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Mike Rabbetts (Read 6123 times)
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Mike Rabbetts
Sep 16th, 2004, 5:36pm
 
Mike Rabbetts, a long serving Duty Editor in the Radio Newsroom, has died.  Mike did a long stint in Journalist Training in the middle of his career and was known to several generations of news trainees as their first instructor.  He was 75.  More details to follow.

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Re: Mike Rabbetts
Reply #1 - Sep 21st, 2004, 3:14pm
 
Mike died at his home in Market Harborough, Leicestershire, where he'd moved in recent years.  His funeral took place there.
There is to be a service of thanksgiving at St Michael and All Angels church near the old Rabbetts home, at Jervis Brook, near Crowborough in Sussex. It will be on Friday, 1st October, at 2pm.
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Re: Mike Rabbetts
Reply #2 - Nov 17th, 2004, 9:05pm
 
Geoff Morley was one of the speakers at Mike's Memorial service.  This is what he said:

Today’s lesson is taken from the book according to Simpson. Not Homer Simpson. Or Marge, or Bart, or Lisa. Or even Maggie. Rather, John Simpson – whose autobiography I dug out this week, because I wanted to give you some idea of the time and the place when Mike Rabbetts first began to stamp his character on the BBC. The place was the Radio Newsroom at Broadcasting House near Oxford Circus.  I joined as a graduate trainee subeditor in 1967 –at that stage,  Mike had been there for two years, almost to the day, already had his feet firmly under the subbing desk, and was clearly earmarked for a successful newsroom career..
But back to the book by John Simpson . Title: “Strange Places, Questionable People”– available at all good Oxfam shops. For John Simpson, too, joined the ranks of the Radio Newsroom subeditors in the mid-sixties:   to be precise, 1966, a year after Mike, a year before me. For clarity’s sake, I should explain: broadly, the Radio newsroom chose what went into its bulletins – in those days, the correspondents and reporters mainly helped supplement the information that poured in from the news agencies– and the subeditors wrote the scripts to be broadcast. This did not impress John Simpson  - as he puts it “I was born to be a reporter, not a sub-editor”. The two species, he writes, “have a different approach to life. Reporters relish the feeling that by tomorrow morning they could be in Rio de Janeiro without having had time to pack a suitcase; sub-editors like to check their shift-patterns and see if they will be working on Christmas Day next year.” Uncomfortable reading, this.
He goes on: “Little had altered in the BBC Radio Newsroom since 1945. One of the pigeon-holes for agency copy on the main Home Service news desk still bore a hand-written sign which said ‘Empire’. The newsreaders might no longer have had to wear dinner-jackets to read the evening news, but most of them looked as though they wanted to”.
This was the place, then, where Mike flourished. For a newcomer, like me , it was a daunting place – and for that reason it was a joy to meet Mike Rabbetts. He had years of experience of news, of newspapers, of newspeople. I had next to none. Apparently, Mike’s father had worked as a linotype operator in Sheffield, and Mike himself had become involved with the Swindon Advertiser at the tender age of fourteen. Much fun was had with flower-shows and whist-drives. A couple of years after marrying Megan, Mike transferred to subbing – and pursued his new career with the Guardian Journal in Nottingham, the Western Daily Press in Bristol, back to Nottingham with the Evening Post, and then down to this neck of the woods, to work in Tunbridge Wells, before he moved to the Beeb in August 1965.
As a newcomer, I found him patient, interested, kind and very funny. Rather in line with John Simpson’s experiences, I remember being told by another of the sub-editorial team: “You’ll never be able to do this job properly until you’ve spent a night on a railway embankment, after a train crash, clutching a notebook in pouring rain”. I wondered vaguely to myself: would it help if I just spent the odd night on an embankment WITHOUT a rail-crash? How important was the rain? But Mike’s approach was very different. He positively enjoyed passing on the secrets of the craft to those he thought were interested – and was delighted to see others putting his ideas into practice.
Hence, he was ideally qualified for the work he did with distinction at a later stage of his BBC career, in the Journalists Training Department. One of the newcomers who passed through his hands remembers Mike as  “the very essence of BBC radio journalism, laying down a writing style that was tight, bright, accurate and interesting”. This same ex-trainee also says: “Mike told us that being a sub in the Radio Newsroom was the finest training for whatever we ended up doing later on.”  Of that particular group of trainees, I won’t bore you with names – but one is Director General of the Advertising Standards Authority, and another is Executive Director of the Royal Opera House. So I’m not quite sure exactly what Mike was teaching them.
Be that as it may, across the BBC, from present and former staff, the reaction to Mike’s death has been one of deep sadness – and the picture of Mike’s personality that emerges is remarkably consistent. Says one former newsroom man: “I never heard a colleague say a bad word about him”. Another says: “always the epitome of politeness – his team would happily jump through hoops to do what he wanted”. So, circus-skills apparently another talent.  A third ex-colleague notes Mike’s “good-humoured tolerance” .. he had a “steady control” over the activities of the newsdesk. And yet another contribution: “It was sheer joy on a long and boring night-shift to find Mike at the helm; he was such a good person to work with – quiet, almost shy, with a fantastic sense of fun and wonderful sense of humour.” Essentially, a “gentle man” – a brilliant newsman and thinker, with a tremendous nose for developing news stories from unpromising material.”
Mike certainly brought –not an innocence – but an almost palpable honesty into everything he did. Some of you will know that, during his BBC career, he applied for a Commonwealth scholarship – I think it was called an Imperial Scholarship – designed to give the successful candidate some experiences very different from their usual day-to-day job. It can now be told that, when Mike was interviewed for this highly desirable freebie, he was asked why he wanted it. “Because”, he said, “I’ve never been anywhere”.  They gave him the scholarship!
As a result, Mike went to Australia. And I remember him describing the excitement of going on a night-time kangaroo hunt, with the bullets blasting out in the darkness, and the bodies of the kangaroos piling up around him. Eat you heart out, John Simpson.  
Now, anyone who was at Mike’s BBC farewell will remember the traditional speech from one of the bosses, which began rather untraditionally, along the lines of  “Well, I’ve trawled around for stories of disreputable behaviour or youthful indiscretions, but Mike has led such a blameless life there’s absolutely nothing to say to his discredit”.
Well, I’m not sure if this is to Mike’s discredit or not, but I can share with you something else about that scholarship I mentioned.. Mike had found an advert for it on the notice-board on the third-floor of Broadcasting House – just near the lifts outside the Newsroom. He later confided that – finding he had half an hour spare – he had then taken the lift up to the eighth floor, found the corresponding advert on the corresponding notice-board, and carefully removed it. He had then repeated the procedure on the seventh floor, the sixth, the fifth, and so on.
What was I saying about his almost palpable honesty..? Rather, I like to think that it is just another example of Mike’s careful planning – to ensure he got what he wanted.
What I don’t want to do is to leave you with the impression that Mike slotted neatly into the John Simpson depiction of the species, sub-editor: “careful, unadventurous people who wear cardigans, drive safely and mate for life like swans” OK, he did like his cardigans and pullovers. But for one thing, Mike never learned to drive. And, as with that scholarship, he very quietly tended to get his own way, to fine-tune the great BBC machine to his own liking. For instance, some of those who passed through his hands as trainees recall how the Journalist Training Day under the Rabbetts regime was carefully synchronised with the railway timetable for Crowborough. It was a pleasantly late start, a quarter past ten – followed by a pleasantly early finished, a quarter past four.  Mike, I’m sure, was merely helping redress the balance – after all the strains and pressures of those horrendous twelve-hour night shifts. By the way, I’m told on good authority that Mike was so disorientated after his first ever night-shift that he had to be escorted to the tube station at Oxford Circus – even then, realizing at the last minute that he’s forgotten something, and having to retrace his steps back to Broadcasting House.
I remember him, too, as a great recruiting sergeant for the National Union of Journalists. I’m sure my feelings were typical – this guy was so nice, I had to join his union. And he was most anxious to ensure the BBC met its obligations to the people he represented. For example, the BBC came up with an astonishingly complicated set of rules to allow us to claim against the cost of meals taken in the course of duty. It was a nightmare – designed, I’m sure, to persuade the staff not to make claims. Basically, you had to pay for the first five meals you had, like any Monday-to Friday staff, but you could claim a pifflingly small amount of cash for each meal in excess of five. The genius of the system , from the management point of view, was that the amount claimable varied depending on whether you’d worked all night-shifts, all day-shifts, or whatever combination of the two. Mike’s genius was to come up with the Rabbetts Guide to Meal Claims – which was lovingly placed in the photocopier for every newcomer, and carefully folded away into wallets and purses. It was an instant ready-reckoner: for example, you’d worked three nights and two days – so you were entitled to one-pound- thirteen-pence. It was typical of Mike that – whenever BBC allowances across the board were overhauled  - a revised edition of the Meals Guide would appear, and members of the NUJ would continue to receive their just desserts. And the rest of the meal too, of course.
Also  - though he was always perfectly pleasant about it – Mike tended to say what he meant. For example: at his official farewell, I recall too Mike’s own farewell speech – when he launched a fairly blistering attack on the way the Newsroom was being managed. We all came out afterward mumbling “Did he really say that?”
The gentle exterior in fact helped to conceal a streak of toughness. When he moved south, Mike became involved in renting a flat in Tunbridge Wells.  At the last minute, the landlord started being awkward about releasing the key. At this stage, Mike possibly popped into the nearest telephone box, tucked his shirt into his underpants, and sallied forth in search of justice. Or possibly not. What did happen for certain, however, is that Mike got hold of a ladder, and moved the family’s furniture into the flat through a window!
The story is also still told around the flickering fires in the Newsroom of the time when Mike Rabbetts lost his temper – although, characteristically, in a very controlled way. Inevitably, this is such a good story that it has become hopelessly confused and perhaps embellished in the retelling. I wasn’t on duty so can only repeat what I’ve heard.  For the sake of the many non-newsroom people here, I won’t name the other party  – the newsroom people will no doubt be able to supply it.  Suffice it to say, one newsroom journalist had taken of strong liquor – and returned from the pub, much the worse for wear. He stumbled about , swearing , mumbling and making a nuisance of himself. Until Mike eventually leapt to his feet and told him: “Get out. Get out of the newsroom NOW” Or I’m calling security.” Allegedly (that’s my old newsroom training kicking in) the miscreant did NOT get out – and was duly escorted off the premises by security. Mike, no doubt , sighed deeply, and got on with producing the another immaculate bulletin.
Another uncharacteristic episode came on a blisteringly hot afternoon in the early seventies, when someone on the Radio Four desk was complaining about the weather. “Okay”, said Mike, who was in charge, “Let’s all go to the pub for ten minutes”. Astonishing, this – from a man who was rarely seen with anything stronger than a glass of orange-juice in his hand. If it were possible, Mike’s reputation in the Newsroom soared even higher. About the same time, on another hot afternoon, the tale is told of how Mike organised a round of ice-creams for his Radio Four writers. VIP visitors to the BBC – who had to pass through the Newsroom – were met with the extraordinary sight of the BBC’s crack writing team, licking their ninety-nines and sucking their lollipops.
He was undoubtedly a calm man when under fire. I’d like to just mention one episode that’s nothing to do with Mike’s journalism – but which provided a fine example of Mike’s unflappability. My wife and I were spending a weekend in Jervis Brook – this was before we had our own family, and it was nice occasionally to share someone else’s. We were all playing cricket in the garden, the ball disappeared into the trees (I was probably bowling) and – as Alexander tried to retrieve it –he sat down heavily in the fork of a tree.  There was an immediate alarming sound like a phalanx of motorcycles approaching at speed. As I lifted Alexander up, a great swarm of flying insects came up with him. I remember them as hornets – Alex thinks they were wasps. But whatever, they were very angry, very numerous, and very much in the mood for stinging. Anyway, we all raced into the house, pursued by a huge moving cloud of these things. It was like something out of the Dandy, or Beano. The French window was slammed onto the swarm – and we tried to swat the insects that were now inside, while counting our wounds.
Everyone had been stung – but poor Alex had caught the brunt of it. Arms, legs, everywhere. Mike, though, displayed an impressive calm. A telephone call to the local hospital was made to confirm Mike’s own instincts that Alex needn’t go troubling the doctors, as he was plainly still alive – and before long, I believe, the game of cricket had been resumed. Though I don’t think I was asked to bowl again.
But, to finish, back to the journalism. Mike clearly put a lot of effort into merely getting to the newsroom. At least once, when there was a rail-strike, he cycled all the way from Sussex into Broadcasting House  - prompting one colleague to remark “Anybody who cycles to work should be fired”. Regularly, he had to cycle into Tunbridge Wells station for Sunday duty at the BBC, because the station at Crowborough was closed. So – having made all this effort – Mike clearly thought it logical to put the same amount of effort into the job itself. I can think of no better closing remark than one made by a former Newsroom colleague: “Mike loved the BBC and the people around him. And equally they loved him back.”
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