Ring of Fire

Work experience is a wonderful opportunity for young people to understand how the wider working world works. It enables us to familiarise ourselves with our intended career path and, through trial and error, see what works for us and what doesn’t. Work experience is, ultimately, a valuable asset to any teenager’s life.

But what if it goes wrong? What if, say, you don’t choose the experience? In my case such a thing happened and it led to nothing less than an embarrassing, mortifying and equally hilarious event which continues to entertain those who hear it today.

So, let’s begin.

When I turned sixteen, at school, a week-long work placement was compulsory. Whereas the usual way of choosing a company to spend time with was left up to the individual, to bring some “excitement” into the mix, my school decided on a different approach - the dreaded “pick a role from the hat” decider.

Before we were allowed to plunge our hands deep into the teacher’s maroon beanie hat, I and my fellow students were listed the different roles which would be available. Secretary, grocery assistant, graphic design assistant, sports coach, journalist and… well after the journalist option, I didn’t really listen to the other choices - which you’ll soon find out was an enormous mistake on my part.

Yet, the reason for my distraction was because journalism had always been my passion. I watched every news channel, read almost every newspaper, and searched almost every online news website and blog. I lived and breathed the intricacies of journalism and after hearing a week-long experience position had opened up at BBC Leeds, I had effectively already geared myself up to begin.

Once the list had been read out, we began to line up in registration order. As my last name began to ‘R’, I was frustratingly quite far down the line. Waiting with baited breath as every hand before my own would dive into the beanie, pull out a small piece of paper and read aloud their “chosen” role, the relief to not have heard “Journalist” was overwhelming. Closer and closer, I made my way to the hat until it was my turn to plunge my arm into the woolly hat, grasp a slither of paper and pull it out to hand it to my teacher.

“Cottingley Assistant”, read the teacher.

Two emotions rushed through my mind; one - no journalism role for me, which left me utterly gutted. Two - what the hell was a ‘Cottingley Assistant’? It also didn’t help that the student behind me ended up the lucky individual who would pull “Journalist” out of the hat.

After all the roles had been allocated, we were handed our briefing pack on what the role would be and where we would spend the next week for our Work Experience. In a slight mood and feeling rebellious I didn’t open my briefing pack, (another fatal mistake). Instead I walked home and would report to wherever I needed to be tomorrow to start my week.

The next day arrived quicker than expected and my dad offered to take me to “Cottingley Assistant” HQ. We didn’t drive for too long until we pulled up at a stunning piece of natural heaven. Green fields, perfectly trimmed hedges, colourful flower beds - this place was beautiful, or so it was until we turned the corner into the car park. Set against the garden was a large imposing and sinister looking gravesite. Suddenly the realisation hit me, Cottingley was a Crematorium, and I was their assistant for a week.

My dad, being the loving, supporting father that he is, found the revelation on my face hilarious. I can still hear the echoes of laughter bellowing from the car as he drove away, leaving me in the car park.

Over the next two hours I was introduced to the reverend, Jason Thomas and other members of staff. Jason was a lovely man, though due to being deaf in one ear his voice was rather loud, and I quickly learnt subtly was not a skill he acquired. He swiftly went through the job I was to complete for the week, which was arguably the easiest task I have ever been set. (You’ll soon discover how famous those last words were.)

My role was to assist in the music for the back to back services which would take place that week. For those of you who have been perhaps lucky enough to never attend a funeral or a cremation service, halfway through the service the Reverend (or whoever is presiding over the funeral) announces to the mourning congregation that “we will now spend a moment of silent reflection to remember the life”... insert here the name of who ever had died. This would be where I would come in, as I would be responsible for starting the piece of music the family had chosen to play in the service.

However, it wasn’t as simple as that at Cottingley. Due to its layout and age, a giant courtyard (which looked like something out Hogwarts) seperated the service hall where the funerals took place, and the sound room where I would sit and wait for my signal to start the music. As I couldn’t hear the Reverend initiate the “period of silent reflection”, instead a red and green traffic light system had been set up in the sound room. This system was connected to a button on the podium in the service hall which when pressed would turn the red light (meaning stop), to green (meaning play). This would be my que to start the music on a state-of-the-art stereo system Cottingley had only just purchased.

Day one, two and three went by without a hitch. If anything it felt like easy work. Yet, on day four, it all changed. A service had begun for an elderly man named Frank. His family had chosen the classic balad “I Will Always Love You” by Whitney Houston - a favourite amongst mourners. Sitting in the sound room, I waited for the red light to turn green, signalling that the Reverend had begun the “silent moment of reflection.”

As if reading my mind, the green light suddenly burst to life. Leaning over my sound table I pressed play on the stereo system, watched as the timer began counting telling me the music was playing, and waited for the red light to return.

Usually these “reflective moments” only lasted around a minute or so, never longer. So, you can imagine my shock and confusion when suddenly, seconds after the green light had ignited the red light began flashing. Quickly, I pressed stop on the stereo system, but the red light continued to flash, and its flashing was becoming increasingly frantic. I pressed stop again, though I noticed that the timer continued to count. The music hadn’t stopped playing in the service hall.

Panic began to set in, though was broken by the sound room door bursting open. Reverend Jason Thomas was in the doorway panting for breath. “TURN IT OFF!” He shouted between each breath. “TURN-IT-OFF!”

At first, confusion overtook the panic, until the music from the service hall flooded into the room, by which point confusion had returned not to panic, but indulted horror.

You see, unbeknownst to myself, the new stereo system had automated bluetooth. This meant that any device close to the stereo would automatically sync with the player, with or, in my case, without the knowledge of the device’s owner. Thus the reason why horror was sweeping through my body, terrified sweat dripping down my forehead, and why Reverend Thomas was scrambling around the room so he could disconnect the stereo’s electrical plug, was that my iPhone had automatically connected to the stereo system via bluetooth and had begun playing music from a random playlist of mine.

And so, at this poignant, dignified and moving Crematorium service, instead of playing Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You”, instead upon pressing play, I ended up playing Johnny Cash’s “Ring Of Fire.” Yes, RING-OF-FIRE at a Crematorium.

I wish I could describe what happened afterwards, but words left the Reverend's mouth that day that a man of the Christ should never really say. Even so, all I knew was that I wanted to die from embarrassment, which was apt considering where I was at the time.

Whilst Cottingley didn’t find the mistake amusing, Frank’s family and friends did. After the service had ended, I watched the congregation leave, and not one member left without a smile on their face.

“I didn’t know Frank liked Johnny Cash? I thought he was more into Frank Sinatra,” commented one mourner.

What this work experience gave me, besides one hell of an amusing story, was that life has its fair share of mistakes. We all make them, and although they feel awful at the time, we eventually move on and in most cases laugh them off. And now, for me, everytime I hear Johnny Cash’s country tones singing “Ring Of Fire”, even now, I always raise a glass to both Frank and the mistakes I’ve made, and more importantly to the ones on the horizon.