THE BRITISH ART OF JUNKETEERING

Recalling London. . . .

The BBC Sports publicity man said I’d be making a mistake passing up a media junket to Edinburgh. “Everyone who is anyone will be there,” Peter Lorenzo promised.

The junket had two purposes.

First was to promote the BBC’s telecast of this summer’s Royal Gala Performance in Edinburgh, a posh bash to be attended by the queen and designed to raise money for the 1986 Commonwealth Games in Scotland (also to be telecast by the BBC).

The second purpose was to promote British Airways, which wanted to be named the official airline for the Games.

The chartered Concorde was to leave London’s Heathrow Airport at 10 a.m., arrive at Edinburgh airport for a lunch/press conference, then be back in London at 2 p.m.

I dislike junkets. But how could I pass up a chance to ride the futuristic Concorde, the strange-looking, needle-nosed jet that can zoom at 1,350 m.p.h.?

Underestimating the distance to Heathrow, I arrived half an hour late. The Concorde was already taxiing.

But wait! British Airways officials were huddling. They would get me on a separate shuttle flight to Edinburgh, where I could meet my fellow junketeers for lunch and propaganda and then return with them on the Concorde. All this for me? I was overwhelmed.

But wait again! Better plan. I must be some big shot, for far out on the runway the Concorde had come to a halt and was now waiting.

For me!

My head swelled. I felt flushed. The pride of Fleet Street and British broadcasting sat in a jet awaiting the apparently world-famous TV critic from Los Angeles. Even I was impressed with myself.

My reputation had preceded me. How could I have underestimated me? It was now so obvious. My columns on “Hollywood Wives” and the Shmenge Brothers’ TV special must have dazzled the cream of British journalism. And my penetrating examinations of “Detective in the House,” “Off the Rack” and “Mr. Belvedere” must have put them away. I was some kind of journalist.

Rosenberg’s the name, news is my game.

A policeman drove me out to the Concorde, which had re-lowered its boarding ramp. After squaring my jaw and turning up the collar on my trench coat, I climbed the stairs, hoping I wouldn’t trip. I was greeted at the top by a steward, who said:

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Rosenfield.”

Yes, well, it was the kind of nervous error that anyone could make in the presence of greatness.

Some greatness. The Brits didn’t know me from Mr. Magoo. I was simply one last anonymous sheep to herd aboard the Concorde, a VIP of the moment merely because I was the only American reporter (anyone probably would have done).

This was a classic media event, after all, and my role, another reporter suggested to me later, was to write something splashy that could enhance the BBC’s chances of gaining a U. S. TV outlet for its Commonwealth Games coverage. So on with the trip.

I’ve seen junkets.

But this was a junket. This was spectacular, a Concorde crammed with BBC and Games officials and 80 members of the media, including still photographers and five TV crews, flying north.

On assignment.

The BBC said British Airways picked up the junket tab in exchange for the BBC agreeing to make a film promoting the Concorde for worldwide distribution.

Whoosh ! We were off!

As the Concorde flew over the North Sea, our journalistic senses were tweaked by a champagne brunch. Then a TV crew ran up the narrow aisle to get a shot of the pilot. Other TV crews followed. Then they shot through the windows.

Stewardesses passed through with plastic models of the Concorde and press kits containing printed handouts, pens, Commonwealth Games lapel pins and black ties bearing the Games logo.

The trip to Edinburgh was boozy and speedy. We were serenaded at the airport by noisy bagpipers wearing kilts and tall feather hats and then led to a large, flag-decorated room where a fine buffet and drinks were waiting.

First a press conference. Reporters--some wearing their new lapel pins and others with Concorde models stuffed in their jacket pockets--surrounded elegant Lord Delfont, the producer of the Royal Gala Performance.

The room became a giant cocktail party. Outside by the Concorde, meanwhile, 10 still photographers enclosed two British track stars who were posing with kilted pipers.

At 12:45 p.m., the pipers resumed playing, cueing the tough-minded reporters to reboard the Concorde. On our seats were more printed handouts, small bottles of Scotch whisky and sprigs of lucky Scottish heather.

Before the Concorde lifted off the ground, the stewardesses distributed souvenir stuffed bears and more Concorde models. “Can I have another one for me brother?” a reporter asked.

The return trip was tortuous, an endless nightmare of food and champagne. When we landed at Heathrow, the passengers--including “Mr. Rosenfield”--applauded. The event showed me that British and American journalists share at least one hazard:

On both sides of the Atlantic, junketeering is a dirty job.