Bodyguard (3 page)

We handed the footage to a runner to rush back to the Bureau. The show was to air in less than twenty-four hours. I loved it. Out by the skin of our teeth: another few seconds and we could have our kit ripped off and ended up beaten, arrested, or without a programme. I was made up that we had evacuated in time, but knackered too. I went to bed and passed out until eleven the next morning.

Just a few days before, the BBC journalist Gavin Hewitt and I had had a bust-up at breakfast. I had questioned whether we had made the right choice in coming here given that England were playing in Charleroi. I subsequently apologised. ‘Don’t worry, we’re on edge at the moment,’ Gavin replied.

We all knew that we didn’t have enough material. To top it all, Peter Horrocks, editor of
Panorama
, was flying in to town in the next twenty-four hours. I was confused by the mission, believing in the guys making the show but starting to develop the journalistic instinct that we had been in the wrong place. We had almost retreated.

I awoke proud, thinking this could finally be my big break with the BBC, but my work here was done. At the edit suite, I took it 
all in, starry-eyed at seeing what it took to put the show together, witnessing first-hand the panic as the clock ticked down, knowing that Gavin Hewitt would still have to dub in an almost live
voice-over
after the result that night.

England still had to play Romania: the show would follow immediately. I offered my services one more time, but the
production
manager told me to return to the hotel – they would call if they needed me. I hit the bar and watched the game.

There was nobody in except a solitary drunk American. Suddenly Horrocks turned up. I had never met him before but the timing couldn’t have been better. The Yank started taking pictures of us. ‘I know who you fucking are,’ he slurred.

There was no way he could. I asked him politely to stop taking the pictures, and then I told him the Craig way when he refused. ‘I’ve asked you once, now I’m telling you,’ I eyeballed him, flicking the film out of his camera before handing it back to him and calling Hotel Security. To this day, I still don’t know who he was or what he was after.

‘Thank you,’ Peter said. ‘You handled that well, and thanks for all you have done at the tournament.’

He had come straight from the edit suite and tensions were running high. I knew that he would remember that, and me, and he had definitely seen my work first-hand in the final edit on
Panorama
. It couldn’t have gone better. I was in, I had proved myself, and I could visualise the journey ahead, seeing out my time with the TA and starting straightaway with the Beeb. As I collected my air ticket home from the Brussels Bureau, I knew it was only a matter of time before the phone rang again.

It was now 9 October – officially the flattest day of my life. The week after the Euros I had rung Tom Giles repeatedly. There was no answer. I had done a cracking job, but again they weren’t taking my calls. I hadn’t expected this a second time.
Panorama
shows came and went as summer rolled into autumn; I would watch the weekly credits 
looking out for names I knew, like Tom’s, and still there was nothing. I would spot ‘Tom Giles’ on the screen, and think ‘I know him’ – but I didn’t, and every week put more distance between my new dream and my stark reality. I was getting into the role, but the role hadn’t been given to me.

This was the day I officially walked out of army headquarters for the last time.

I had entered the unknown. After years of the army being my life, I didn’t really know what to expect. I couldn’t do a thing myself, and I had no job. Together, Sue and I had money for about six months, but I was worried. I could be a security guard, or retrain, or anything, but essentially I was clueless. Nothing but uncertainty lay ahead.

I rang everyone I knew to tell them about KCM. Our company would do security work for the media. I called Chris Cobb-Smith; Tom Giles told me he would call if anything came up, and I hung on every phone call hoping it was him. I was no businessman and had no idea how to promote the company, and security was a dirty word. People thought I was a bouncer or someone stood outside,
marshalling
cars. I wanted surveillance and covert work. The bigger security groups were already established, and here we were trying to build a business based on the back of a fag packet.

We were clutching at straws, and going nowhere fast. I had the vision but not the know-how. And then, Tom Giles finally rang.

‘Oh fuck, it’s Tom.’ I froze as my old Nokia flashed up his name.

Back then, not everyone had a mobile, and I had two Toms in my phone. This one was Tom from
Panorama
. I have never answered a phone so carefully, so worried about cutting someone off.

‘Hi Craig, it’s Tom,’ he began. ‘Are you happy to go down to Wales and do some undercover filming on your own?’

I couldn’t believe it. ‘That was Tom from
Panorama
,’ I told Sue after he hung up.

I had no idea how much to charge or what the job was. I just felt 
privileged we had our first job and, best of all, the BBC were trusting me. It was all on me. My work at the Euros had got me moving.

In London, I learned it was more of the same – hooligans. I couldn’t wait. I would be mixing with my own. The show on the Euros was called
England’s Shame
and later won an award. Tom Anstiss, the producer, wanted more shame and more awards.

They were running a three-part series on hooligans in the UK, Italy, and Argentina. I was heading back to the land of Annis Abraham for more. In my head, I was on the plane to Lazio and River Plate to go undercover. In my bank account I was thinking ching-ching. This was it. Surely, this time, I was in, and it was going to happen.

I was told if it went wrong, it didn’t matter. They already had some footage. That sort of watered down my task and I felt a bit used – back to the role of bouncer in among the public schoolboys. I knew my editorial sense was slowly developing, though, and when they told me who I was after, I couldn’t get down the M4 quick enough.

My destination was a bar/nightclub called Apollo 2; my company was the Cardiff Soul Crew again. Cardiff City Chairman Sam Hammam was going to be the star of the show! Tom Anstiss met me in a service station outside Cardiff, and a man from Swansea known only as ‘The Bear’ came along as my cover story. He was the fixer who was going to look after me. This time, I was a massive Wimbledon fan, in awe of Sam Hammam, on leave in Cardiff buying property. Bear was a native, a loveable rogue who knew the bad lads in the city. It was simple and mostly accurate. I didn’t foresee any trouble.

I was excited at the thought of Sam the Man being there. What a coup that would be. I loved the idea that Annis Abraham would probably show too. I was also told to look out for two characters called Neil McNamara and Shane Weldon. As I left the car that night, I ran through a mental checklist. Was everything charged and on? Was The Bear going to look after me and play it cool given that I would be the only Englishman in the bar? Could we handle a 
seat-of-the-pants operation when I was trained as a soldier to recce the joint before any operation?

Inside, I was buzzing that Sam Hammam was coming – and so was the bar. A couple of fans challenged me and I bullshitted them with some Brecon Beacons bollocks but once they realised I wasn’t Man U or Chelsea or any threat to Cardiff City, it passed. I’m naturally suspicious and most people aren’t. They accepted me.

I became relaxed but not complacent. I was concentrating on the camera – and waiting for Sam. I wasn’t entirely sure he would show and I needed a cut-off point to get out before being compromised. Equally, I didn’t want to keep asking when he was going to turn up. My over-keenness could blow the whole thing. I didn’t want to lose my credibility with Tom by filming some other thug when I should have been filming Sam. I knew I was on trial – they had told me the footage wasn’t vital, but Jesus, I knew if I got Sam Hammam that was big drama. The battery was good for two to three hours.

The bar was boiling and smoky – this, too, was before the law changed. Then the stakes were raised. From a side entrance the little man appeared. I thought we would get a good shot but the place was hysterical, bouncing with his arrival. We were close but not close enough.

I retreated to the loo to check the gear, locking the door to make sure nobody could get in. I unzipped the bag and checked the camera, changing the battery because it had been running for some time. But I wasn’t alone in the bog. After waiting, I pulled the chain and walked straight past the other two guys in there. I realised on the way back that I was near where Sam had come in and figured that this was the best place to stand. Amazingly, he was
announcing
that he would lay on coaches for the next away game. Then, as I was attempting to run the tape for ‘atmos’, Annis Abraham came into the corridor.

‘Hello mate, how are you?’ Bear said to Annis. 

Bear and Annis knew each other? It was my lucky day. Then Bear introduced me.

Annis looked at me as if to say what the hell was I doing here. Thankfully Bear explained the cover story. I couldn’t believe I was actually chatting to him.

Then it got even better. Sam Hammam was coming my way and Bear and Annis introduced me to him!

But I wasn’t filming. I had turned the thing off. I knew this was the shot I wanted, so I took the risk of stepping back a few steps and hit the key fob to press record and play. Annis and Sam were in shot talking to each other.

Bear and I looked at each other. This was what we had come for. On the way out a couple of Annis’s cronies approached us to buy some Cardiff Soul Crew badges. I duly obliged to avoid
confrontation
. I didn’t care. I was desperate to see the film.

As soon as Tom saw us leave the pub, he set off back to the
service
station and we followed. That Sam Hammam turned up at all was brilliant, and leaving with a well-known hooligan surely condemned him. He hadn’t come to preach peace. He was the club owner and he had come out to a bar in the Valleys to meet with convicted hooligans.

I was just relieved that I had got the footage. Sent on a whim, I had delivered. I had been in that pub since 19.30, and by the time I rang Tom Giles to give him the good news it was gone half one in the morning. It had been a nightmare shoot getting so close but it had been worth it – we had a reasonable ten-to-twelve-second recording of Sam Hammam with good sound quality.

I drove home at speed, excited and reliving it all the way. I was home by three but the journey was a blur. I loved my role, mixing it with the scum yet providing the real deal for the BBC Oxbridge elite. I knew I was adding something they didn’t have and couldn’t ignore again for a third time. 

The next day, I rang Tom. And I rang him again. I needed that call. I left voicemail after voicemail and waited for him to call me back. I was now realising that this was the way things worked.

Around half two he finally called. Would I come up to the BBC for a chat? I was convinced I was hired. Finally.

The next day I met him. I couldn’t have been more deflated. I had debated whether to turn up smart or casual but it didn’t matter one iota. For goodness sake, I would have worked for free. The chat lasted just ten minutes and I got the usual. ‘If anything crops up, I’ll give you a call,’ he told me.

I was devastated. It was another smack in the stomach I didn’t need. I’d gone from hero to zero overnight, and this time I felt it was the end of the line. I rang Chris Cobb-Smith, who said that was the just the way it went – it would always be fits and starts. You were only as good as your next job, often forgotten about in the interim. I begged Tom to see if there were any vacancies in
Panorama
for people like me. He told me straight – they normally used APs (Assistant Producers) on six-month contracts. Ad-hoc was all it was ever going to be.

Chris told me that night in the BBC Club that I needed to look at other avenues like Amnesty International. My dreams temporarily on hold, I thought this was the way I would have to go. It might still be an in-road.

By Christmas, I’d had a good look at my life. Nothing was happening and I was worried that I was wasting my time. I was also eating heavily into my army money. Chris got me an invite to a security exhibition at the Charing Cross Hotel in London to meet some people and hand out some business cards. Again, nothing. The furthest I got was meeting Mal McGowan, whose company Pilgrims had just taken over the Hostile Environments Course at the BBC. Later, I would come to know it only too well, but for now, it was just another brick wall.

By February 2001, I was really depressed about the whole thing – getting used to civilian life also took its toll. Despite the money 
running out, I had made a long-standing promise to take my
daughters
on holiday to Los Angeles.

Just before we were due to pack, the phone rang out of the blue. It was Chris Cobb-Smith. ‘I want to go freelance,’ he began. ‘I don’t want to be tied to a particular job. Are you interested in taking over from me?’

It was the last thing I was expecting. Uncharacteristically, I stalled him and rang Sue. As desperate as I was for the gig, I didn’t want to seem too keen. I also called Mike and Kev, who backed me 100 per cent. They knew the business was going nowhere fast, and we had always had an understanding that if something permanent came up, I would have to take it.

This was it – finally, some nine months after holding Nicholas Witchell’s hand at the May Day riots, I could get a foot in the door. If I ballsed it up, this would surely be my last chance gone. I had never applied for anything in my life, let alone online. I’d just gone from one army posting to another and now here I was desperately trying to follow the application on the screen, with pages of notes all laid out around me at home. I had to give it everything.

My dial-up connection failed me. Back in those days, any online form was a race against time before the screen froze, and we lost this one more than once. Sue told me to leave it for the night and come back the next day, but I had to get it done there and then. By midnight I had finally pressed send. Then it was a waiting game, until an envelope with those three famous letters on the front dropped onto the mat. I froze; when I read the contents it got worse. I’d thought I would just go in for another chat and the deal would be done. Instead I had been summoned to a board interview at exactly the time we would be in the States.