Well, put simply, you’re not always right. When I started freelancing at the end of last year, I thought I had all of the skills and experience to forge out a successful new career. I wanted variety, the ability to work at my own pace and the freedom to have a voice that wasn’t stifled by the boundaries of an exclusive contract.

And so it was that - among other things - I signed up as a Narrator for a publishing company. I won’t name them because not everything I’m about to say was their fault. It was a simple process; submit a short voice sample based on some text they provided and then wait for the work to arrive. This was a zero hours contract, but when I was given some work, I would be paid in what the industry calls Completed Finished Hours, or CFHs.

The “hourly” rate was reasonable enough, but one thing that soon became clear was that each “finished” hour of work was, in fact, two hours or more. Those familiar with the industry will probably laugh at this point. Did I really think it was as simple as just reading from the pages of a book?

Of course not. I knew and understood from the contract that I’d be doing just about everything short of publishing the book itself. Each chapter would need to be read clearly and competently. I would then have to edit each chapter, save the (rather large) audio file and send it to the publisher. There would invariably be retakes and re-recordings for which I’d receive no additional compensation. Only CFHs would be paid at the hourly rate.

But still, this was part of the freelance adventure, a step towards freedom. I’m no Stephen Fry, audiobooks would never make me rich. But it would be a new experience, enhancing my skillset, and utilising my background in broadcast news. What could possibly go wrong?

I received the manuscript, along with an email asking if I could read in an American accent. I am from the UK, and although I enjoy impersonating different voices, I wasn’t totally sure about this. The published asked for a brief voice sample, and then a complete read of Chapter 1. This was done and the author approved of my work. They wanted was was described as a “neutral, flat” accent. Clearly my efforts were good enough to be entrusted with the rest of the book.

This was a huge boost for my own confidence and yes, my ego. All I had to do was maintain the accents for a total of 29 chapters, 382 pages in all. And in theory I had almost a month to do it, the deadline stretching nicely in the distance. That said, I was keen to get on with it, and over the coming week, I averaged about four chapters per day. That included the recording, editing the retakes and ensuring the sound quality from my home studio was consistent. This is when things took a turn for the worse.

It wasn’t keeping up the accent, but learning to understand the nuances of American culture. ane the way basic words were read aloud. Take “process”. In UK English it’s read as “proe-sess”, but in American it becomes “prar-sess”. Now add in a hundreds more words like that and you can see how this was becoming a challenge. And got even more complicated. The plot of the book was around American sports. If you have no understanding of baseball, for example, how can you ever hope to describe it convincingly?

The manuscript had come with no guidance on things like this, how fictional names should be pronounced or how much characterization, if any, I should be including in the dialogue. Like I said, I am no Stephen Fry. For some aspects, I researched the subject; for example, how to read our a sports score (nothing, zero, nought - which is it?).

It soon became extremely time consuming. I would speed read a chapter before launching into a recording, ten or twelve pages at a time. Much of the manuscript described the sports being played live, as if on TV. I found myself adopting a persona of a commentator, even becoming excited when the lead team was doing well. I also felt I was shifting the mood appropriately, flattening out the dialogue when the plot got serious. Overall, I felt I’d done as good a job as possible.

I had started by filing two or three Chapters at a time, but the publisher insisted that they only wanted the completed audiobook. Fair enough, I thought. But that turned out to be one of many mistakes I made.

29 chapters later, I felt exhausted - but with a huge sense of achievement. It had been a mammoth task but it was done. A few days later, I was taking another road ion my freelance journey, preparing to pitch for work with a local charity. My presentation had been carefully rehearsed and I was waiting for the bus on a cold early March day. That’s when the first email arrived.

The publisher told me that the author was “not wholly pleased” with my work, pasting an awkward section from a feedback email. It turned out that, in their eyes (or ears), I had managed to mispronounce one of the sports teams in the book. I would have argued that it was possible to interpret it several ways, but it was a problem. Not least because there were 120 references to that word in the manuscript. And the author had only heard the first three Chapters.

Worry not, said the publisher. These things are entirely common in the world of audiobooks, and re-records are extremely common. I was told that this was not slight on the hard work put in so far, and once the revisions were made everything would be fine.

I was not convinced. Around two weeks later, while I was on holiday, the second email arrived. This time there were fourteen pages of revisions, including re-recording over a dozen references to a fictional name. “To make it easier for you,” said the email. “the author has helpfully placed timestamps against your recordings”. Well yes, I knew where the issues were, but this would still mean re-recording large sections of the book for no additional pay.

I reflected on the dilemma over several evenings in different bars and restaurants across Europe. With some irony, the bleak, hail-strewn streets of Northern Norway gave me more confidence that I could finish the project - while in the somewhat warmer climes of Marseille, I thought “fuck it.”

Then followed a back and forth with the publisher. Having explained that this really wasn’t for me, further emails followed trying to persuade me to finish the project. The more stubborn my retorts, the more conciliatory came the response from the publisher, praising “the hard work” done so far. However, their attempts at persuasion fell on ears that were already deaf to the subject.

Eventually, I had to put it in plain terms : I quit. Reluctantly, I said, the publisher would need to find another Narrator. They finally accepted and terminated my contract.

But although I failed in this task, I don’t feel a failure. Right from the start I knew this was going to be a new challenge, something I may not be capable of achieving. It’s difficult to look at a planned event that didn’t work out, but that is part and parcel of working for yourself. Just like any employer you’ve worked for, there are rules, deadlines and boundaries. But as a freelance, you have the right to say no.

Obviously there may be consequences. I am conscious that other prospective clients may read this and conclude “this guy’s a complete arse - we should never hire him.” However, I do believe you should be honest with yourself, and also with the people around you. Yes, a more steely resilience might have got me over the line with the book, but it would have left me even more exhausted, and likely angry, that I hadn’t enjoyed it or actually done a good job. A job done badly is arguably worse than one not finished at all.

So for now, it’s farewell to audiobooks. They weren’t for me. Reader, I failed.

Kevin Stanley is a former BBC journalist who now works as a specialist in content, communications and coaching - but probably not narrating books.

But the process of timely communications and engagement has significantly changed, and police forces now know it’s not an option to remain silent or to wait for hours to release a statement. And it’s largely the fault of social media.

Following the Southport attack, the National Police Chiefs Council developed new guidelines for disclosing the details of suspects, specifically around race and nationality. In my view this was a sensible move to counter the sewer of disinformation that fills social platforms after a serious incident.

This weekend those guidelines have been put their paces in Nottinghamshire, where a car was driven into a group of pedestrians in Arnold town centre. The initial police statement (timed at 0845 on Saturday morning) specifically said the suspect was believed to be white, though this far have not mentioned their nationality.

From a communications perspective, the press office has probably done all it can so far, though that hasn’t stopped the inevitable speculation. On X, messages suggest that the police have “only mentioned that they are white” - and “wouldn’t have done the same has they been black”. That’s simply not true. The whole point of the guidelines is to prevent speculation and misinformation. There may well be further details that the police haven’t disclosed because doing so may impede their investigation, principally to arrest a suspect. It’s entirely possible they have a name and address, but to put that into the public domain would be madness.

Journalists, like the public, are hungry animals. This morning the BBC has been covering the story with a live page online. I have mixed views about the usefulness of scrolling pages when information may be limited, but on this occasion it’s the right call. And the page itself sets things out extremely clearly.

Journalistically, this format achieves two key aims. Firstly (and perhaps obviously), it informs the audience of how the story if progressing. But secondly, publishing a list of the unknowns shows the reader that these questions are actively being asked. It guides the reader, providing an assurance that this content is professional and trustworthy.

I mention this second point because it’s enormously important in today’s digital sewer. Misinformation thrives wherever there is a vacuum of facts. The list of unanswered questions partly fills that void, and in turn lessens the ability for misinformation to spread. In more ways than one, that’s the BBC fulfilling a measurable public purpose.

As strange as this may seem, I would suggest that any organisation seeking to learn more about strategic communications should examine incidents like these. You may not be dealing with a car ramming incident, but any kind of negative reputational event presents the same dilemma - what do you say and when, and what don’t you say? What messaging is necessary right now and what’s the most appropriate way of saying it.

By studying the police statements that evolve, alongside the reporting and yes, the misinformation, we build up a timeline of communications process. In turn, this provides a valuable insight of how this can be applied to any reputational event. A story like this translates into a SWOT analysis of what works and what doesn’t. It also gives us evidence of how communication events from all perspectives shape a narrative.

If the previous two paragraphs sound like a university thesis, try translating that theory into reality and you’ll quickly see that it works. Obviously not every reputational risk is as serious as this scenario - and not every organisation will be blessed with a large team of communications professionals. But the core principles are the same.

• Have a plan for crisis communications and ensure the agreed guidelines are followed, without exception

• Prepare for speculation and misinformation, be that on social media or in your own office - and have a strategy to deal with that

• Be timely in your messaging

Whether it’s in the public or private sector, I can help you build and run a successful strategic communications plan. To start the conversation, email kevinstanleyjournalism@gmail.com

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That fresh faced reporter is me in 1998, when I had hair and always wore a suit for work. The mark in the middle of the photo is a staple, because yes, I was a centrefold… in The Journalist magazine. It doesn’t get more glamorous than that.

This pique of nostalgia has come about because the BBC Radio Car is being retired from daily service. Newer versions, known as the Verv (Versatile Vehicle), are still knocking about, but are quickly becoming obsolete, largely because you can now get a broadcast quality signal from just about any phone.

But for decades, the Radio Car was the way to get on air from location. They consisted of a regular car kitted out with an extendable mast, heavily weighted down in the middle of the vehicle. Around the mast was an array of electronics that seemed like an aircraft cockpit to the untrained eye. Yet the theory behind the Radio Car was that any old fool could operate it without the assistance of an engineer. When it came down to it, it was basically three buttons; one to raise and lower the mast, a second to switch on the UHF transmitter and a third to connect the microphone. A mixing panel was usually added to enable multiple mics to be connected.

But although these were “simple” bits of kit from a technological point of view, they created all kinds of nightmares for colleagues who used them over the years. Before you were even allowed to hold the keys, there was a strict lesson from a senior engineer, warning of how the tip of the mast could electrocute you if you touched it, or it touched an overhead power line. You had to learn and memorise the safe operating distances from wires, recite at least three types of weather where you wouldn’t put the mast up and remember what to do and who to call if something went wrong.

What wasn’t included in the tutorial and the subsequent test was how to drive the thing. Many journalists are used to handling the smallest of cars. An estate or people carrier with bonkers weight distribution, not to mention thousands of pounds worth of equipment on board, was another thing entirely. A light dusting of snow or a muddy field could soon land you in trouble.

And the whole point was that these cars could, in theory, go anywhere. Farms, country shows, canal towpaths, airport runways (well, maybe not), the car took the reporter to the heart of the action.

The more modern Verv model, picture above, dispensed with the clunky extendable mast and replaced it with a satellite dish. Backed up by a 4G multi channel Comrex, it was supposedly easier to operate and more reliable. However, satellites need a specific line of sight, and you could often spend a good 20 minutes waiting for the dish to spin around and align itself.

And that was the biggest challenge - getting to a location in good time to set up and get on the air. A breakfast shift would often include going to more than one place, and producers were notoriously bad at building in enough travel and preparation time. You’d often be ringing the doorbell of a remote house just moments before being on air, trying to simultaneously talk to the producer at base while explaining to a little old lady how live radio worked. More than once I have concluded a broadcast only for the contributor to ask : “When will that be on the radio?” Erm, it just was!

On the road itself could also be a real experience. Some motorists would kindly let you through a traffic jam, others were less impressed by the idiot in the big car labelled BBC who was negotiating a parking place over a high kerb. As a journalist, of course, you were expected to be fearless. I recall one colleague racing back to base with a recording (the Radio Car having failed) and complaining that it would only do 80 miles per hour. Contrary to popular belief, tickets were issued in such circumstances and it was the journalist, not the BBC, who had to pay the fine.

While the Radio Car was sometime a great advert for your station, it also made you a moving target. Not all of the stories you covered were good news. A murder, for instance, is a great juicy story for a journalist, but a nightmare if you wanted to keep things low key. While the local newspaper reporter was discretely knocking on doors for comment, you were being surrounded by local kids who would try and get near the car, have a look inside, or nick a spare microphone. This would frequently happen, of course, while you were in the middle of a live broadcast, meaning you had limited opportunities to deter them. Worse still would be the adults, who might be especially annoyed that you were sniffing around their neighbourhood for the grim facts of what had happened.

When BBC Local Radio was reconfigured massively cut in 2023, one particular daily shift was conspicuous by its absence. Almost every station had a Radio Car reporter, usually working from 6am, serving the breakfast and mid morning shows. As the NUJ Nations and Regions rep I questioned why this boots on the ground resource - the one reporter rooted in its communities - was being scrapped. A range of excuses was given, none of which made sense. However, we were also told at the time that even the newer Verv cars were reaching the end of their useful lives and would not be replaced. The scene was set for the end of the Radio Car.

Today, almost everything is done via a WhatsApp call, which is not only cheap (or free with WiFi) but can be done by the contributor. There is no longer any need for a reporter to be present. And yes, some may say it doesn’t sound the same (it doesn’t, it’s often better), but it’s hard to think of a justification for a lumpy bit of kit that costs around £70,000 and sits in a car park for much of the time.

Doubtless someone will buy one of these old wrecks and preserve it in working order for purposes of nostalgia. Personally, I loved the variety of the reporting, but I disliked driving them around. Many colleagues would agree.

Kevin Stanley is a former BBC Journalist who now works as a freelance communications consultant, teacher and trainer.

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And yet, all too often, reporters sent to locations across the world fail to understand the sense of place that’s needed for the radio. Or at least those producing the audio bulletins do. And it’s a real shame.

Yesterday morning, before their triumphant performance, BBC radio ran a preview report of Team GB’s prospects. The nation at last stood a real chance of significant success, complete with an eager sense of anticipation. It was all building up to what eventually became a super Sunday.

But you wouldn’t know that from the BBC’s radio report. Don’t get me wrong - the reporter Andy Swiss is one of the best in the business. He works exceptionally hard at events around the world, with a warm and professional tone that’s always nice to hear. The preview report - by way of a Voice Piece - was delivered factually, with accuracy, and at a pace this listener could easily understand. And I really do hate to say negative things about former BBC colleagues.

So what was the problem? Andy was in Cortina (or Milan) but the radio report was filed from either the press centre or his hotel room. On telly he would have been out in the open, next to or near the venue where the event was happening. But for radio, he may as well have been in a lifeless studio in Salford.

This isn’t an individual criticism of Andy himself, who works extremely long hours for multiple channels and programmes. However, I am constantly amazed at the mindset of a reporter - or a producer in a newsroom in London - who doesn’t think about how this sounds on the radio. Even if he were in a posh hotel in central Milan, was there nothing that could have been done to give the listener a sense of location?

Whenever I’m recording for the TravelCaster podcast I try to make a point of getting some audio to illustrate the atmosphere. Sometimes, it’s as simple as opening a hotel room window that overlooks the street; the background noise of traffic, or just the birds singing in the trees, can really lift a link to a whole new level.

It’s not just sport that constantly makes the same old tired error of recording a voice piece. Global summits, dispatches from Jerusalem, news from Washington all suffer from this lack of basic thinking around what works best for audio. A significant by-election result, the launch of a major new transport hub, peril in the financial markets; all with lifeless reports recorded in a soundproof box.

Now, as mentioned earlier, I fully recognise that the job of a reporter serving multiple outlets at all times of the day and night is not an easy one. From time to time, filing reports from the hotel room may be the only option. But I do wonder how often a producer asking for that report politely suggests “Just open the window”.

It can make an enormous difference.

Kevin Stanley was a BBC journalist for 25 years and now delivers journalism training and media education.

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