Sam Bell,
'one of the BBC's most senior and experienced lunch
eaters', dines at
a restaurant called One Nine Oh, so-called because it's
situated at 190 Ladbroke Park Gate. He is there to meet a couple of
'post-modern comedians' called Dog and Fish, who claim to
'do for the joke what
Techno did for the tune'. Sam saw their act in
Edinburgh and thought they were
'truly and deeply awful in a very real
sense', but
Time Out says that they are
'important and mould-breaking' ('No mention of
funny,', muses Sam. 'But that would be selling
out.'). He is meeting
with them because 'the
BBC must beat a path to their door, otherwise Channel 4 will get
them and look more hip than us'. Dog and Fish
plan to do a four-hour docusoap comedy which 'cuts out all that false crap that TV comedy
normally gets bogged down in, like scripts and jokes and acting in
an amusing manner, and get straight to the raw improvisational
bones of their genius'. The duo laugh in a
'grunty, cynical,
fag-ashy kind of a way'.
Dog and Fish's manager is called Aiden
Fumet. He is in charge of comedy acts which The Guardian and
Time Out have
'sequentially announced as 'quite simply the best in
Britain today''. He is not just aggressive,
but self-righteous - he
'sees any failure on the part of the BBC to grant a series to
any of his acts as evidence of a vicious conspiracy to deny the
young people of Britain the comedic nourishment for which their
souls are clearly crying out'. As Sam adds,
'the idea that the BBC
might think some of his acts less than good does not cross his
mind'.
Sam reads a script - a comic play by a
playwright who's already had 'a one-act piece put on at the Royal Court or
some other gruesome, up-its-own-arse, over-subsidised London centre
of theatrical wankdom'. The new play is called
Fucking and Fucking.
'I told him we'd have to change the
title,' says Sam, 'and he looked at me as if I was some kind of
fascist.'
Another lunch, and Sam and his BBC
colleagues talk shop. Sam concludes that telling people in
showbusiness not to talk about showbusiness would be 'like telling the Pope to lay off
the religious stuff'. This time they
dine in a restaurant called Quark, where Sam makes a faux pas with
a prawn appetiser and feels
'every type of turd'. The meal
is spent with the three men trying to remember what their job
titles are.
Sam considers a move into the independent
sector.
'Honestly,' he
says. 'I see children
making five times what I make, and all because they've rented
three square feet of carpet in Dean Street, a secretary with a nice
belly button, and commissioned a witty documentary about chalet
girls on the piss.'
Sam decides to contact his old friend, Simon
'Tosser' Tomkins, who has 'done very well of late, having practically
cornered the market in supplying the BBC with programmes fronted by
posh smart alecs'. These have all been
pretty good, Sam remarks,
'not least because the BBC itself pioneered most of the
formats on radio'.
Sam gets a major coup - he manages to book the
Prime Minister for an appearance on the kids' Saturday morning
show Livin' Large. His boss Nigel, currently ligging at
a television festival in Barcelona, gives Sam the brief - the PM
must be seen by the kids as someone who plays the electric guitar,
enjoys comedy with proper swearing in it, and wears fashionable
trousers. The idea comes from the BBC's PR people, itself
indicative of changes at the corporation: 'BBC press and public relations used to
consist of an office with a large enthusiastic woman in it whom
everyone ignored,' says Sam. 'Now it's a huge and
entirely separate company called something like BBC Communications,
or Beeb COM, whose services I have to
hire.' There is then much palaver as
Sam tries to get his tie ironed on BBC expenses - the BBC will only
do this if he can prove that he has sought the most competitive
tender for the job. Further problems arise due to Livin'
Large being made by an independent production company called
Choose Groove Productions.
'This does not mean they make the show in any practical
sense - oh no, the BBC make it, with BBC staff in a BBC studio,
paid for by BBC money, the only difference being that some bloke
with a ponytail in Soho takes a three-grand-an-episode production
fee and gets to stick his company logo on the
end.'
Later, Sam is reading a treatment for a new game
show vehicle for one of Aiden Fumet's acts. The show features
gay and lesbian couples, its authors feeling that 'this alone makes the idea
important, alternative and at the cutting
edge'.
Sam can remember when the BBC was a friendly
place. 'A family in
which every member was a jolly uncle or an aunt. A family of fat,
boozy old time-servers who earned little and drank much. Men and
women who went through their entire lives without once wearing a
stylish garment or having a fashionable haircut. Who worked their
way up the system, serving the public faithfully (if slightly
unsteadily), from floor manager to producer to sad old git in the
corner of the bar who was too old and pissed to find his way out of
the circle*. Well those faggy, boozy days are long-gone and
it's probably for the best. None of those jolly old boys would
last a second in a climate where there's 500 channels competing
for the audience and the money's all going to cable and
satellite. Still, I can't deny that, as I stood there trembling
before my channel controller (who, I must say again, is two years
fucking younger than me) I found myself wishing that he was a
fifteen-stone, red-nosed old bastard who would just tell me to
bugger off and forget about it before commissioning another series
of Terry and June.' As he looks
at the controller, Sam leans on a Golden Rose of Montreux for
support.
[*The shape of the office building at Television
Centre. The building is notoriously difficult to leave.]
As Sam leaves, he concludes that the BBC is
still a family - 'a
modern, dysfunctional family in which everyone buggers off at the
first chance they get'.
A meeting at the BBC, featuring lots of execs,
sycophants and a woman with pink hair
('she'll probably be my next
boss,' thinks Sam). They all agree that
the BBC should be making movies.
Aiden Fumet is insistent that his acts must
unconditionally be given their own sitcoms. When Sam's
colleague asks to see an actual script, Aiden calls him a
'pointless, time-serving
cunt' and says any more 'artistic interference by the
BB-fucking-C' and his acts will no
longer be available to the Corporation.
Sam notices how much more arrogant artists are
nowadays.
'There was a time when there was only one channel
and everybody, no matter how talented, who wanted to be on telly,
did so by the grace of the BBC. That was how we used to get those
incredible long runs of things - people did what they were told,
and if that meant doing sixty episodes of the same sitcom then
that's what they did.'
Sam's colleague blames the Montreal Comedy
Festival, where 'US
non-executives swan around the place being bought drinks by British
agents and pretending to be important'.
The Americans butter the British up by promising they can turn them
into 'the next Eddie
Murphy', but ultimately cannot hire them
because they swear so much; so the Brits come home, having
drunkenly 'abused the
sexual trust of some poor little nineteen year old Canadian
publicist', bragging about the non-existent commissions. These stories then get
written up in the media
('Eric and Ernie couldn't do it, but Dog and Fish
just might!') and the industry starts to
believe its own bullshit. The upshot of all this is that the likes
of Aiden Fumet think they can push the BBC around.
Sam is turned down by Tosser Tomkins in the
independent sector.
'The BBC is just another
team-player,' he argues. Sam thinks this
is ridiculous considering the BBC is the largest broadcaster in the
world and all Tosser Tomkins has are some pretty researchers with
tattoos of scorpions on their shoulders.
A meeting with trendy new independent production
company, Above The Line Films. In attendance is a hot young
Scottish director called Ewan Proclaimer. 'Weird meeting. Like a summit between people
from different planets - the BBC being vaguely located on earth,
and Above The Line Films being located somewhere far beyond the
galaxy of Barkingtonto. The extraordinary thing is that they think
they are the ones who live in the real world. This is
because the BBC is publicly funded and is hence some dusty old
pampered 1940s welfare state relic which thinks the Eighties never
happened. Amazing how these days it's hip to assume that the
money supplied by vast, multi-national media conglomerates (writing
off their tax losses) is somehow more tough and real and proper
than that raised by the public for the purposes of their own
entertainment.'
Ewan Proclaimer has just made a film called Sick Junkie, which had been 'hugely successful' (ie,
some American critics had quite liked it), although 'it was actually seen by less
people than watch the weather on
Grampian'. His new script is called
AIDS and Heroin.
Sam is having none of it. 'For heaven's sake, I know that life
is tough out there but not exclusively so. There are more
adolescents in the Girl Guides and the Sea Scouts than there are
teenage junkies, bit nobody ever makes a film about
them.'
The PM appears on Livin' Large. Sam
takes his twelve year old niece Kylie (who last year had
'laid on her tummy in front
of the fire reading the complete Narnia
saga', but is now a pierced, sarcastic,
fashion junkie of a teenage nightmare) along to the recording. The
show is presented by a bright and bubbly, 'something for the
dads' presenter called Tazz
('the kids themselves would
probably be just as happy to watch an enthusiastic old granny, but
the bleary, beery students who haven't gone to bed yet want
something sexier'), and the guest band are a
'post-post-Spice Girls' outfit called Grrrl
Gang, fronted by lead singer Muffy. Sam hasn't heard anything
so fatuous since he
'last attended a BBC strategy
meeting'.
The Prime Minster is refused entry because, due
to an admin cock-up, his name is not on the gate list. The guard,
believing this to be a test of his obedience of the letter of the
BBC law, won't budge. Sam concludes that this is because no one
trusts anyone in television any more. 'Nobody is safe. Impressionists ring up
celebrities pretending to be other celebrities. Hoax current
affairs programme researchers fool naive politicians into
commenting on non-existent issues so as to make them look like
complete idiots. Only last week there was a huge scandal at TV
centre when a left-wing comic from Channel Four managed to blag his
way onto Newsnight and get himself interviewed as the Secretary of
State for Wales'.
Meanwhile, back in the studio, 'a boy band (called Boy Band) are
singing a song about being in love (called 'Bein' In
Love')'.
Kylie stumps the Prime Minister by asking him a
serious question about the environment and homelessness. The Prime
Minister, who was only expecting questions about electric guitars,
sweary comedy and fashionable trousers, is made to look a fool. The
BBC panics - the Corporation cannot look like it set the government
up, since they hold the future of public service broadcasting in
their hands.
Sam is moved to a new post in radio - sacking
him would have involved too many problems with the unions. His
principal responsibility is a laddish Breakfast Show presenter
called Charlie Stone. Sam soon realises that he has no money to
commission any shows with - all of it has been spent on Stone's
wages. 'Your number
one occupation,' warns controller Matt
Crowley, 'is to
stop him getting poached by Virgin or
Capital.'
Another meeting at the BBC. A man called Tom
decides that the BBC needs more accents, even if they are just
their Oxbridge friends pretending. Everyone wonders who Tom is, and
what his job is exactly.
Sam organises a Prince's Trust concert. The
headline band are called Mirage, fronted by two brothers called
Manky and Bushy. There is support from a sexy new
Loaded-friendly female singer called Brenda. Her two big hits
are 'Sex Me Again Sexy
Baby' and 'Sex Me Sex Me Sex Me'. Charlie Stone is
backstage, collating interview snippets which can be dropped into
the broadcasts whenever any of the rockers get into a long guitar
solo.
Nigel commissions Sam's script, primarily so
that he can 'make
his mark' quickly before being moved on.
'These days the
scramble to be successful is becoming ever more urgent. People move
on so quickly, it seems that - thank you, God - I am to be the
beneficiary of Nigel's haste.' Ewan
Proclaimer is brought in as director. Hypocrite Sam immediately
concludes that neither him nor Nigel are so bad after all.
Ewan Proclaimer tells Sam that all the IVF
injection scenes in the film will have thrash metal music played
over them.
'It's a personal motif,'
he explains. 'Have
you heard of a Boston grunge band called One-Eyed Trouser Snake?
They'd be perfect.'
