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STARS IN MY EYES
NOW I'M NOT KNOWN FOR BEING CAMERA-SHY. In fact, media-slut would probably be closer to the mark. I like to flatter myself that I'm putting my best fin forwards in the interests of scuba divers everywhere, but I suspect that vanity and ego might have just a tiny role to play.
I was forced to this conclusion while on the Struma expedition in the Black Sea, being filmed for a Channel 4 documentary. It might be possible to look gorgeously glamorous if you're diving the Bahamas in a skimpy wetsuit and a single cylinder. But kitting up in a drysuit and hood, strapping on a rebreather and two enormous stage cylinders and sweltering in the heat while the skipper plays a game of Whoops! There Goes The Shotline - let's just say glamorous isn't the first word that springs to mind.
It takes the shine off appearing on TV when you realise that you'll end up looking like the diving equivalent of an It's A Knock-out! contestant.
Wearing your own bodyweight in dive kit makes it very hard to stand up, let alone perform to the camera. And the film crew always pick their moment to zoom in. As soon as you gob into your mask, trip over your fins, or wipe your nose on the back of your glove you'll discover a camera lens inches away.
Now I know how people like Monica Lewinsky must feel: one minute it's all an exciting adventure, the next you can't scratch your bottom without intense media attention. And while I was discovering the downside of small-scale media stardom, some of my dive buddies were giving me a fast-track education in the subtle art of scene-stealing.
There are two favoured techniques: booming, and elbowing. As you emerge from a dive, the director of the documentary asks a question such as: "What did you see?" Before you can wipe the snot off your face and reply, a booming voice, often belonging to someone who has not actually been on the dive, will launch into a spirited analysis. Next comes an elbow in your face as they thrust themselves into the shot.
After a week I was covered in bruises and would duck instinctively every time a question was asked. In the world of diving egos, I am merely a novice (or a Club Ego, if you're BSAC inclined).
So imagine my delight when I was offered a slot on BBC1's Breakfast TV; no booming, no elbows and absolutely no gobbing.
Any sensible diver would be gathering their expedition material and preparing how they could best represent the sport on national television. I was naturally more concerned with which outfit to wear, and how I could wangle getting my photo taken with Tanya Beckett, a woman so gorgeous and glossy that it's actually worth getting up at 6am just to watch her present.
So that'll be me, sitting in a BBC limousine repeating: "Respect our wrecks" and "Scuba divers, lovely people... honest!"
I got to the Green Room with plenty of time to reapply my lipstick, only to be told that because of some minor matter - Bush being confirmed President of the USA - they'd cut the diving slot to four minutes. There was time only to interview the expedition leader. I was surplus to requirements.
Naturally, I fixed on a smile, and took it with suitably good grace.
After being evicted by the security guard, and totally exhausted from my screaming tantrum, I collapsed into a heap. Chewing miserably on my complimentary BBC croissant, I was left to reflect on my fate. Me and Monica Lewinsky, both brought to our knees by American presidents.
As I sobbed uncontrollably at the unfairness of it all, I discovered that other Monica truism. You can never lay your hands on a hankie when you really need one.
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