Forum for former BBC staff

Forum for former BBC staff
http://www.ex-bbc.net/cgi-bin/yabb/YaBB.pl >> Notices, obituaries and tributes >> Steve Rose http://www.ex-bbc.net/cgi-bin/yabb/YaBB.pl?num=1227356542 Message started by Forum Admin on Nov 22^nd, 2008, 12:23pm

Title: Steve Rose
Post by Forum Admin on Nov 22^nd, 2008, 12:23pm

Steve Rose, who worked as a newsroom journalist at BH and TVC, has died.

Steve had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in June and had been keeping a blog, "Steve's last words".

His son, Daniel, said that Steve died peacefully on Friday, November 21, in a hospice.

The funeral is likely to be on Thursday or Friday of the coming week.

Daniel said: "Thanks to all of you for your support throughout all of this and we hope that those who can make it will help to make the funeral the kind of occasion that Dad wanted."

Title: Re: Steve Rose
Post by Forum Admin on Nov 24^th, 2008, 7:31pm

Steve's funeral will be on Friday, November 28th. Details:

11am - 11.45am
Funeral service at St Marylebone Crematorium, East End Road, Finchley N2 0RZ.
Please try to arrive a little early so that the service can start on time.

12pm - 4pm
Buffet lunch and drinks at The Clissold Arms, 115 Fortis Green, East Finchley, N2 9HR

All are welcome and the occasion is to be informal, in line with Steve's wishes.

Daniel Rose writes:

"If you wish to send flowers then please feel free. However, we would also like to offer an alternative - as many of you will know, Dad spent his last days in a quite incredible place called the Marie Curie hospice in Hampstead. They took amazingly good care of him, as did the MacMillan nurses who looked after him whenever he was at home. We would welcome anyone wishing to make a donation to either of these charities instead of (or even as well as!) sending flowers. You can donate online here:

http://www.mariecurie.org.uk/supportus/waystodonate/

https://secure.macmillan.org.uk/donateonline/donations.aspx?cde=default

If you do wish to send flowers then please send them directly to the funeral directors:

Leverton and Sons
181 Haverstock Hill
London NW3 4QS

They will need to arrive either late Thursday afternoon or first thing Friday morning and be clearly marked for Steve Rose."

Title: Re: Steve Rose
Post by Forum Admin on Nov 28^th, 2008, 7:16pm

This is taken from The Guardian:

Steve Rose
Cheerful, witty BBC radio and TV producer
by Bob Woffinden
Friday November 28 2008 00.01 GMT

Steve Rose, who has died aged 59 of pancreatic cancer, worked at the BBC for 26 years as a current affairs producer in both radio and television and, ultimately, as executive editor of BBC News.

For someone who was to stay there so long, he was, colleagues recalled, refreshingly un-BBC when he arrived, at a time when the corporation was on the cusp of change between the buttoned-up old ways and the coming glasnost. The characteristics that spring to mind when thinking of him are, as one BBC friend said, "laughter, cheerfulness, great wit and a sharp mind".

He was born in Wembley, north London, to parents who were commercial travellers selling women's clothing. After school at Latymer Upper in Hammersmith, in his gap year before university, Steve joined them, selling dresses to boutiques. After reading psychology at Sheffield University, he went on to a graduate journalism training scheme and worked on the Reading Evening Post, before joining the BBC in 1973. He did a stint on Newsbeat (Radio 1), before becoming a producer on the Today programme (Radio 4).

In 1979, he produced Today's first live broadcasts from Beijing, with Libby Purves as presenter. The production team's anxieties, which included not knowing whether the new satellite link would work, now seem unimaginable, but at the time it was a significant editorial breakthrough for the BBC. If there was a problem, it was only that the technical perfection of the broadcasts made it difficult to believe they were in China at all.

After a year as the Today programme's New York producer, he switched to television. He arrived at Nationwide, the BBC's ailing weekday programme, just in time, as he said, to help finish it off. His worst moment was being goosed in the lift by Larry Grayson.

In 1985, Steve helped to establish Watchdog with the presenter Lynne Faulds Wood and was editor for three years. The programme won several awards for consumer journalism. "All those happy hours," he reflected, "hiding behind Lynne as we chased minor villains down the street."

He was then in charge of the main evening news bulletin, the Nine O'Clock News (as it then was), during which time the programme won Royal Television Society (RTS) and Bafta awards.

By 1999 he was executive editor of BBC News when, dismayed by one internal reorganisation after another, he took early retirement and started a media consultancy company.

I had first met Steve when I bumped into him in 1967 during freshers' week at Sheffield. He was from London and was probably the first Jewish person I met (I had had a sheltered schooling in Lichfield). He seemed so effortlessly cool, I thought I could never hope to become a friend - which was to reckon without his immense generosity of spirit.

Several years later in 1980, one rainy autumn afternoon in north London, he and Mary (his girlfriend from Sheffield) and my wife and I got married together. Seemingly thrilled by the prospect of a double wedding, the register office staff had put out countless rows of chairs. They were clearly downcast when just the four of us turned up.

In June this year he was told that he had pancreatic cancer and, when the diagnosis confirmed in July that it was well advanced, he opted against any treatment, to squeeze the maximum quality out of whatever life he had left. A stalwart Queen's Park Rangers supporter, he drove to Stevenage to watch QPR play a pre-season friendly.

His overriding concern was for everyone else, and in particular his family. To help stem the tide of distressed phone calls and emails, he started a blog, Steve's Last Words, with a brief that echoed the BBC's: to inform, educate and entertain.

Readers needed a strong stomach for black humour. It was achingly honest. "I'm dying of cancer," he wrote, "but I'm still the same bloke. I choose to deal with this head on. It wouldn't suit everybody." The blog led to a radio interview with Jeremy Vine, but he abandoned it earlier this month when he felt his lifelong capacity to entertain was, finally, beyond him.

He is survived by Mary and their two children, Daniel and Katy.

• Stephen Andrew Rose, radio and television journalist, born April 20 1949; died November 21 2008

Title: Re: Steve Rose
Post by Forum Admin on Nov 28^th, 2008, 8:44pm

It was standing room only in the crematorium for the funeral. Steve had planned the event himself. It was conducted on humanist lines. A group of gospel singers provided the music and the first tribute came from Peter Bell. This is the text of his remarks:

Driving here this morning, I thought there might be a decent turn-out – but this is something else, isn’t it?

Steve would be overjoyed to see so many of you here,
not because today is a tribute to him (which it is, of course) but because he so much wanted us to celebrate the things he valued, especially family and friends.

It may sound rather a tall order, but he really did want us to enjoy this occasion – and when I told him not to be silly, he was very insistent. “No, I really mean it,” he said. “I want it to be boisterous.”

It’s as if he’d written his own epitaph.
Now as ever with Steve. No solemn faces.

It’s fitting that we’re gathered in this part of north London, which meant so much to him. It was a mile or so from here, in Muswell Hill, that he and Mary created what Steve called “the happy house” where Dan and Katy grew up – and where, in the past few months, Steve was blessed with the kind of loving care and support that, as he put it, was “more than anyone could possibly deserve”.

Steve and I first met the best part of 40 years ago as trainees on the Evening Post in Reading. But it wasn’t long before we both moved to the BBC in London, Jenny and I set up home within walking distance of theirs -- and a lasting friendship was cemented.

It eventually became an important working relationship too.

For 20 years, we never actually shared an office at the BBC until one day I found myself trying to run the News Department -- and somehow persuaded Steve to join my top team. I never knew which was the greater – my surprise when the bolshie student-type I’d first known finally said ‘yes’ to management -- or his sense of alarm that the forty-something student-type he still wanted to be had gone and taken the foreman’s job.

What neither of us predicted was that we’d both end up retiring from the BBC at roughly the same time and decide to set up a small business together.

There were only two of us in the business, but we decided we ought to do it properly and hold regular Board meetings. These invariably took place over lunch just down the road from here at a greasy spoon café called ‘The Big Chef’ -- where £2.75 gets you egg, bacon, beans and chips – and as much lard as anyone could possibly wish to consume.

“I like it here,” Steve used to say. “It’s the only restaurant in London where I’m known”.

We’d talk business, of course – but we always tried to get that done before the food arrived.

While we ate, we’d talk about people.
(If you’ve got time later, I can probably come up with a scurrilous story about almost everyone in this room – and a couple of dozen about Paul Gibbs.)

And we’d talk about the great mysteries of life.

How is it you can spend a fortune on a season ticket at Queens Park Rangers and never see a proper game of football?

How is it that for so many women (no names here, Mary, don’t worry) there is no known limit to the number of cushions it takes to complete a well-appointed living room?

And why is it, throughout the world of broadcast journalism and beyond, that so many of our most towering intellects seem to suffer from baldness?

So we’d talk business, gossip about friends and contemplate the eccentricities of the universe. But most of all, we’d laugh.
How many times have you heard that?

Steve was many things -- a man of humanity, integrity and substance. But he’s the only person I’ve ever met who always -- without exception -- whatever the circumstances – made me laugh.

To meet Steve was to make yourself feel better.
It’s that simple – and it was a unique gift.

During his illness, I told him once that talking to him was
a bit like talking to a brother. He was unmoved by such fraternal tenderness.
“Here I am, with all this on my plate, “ he said, “and you think I need a brother who’s a Man United supporter. Give me a break.”

How do you say goodbye to a man like that?

Saying goodbye was important to Steve. He talked about it a lot– about how there might not be time to see all the friends he wanted to see.The parting of the ways was important to me too– but it wasn’t obvious when or where or how to manage a farewell.

So towards the end of last month I sent Steve an email that I’d like to share with you.

It reads like this:
“We talked last night about how you want to spend time seeing friends and saying goodbye. But we didn’t actually talk about you and me.

So here’s a plan.
The plan is that we don’t say goodbye – now, or at any time in the future.
As far as I’m concerned, whenever I get to see you, there’s a next time and there’ll continue to be a next time (the more next times, the better) until there isn’t a next time.

I can do without a goodbye, if you can, provided nothing important is left unsaid.
So here goes.

There is no friend whose company I would rather share, whose humanity and humour I relish, or whose opinion I value, more than yours.
Professionally, getting you to join my team was the best trick I ever pulled.
Personally, the time we spend together is invariably time well spent.
(Remember that line from Dylan? “You just kinda wasted my precious time”? You couldn’t do that if you tried.)

As a friend and partner, you bring a combination of inspiration, optimism, confidence, judgement, candour and fun that’s given to very few.

If I could write like you, I’d be a happy man.

Since we got to know each other well, you have - outside my immediate family – brought more sunshine into my life than anyone else I know.

So who needs goodbyes?
Let’s think about the next time.
Do we have a deal?”

The following morning, there was a one-line reply waiting in my Inbox.
“We have a deal.”

It wasn’t the last time we spoke – but, for me, those four words were the ones that mattered most.

No need for solemn faces now.
Far better to enjoy boisterous memories of a warm friend, a wonderful husband, father, brother and son - and a really rather remarkable human being.

Title: Re: Steve Rose
Post by Forum Admin on Nov 29^th, 2008, 4:18pm

Another tribute at the funeral came from Steve's old friend, John Allen:

The last time I saw Steve – in the hospice in Hampstead -- he was laughing. So was Mary.

It’s a nice memory to have of a very difficult time.

The reason they were laughing was poetry. Not the sort of poetry you’ll find in a library or bookshop – in fact, some of it was written by Steve himself.

I’d found it while tidying my desk and thought it might cheer him up. I was thrilled when it clearly brought him so much pleasure.

You need some background:

As well as being a great football fan – his support for Queen’s Park Rangers is a family thing – Steve was also a keen player.

I’ve never forgotten a kickabout on Parliament Hill Fields – Steve deftly dribbling a ball around an oak or an ash while crying: “Can a tree be beaten by skill alone?”

With that sort of approach, it was natural that when he joined the BBC he should offer his talents to the Radio Newsroom football team. It was a scratch outfit with aspirations that were never met.

Unfortunately, Steve’s opinion of his talent was not widely shared. Much to his annoyance he was regularly asked to play in goal.

That was not what he had signed up for at all, and being Steve, he complained – very loudly and very often.

Eventually, the team captain, BOB DORAN, could stand no more and he turned on Steve. But this being the Radio Newsroom, he did not reach for a pickaxe handle but a pen.

Doran was merciless. He used his years of experience as a journalist to lay into an amazed Steve in the northern monologue style popularised by Stanley Holloway.

This is part of his withering attack:

BOB’S FOOTBALL ODE

There’s a team that’s renowned throughout football,
“The Newsroom All-Stars” they are called.
Some are fat, some are old, some are ugly,
And some just a little bit bald.
Some are cads, some are fools, some are rotters,
Some are blind, some are halt, some are lame.
But the one thing they all have in common
Is they’re no bloody good at the game.

Nonetheless they are sensible fellows,
Men like Dew, Matthews, Butt and McHale.
But there was one egregious exception –
And that is the start of my tale.

Steve Rose fancied himself as a winger,
And to dribble the length of the park.
He thought he were like Stanley Matthews,
Though Jessie were nearer the mark.

When the kid heard he had to play goalie,
He cried: “Who do these fools think I am?”
In fact he got so agitated,
He damn near fell out of his pram.

Bob Doran were boss of the outfit,
And played in the back four as well.
He’d the strength of a bear with the palsy,
And the speed of a knock-kneed gazelle.

Doran turned on the arrogant youngster,
And his words were scornful and terse.
“It’s not that you’re good as a goalie –
It’s just out, you’re a bloody sight worse.”

Rose stormed at the boss in a fury:
“You’ll never get me in the goals.
I’m not just a mid-field genius,
But a personal friend of Stan Bowles.”

And it’s thanks to all this ‘ere commotion
That the Newsroom lost 25 – nil ---
Well, that is, if they haven’t already,
Then I bet you they bloody well will.

Now, Steve, as you know – and this may be the only thing he had in common with Peter Mandelson – was a fighter, not a quitter.

Although the medium was alien to him – being a North London boy through and through – he set out to give as good as he got.

This is Steve Rose, Poet, with::THE ANCIENT GOALKEEPER -- He stoppeth one in three

Now you’ve heard of a team called the All-Stars,
The one that’s been feted in rhyme;
Well here’s news for the scribe known as Doran,
His words only covered half-time.

For there’s another side to this story,
And it’s one that’s stranger to tell,
About the row between Rose, the star forward,
And Doran, the bear-like gazelle.

It was all about who should play goalie,
Rose said: “It shouldn’t be me.
I’m much more like Roy of the Rovers –
But with two left feet and one knee.”

But Doran thought Rose was the man for the job,
Which is why he decided to act.
He said: “I’ll nail Rose’s head to the newsdesk”,
Which Rose thought was lacking in tact.

Now this fellow Doran was witty,
He could cope with blank paper with ease,
But he suffered delusions of football,
And there’s no cure for such a disease.

He’d go out to play every Sunday,
The crowds wondered if it was wise,
For though he was big, overweight and quite burly,
He played like a man twice his size.

He thought of himself as a new Billy Wright,
But his footwork caused too many cackles.
The crowds thought him more like that man Wilbur Wright,
The way he went flying from tackles.

And he thought of himself as the old Bobby Moore,
With a heart as strong as a lion,
But his weight and his stance and his hairstyle
Made him more reminiscent of Brian.

His problems with Rose ever worsened,
Until they became quite absurd,
For he spoke with an accent peculiar,
And Rose couldn’t make out a word.

Rose was really put out by ‘egregious’,
With that word, he hadn’t a hope.
He thought it was something religious,
Spoken at Mass by the Pope.
Rose complained to the chairman, Geoff Morley,
“Yon Doran’s as mad as a hatter”,
But Geoff was re-writing his memoirs
And wasn’t concerned in the matter.

“But that man’s a religious fanatic,
He thinks God’s on his side in this row,
But it’s written that God’s chosen my lot.
He’s certain to do the same now.”

“I’ll not intervene with Bob Doran,”
Said Geoff, as he turned to the wall.
“I’m writing my memoirs in detail,
They’re a page and a half all-in-all.”

So Rose went straight to tackle Bob Doran,
He searched Hampstead west, north and south,
Til he found Bob collecting his pension,
And putting his teeth in his mouth.

“We’ll settle this one way or t’other”,
Said Rose standing up like a man.
“We’ll each write a verse, and see whose is worse,
And I’ll make mine scan if I can.”

That was Steve all over. He wanted to be at the centre of things – to be a player not a spectator. He was a player to the end.

Goodbye to my very good friend Steve – the reluctant goalkeeper.

Title: Re: Steve Rose
Post by Forum Admin on Dec 11^th, 2008, 11:32am

This is taken from Ariel, w/c December 8, 2008:

Steve Rose, a journalist in BBC news and current affairs for 25 years, has died of cancer. He was 59.

Steve began his career as a trainee reporter on the Reading Evening Post. He joined radio news at Broadcasting House in 1974 and spent time on Today, The World at One and Newsbeat before moving to TV in 1981. Over the next 12 years he worked as producer and output editor on Nationwide, Breakfast News, Watchdog (which he co-founded) and the Nine O’Clock News.

Steve was fascinated by emerging technologies and innovative ways of working. As production editor of BBC news programmes, he played a leading role in the co-siting of radio and tv news, the introduction of the ENPS computer system and the redesign and re-launch of the main television news bulletins.

His down-to-earth, positive way with people, along with his experience as a former NUJ father of the chapel, made him both a popular figure and a formidable force in the process of change management. But it was his time on the front line that he loved the most. He couldn’t believe he was being paid for having such fun.

After leaving the corporation in 1999, Steve continued his career as a freelance broadcasting consultant and formed a production company with a former BBC colleague, making films for both the corporate and voluntary sectors.

Throughout, he was a force for fun and never took himself (or any-one else) too seriously. Persevering as a season ticket holder at Queens Park Rangers, he once said, ‘gives new meaning to the word loyalty’.

He faced his illness with humour and determination, writing a regular internet blog (‘Steve’s Last Words’) that was startlingly honest, poignant and funny. Following an interview with Jeremy Vine on Radio 2, he was inundated with messages of support. But self-pity was never his style. Expressions of sympathy, more often than not, were met with a smile and a wisecrack. As he said: ‘I’ve had a wonderful life blessed by great family and friends, great work and great adventures.’

Our thoughts are with his wife, Mary, and children, Daniel and Katy.

John Allen and Peter Bell