Dear Hugh 2
Friday May 6th 2005
Dear Hugh,
Christ! Hell of a day. I don’t know if I told you but since I gave up the publicity game because I could no longer cope with newspapers calling to ask me to ask Him for a quote on who He was wanting to win Big Brother or some such, I’ve been attempting to apply the old brain to working in the wonderland of television.
Let me warn you now, it’s not the glamour world of cocaine canapés that you might imagine it to be. Tell a lie, it is – there’s powder all over the shop - but none of it is fun.
To recap; having done the Fleet Street stint in my youth and then the rock & roll PR trip, I thought that TV was ripe for a bash. I mean, it’s quite obvious from the slightest glance at The Radio Times that television these days is scheduled by and for the retarded and so I was easily convinced by the lads who encouraged me that a mind such as mine could think of better programmes than that.
Well turn again Dick Whittington because it’s all changed since my day (said day being the brief period when I worked as a showbiz correspondent on BBC Breakfast Time before I was sacked at the insistence of producer Julia Smith for giving away EastEnders’ Christmas Day cliff-hanger live on air to an aghast and then-slender Eamonn Homes).
Let me tell you that it’s got so dire that was I to partially shave my head and dress up as Jacob Bronowski, standing up to my knees at Auschwitz in a grey swamp of the ashes of my kindred with the script for The Ascent Of Man in my hands, nobody would want to broadcast it. I know everyone complains that TV is only worth watching for the late-night porn these days, but now I’ve discovered that’s because of these all-in-black herberts who laud it under the title of Commissioning Editor. Dealing with them is like hanging about with the Hitler Jurgund, and those few of them that aren’t dykes are just as spotty-faced.
Try to get them interested in a proposed programme of culture or comedy (God forbid drama that features anybody who can act in character other than exactly the one they played in a soap opera) and all they do is yawn and pick at their pimples and ask you fiercely if there’s a cleaning lady who features in it.
All they seem to want is this reality guff that bears no resemblance to life led by anybody we know and programmes with titles like Push The Cripple Down The Stairs.
They appear to be very big on that, by the way, that tormenting of anyone unfortunate; oh yes, they’ll buy any amount of shows that feature paraplegics from Catford. Especially if your programme can in some way demonstrate that your featured cripple went to school with a someone who became a celebrity. In fact during a recent pitch a couple of these Com Eds became very fevered about my suggestion for a 20-part series starring celebrity presenters with piles and they then got very frosty when I said that The Grapes Of Ross was only a joke.
They got a bit sniffy after that. Well, first they went off to the toilet together; then they got a bit sniffy. As my colleagues were not glaring because I wasn’t playing the popular pursuit of love the Emperor’s new clothes, I tried to make light of it all by suggesting the worst programmes that you could possibly imagine. How about, I joked, a one-hour special for Five called “The World’s Greatest Gold-Diggers”?
“We’ve done that already”, they said.
OK, what about Fifty Worst Celebrity Hair Days?
“We’ve done that too”.
God, you are feral aren’t you? Alright, how about “The Biggest Pricks In Showbiz”?
“Is that something to do with Newsnight?”, they asked warily.
No, I explained, I was thinking more on the lines of a doco about famous blokes with big schlongs; you know, like Colin Farrell and Frank Sinatra, or Chris Evans.
“Is Chris Evans blessed? How do you know?”, they said.
I used to know one of his girlfriends (hi, Suze), I said.
They considered this for a few moments in a huddle of sniffing.
“Nah, it’d only work if we could see the blessing on camera”, they concluded, “And we’re not sure of the ITCA ruling on ginger pubes.
“Nice idea, though; got anything else? We’re looking for something really key, a programme that evokes the zeitgeist of living right here, right now. Your Push The Cripple idea is sort of on the right lines, but we don’t really like the title – it should be called Kick The Cripple Down The Stairs; it’s more alliterative, easier for the viewer to remember”.
Do your viewers have problems recalling a programme about hurling paraplegics down a stairwell, I asked, don’t you think that it might somehow stick in the mind?. But they ignored me contemptuously.
Typical. Gits.
All best
GB