Inconceivable (16 page)

‘Yeah, if you want it, grrrl, just grab it. It’s a babe revolution.’

That being sorted out to everyone’s satisfaction, a tiny voice from Solihull asked if the grrrls had heard that their manager was predicting that they would soon be bigger than the Beatles.

‘We’re already bigger than the Beatles, aren’t we?’ said one of Grrrl Gang. ‘I mean, there’s five of us and there were only four of them.’

The rest of the Grrrls nodded wisely at this.

Then Tazz announced that it was environment week on
Livin’ Large
and that the show was committed to biggin’ up the environment big time, right. The grrrls from Grrrl Gang all let it be known that they had big respec’ for this concept and it was at this point that I got my first intimation that the morning was not necessarily going to go entirely smoothly. Tazz had brought on the
Livin’ Large
‘Green Professor’, a nice, wacky, bearded git called Simon. The idea was that Simon would discuss green issues with Tazz, Grrrl Gang and the kids.

Sometimes these things can be a little sticky, but one of the grrrls from Grrrl Gang had a question right off.

‘Talking about the environment, right,’ she said, ‘do you know about animals and stuff, then?’

Simon positively glowed. ‘Well, a little. I’m Chief Zoologist to the Royal Natural Academy.’

‘All right, answer me this, then,’ said the grrrl. ‘How come birds have rude names, then?’

Simon was clearly not following.

‘You know,’ the grrrl continued. ‘Cock, tit, thrush.’

Up in the control box we all froze.

‘Warbler.’

The kids giggled and Simon stuttered.

‘Well, I…’

In control the phone lines were lighting up already as irate parents all over the country began to call in to complain. The producer screamed into Tazz’s earpiece telling her to move on. I could see her wincing on camera six.

‘My brother used to have a white mouse called Big Balls,’ said a second member of Grrrl Gang.

‘Yeah, but that’s just a personal name, innit?’ replied the first.

‘Not a breed.’

At that point Tazz was able to throw to her male partner who was standing next to the Gunk Tank ready to Gunk Dunk the weatherman from
Top of the Morning TV
, a cable channel morning show.

Looking back, I suppose I should have taken it as a warning. The warm complacent glow I had been feeling (Lucy stonked up; me about to be the sole facilitator of a glorious TV moment with the PM) suddenly chilled a bit. This was live telly and things could go wrong. But the panic in the box subsided and I comforted myself that it was probably good luck to get the gremlins out of the way first. A glance at my watch informed me that the PM was due in twenty minutes so I decided to make my way to the front of TV Centre to be ready to receive him.

Oh, how naive I’d been.

To think that I had actually believed that I was to be allowed to glory in this moment alone. Ha! I cringe at my stupidity. When I got to the reception area I discovered that a welcome committee had already assembled. Nigel was there, of course, standing on the red carpet trying to look both relaxed and important in equal measure, but he was way way back, bobbing up and down to see, and you just can’t stand on your tiptoes in a dignified and commanding manner. In front of Nigel, all jostling for position, were the Corporation’s Chief of Accounting, also the Heads of Marketing, Networking, Global Outreaching and Corporate Affairsing. Besides these, I could see the BBC2 Channel Controller, who was officially junior to Nigel but was ahead on the carpet because he was more fashionable and tipped in the media to shaft Nigel by next Christmas. Also present were the Head of Television and the Head of Radio, also the Head of Television and Radio (Radio and Television Group) and the Chief Programming Coordinator and the Chief Coordinating Programmer and the Deputy Director General, of course the Director General himself, the Chairman of the Board of Governors and the Board of Governors. Basically, the entire senior executive management structure of the Corporation had turned out so that they could say they had met the PM and also no doubt to sneak an ogle at Tazz.

I took my place at the back of the crowd quietly determining to find a moment to proclaim loudly that despite being far and away the most junior senior executive present I was in charge on the ground. It was my gig.

There were five or six Downing Street minders buzzing about the place as well, phones and pagers going off like the martians were about to land. I saw Jo Winston and waved but I’m afraid she either didn’t see me or didn’t recognize me. A palpable buzz amongst the minders and the cops announced the imminent arrival of the great man.
Livin’ Large
was covering the main gate with news cameras and I heard a radio crackle that the PM’s car was just coming off the Westway and down into Wood Lane.

Then they were upon us. Outside the main gates heading south towards Shepherd’s Bush was the mini cavalcade, two motorcycle outriders at each end sandwiching three cars of which the PM’s Daimler with its darkened rear windows was the middle one. As the procession drew up opposite the main entrance the front motorbikes pulled across the road into the oncoming traffic to block the northbound traffic. Clever idea, I thought. Wish I could do that. A person can sit in the middle of that road for five minutes waiting for a chance to pull across. For the PM’s driver it was the work of an instant, however, and, leaving behind the two secret service cars, the Daimler pulled up to the famous IN barrier of BBC Television Centre.

And then came the first of the day’s truly momentous disasters.

Book, my hand shakes as I report that the barrier did not rise.

The entire top brass of the BBC (plus me) stood transfixed with horror as the prime ministerial Daimler drew to a reluctant halt whilst a little old man in a peaked cap emerged from the security hut that stands beside the barrier.

‘My God,’ I heard the Deputy Director General exclaim to the Director General, ‘that fellow is asking the Prime Minister if his name’s on the Gate List.’

The DDG’s voice was the only sound. None of us could speak. We just watched in dumbstruck silence as down at the gate a negotiation began to take place between the BBC guard and the Prime Minister’s driver.

I could feel my bowel start to loosen. The BBC gate men are notorious, positively Soviet in their trancelike commitment to the letter of BBC law. Their duty is to defend the gates of Television Centre against all but those who have passes or whose names are on the Gate List, and they discharge this duty with a lack of personal initiative that would have surprised a Stepford wife. In fact only last week a story went round that Tom Jones had been refused entry because his name was not on the Gate List, even though he had got out of his Roller and sung ‘It’s Not Unusual’, ‘Delilah’ and ‘What’s New, Pussycat?’ on the pavement.

Jo Winston’s radio crackled. It was the voice of the Prime Minister’s driver. We could see him talking into his mouthpiece from where we stood.

‘They won’t lift the barrier, Jo. The guard says there’s no name on his Gate List.’

Oh, my fucking giddy bollocks!

‘Tell him it’s the Prime Minister!’ Jo snapped into her radio.

‘I have. He says, oh yeah and he’s Bruce Forsyth.’

‘But it
is
the Prime Minister.’

‘I know it’s the Prime Minister, miss. I’m his driver, but this man says there’s no name on his Gate List.’

Everyone in the reception committee twitched in horror. The Chairman of the Board of Governors turned to the Director General.

‘Why has the Prime Minister’s name not been forwarded to the gate?’ he said.

The Director General turned to the Deputy Director General.

‘Why has the Prime Minister’s name not been forwarded to the gate?’

The Deputy Director General repeated the question to the Head of Television and Radio who asked it of the Head of Television. He asked Nigel the Channel Controller and Nigel turned to the man who was in charge on the ground, the man whose gig it was.

‘Sam!’ he hissed.

Before Nigel could ask me why the Prime Minister’s name had not been forwarded to the gate, I pushed my way through to the front of the group and grabbed Jo’s radio.

‘Tell the idiot at the gate that this is Sam Bell, BBC Controller, Broken Comedy and Variety!’ I barked, and was rather disconcerted to notice that a number of minders, both BBC and Government, noted down my name. ‘The Prime Minister is appearing on
Livin’ Large
and he is to be allowed through immediately!’

After a tense moment during which we could all see the driver conveying my message to the guard, the driver radioed back.

‘He says he’s going to need a programme number for
Livin’ Large
to check with the studio. He says nobody told him about any prime minister and he thinks it’s a wind-up.’

Of course!

Now I understood the problem in all its horror. Nobody trusts anybody in television any more. That is its curse. There has been such a plethora of shows based on practical jokes and nasty cons on TV over the past few years that everybody in the industry lives in a state of constant paranoia. They check their hotel rooms for hidden cameras, their bathrooms for tiny mikes.

Nobody is safe. Impressionists ring up celebrities pretending to be other celebrities, tricking them into making appalling indiscretions which are then broadcast to the nation. Hoax current affairs programme researchers fool naive politicians into commenting on non-existent issues so as to make them look like complete idiots. False charities con publicity-desperate public figures into earnestly espousing ludicrous fictitious causes and campaigns. Candid cameras record people’s selfish reactions to prostrate figures in the street and ticking bags on buses. 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. It was only when he said he loved his job because of the ready supply of sheep that they rumbled him.

This hapless gate guard, seeing the
Livin’ Large
cameras looming behind him, clearly suspected that he was the subject of what is known in the business as a ‘gotcha’. He imagined that if he let the Daimler through, Noel Edmunds or Jeremy Beadle would leap out of the boot and lampoon him.

Nigel had joined me in the little cluster of people around Jo’s radio.

‘Give the bastard the programme number,’ he hissed in my ear.

It was the obvious thing to do and I would have done it, except that I did not have the programme number. Why would I? I am a senior executive. I have people to have that type of thing for me.

So does Nigel, of course, and his person is me. He was nearly in tears.

‘Sam! You’re in charge on the ground!’ There was no pretence at hissing now. ‘Get the barrier lifted!’

I gave Jo back her radio and set off for the barrier, which was a distance of perhaps fifty metres. For a moment I tried to maintain my dignity but trying to walk at running pace looks even more panicky than running, so I ran. At the barrier I could see that the guard was shaken but determined. For all he knew this could be a test of his guarding abilities. We have all seen films where the guard nods the general through and then the general turns on the guard and bollocks him for not demanding to see a pass. The gate guard did not wish to make that mistake. All in all he had clearly decided that whether it was a hoax or not the safest policy for him was to cling to the rules like a paranoid limpet.

‘He hasn’t got a pass. His name’s not on the list and you haven’t got a programme number. The rules are very clear.’

I wondered how the PM was taking all this. It was impossible to say since, as I have said, the rear windows of the Daimler were darkened. To see him I would have had to put my head through the driver’s window, which would probably have resulted in my being shot. The shadowy nature of the PM’s countenance was of course a contributory factor to the gate guard’s doubts. I thought about asking whether the Premier would mind stepping out for a moment and showing himself, but I did not have the nerve.

‘Right,’ I said, and grabbing the gate I attempted to lift it by brute force. This was pointless, of course. I heaved and I heaved and the guard threatened to call the police, of whom there were four in evidence. I think if I had bent the barrier backwards it might have snapped but supposing it had boinged back and killed someone? A flying splinter might blind the PM!

I had to think straight. Force was not the answer. I let go of the gate and strode back to the guard.

‘Ring the switchboard,’ I said. ‘Ask them to ring
Livin’ Large
and get them to give you a programme number.’

There was an agonizing wait for the switchboard to respond. It was a Saturday, after all, and TV Centre is always a bit dead on a Saturday. Eventually the guard got through, but only as far as the switchboard, who refused to put him through to
Livin’ Large
.