I was in the middle of having to catch up with another episode of the dreadful fucking 'shitcom' Gavin and Stacey (Christ, how many did Julian commission?) when Bertie - totally unannounced - popped his head into my office.
He looked nice and tanned; a bronze beauty if ever I saw one (for a man, that is). I greated him like a long lost puppy. Bertie, remember, is one fuck of an important player.
He said that he was in the cutting room "fixing" a three-parter for Martin Davidson, due to air on BBC4 next month. "You really, really, REALLY don't want to know ANYTHING about this one," he said with a big fucking smile on his arrogant, yet convincingly assured, sunburnt face.
I mentioned that I'd really like to sit down with him and go through a few ideas that I had kicking about, but, as expected, this wasn't going to be Bertie's bag: "Call me in six months when you REALLY need some bloody help! I'm done with troubleshooting shit before it hits the fan. Besides, I'm not really convinced that you could afford me! I read Broadcast just like everybody else does. Tough times already, eh?"
And that was it. Off he minced, back to his fucking basement edit to go and win some more fucking Baftas no doubt.
Fuck you Bertie.
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