It’s all very different for Eurosport’s regular neighbours inside the compound: the American NBC Sport team. Everyone knows the massive vehicles belong to them, not just because of the huge lettering on the sides of these behemoths but also because they have been corralled, in the style of a John Wayne western, into their own metal village.
Security often guide broadcasters sharing the same language on to pitches next to each other. I guess this is so that, should they have to shout: ‘Get your head down!’ in the English-speaking area, everyone would understand and act immediately. Except, that is, for Jens Voigt, who works for NBC; they’re rather fond of him and his motto: ‘Shut up legs!’ The Jensie would, after such an order, naturally drift into the pedantry of an accomplished German student of English: ‘Excuse me, but if you mean hide or get on the floor, would it not be better to say so precisely? I mean “Get your head down” can mean to have a sleep, can it not? This is just my suggestion.’ The Jensie speaks great English, which is why NBC employ him, but he can get rather literal.
The Americans, of course, take everything very seriously indeed. They don’t have their own security and, frankly, they don’t need it because they operate in a massive metal prison. It’s like their own sanitised village. It’s got everything in there. The French admire this: ‘Their coffee machines are permanent. Wow!’ They also have showers, wardrobe, make-up, lounges, catering, production and edit suites. All highly ordered and out of bounds. You can often catch a glimpse of legendary commentator Phil Liggett in the sunshine on the top floor of one of their three-storey pantechnicons having a fruit smoothie before make-up. Paul Sherwen, his former colleague and one-time pro, used to toss down peanut M&Ms as if feeding chimps. ‘There you go, peasants!’ he’d shout down, followed by his trademark yak-yak-yak guffaw. And we were grateful; just one more reason why he’ll be so missed. Paul provided a glorious dose of irreverence in a world of egos. No matter what your rank, you were treated the same. Everyone was a target for his mischief but universally took no offence. The only other contact between NBC and Eurosport France comes in the form of complaints about drifting cigarette smoke. This is a regular thing. The way the Americans engage electric fans and shutters against a mere whiff of Eurosport’s tobacco smoke, you’d think it was a gas attack. I’ve never seen men in pressed chinos and polo shirts get so agitated.
Bomb Squad
Meanwhile, as Kelly reads L’Équipe amid the mayhem of Eurosport International, I am at the finish line installing myself for the day ahead. I have passed the final checkpoint, which is a visual once-over made by the bearded and well-hewn chief engineer, Matthieu. I can now go about my business – except, of course, in the eventuality of une operation exceptionelle being declared. In other words: dogs!
Bomb dogs have great fun. Their life is a game of hide-and-seek. They are the jolly end of the police dog division. Their unit naturally includes guard dogs and attack dogs, usually in the shape of Dobermanns or German shepherds. Bomb dogs, on the other hand, are almost exclusively spaniels. They don’t look very policey. They also smell very doggy in a glandular sort of way, and, due to the fact that they know there is a treat coming very soon, they get very excited. And when they get excited it gets even more pheromonal. You see, even if they do not find a rogue device they will get a biscuit. They love their job. I always wonder if these reward biscuits smell like Semtex. It would make sense. Anyway, as the game goes on, the spaniel is encouraged to go just about everywhere. The sniffing-out job is given to this particular breed because it has an enormous capacity to smell. Its nasal passages are cavernous. Sadly, such a sniffing void has a good deal of snot up there too. Scent glands need moisture to work properly, and sometimes this is shared with everyone who happens to be in the proximity of a series of blowouts that balance the sniffing. It’s rank. Of course, all this can be going on while we are on air. Bomb dogs’ operations are random.
Keeping tabs on a race can be something of a challenge at the best of times, but a panting dog with both his front and back end happy glands in meltdown can be a distraction. Add to the mix the presence of commentator staples like sandwiches and bars of chocolate, and you have trouble. Sean Kelly has lost the occasional sandwich mixte to these hounds while our German colleagues in the booth opposite once looked through the partition glass holding a newly shortened knackwurst and displaying a forlorn expression that asked ‘Was ist das?’ Worst of all, though, is the fact that a happy dog in hunting mode can get very waggy. You can bet that during a commentary if you hear the conversation go something like: ‘. . . and hEEEre we go jUUUst approaching the tUUUUUUrn for the col . . .’, you can be sure there is a sniffer dog’s tail doing battle with a broadcaster’s testicles.
‘For those of you listening
