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.