How to organise a piss-up in an airport, on a train, etc…

Sitting in the studio this afternoon, I used my university’s wireless internet service to log on to the website of the BBC, and watched the six o’clock bulletin from my nation’s public broadcaster. Top of the news this afternoon was the unfolding chaos at London Heathrow’s fifth airport terminal. More than a decade in the making, and costing in the region of £3.4 billion, Terminal Five opened this morning to an attentive pack of representatives of the world media. And within six hours, it had demonstrated what makes Britain so great: our complete inability to organise a piss-up in a brewery. Within minutes of the first plane’s arrival at the new terminal (the overnight 747 service from Hong Kong) it was apparent that something was wrong. The baggage handling systems and staff were hopelessly unprepared for the terminal’s first day of operations.

By the end of the day, and the first of the evening’s national television news broadcasts, Heathrow Terminal Five had become a national joke. Years of preparation and months of careful pre-opening publicity had been burnt to ashes by a single day of chaos. The big idea had been so appealing: while not actually increasing Heathrow’s capacity, it would finally group all British Airways services under one roof, and allow for the other terminals to be refurbished and rationalised.

Today started badly, when staff who were reporting for their first day of real duty, reportedly encountered just two open security channels at the staff entrance. The first queues of the day were not at check-in or baggage reclaim, but outside the staff entrance. Then as the day progressed, and as the first flights departed for various European destinations, it became apparent that the complex baggage handling system installed in the hidden levels of the new terminal was playing up. It could have been because of software, it could have been because of the staff getting used to a new system. Who knows. But on national and international news this evening, the world watched a clip of a helpless British Airways employee trying to send a suitcase on its merry way down a conveyor belt. Repeated button pressing did not produce the desired result, and the suitcase would not budge.

In an effort to build some ’slack’ into the system, British Airways cancelled some three or four dozen flights (mostly, it seems with perfect irony, to the enviously well organised nation of Germany). But it didn’t work. By the time a British Airways manager had hurriedly brought a statement out to the ravenous press at 18h25 (at least an hour too late, when you consider the importance of getting your side of the story to the press before the all important early evening news broadcasts) it had almost all gone to pot. Departing passengers couldn’t check in any baggage. They could mostly check-in and fly, but they couldn’t take any checked luggage, regardless of where they were flying. One television reporter interviewed a passenger en route to a wedding in Hong Kong. She would have to attend the wedding without her carefully chosen dress, and without the gifts for the happy couple.

The day’s events were top of the agenda in the pub this evening. Presented with an opportunity to demonstrate to the world how to build and operate a world class airport, Britain has come up with some very foul smelling egg on its face. Heathrow is the world’s most intensively used international airport, but it is also one of the world’s worst for the safe delivery and transferral of bags. Aware of their poor reputation at a bad airport, British Airways was delighted to present to the world a new terminal and a new promise: check-in to departure lounge in ten minutes.

How badly they have failed. And to think that not only have we another four airport terminals to refurbish at Heathrow, we also have to stage the Olympics in 2012.

Standing beside me at the bar this evening, a friendly architecture colleague asked me a poignant question.

“We made fun of the Greeks when they were getting ready for the last Olympics, but they did it in time. Four years to go, and have we even started building any of the Olympic park?”

“Well, I think they’ve demolished a few old factories, but…”

I gave up. I can’t defend my nation. We make some great beer, but we can’t even build an airport terminal that works. Especially one for more than ten people.

On a smaller scale of building works, I turned to look at the pub around me. After it’s ten month closure for refurbishment (the building had, according to some reliable ale-drinking sources, been on the verge of complete collapse) the Brown Bear pub on Norfolk Street in Sheffield has re-opened for business. The Brown Bear sits on the ground floor of a modest three storey, double fronted building on Norfolk Street. Local readers who are still not familiar with this hostelry might be able to place it if I describe it as being on the street between the Crucible Theatre and the naff new hotel by the Peace Gardens, just next to the Old Monk.

I was introduced to the Brown Bear a few years ago by a trusted friend schooled in the architect’s trade. The Brown Bear is the only pub in Sheffield’s city centre managed by the Samuel Smith Brewery. The brewery has a few other outlets in town, although I’ve never had the determination to visit them I have promised myself that I will before I leave the city. Even the most dedicated beer drinker might not have heard of Samuel Smith, but they will certainly have heard of his son. Samuel and John Smith were Tadcaster brewers who, at some point in their successful joint career, chose to part company and develop separate breweries in the same town. John Smith’s brewery passed hands a few times before finally ending up in the hands of Scottish & Newcastle, one of Britain’s largest alcohol producing conglomerates. Sam Smith’s, however, remained independent to the core, and now manage a network of pubs across the country, including a handful in the capital. That is my potted history of the two Smith breweries - forgive me if I’ve mangled it.

The Brown Bear imprinted itself on my social map of Sheffield very rapidly, namely because it was without a doubt the cheapest pub I had ever found in the city. A pint of bitter could be yours for just £1.31. Not £1.30 or £1.35, but £1.31. Handing over the precise change seemed to enforce the notion that every possible cost had been pared to the bone. With the exception of a few salted snacks, Samuel Smith pubs only stock Samuel Smith’s products. Every beer, every soda, every bottled product and every spirit on the optic rack is either produced (or imported) and distributed by the brewery. There are no generic branded lagers here, although if that’s your tipple you should try the superb Alpine Lager that is so popular it has its own summertime London pub crawl named after it.

Despite a lengthy refurbishment, and some notable improvements to the building (flagstones on the floor of the bar, new fixtures and fittings, etc.) the Brown Bear has returned to Sheffield’s night scene with a suitably modest bar menu. After quitting the studios this evening I was delighted to have a pint of the brewery’s finest ale in my hands for just £1.39. It was so smooth and creamy, and the good company was so obliging, that I had to have another. Both rooms of the little pub – which is served by a double fronted bar – were packed. Looking around me I was delighted to rediscover the old crowd that had made this pub such a delightful haunt before the refurbishment. Located so close to the city’s magnificent trio of theatres, there was a perceptible group of people who were dressed as if on their way to an evening’s performance. Meanwhile in certain corners of the bar were a distinct group of older drinkers, the regulars who appeared to have returned en masse, celebrating the exceptionally cheap beer and warm fireside company. Back in great numbers, as well, were the students. Just a stone’s throw from Sheffield Hallam University, and directly on my route from Sheffield University to the railway station, it was no surprise to discover that the Brown Bear’s re-opening had not gone unnoticed.

Although it would have pleased me greatly, I couldn’t stay in the Brown Bear for long. A tight window between leaving the university and getting to the railway station had been calculated, and I had to be on my way to catch the last train of the day for London (currently the 20h39 departure, for those of you who get distracted by the city’s charming hostelries). It’s a five minute walk to the station, and I was safely there in time to collect tickets, buy supplies for the journey and find my platform.

The last train of the day from Sheffield to London is a typical post-privatisation service. A miniaturised four carriage rake of self-propelled diesel railcars, with one coach for first class and three for ’standard’ class. I, like many others on board, had secured a deeply discounted seat long in advance, paying less than £5 for the two-and-a-half hour journey to the capital (others had paid less than me). On board, with writing to complete and a newspaper to consume, I visited the compact on-board buffet. The recently elected franchisee of this train service (East Midlands Trains) originally proposed to rip out the buffet counters from these trains and replace them with roving trolley services, but apparently underestimated the amount of work involved and the number of complaints that this plan aroused from passengers. I chatted to the buffet’s lone member of staff, who remarked that the management was wisely “having second thoughts” about their plans for these trains.

“If you had to sell from a trolley you’d spend half your time battling through luggage at that end of the train…” she said, with a wave of her arm towards coach A, ‘the designated quiet coach’.

It being the last train of the day, all sandwiches were half price and all Danish pastries were reduced to eighty pence. But in need only of refreshment for the journey, I bought a beer, and returned to my seat to work and eat the sandwich I’d brought with me from home. Since the buffet only stocked the most recognised brands of snacks and beverages, I sat down with a can of John Smith’s “Extra Smooth”.

As I popped open the can, and listened to the patented ‘widget’ bounce around the can to ensure a smoothly poured beer, I considered what the Smith family might have thought to this modern day tale. Two hundred and fifty years after the foundation of what is now Samuel Smith’s Brewery (the oldest in Yorkshire), Samuel and John Smith’s breweries had been the exclusive suppliers of my evening’s beverages. One’s brewery had remained true to its honest roots, supplying only a small network of locally managed small scale pubs. The other had entrusted his empire to a succession that finally sold out, and whose frankly forgettable produce was now procurable on cramped diesel railcars, shuttling between Yorkshire and London. As I tapped away at my laptop (plugged into an admittedly convenient passenger power outlet) I tried to imagine whether this would be the environment in which to savour a pint of Sam Smith’s traditional ale, or a can of his brother’s globally exported and famously recognised branded beer. I may not approve of the globalising tactics of modern day corporations, but at least their activities and products make me appreciate the real thing even more. I drank my can of John Smith’s contentedly, and looked forward to my return to Sheffield the following night. After a visit to our hectic, chaotic and overpriced capital, a few glasses of Samuel Smith’s exceptionally smooth and exceptionally well priced ale will be in order.

Snapshots: roadworks

For four days and for four nights I have been able to bask in a brief Easter vacation, away from Sheffield in the meteorologically diverse county of Norfolk. The earliest Easter that we’ve had for many years has also been the coldest in a long time, with sub-zero temperatures at night and indecisive bursts of hail, sleet, snow and rain throughout the long weekend.

On Monday morning I was woken by a deep rumble that shook the house. Half expecting it to be another earthquake that I would foolishly dismiss as “just the wind” I stumbled out of bed to explore.

It was, however, not an earthquake, but the vibrations caused by a road roller smoothing new layers of asphalt on the road outside the Brown family bungalow. A new school is being constructed in the village, and presumably to meet the planning and safety regulations our street has been widened to include a pavement for pedestrians. Pavements in the village always seem like a novel idea, considering how little traffic there is on these back lanes, but it must be a sign of the times.

We have our fingers crossed that the asphalt will be dry and set by two o’clock this afternoon, when I am due to leave for the railway station. If not, we shall be barricaded in, and I will be forced to spend another night here. Another night of home cooking. Another night in my own bed. How appalling that would be…

Globalisation: more virtual newsroom architecture

A few weeks ago I wrote about the relocation of the Canadian Global National newscast to a “virtual” studio in Ottawa. One interesting question being, what’s the point of moving your news anchor to the nation’s capital, when all that indicates that Kevin Newman is in Ottawa is a computer-controlled image of the Canadian Parliament behind him?

I’m very interested in the architecture of television news, because it crosses into all kinds of interesting fields of study to do with architecture and the projection of power, security and knowledge. It’s also one of the most readily accessible situations in which virtual architecture finds environment in which it is ready to demonstrate its potential.

The “virtual” treatment of the Ottawa studio has now been applied to the Global Television affiliate CKMI-TV in Montréal. Even when I lived in Montréal I didn’t watch CKMI much, mainly because TV didn’t play much part in my life, but also because the channel’s principal evening news bulletins were broadcast too early in the evening for me to watch. The concept of a 17h00, 17h30 or even 18h00 English language news bulletin in Montréal being to catch the captive audience of anglo housewives waiting for their partners to come home. From that any Montrealer or Montréalais(e) reader will know exactly what sort of political leaning Global Québec takes.

Here’s a shot of Global Québec anchor Jamie Orchard opening an edition of the evening news. See that bustling newsroom behind her? Yep. It’s a hive of activity down there at Global Québec. Or so you might imagine. The physical set isn’t the only thing that has been put out to pasture. A number of control-room and on-screen staff have been laid off as well, victims not only of a remotely controlled programme (the news studio is now controlled from Vancouver) but also of the cancellation of This Morning Live, CKMI’s breakfast programming. The creation of a virtual newsroom doesn’t just dispense with the need to have that buzzing newsroom behind the anchor, it also dispenses with the need to have people working in every regional news studio controlling the cameras and cue-ing up reports.

If there is one good point to note about the application of this virtual studio, it’s that so far the design has been better applied in Montréal than in Ottawa. This opening pan shot, looking down on the anchor and the desk (the only real things in the entire shot) works better than the acuter angle of the opening shot on Ottawa: the perspective is, at least, more believable. That said, I imagine there have been a few instances in which Jamie Orchard has or will be tempted out from behind her desk to stand in front of another hideously mis-proportioned long shot of the non-existent studio.

I can’t claim to be close to any informed sources in the Canadian media industry, but Global has no made no bones in announcing that Global Edmonton, Global Calgary and Global Toronto will be the next affiliates to welcome virtual newsrooms. And that means control-room staff there might do well to start refreshing their resumés.

Guilty cinematic pleasures

With the death of Arthur C. Clarke last week, a number of critics and reporters touched upon the film which with he is perhaps most famously remembered - 2001: A Space Odyssey, although as Philip Hensher writes in today’s Independent, that’s a shame since Clark’s only real input was to co-adapt the book for a screenplay. In fact, as Clark himself wrote in his companion to the film, The Lost Worlds of 2001, “the nearest approximation to the complicated truth” is that the screenplay should be credited to “Kubrick and Clarke” and the novel to “Clarke and Kubrick” (thanks to the many Wikipedia contributors helping me find that quote).

So it is, perhaps, insincere to remember Clarke with the film of 2001, when one considers how many other books he published during the course of his lifetime. Our fascination with the filmed adaptation of 2001 is perhaps as much because of our cultural obsession with the reclusive Stanley Kubrick, a director who produced so few films relative to his contemporaries and yet who has left film such a broad and meaningful legacy.

I must confess to being a fan of Kubrick, not just because of the films themselves, but also because of the convoluted and often eccentric processes that lead to their creation. I’m intrigued, fascinated and inspired by the creative life of this unusual director. I suspect I could be part of a generation that is as interest in the back story as the story itself. Wikipedia isn’t just interesting for discovering the facts about a film, but also the trivia behind the production.

I am not only a young Kubrick-ite, but also a naïve Tarkovsky-ite. It was a little under a year ago that I indulged in a Friday night of Andrei Tarkovsky at the Strasbourg Cinema Odysée, when a rare original print of Stalker (1979) was presented in a shabby basement screen. This week I’ve finally found the time to complete another installment in Tarkovsky’s career, the enigmatic and much-discussed Solaris (1972).

I’ve ownd the DVD of Solaris for years now, but simply hadn’t got round to watching it in its entirety. This time I didn’t have the luxury of a cinema screen, just a shabby little laptop, but with enough pillows and cushions and a dark enough room I could just about imagine that I wasn’t watching it in bed but in a darkened French cinema (perhaps the best place to enjoy Tarkovsky?).

I don’t have the quote to hand to corroborate it, but from reading Tarkovsky’s diaries and other material, I’m lead to believe that it was one of the director’s least favorite films. It is too late to console the deceased Tarkovsky, but Stanisław Lem, the author of the novel Solaris liked neither Tarkovsky’s effort nor Steven Soderbergh’s 2002 adaptation. The problem with both films (and perhaps even the book) is that it is an essentially humanist exploration of memory, love and loss set on a space station. Were it not set on a space station, it might not be mistaken for science fiction, but because of the space suits and setting Solaris is often dismissed or celebrated as a work of science fiction.

I feel guilty, therefore, for partly loving the film as a work of science fiction. Tarkovsky may have tried very hard to create a film that was not identified within one particular genre, but he is - as far as I know - the only Soviet Russian filmmaker who made something resembling a science fiction film behind the Iron Curtain. I could be proved wrong, and I would welcome recommendations for other USSR sci-fi flicks. I would just feel very guilty for not enjoying them as they were intended to be.

That said, I’m still on the look-out for a DVD copy of the utterly inexplicable 1981 Czech horror film Upír z Feratu - about a vampire rally car that drinks the blood of its drivers through a carnivorous accelerator pedal.

I have adored and devoured every film of Stanley Kubrick and Andrei Tarkovsky that I have seen, but sometimes not for the reasons that those directors might have wanted or expected. The information explosion that has been fueled by the contemporary user-edited generation of web portals and sources makes us all much more aware of the conditions and climate in which works of cinema, art or architecture were created. It may lead us to enjoy things for different reasons, but at least it introduces us to new works.

Never say never

Since he left sunny Northern Ireland for Nashville, Tennessee last year, the podcaster, blogger, photographer and general international-man-of-mystery Jett Loe has been re-adjusting to life in the U. S. of A. Amongst other things, he’s been getting used to American TV once more, and the delights of unreliable digital TV signals.

He’s not alone. Facecrash affects us all, even the eighty-two year old stalwart of Northern Ireland’s Democratic Unionist Party, the Reverend Ian Paisley, as seen here during an interview on BBC Television’s Andrew Marr Show.

The “big man” has announced his retirement, saying in this, his first televised interview, that he intends to take some time to write his life story. Probably just as well, because the pictures really don’t do him justice.