Amid celebrations this week to mark the 25th anniversary of Pope John Paul's visit to Ireland, Billy FitzGerald recalls the pontiff's first and disastrous face-to-camera RTÉ television broadcast earlier that year
In April 1979, Irish missionaries, layfolk, sisters, brothers, priests and the occasional bishop had come from every corner of the globe to the Irish national Marian shrine at Knock, Co Mayo, for a great missionary congress.
Their meeting was a reunion, a celebration of more than a century of dedicated service and an opportunity to thank and pray for the Irish Church which had sent them abroad and supported them over the years by their prayers and finances.
A message came through to me in my office at RTÉ while we were preparing extensive TV coverage of the event. The Holy Father would like, in his turn, to honour both the missionaries and the nation by sending a pre-recorded message to be broadcast during the congress.
A slot was booked in the transmission schedule and the papal message duly arrived. It was carried in the customary two flat tins, one containing the film and the other the synchronised sound-track. (These were the days before colour videotape had come into general use, although it was used for training purposes).
Because of the last minute arrival of the film I barely had time to hand it over to the transmission people before I set off for Knock for our week's work of coverage.
Transmission of the papal message was arranged for the 10 minutes immediately following the evening news on the final Friday of the mission congress. All over Ireland TV sets were tuned in for what was certainly a unique event.
The programme was announced and there was an anticipatory silence in the pub where our TV team had gathered to watch the transmission after their day's work.
And then, there he was. "My dear brothers and sisters in Jesus Christ...." The bronzed face was smiling; the voice was strong and the personality engaging. But suddenly, within seconds of his beginning, he simply disappeared!
What had happened was that he had picked up his script from the desk at which he was sitting and was holding it right in front of his face. From then on, all we saw was his white succetto, or skull-cap, his hairline and his eyebrows. All eye contact was lost. Three-quarters of the screen was blank, white paper. And it stayed that way.
Within minutes all interest had gone. The whole pub went back to the business of drinking. The remainder of the Pope's message was drowned out by the hubbub of pub chat. My embarrassment was only slightly alleviated by the thought that the whole fiasco was not an RTÉ production but had been made by someone in Rome who had not even bothered to give the Pope an autocue.
That might have been the end of it except that, within a matter of weeks, it was announced that the Holy Father was planning to visit Ireland at the end of September. Within the religious programmes department at RTÉ it was all hands on deck.
Then, in the midst of the preparations, another message: the Holy Father wanted to go on-air during his short visit, so that he could speak to those who, for illness or any other reason, could not attend any of the planned events. And because time in Ireland was to be so short - a matter of only three days - he wanted to pre-record his message in Rome before he left for Ireland.
The prospect was daunting. I decided that the only thing to do was to face the problem straight-on. A one-page critique of the Pope's missionary message in April was sent off to Father John Magee, then the Holy Father's English language secretary, at Castel Gandolfo, where the Pope was spending the summer.
It was suggested that the Holy Father should receive some training in the use of an autocue. Next day Father Magee (now Bishop of Cloyne) was on the phone. "Come out and let's discuss what can be done," he said.
The result of that brief visit was that within a week an ante-chamber of the papal palace had been put at our disposal. We converted it into a mini-studio with lights, video equipment and a portable autocue.
For a week Pope John Paul became a student again. The equipment fascinated him and he quickly learned the TV presenter's tricks of the trade.
Although he was officially on holiday, his schedule was full. So our RTÉ team had to be on standby constantly. Training sessions could be called at a moment's notice. By week's end, however, the skills had been mastered and the message was ready.
We went for a take. It was not good. Seated beside the pontiff, just out of shot, I suggested that it would be worth a second try. He agreed and we took it from the top. Perfect. "There," he said, sitting back with a smile. "Now you have two bad ones!" He graciously chatted with my crew, thanked us and was gone.
The broadcast was, as we had hoped, a great success. But I don't know if the Holy Father ever used an autocue again.
Billy FitzGerald is a former Head of Religious Programmes at RTÉ.