Jonny McCambridge: An untypical day in the life of a journalist – from reporting the news to becoming the news

A police helicopter is flying high overhead. Much lower, a PSNI drone is hovering, warning people in the area that the parade they are about to take part in is unnotified and they could be prosecuted. There are no police officers or vehicles on the ground and none I have noticed nearby. I am in the Creggan area of Londonderry reporting on an illegal dissident republican parade.

When I was a younger journalist, in more unstable times, I worked often at events which had the potential to escalate towards public disorder. Thankfully such markings are now increasingly rare. It is many years since I have been at any job which has required me to run for safety.

There is, undoubtedly, a sense of tension on the street as we wait for the parade to start. I can see several crates filled with what seem to be petrol bombs being carried by the masked youths near the shops.

“Whether the police are here or not, they are going to burn something today,” a journalist beside me mumbles.

I am erecting the tripod for my video camera when a bottle flies high over my head and lands harmlessly in the car park behind. Shortly after, a second bottle is thrown in the direction of the journalists. It also misses its target.

There are several loud cracks and bangs as small fireworks are lit and tossed. One lands directly at my feet. I move to kick it away, but it explodes quickly. From such a close distance, the crack leaves my ears buzzing and painful for several minutes.

The parade, made up of around a dozen men wearing paramilitary style uniforms and carrying large flags, sets off towards the nearby cemetery. A few hundred people follow. The pack of journalists moves quickly to stay in front, to get clear images. The gates to the cemetery are closed as a short ceremony takes place.

At the conclusion, the journalists move swiftly. There are stories to be written, photographs to be filed, video to be sent, deadlines to be met. More bangers are tossed as we leave the cemetery and, once more, my ears are ringing. I see the crates of petrol bombs sitting on the footpath outside the cemetery.

As I descend the hill towards my car, I notice that the masked group of youths is now following the media pack. I unload my video gear into the boot of my vehicle and then send a quick message to a colleague who is back in the office to inform that the event has passed off relatively peacefully. Seconds after the message is sent, I hear a call of warning.

“Watch out! They are lighting petrol bombs!”

I look up just in time to see a flaming bottle explode at the front of my car, briefly setting the tarred surface of the road of fire. My first thought is to get inside the vehicle and lock the doors. My second thought is that if I do this, I could present myself as a stationary target to anyone holding a petrol bomb. Instead, I move away on foot, leaving the car and descending the steep road to give myself some distance.

The masked gang, however, move in the same direction. They follow me and a press photographer who is slightly further down the road. I see more petrol bombs being thrown, bouncing off the road in explosions of flames and shattered glass. A call goes out for further bottles to be lit and to find the ones with the “shorter wick”.

It would be going too far to call it a chase. None of us are moving that fast. But it is a pursuit of sorts and the photographer and I break into a slow trot as the group continues to move towards us.

It is not always clear what the first reaction will be in times of adversity. In this instance my instinct is to communicate what is happening. I know that the attack, the throwing of petrol bombs, the youth of the participants, will be the prominent story on the news this evening and in the following morning’s papers. It is my job to get that story out.

As I continue to retreat my phone is in my hand and I’m typing out a message to send back to the office, so the first draft of a story can be filed quickly. The line of the story is that the media has come under attack while covering a dissident parade.

I move a few yards further down the hill and then check to ensure that the message has gone. I notice now that there is a typing error in what I have sent. Perhaps it could be argued that the mistake is understandable, texting while trying to move and avoid petrol bombs. But it annoys me nonetheless and I take the time to go back into the message and fix the error.

The pursuit continues. The masked group is not getting any closer, but they are still coming. I find myself wondering how this concludes, whether the journalists or the pursuers run out of energy first.

We notice a car further down the road being driven by another journalist, it slows slightly, allowing the photographer and myself to jump in, before driving out of the estate at speed.

I know that there are already posts on social media and that the news will spread quickly.

I phone my wife to tell her that I am safe and that I will be home soon.