. I think I must have sighed out loud or something. They’re waiting for me to say something.

 

I sit forward, and looking to Jane, I begin about the hypocrisy of unbiased reporting, I’m actually totally ripping the spiel off James Alexander, a writer for Fury fashion Magazine, but I know nobody at this table would know that, so I even include all the quips he makes and the French bits as well.

I finish James’ rant and look around the table for a reaction. Everyone is glazy eyed, marinating in my remarks. Jane, the editor, looks like she’s been slapped in the face with a trout. I slide the broccoli to the side of my plate with my knife and start on the kiev.