There was a time, not all that long ago, when local television news programmes seemed to consist largely of reporters standing in windswept locations interviewing people who looked faintly uncomfortable. The interviewee was invariably described as a “local expert”, a term that sounded rather grand until you realised it simply meant someone who had been unlucky enough to answer their telephone.
For several years, while working for the Regional Health Authority in the North East of England, I found myself cast in the role of television expert with surprising regularity. The subjects varied. Some were straightforward. Others were controversial enough to guarantee that somebody, somewhere, would be unhappy with whatever emerged from your mouth.
Naturally, we all received media training, for what that was worth
Media training, for those who have never experienced it, is a fascinating exercise in optimism. It assumes that a person can spend a day in a conference room learning techniques such as “bridging”, “message discipline”, and “staying on point”, and will subsequently emerge transformed into a polished broadcaster. The reality is rather different. Most participants leave feeling moderately reassured, only to discover at the first real interview that all useful knowledge instantly evaporates the moment a television camera points in their direction.
A television camera has a remarkable effect on otherwise competent adults. People who can confidently address conferences of several hundred delegates suddenly become incapable of remembering their own names. Entire careers built upon expertise and experience dissolve into a nervous fog. The human brain, detecting danger where none exists, simply packs up and goes home.
A trainwreck interview gets a miraculous reprieve
I vividly remember one interview conducted outside the Regional Health Authority offices. The issue under discussion was controversial enough to attract attention, and I had arrived determined to perform well. Unfortunately, determination proved no substitute for competence.
The interview was a disaster.
I stumbled over answers. I forgot key points. I drifted off course. The interviewer, sensing weakness in the way that sharks detect blood in the water, seemed increasingly delighted. Every question uncovered another opportunity for me to sound confused. I could almost hear the evening news bulletin taking shape.
Then something miraculous happened.
Just before the interview concluded, the cameraman interrupted.
“I’m afraid the battery has gone flat.”
Everything would have to be recorded again.
The transformation was extraordinary. Having already endured the experience once, I suddenly knew exactly what was coming. Every answer emerged smoothly. Every point landed neatly. My confidence returned. The interviewer, meanwhile, appeared increasingly disappointed. By the end, I could practically see his scoop evaporating before his eyes.
Officially, journalists are not trying to catch you out. That is certainly what we were always told during training. Yet the expression on his face suggested he had rather enjoyed my earlier collapse and was less enthusiastic about the improved performance.
Sadly, camera batteries do not fail nearly often enough.
Anticipating the ideological combat of a difficult interview
More typical was an assignment involving water fluoridation, a subject capable of transforming otherwise calm individuals into ideological warriors within seconds.
The telephone call arrived on a Friday evening, which is traditionally when awkward requests arrive. Would I be willing to travel to a reservoir in Northumberland for a Sunday television interview? A camera crew would be present. So would an anti-fluoridation campaigner.
I said yes, partly because it was my job and partly because saying no would merely postpone the anxiety until the next occasion.
Sleep that night was elusive.
There is something uniquely unsettling about knowing you are going to be publicly challenged by somebody who disagrees with you profoundly. It doesn’t matter how many facts you possess. It doesn’t matter how strong the evidence may be. Human beings are not designed to enjoy confrontation, especially when it is being filmed.
The journey took a couple of hours. I arrived absurdly early, armed with several Sunday newspapers intended to distract me. I sat in the car pretending to read them while actually absorbing almost nothing. Every so often I would look out across the water and rehearse imaginary conversations in my head.
Days of anxiety, research, and rehearsing vs two minutes of television
Eventually the television crew appeared.
The weather, naturally, was dreadful.
My opponent and I were positioned side by side at the water’s edge, standing far closer together than social convention would normally permit. Television cameras apparently require intimacy. Rain threatened. Wind whipped across the reservoir. At one point I found myself holding an umbrella over the very person with whom I was shortly expected to engage in public disagreement.
British politeness can survive almost anything.
Then the interview began.
Claims and counterclaims flew back and forth. The reporter did his best to provoke disagreement. Questions were framed to maximise tension. Every answer seemed to generate two more questions.
And then, quite suddenly, it was over.
After hours of preparation, days of anticipation, and a night of worry, the final television segment lasted perhaps two minutes.
Controversial issues are rarely simply settled with expert’s evidence
That is one of the strangest aspects of media work: the amount of anxiety generated bears almost no relationship to the final product. Entire weekends can be consumed by an interview that occupies less airtime than the weather forecast.
What makes controversial issues particularly challenging is that expertise alone is rarely enough. Scientists, dentists, doctors and public health specialists tend to assume that evidence will settle disputes. This is a charming belief and one that reality repeatedly disproves.
A typical scenario unfolds something like this. An expert arrives at a radio station carrying statistics, research papers and carefully prepared notes. Opposite sits a campaigner armed with conviction and internet printouts. The presenter opens proceedings by asking whether fluoride reduces tooth decay. Before the expert can answer, someone raises a rumour involving secret government plots, industrial waste, or occasionally the Nazis.
At that point, the discussion has left the station and is heading rapidly into open countryside.
The expert’s instinct is to provide a detailed explanation. Unfortunately, detailed explanations rarely survive contact with live broadcasting. While the expert is constructing a balanced, nuanced answer, the opposing guest has already produced three alarming soundbites and a memorable anecdote.
This is why media training exists.
Training can turn anxiety into confidence, even enjoyment
I have attended both excellent and dreadful training sessions. The good ones are remarkable to watch. Participants arrive looking nervous and uncertain. By the end of the day, they speak with clarity and confidence. They learn how to answer difficult questions without sounding evasive. They discover how to stay calm when challenged. Most importantly, they stop seeing interviews as ambushes and start viewing them as opportunities.
Something else happens too.
They begin to enjoy themselves.
This may sound unlikely, but there is genuine satisfaction in communicating complex ideas clearly. There is pleasure in correcting misinformation without becoming argumentative. There is even, occasionally, enjoyment in standing beside a windswept reservoir discussing public health policy while attempting to keep an umbrella under control.
And if all else fails, hope for a flat battery
Not everyone becomes a broadcasting natural. I certainly never did.
But over time I learned an important lesson. Most interviews are forgotten almost immediately. The audience moves on. The news cycle continues. The world does not stop turning because you stumbled over a sentence or missed a point.
The things we fear most about public speaking and media appearances rarely happen. And even when they do, flat batteries sometimes come to the rescue.
Though not often enough.
