Tuesday, 31 July 2007

What Car are You?

This morning I seized a golden opportunity to cement my reputation as a TV maverick from the commercial sector, the young 'itchy' upstart breathing a bit of life up the stale Corporation's backside!

It'll take much more than yesterday's badly researched Media Guardian profile to bring me down!!

In the Controller Summit I decided to spice things up by playing (another) creative brainstorming game called 'What Car Are You?'

Cool-as-a-cucumber I tell my fellow controllers, "OK, describe what your channel 'feels like' as a car. Think laterally guys, it could be any kind of vehicle eg. a bus."

A rather coy Fincham says a Lexus - Expensive family car, makes a big impact, gets noticed by the right people etc etc (Yawn).

Roly says his channel is probably a Saab (how obvious can you get?!) - trustworthy, stable, fits lots of things in but isn't very flashy. Does a good job.

Entwhistle really struggled to grasp the game and shifted about uncomfortably. Then chose a Jag. (Christ! He thinks his channel is smart and upmarket!)

And me? Piss of piss. I whipped out my laptop and showed everyone the Youth Channel personified in chrome and leather: Relevant, Contemporary, Hungry to eat the road and looking fucking good baby cruising at 120mph along the multichannel highway.

(not that I would ever dare drive at such speed I hasten to add).

It also has - I point out to The Dinosaurs - a decent triple cross freq bass charging Bose soundsystem to attract The Kids.

Fifi loved me! I could tell.

[It shows I watch Top Gear from a post-ironic position!]

Monday, 30 July 2007

Fuck the Media Guardian

The interview I gave to Glibson from the Media Guardian is out today. Texted my Mum to let her know (she likes to keep a scrapbook of all my press clippings) but I wish I hadn't now... when I stopped off at my local newsagent to read it I was completely horrified.

1763 words of spite, bile, innuendo and jealousy...

* NO mention of all the great work I'm doing in FactLite and Pop Factuality
* NO mention of my forthcoming new commissions eg Child Ladyboy
* NO mention of my 3 year, 1080degree holistic Channel Vision
* ABSOLUTELY FUCK ALL reference to my nifty new buzzwords.

I bought up 150 copies on the way to work, switched my mobile phone to divert and locked myself in my office to lick my wounds:

'I will be 'itchy' for the sake of it'

He was in charge of Celebrity Big Brother at the height of the race row and commissioned Amsterdam Birth Canal despite a storm of protest from the NHS. Now head of the Corporation's Youth Channel, the Youngest Controller in the History of British Television speaks exclusively to Owen Glibson

Monday July 30, 2007
The Guardian

To some, the TV Controller is the personification of all that is wrong with modern British television. His detractors, most of whom have indeed met him, somehow believe he stands for the smug self-assurance and trendy Nathan Barleyisms of a generation of young producers and commissioners who no longer know where the line is - unless it is spliced, diced and faked to within an inch of its life.

Clad in black 3/4 length trousers, sporting a (slightly bushy) beard and wearing suitably expensive specs, the TVC does nothing to dispel that image on first impression. And he is actually far more arrogant, narcissistic and self-congratulatory in the flesh than the stereotype suggests.


Perhaps this image does befit a man who has spent a large chunk of his career never making any actual programmes himself (rather like the idea that an armchair football fan could successfully pull off running the England football team).


The TVC (as he prefers to be known, further enhancing his smugness) has certainly had an eventful 12 months. As the executive directly responsible for Celebrity Big Brother, he found himself at the centre of the race row that engulfed the programme. He appeared in these pages stoutly defending the format and quoting Virginia Woolf in a rather toe-curling moment, only to be implicated later in a plot to hide racist footage from the screens.


Then, as Julian Bellamy returned to Channel 4 to take up a new role as director of programmes, the TVC went the other way.


Opinion at his former workplace is mixed. Few dispute that he is clever and immensly talented, but some are critical of an ambitious streak that has entailed stepping on lots of heads on his way up, ignoring lesser known Execs in the independent sector and being what Kevin Lygo referred to as "the most talented arselicker of his generation".


On the Sexed-Up Scandals currently rocking The Corporation, TVC rocks back in his expensive leather chair, iced skinny latte in hand and declares: " I think Thommo has got it right, he understands the issue of trust is massively important to our future and he has put in place sensible plans to address it. I'm just glad I'm on-board to help. I've certainly done my bit by launching the Board of Young Public Trust and it would be nice to see some of my fellow controllers perhaps doing something similar. It shouldn't just be down to Thommo, myself and Fifi to sort out."


In the noble tradition of incoming channel controllers, the TVC says he wants to follow a three-pronged strategy - to "move the channel's centre of gravity younger, to the early Tweenies/ Underage Bingedrinker", to have "a huge focus on lewd and expensive innovation", and, most importantly of all, to launch a new type of factual programming: "Itchy Reality".


"There's a whole generation out there that don't like to watch overtly 'factual' programming. They switch over, or worse, just switch off. It's my job to get a raft of new factual programmes off the ground that are specifically aimed at people who think they don't want to watch factual. For this to work I'm getting producers to think 'Itchy'; programmes that would make uncomfortable, yet unbelievably compelling viewing."


On the wall of his office is pinned a "thought map" of the way the web is changing media consumption habits.

TVC shrugs, "To be honest, even though I'm still a very young man and a keen user of web interfaces like Facebook, I'm a little confused by how we take our output directly to the 'MySpace Generation'. So this visual representation helps keep my eye on the ball, so to speak."


But trouble looms for the young creative maverick. His most ambitious commission for 2008, a history reality series called "Salopes Anglaise", has just been decommissioned in what was described by insiders as an example of the 'rank and file being pistolwhipped into line by Fifi'.


Although deeply embarassing for TVC, he manages to brush it off.

"It promised to be a great insight into the concerns and fears surrounding young women in this country. But on reflection, it didn't have enough 'bite' and 'contemporaneity', so a brave decision was made to divert resources elsewhere."

This ability to absorb expensive mistakes is a prime example of what gives the Youth Channel a unique edge over other digital rivals. Yet, despite it's annual £93million programming budget The Youth Channel has remained inconsistent, incoherent and lacking any real identity.


The crucial question is: Can the young TVC turn his channel's fortunes around?


"Listen. It would be silly for me to sit here and say that I am an expert. I'm not. It is my job to create a healthy and vibrant channel, that would be a great legacy for me to leave behind when I move on to bigger and greater things."

Pass the Panadol Extra. I feel a migraine coming on.

Friday, 27 July 2007

Bertie has done a runner

I picked up an urgent message from "Seb" Scott sounding very distressed(!!), wondering "whether you'd heard lately from that Notting Hill cheesefruit?"

Bertie has been booked to 'series edit' a v v important Princess commission for ITV (their first I believe) as soon as he's finished 'Doing a Jamie' for some Channel 4 literacy yawnfest.

But all of a sudden he's nowhere to be found.

According to C21 Bertie has "taken a long-overdue break somewhere in Thailand with immediate effect".

With Anthony back in the fold, I had him try and reach the cockmeister of cockmeisters all morning, but with fuck-all success.

Intrigued, I dug a little further, and discovered that in the light of all this 'sexing up' business, Bertie has been under-investigation by some young upstart at The Sunday Telegraph, looking for a Big Scalp in the Industry.

I'm not in the least bit surprised. I know how many bodies have been buried in Bertie's cutting rooms BUT that's exactly what makes him a terrific Series Editor (just ask Jamie Oliver's people).

I ADMIRE how he gets all his directors to read up on the 5 golden rules of Hollywood storytelling - and applies that to the 'Factuality' form.

I LOVE the way he relishes the stage to eulogize his approach to the art of constructed documentary.

Oh, and I GET A HUGE ERECTION thinking about the BAFTAs he could win for My Channel.

I emailed him Herring's private mobile number, and reassured him the Dark Lord will turn any fucking Telegraph witchhunt-type nonsense into something far more positive.

"...and be careful of the ladyboys" I jested!!

Thursday, 26 July 2007

Why am I out of the loop??

Why am I always the last person to hear about anything around here?

James Silver from the Guardian called: "Is there any truth in the rumours that Richard Klein is being lined-up to replace Angus Macqueen? I've heard Julian doesn't see eye to eye with Angus and his chin-stroking-BBC4-high-brow ways??"

Hardly a fucking surprise. Since C4 lost me, NO-ONE has been able to pull off 'Popular Factuality' in quite the same Rose d'Or-winning way!

[Ah, I see... so that's why Higson called me on Sunday. He's clearly terrified about getting the boot too and wants a fucking job!]

Obviously I politely declined to comment, and immediately rang Herring and demanded to know "what the fuck is going on". He said it was common knowledge in the building that I was giving Kleiny "a bit of a rough ride" and that Tory Boy was "considering his options".

How could I be so out of the loop on something this important?

And then it dawned on me...

1) Who was plugged directly into the Corporation gossip network?
2) Who shielded me from the in-house idiot producers desperate to impress me with their 'Big Ideas'?
3) Who advised me on crucial sartorial matters? (like whether I could get away with sporting funky 3/4 length trousers at work)
4) Who found an electrician at the 12th hour to fix my bathroom light?
5) Who spent 5 hours a day mainlining on the Facebook media chatter on my behalf?
6) Who was giving me all the gory details about late-night after-hours 6th floor desk sex?
7) Who was there watching my back, every step of the way, from the moment I first arrived?

Answer: Anthony of course.

Fuck, what have I done?

Emailed Jessica in HR: "Jessica, I think dear Anthony has learnt his lesson. I don't need him to serve his full week suspension now. So can you please make the necessary arrangements to bring him back? This afternoon, in fact. Best, TVC"

"Was last night's Top Gear faked?"

Robbie MacIver emailed me back first-thing this morning in a VERY defensive mood to say he did not feel 'Bear in London' was authentic enough.

Bloody hell. What did I say? All I wondered (out loud) was whether we could get Bear 'Edward' Grylls to do an urban version of his survival exploits (would have much more resonance with my core younger viewers than Edward poncing about the fucking Himalayas or wherever... more street, more cool, more edge etc)

Even worse, he then accused The Corporation of "sexing up" last night's one-off Top Gear special.

He reckons all the "jeopardy" of Clarkson, Hamster et al suffering out in the North Pole "...must have been tough to pull off... you know as well as me that you're not going to let A-list stars risk genuine life and limb like that...Besides, the cost of the insurance would be huge".

Steady on Robbie. Calm the fucking regional anger! Plus, not even on my channel mate!

What is his problem??

I checked with the ever-boyish Elaine Bedell whether Clarkson and the lads had been "at risk" from hypothermia. She laughed loudly back: "Of course not! We had St Johns Ambulance on-board, fully-trained Swedish masseurs to ensure no-one got frostbite, proper Hollywood trailers for 'the boys' to rest and recuperate in, and an emergency helicopter on standby. Why on earth do you ask?" she said stroking my leg.

I sent this email straight back to MacIver:
"I am deeply saddened by your accusations Rob. You must know how seriously we take Factuality here at The Corporation. With this in mind, perhaps it is best that you don't try and peddle Edward Grylls to us. When we 'do adventure' we do it properly, and without safety nets. Warm Regards, TVC."

Go on, scurry the fuck back off to pitching real 'fakes' over at Horseferry Road and Discovery House, you regional west-"cuntry" cider-drinking cynical old twat!


Wednesday, 25 July 2007

Bear in London

During lunch (french onion tart / side salad / no dressing) I had a fucking brainwave. Soon as I got back to the office I put a call in to Robert MacIver at Diverse to talk it through:

'Bear Grylls: Urban Adventurer'

Very now.

Very sexy.

Very My Channel.

Bear (known as Edward to his mother) is parachuted into the capital city equipped with nothing but the clothes he is wearing. In 24hours he must use only his own wit, ingenuity and urban survival skills to get the fuck out. It's an epic fight for survival in one of the harshest terrains known to man: Soho on a Friday night.

* He'll have to eat the scraps of leftover kebabs on Frith street...

* Fight for the night bus home against hordes of pissheads on Charing Cross Rd...

* Make temporary shelter (in the arms of someone he's only just met with raven black hair and creepy tattoos)...

* Mix his own cocktails in Gerrys...

* Score hallucinogens from the Big Issue seller lurking outside Soho House...

* And when life becomes too tough, there's always a place to crash nearby.

I've instructed MacIver to get his west-country lackies to work it up into a punchy 2-pager offering genuine tension, genuine jeopardy, and hopefully some genuine eye candy to help skew My Channel more female.

Getting naked with Richard Woolfe

Who should I bump into at the Finchley O2 Centre gym this morning but Richard Woolfe, head of Sky One.

AKA The Cunning Wolfster
AKA The Gayest Straight Man in TV
AKA WolfSlime.

He insisted on showering in the cubicle directly opposite mine and flaunting his bubble pecs and botox-injected arse cheeks right in my face.

I couldn't help but notice the fake tan puddle building up at his feet, a dark treacle-like syrup trickling across the tiles and into a nearby drainhole.

[He really needs to find a better tanning shop.]

Fresh from his 'unfortunate' unfair dismissal court case he scrubbed and boasted about his forthcoming "seminal Autumn line-up" and how he didn't need "that fucking channel five judas" Hannah Barnes (who she?) to help him build a distinctive schedule in multichannel.

I was finding it difficult to concentrate... my eyes were glued to the Wolfster's energetic, over enthusiastic genital lathering. He was really fucking going for it!!

Finally I came up with a half-decent putdown of his recent output: "Everything OK with Ross Kemp? I only ask because he came to see me last week. He's looking for a fresh challenge on a much bigger platform, apparently"

Luckily The Wolf didn't hear me. He was too busy singing 'Dancing Queen' at the top of his lungs, using the Nicky Clarke 'Smooth It All Over' shampoo bottle as a mic.

His day will come... but until then perhaps I should keep in his good books.

(After all, he might be able to put in a good word for me with Rupert.)

My destiny does not lie in obscure multichannel.

Oh no.

I've got way bigger fish to (gently pan) fry!

Tuesday, 24 July 2007


Just when I thought I had safely navigated the fallout from this Queen fiasco, I have been sucker punched right where it hurts.

My new itchy reality series Salopes Anglaise has been dumped.

Killed off.


Fifi sent me a note saying she had discussed this at length with 'Mark and The Trust' and they felt - in the current climate - that Salopes had too many 'artificial conflict situations'.

Yes, I protested, the chav contributors would have to be "carefully manipulated" in order for us to successfully pull off the reality history premise BUT "this was a fully immersible format" that wore "its heart on its sleeve" and "absolutely no-one would have been misled in any way."

But to no avail.

That's 2 months of work and thousands of pounds down the plughole. Fucked. In a heartbeat.

And 10 hours I've now got to fill (somehow) in the schedule...

I'm not ashamed to admit that I feel distraught. There was a hell of a lot riding on Salopes. It was my baby. My way of imposing a new FactLite approach to the overcrowded jungle of formatted reality. It was factual for people who don't like factual. The jewel in my itchy crown.

And now it is gone. Just like that.

All because that rich fucker Lambert pushed his luck one step too far.

I am stunned.

Now I've got the uneneviable task of calling Hincksy with the bad news...

He's going to shove his squash racket so far up my arse I'll be limping for days.

Obama 4 President

I've identified a fantastic career opportunity and must act on it A.S.A-fucking-P!

Yesterday I was working up my 5 year Forward Planning Career Trajectory with Claude, my new NLP tutor - when a brainwave hit me: the person I most admire in the world right now is Barack Obama.

Young, charismatic, unafraid to speak his mind, down with the kids - all the qualities I'd like to think define my Media Brand.

So I begged Peter Barron for his phone number and put in a latenight call to his press office.

The chat with "his people" went well I think. I'm now waiting on a firm agreement by fax that he'll agree for My Channel to make an access-all-areas film about his run for President! Our cameras will meet his wife Michelle and two daughters, be privy to his most intimate thoughts, and learn about his political goals and ambitions.

Yes!! With some careful handling I might be able to cement my future place in history:

'Chief of Communications, Office of the President'

Has quite a nice ring to it, don't you think?

Monday, 23 July 2007

Snooping on my team

In these deeply worrying times, one of my critical roles as an Editorial Leader is to reassure the team. Be the calm head. Steer us all through the stormy waters and help rebuild the trust (still trying to figure out what this means...)

That is why, at the Dark Lord's suggestion, I have taken the unprecedented step of kitting out my department with these clandestine keyboard recording devices.

Should be able to tell who is planning to fuck me over pretty sharpish.

If Thommo and Fifi are going to hang my bollocks up for a public whipping at the first sniff of trouble, then I need to make bloody sure I have my house in order.

I have already uncovered:

Jo is spending a lot of time searching for 'gonorrhoeae' and 'cervical swelling' on the internet. She wrote an email to someone in Planning detailing her sexual prowess with a stranger she picked up on the District Line last night. Wow! Vixen alert!

McDonald hates me. He was moaning on Facebook about having to read Pete Doherty's Book of Albion just in-case I decide to commission another film on the drug addict loser. He also spent 2 hours tinkering with his CV when he should have been writing up that one-pager about kids who kill their pets.

My new office temp Julie-Ann thinks I need a shag. She was bitching to 'Sweetcheeks' via MSN about how 'stuck up and humourless' I am. She wrote something about me 'needing a good seeing-to'.

I had no idea she had such a HUGE crush on me (understandable I suppose considering how successful and young I am).

I couldn't make eye contact with her this afternoon - the last thing I need is any more repressed sexual tension in the office.

Shit, how do I sit her down and tell her I'm not interested?

Judge Dave Gravy!

I've been thinking long and hard about how the Youth Channel should respond to the supposed lack-of-trust infesting the industry.

Our poor viewers are clueless to the veil of trickery we employ to create gripping entertainment. (No, not the fact Bear Grylls stole everything he knows from Ray Mears - the other stuff).

So I have come up with a new idea:

The Jury of Truth

I make the likes of Dave Gravy and Stephen Lambert take part in a Judge Judy-type show when pitching new ideas to me. We have a jury made up of Youth Channel viewers (all under 25) who decide whether these dicks get the go-ahead.

AND I get to play the fucking Judge. How honest and transparent is that?!

Then in my Judges room, I have Gravy kneel down and BEG ME to commission his show, whilst I sit smugly, looking totally nonchalant wearing a ridiculous white curly wig and puffing on a Hamlet.

Fucking genius brainwave: We could also stream the filming live on the Corporation website so there is no criticism that the footage has been doctored in any way.

Can't really imagine The Dinosaurs (Fincham, Roly, George) being brave enough to do something like this, can you?!

Sunday, 22 July 2007

Higson the arselicker

Had a surprise call from Higson, Channel 4's professional northerner.

What the fuck did he want on a Sunday?!

He claimed all innocently that he wanted to sound out a director I hired on a six-parter from Lion. Bollocks. It took him all of one hundred and twenty five seconds (I timed it on the LCD call time display) for him to start fishing about how I was feeling post the RDF-fucks-over-Her Royal Highness-And-Thommo- nonsense.

"I'm fine, mate [he used to get positively orgasmic when I called him 'mate'] I didn't get any column inches, which I thought was entirely in proportion to how the story has played out. As you should know, you will NEVER catch me off guard letting the likes of Lambert 'sex up' my output."

"Oh, but we have really, REALLY been worried for you over here," Higson splutters. Sounds like he's about to cry. Usual tactic - you can tell he once made sob-umentaries in another life. Fortunately for me, I never had to lead that kind of soul destroying freelance existence before becoming a commissioning editor. But for Higson and co - it's been their life. How sad.

I told Higson that I had to dash, but thanked him enormously for showing such genuine care towards me.

Toady slimy ratfuck! I know your fucking game Higson! [I'm a fucking master at it, remember!]

Now back to my hangover grave... when will this pain stop???

Saturday, 21 July 2007

My Soho night from hell

Last night I was strolling down Old Compton Street minding my own business - as you do - when out-of-fucking-nowhere I was JUMPED by that lecherous old cockmeister Bertie!

The rest of the evening was pretty much a blur, but I *DO* remember:

* Drinking something called Sambuca (came in little glasses) in a little private members bar on Frith Street that Bertie manhandled me into, serviced by very horny black men wearing PVC jockstraps

* Admitting to him that the thought of Lis Murdoch in a nurses outfit "fucking turned me on"

* Saying that unlike some, I actually looked up to Her Majesty enormously ("didn't we all respect how much she does for the tourism economy?")

* Being made to strip-down to my (thankfully clean) Calvin Klein underpants, and forced onto the Karaoke to sing "Is This The Way To Amarillo" (on the way home when I was semi-comatose in the back of the cab I vaguely recollect Bertie showing the driver my performance on his fancy new 3G mobile phone).

The only thing I know right now is this:

1) I do NOT like alcohol and will NEVER drink it again

2) I MUST find Bertie's phone footage before some twat on Facebook starts a group about it.

3) I am crawling back to fucking bed for a few more days.

....I wonder if someone else fancies being a TV Controller on Monday?

Friday, 20 July 2007

When Women Ruled the Corporation

I may have only been in the job for a few months but I've heard this place was much better in the good old days when women ruled the corporation.... sigh.....it is so fucking testosterone fueled at the moment.

(unless you count Jane Tranter. And Elaine Bedell. Oh, and Ben Gale.)

Thommo is stomping about issuing disgruntled threats to everyone left, right and centre; Fincham is curled up in his office weeping. Human Resources people are barging - unannounced - into offices and throwing office stationery around; even the kind Indian gent in the papershop in White City has a fucking scowl on his face whenever I pop by.

I don't think we would have let the public down so much if Lauren Hennessey were back in the saddle.

We miss you Ice Maiden.


Me & P Diddy

I know a media mogul when I see one. Hello Puffy! Not only is his music fab (I love the swearing! It's so street!) but, like me, he also has his finger on the new media digital pulse.

So I am going to take a leaf out of his book and put a job advert on YouTube looking for a new Personal Assistant. Anthony was OK, don't get me wrong. It's just, well, to be brutally honest: He wasn't great to look at first thing in the morning.

Call me shallow but his face was starting to depress the hell out of me. I looked at Roly's sexy assistant Joanne. I looked at Laura B in Entwistle's office. They are truly beautiful.

Me? I landed up with a man who wears nothing but primary fucking colours. I fucking hate people who wear primary colours.

I have written a simple checklist which says all you need to know:

...Did he fit in with the rigorous platinum standards I set myself as Britain's Yougest TV Controller™? No
...Did he come to work in peeptoe heels? No.
...Did he put his hair up on a friday and surprise me? No.
...Could he recommend a great place for a manicure? Sometimes.
...Would he ever get too drunk at the Christmas Party and let me put my hand on his arse? No.
...Could I surreptitiously catch up on Heat, Ok and Hello? Er, actually yes on this one.

So it's decided.

He won't be coming back and I will find a new bebo generation 19-year-old hottie to fill his clunky size 10 shoes.

Thursday, 19 July 2007

Secrets of editing

Sshhhhh! Don't tell anyone this.

I might not have ever had to make a programme before in my entire life but I certainly fucking know how to run a proper edit.

Fucking around with footage is standard fucking practice in making telly. Thommo clearly needs to get out of all those poxy management love-ins and down to some edits to catch up on the way we make shows these days.

Wake up Mr DG!!

A lot has obviously changed since your days on Panorama when you probably used Steenbecks to splice black and white 'film' together!!

So this is how it works. Pay attention:

Exec drops by 2 weeks into the roughcut, and is aghast at the lack of dramatic 'jeopardy' in the storyline. Drained and knackered P/D explains: "look, that is just how it happened, okay?!" Exec, fearful that the cut won't play well with me, orders dramatic changes to real-time narrative "to inject some fucking bite and energy to it". P/D, by now just wanting an easy fucking life after a shoot-from-hell, relents after noble effort to protect the genuine timeline of events. Starts sweating about the fact his very trusting contributors still have his mobile phone number.

A week later, I pop down to the edit, cool as fuck, expecting to be impressed. The assembly is adequate. Fifi is going to hate it.


I need some major fucking changes, fast. "Can you make the mother look more angry at her son's behaviour?" I demand. The world-weary, exhausted P/D looks puzzled: "She really didn't get much more animated than that." The Exec - taking my line - barks back: "Well why the fuck not! Look at her son's disrespectful behaviour. I would fucking kick the cunt out if he did that in my house!"

I pipe up - "yes, yes, YES!! Have her boot him out of the home. Brilliant! Did you get any shots of the son storming out of the front door that we could cut in?" P/D looks even more pained, and commands his editor to trawl the rushes.

4 days later, I pop down again for the second viewing. Eureka! Half way through film, just when it needs a little pick-me-up, the son *does* indeed storm out, leaving his mum in fucking tears. I love it! Real moment of jeopardy. Critics will respect this scene, and viewers will be hooked. Television magic. I'm semi-hard. Congratulate P/D on remarkable 'turnaround' in narrative.

Programme airs 6 months later, I get a nice pat on the fucking back from Fifi, the Exec finally breathes a huge sigh of relief when the show gets 2.1 million (AND up against Big Brother!!) but I hear that the P/D has quit telly and decided to train as a marriage counsellor. Poor him!

And that is how modern programmes get fucking made.

Wake the fuck up Thommo!!

Peter's Mothership

Arrived super duper early at work (6.30am) so I could do a casual driveby past Peter's office and measure up. My limited edition Philippe Starck's would look fucking fabulous by the window.

Sadly, before I had a chance to check out the correct spot for my Yukka (a v thoughtful gift from Michaela after I inherited Uncle Dale's job at C4) I was rudely interrupted by Peter's foxy PA wearing these). WOWSA!

It was only when I got to my (much smaller) office that the joys of a rainy summer evaporated in an instant:

Where was my freshly delivered copy of Broadcast?
Where was my vanilla Yakult?
Where was my stack of Ed Specs needing the ‘tick’ of yours truly?

In fact. Where the fuck was my PA?

Then I remembered yesterday's unfortunate turn of events - the look of betrayal in his poor sad little gay eyes as I told him that he was being suspended (and had security frogmarch him out of the building).

The tough decisions are always the hardest...no matter how high you reach.

I needed HR to sort out my mess but I was fucked if I could get anyone on the phone. Roly popped his head through the door: “They’re a tad busy with Thommo crucifying that ditzy chap Martin Davidson today. Drafting P45s and the like. Suppose your ‘little’ PA domestic will have to wait”.

Posh cunt doesn’t know who he’s talking to: The future controller of Corporation One. The Mothership. That’s fucking who!!

Swivelled back in my chair and put my feet up on the desk. I fucking love coming to work when the shit hits someone else’s fan. For a change.

Wednesday, 18 July 2007

FW: Re: Sexed-Up Programmes.

FROM: TVC01@Corporation.co.uk
TO: All Key Independent Suppliers
CC: Fifi01@Corporation.co.uk
BCC: Mark Thompson

Our standards are not just set high, they are raised to a platinum level. That is why I have taken the unusual step of suspending my PA Anthony (on full pay) whilst I conduct an inquiry into how a misspelt word managed to end up in my last memo to you.

‘Impeccible‘ should have, of course, read 'impeccable'.

These small mistakes matter to me. No stone will be left unturned in my search for the truth.

I promise you all - valued independent producers - that whoever is responsible will be brought to account, as we all move forward to a more honest and trustworthy working relationship.

The door to my office is always open for your thoughts.

Keep the faith.

Warm regards,

Re: Sexed-up programmes

FROM: TVC01@Corporation.co.uk
TO: All Key Independent Suppliers
CC: Fifi01@Corporation.co.uk
BCC: Mark Thompson

Dear All

In these worrying times I wanted to reassure you that The Corporation is uniquely committed to delivering an impeccible level of integrity, accuracy and truth.

You are the Corporation's footsoldiers delivering the highest standard of quality. And I am your humble general leading us all into battle. In the heat of the fight we must
always remember that the integrity of The Corporation is at stake if we choose the easy option, or the quick fix in the edit.

Yes, I know that budgets are shrinking and demands in the digital landscape are increasing. But it is critical that we put measures in place so we can get on with the task of building a strong and independent Corporation for the future.

I will not tolerate sloppiness.

I will soon be announcing an exciting new committee that I am setting up specifically to prevent any future lapses in judgement. I hope you will all lend me your support as we move the Youth Channel forward into a more transparent and less sexed-up Digital age.

Warm regards,


Tuesday, 17 July 2007

Power Wank

Feel v v guilty at the Power Wank I had at work today. I just could not help myself... the tension of the last few days has been excruciating. To make matters worse Fifi no longer gives me a little cheeky wink in the corridor when she walks past.

I think the honeymoon is over. And it wasn't even my fuck up?!

God, I really need a few bottles of Rosé tonight to unwind. Still, I suppose it could be worse...

I could be working at RDF.

Whacking off at work...

At 5.12pm Sam from Betty TV emailed wanting to know whether I still "wanted to do lunch and meet the transexual US-born-but-Cambridge-educated Tiffany. What do you reckon?. It's just that Living are dead keen and I wouldn't want you to miss out. Remember, Tiff was born WITH A DICK!!!"

I pulled up Tiff's photo on my email and once again considered what she could do for my schedule. Within seconds I had to make a dash for the 6th floor loos, feeling inexplicably 'agitated'.

(Must be the oppressive atmosphere here finally getting to me)

When I returned to my desk, I calmly instructed Anthony to go ahead and arrange a meeting with Sam and Tiffany....

Fucking over Stephen Lambert

This Royal fuck-up has given me the perfect excuse to exercise a bit of fucking power over that rich cunt Stephen Lambert. No more 'Landmark Status' projects for you and Andy Goodsir for a while!!

I've decided that as from today, I will only commission from RDF *if* my newly created 'Board of Young Public Trust' sanction it. I have created what I would call a 'Red Alert List' of preferred suppliers who we need to keep a watch over. And RDF are already top of that list.

Seb Scott and Dave Gravy over at Princess are hot on their heels at number 2.

This is going to make it very, very hard for them to force anymore pisspoor ideas upon me. It also means that whenever I feel like it I can halt any future production featuring Anthea fucking Turner without any justifications to Fifi. (Phew!)

This will teach Lambert once and for fucking all to ignore me and my power at his fucking peril.

Can't wait to see their share price plummet later this afternoon!

Monday, 16 July 2007

Uncle Dale

As if my weekend wasn't bad enough... Uncle Dale wants a new job. My old mentor says he "no longer gets a boner" from More4 and would prefer a high ranking (BUPA, company car, free iPhone etc) Corporation creative wonk job. Something "safe".

Safe?! Has he not been reading the fucking news recently?

The last fucking thing I want is for him to come over here and steal my thunder. BUT I don't want to piss him off (in my line of business I have learnt never to piss off anyone more important than me).

Tried to get Michaela on the blower right away. No answer. Fucking come on!! Where was she? Then I remembered she had gone away to the Andalucian Alpujarras for a fortnight of naked poetry recitals and colonic coffee irrigration.

Strange lass.... she really likes nothing better than having a pipe shoved up her (cute) rectum. She's always trying to get me to accompany her to the 'shit clinic' in London but I'm terrified I'll run into some sort of Gillian McKeith bum nazi.

Call me weird but I have a pathological fear of strangers inserting plastic tubes up my anal passage...

Sunday, 15 July 2007

Confessions from a TV crisis meeting

Fifi wasted no time in getting down to business. Wow, she can be a hard nosed bitch when she wants to - and I am so attracted to that! We were all gathered in the boardroom bleary eyed and nervous. But there was no way I was going to become some lame duck fucking patsy with the Corporation on the fucking warpath. No, I had a *plan*.

This is about "trust" (she slapped her thigh for emphasis) and having an "honest relationship with our viewers". She said we need to be "swift and surgical" about all of this: "Have we misled the audience in any way?"

Deathly silence filled the room. Then something crazy happened. Entwistle stood up, looking nervous as fucking hell, and said to Fifi: "Ma'am, as I have only been in the job for a short number of weeks I humbly request that I am excused from this witchhunt."

"Oh do shut the fuck up George and sit down" Fifi barked back. Christ! She really did mean business.

Roly went first. He described an incident on Springwatch where the editorial decision was made to use fake archive of two owls having sex to 'enhance the narrative'. He sweated profusely throughout his testimony (I felt for the guy). He then asked Fifi if Bill Oddie's misogynistic hatred of co-host Kate Humble fell under the bracket of misleading viewers ("We try very, very hard to make it appear that they are bosom buddies on-screen").

Fifi did not comment but scribbled something down.

And then she turned to me.

I stood up, looking shit hot [obviously] in my recently dry-cleaned Executive Corduroy jacket, and said with a lot of heartfelt conviction: "I have spent the past 48 hours in heavy dialogue with all My Channel's key suppliers and have reached the conclusion that under the very capable stewardship of Julian, there has been no misleading content broadcast on the Youth Channel. We are whiter than white. HOWEVER, for me, that is simply not enough."

With that, I fired up my laptop and began a slide presentation on powerpoint. Peter The Billionaire looked petrified.

"So as from tomorrow, all independent suppliers will have to sign up to the Youth Channel 'Code of Young Public Trust':

1) All rushes will be submitted to a newly created 'Board of Young Public Trust' comprising of an ethnically diverse panel (all under 25) who represent all that is good about modern Britain.
2) All contributors will be sent a questionnaire after they have taken part in filming which they can fill out in total confidence.
3) All Execs will have to present their finished programmes to the Board (prior to TX) and be grilled for at least 3 hours about ANY issues to do with misrepresentation that arise (these inquests will be available for our viewers to download from the website).

And with that, I sat down and waited for the applause to kick in. Talk about being fucking proactive!! I could tell Fifi was impressed.

Peter The Billionaire was next. He coughed and stood up sheepishly: "We have this tiny problem with the nocturnal habits of Dickson Moss's agent........."

Four-nil to me I think Peter!! It is only a matter of time before your job is fucking mine!!

Saturday, 14 July 2007

Thank you Dark Lord

Called James Herring in a blind panic about this Anthea cock-up. I explained how Fifi was insistent on washing the Corporation's dirty laundry in public and my whole fucking career rested on silencing this disgruntled contributor. I must have been babbling because he told me to "Calm the fuck down I can sort this out" and within half an hour the crisis was over.

The Dark Lord has pulled some strings and buried the damaging headlines. In return I have agreed to cast one of Max Clifford's lesser known clients in my next drama commission and give Il Divo their own 15 part music series and live concert (to be made by Simco naturally).

Small fucking price to pay for Fifi not waking up to 'Corporation Fakes Anthea TV Show' in tomorrow's News of the World, wouldn't you agree?

Houston we have a big fucking problem

Dropped off my favourite specially imported Executive corduroy jacket at the drycleaner today. I want to look my best when Fifi confronts us tomorrow.

Then Grant Mansfield from RDF called with disasterous news. It appears Ep 4 Series 1 of Anthea Turner: Perfect Housewife might be “problematic". How? I ask nervously. “It was completely faked” he answers calmly.


"What the fuck do you mean 'faked'!?"

Mansfield explains that the director needed a dirtier house and so the researcher was instructed to sneak around rubbing Nutella into the sofa, dribbling urine on the bathroom floor and (worst of all!) even planting a dirty pair of cum stained knickers in the bedroom.

"And who the fuck authorised this from above?" I shouted.

He got defensive and said 'these things happen' and that they had needed 'format intervention' to achieve the necessary 'jeopardy and transformation on the meagre digital channel budget'.

But it gets even worse:

Mansfield informs me that the contributor found out and confronted the director on camera. It was 'contained' at the time but now the contributor has gone to Max Clifford who contacted him today with a ransom: £50,000 to keep it out of tomorrow's papers.

Oh Christ. I am going to get my arse spanked for his - and it wasn't even on my fucking watch!

Friday, 13 July 2007

Emergency weekend meeting

I can’t bloody believe this.

Fifi has convened an emergency senior management war room summit on Sunday fucking morning at 8.30am!! Strictly top secret. It’s a media blackout – no PAs or lackies or support staff have been notified.

Fifi has hit the roof and the last two fucking years of My Channel's output is coming under scrutiny. She wants us all to ‘share’ our programming problems and ensure there are no more skeletons in the closet. She wants rushes. And she wants answers.

I cannot believe this paranoia and self-hatred...Why doesn't the Corporation just pull rank like my old chums at Channel 4 would and get on with making television instead of opening old wounds?

Bertie AKA the Butcher of Notting Hill, must be shitting himself! He’s made a BAFTA award winning career out of lying in the cutting room!

Couldn't get hold of him.

The Dark Lord is on divert.

It appears everyone has gone to ground waiting for the smoke to clear.

I wish I could do the fucking same....

The Trouble with Her Majesty

1. No sense of humour

2. Smells a bit

3. Not in touch with Da Kids (unlike me)

4. I can't understand her when she speaks

5. Wears too much green

6. Does not like to polish off a bottle of Shiraz and do a couple of lines at Soho House on a friday night

7. Way too posh to 'connect' with my viewers.

I'm not in the office today but watching with glee to see Fincham take it in the neck for his Queen cock-up. I was reliably informed via the GossipBerry that Fincham and Stephen Lambert were seen sitting outside Fifi's office looking like two chastened schoolboys. Then later storming down the corridor (like Batman and Robin on the way to a crisis in Gotham) and very loudly verbally kicking three streaks of living piss out of the head of promos.

Lambert could be heard shouting things like "share price drop" and "not when I was at fucking Modern Times we didn't!" whilst Fincham just stood there scowling and clenching his fists.

Brilliant. Heads are going to fucking roll on this one!

See, this is the danger with celebrity access docs these days. The subjects are so 'twitchy' about how we represent them. Rewind five years ago and you could fuck anyone over without a problem. Even the Queen.

Jay Rayner is Too Fat for My Channel

Foodie critic Jay Rayner is pestering me (again) to make a spurious series with him as the presenter. I know he's one of my best chums but I don't have the heart to tell him he's fucking useless on the box - not to mention a couple of stone too fat for My Channel.

I don't understand why Pat Llewellyn is so keen to peddle this sycophantic toecheese to me? Has she run out of decent talent to pitch?

He's good for free invites to the top restaurants, but to be honest I don't have the stomach nor the appetite for his holier than thou smug mug.

Emailed Pat: "I might be interested if you got his mum on tape doing something post modern and über ironic for my post über ironic hyper reality audience. Until then you can fuck off."

[Well, OK, I didn't tell her to fuck off but after two dull lunches with hubbie Ben I certainly felt like it!]

Thursday, 12 July 2007

Dying with Pavarotti

Jesus fucking Christ. I can't believe how off-message some Execs are within the Corporation (hello Emma fucking Swain!!!).

I've just been pitched an 8-part fly-on-the-wall series called 'At Home with Pavarotti'. In-house Specialist Factual have "secured unique access" to the "great Luciano Pavarotti and his family" [something about following his battle with pancreatic cancer blah blah blah] and for some bizarre reason they have decided in their 'wisdom' to try the idea out on me.

Fuck me. What are they thinking??!!

Look, firstly I don't want to know *anything* about Pavarotti and his fucking stomach cancer thanks very much. (Cancer is not exactly as sexy as Aids, Irritible Bowel, OCD or Tourettes, is it?!)

Secondly, he's going to fucking die any day now. How can I invest in a series when I can't guarantee we'll be around after episode three!?

And thirdly, why on earth would some ageing clinically obese Opera singer who doesn't even speak fucking English resonate with my core 16-34 audience??

So allow me to spell this out:



D...I...C...K...H...E...A...D...S ! !

Because it's fucking obvious that some people within the Corporation don't seem to realise that! Go pitch the Italian fat fucker to someone like George or Roly. Or film him on his deathbed for the morbid bastards at Channel 4.

But next time bring me someone more Real, Shouty and Spunky! OK??!

Wednesday, 11 July 2007

Bye bye Silent Stevie

Oh joy. Oh rapture! First thing today Fifi pulled me into her office [much fucking bigger than mine] to tell me that I needed to cut down my development team - "I know this must be awful for you" - as a show of unity within the Corporation whilst it goes through these tough economical times.

At last - an opportunity to get rid of Silent Stevie!!

Obviously I feigned shock and sadness and she was sold by my stricken grief. She patted me on the arm and said: "If it's any consolation, between you and me I might have to lay off Harry Lansdown. These cuts are tough, and we're all feeling them across the board. Count yourself lucky you've got a channel to run!" [what the fuck was that supposed to fucking mean???]

With that, I thanked her for her honesty, and sauntered back to my [much smaller] office, where I immediately instructed Anthony to gather my lackies together, so I could deliver the news to them straight.

McDonald shuffled in wearing his fucking baseball cap. Jo was wearing a pair of v sexy peeptoe heels, fishnets and sleek beige pencil skirt [there was no way I'd be letting *her* go in a hurry!], whilst Silent Stevie was... well, just Silent Stevie: eyes to the floor, looking pained and lost in his own head.

It was at this point that I knew this would be a fucking piece of piss.

"Troops", I began. "These are difficult times. There is no easy way to say this, but you know how hard I fight for you guys. Stevie, it has been an absolute pleasure, but I'm afraid I am having to let you go. Cutbacks and the like. Please don't think this has anything to do with your inabilities to secure access to that Pentagon gay drug business. Not at all. It's purely first-in first-out stuff. I am very, very sorry it has to end like this."

[I noticed he was weeping a little]

"Jo, give him a hug or something, for fucks sake" I barked. I hate to see staff in tears.

And with that, he was gone. Silent Stevie was no fucking more!!!

How easy was that! Thank fuck for Thommo's botched licence fee deal eh!!

Tuesday, 10 July 2007

Briefing the Indies

FROM: TVC01@Corporation.co.uk
TO: Key Independent Suppliers
CC: Fifi01@Corporation.co.uk
BCC: Mark Thompson


You may be asking why I haven't commissioned more things from the independent sector. The answer is that we must all try harder to tap into the changing whims of the youth channel's key demographic.

Documentaries should attempt to reflect modern times as seen through the eyes of young adult audiences and seek to contextualize the past in a way that connects with contemporary young viewers.

Entertainment must try and relate to young adults but also their young at heart parents.

Yes we have the forthcoming Fart Camp, Child Ladyboy, Amsterdam Birth Canal and I am a Teenage Hoodrat, Lock Me Up in Here (a really scary reality show set in an authentic 1960s British borstal narrated by Ray Winstone).

But what else has the same desirability?

I really want you to think hard about what will work for My Channel. Recycled ideas won't wash with my viewers. They need something special to stand out in the digital landscape. So go back to your teams, and then come back to me with some really daring concepts. The louder the better.

I want my channel to be the home for your best 'Shock and Awe' ideas.


Monday, 9 July 2007

MediaGuardian's Shite100

What in fuck's name is going on with my media brand? I'm the youngest creative leader in the industry, a powerful trendsetting media visionary, a programming rebel formerly of the commercial sector.

So why the fuck am I not in today's Guardian's Media100?

Gordon fucking Ramsey beat me to it, David Tennant, Russell Brand, even Jeremy cunting Clarkson was number 72.

Since when was Talent considered more powerful and important than the youngest Controller of his generation? I fucking put them on TV?!! That's ever so slightly more important than repeating lines written by someone funnier than you are.

The Guardian's fickle out of touch 'panel' (hello Richard Park) wouldn't know a powerful digital maestro if they bumped into him in Soho House....

(...where I will be tonight, highly visible and highly vocal in my criticisms of this so-called power list. Come and join me in my venting.)

Slap on the wrists

What a terrible start to the week. I was hauled in front of something called an 'Equality Commission' and informed that someone had overheard me calling my idiot gay PA a 'cockface' last week and made an official complaint. Apparently they were offended by the "overt undercurrents of sexual harrassment and homosexual stereotyping".

They wouldn't tell me who I had offended so greatly but if I ever catch the softy liberal son of a bitch I'll have them transferred immediately to BBC4.

There's no room for political correct sensibilities on My fucking Channel! I'm about to launch a schedule busting line-up of adventurous, must-see, in your face programming. And I can't have any weak links in the chain internally whatso-fucking-ever.

Got on to the phone to The Dark Lord (has he been on fucking holiday? I haven't heard from him in weeks) and told him straight: "Hire me the best ex-News of the Screws hack you can find and get them to tap some phones or whatever the fuck they do".

He didn't sound thrilled but I couldn't care less. I pay him well enough as it is.....

I simply must find this mole before things get out of hand.

Saturday, 7 July 2007

I have a stalker

My weekend has been completely ruined. This anonymous letter came through in the post, made up of cut out magazine letters. I read it twice and then shat myself:

M E 4 Y E A R S A G O
U C U N T S U C K E R !

Who the fuck could this be? How did they get my home address?!! I tried to remember who I might have pissed off 4 years ago. It didn't help much. To be honest it could be one of hundreds of people......

These rejected downtrodden producers have NO idea what it's like on my side of the desk having to constantly be polite about substandard ideas. If only they could see the relentless pressure I'm under. The thankless task of having to predict the popular tastes of a nation. The Machiavellian ruthlessness of my fellow colleagues. The incredibly short shelf life of my career.

Have some fucking pity on me will you! But no, instead they take one rejection so fucking personally!

The letter put me in a nervy mood all day. I switched back to my pirate copy of The Secretary (director's X-Rated cut) to try and unwind.

My enemies can try and attack me, but I will prevail!

Friday, 6 July 2007

Douglas Murray: Caricature of a Cunt

I was skipping through last night's Question Time starring the lovely Davina when it dawned on me that Douglas Murray might actually be just the type of chap I could do with on the Youth Channel. Look at him banging on about neo-conservatism here - I love how out-of-touch he would be with my audience and how we would fuck him over in a semi-ironical way to add a touch of intellectual satire to our output. I could really stitch this guy up.

You see, here is some posh aristocratic cunt from Cambridge (not Oxford I hope!) totally fearless about being unpopular - infact he seemed to get positively orgasmic on Question Time the more the young audience (and Davina) booed him!

The guy has opinions - and extremely right-wing ones too! I am sure if I ordered a couple of polemical films featuring him we'd get talked about in the right way (instead of the wrong way).

Will get the political wonk-types at Mentorn to develop a strand for Murray to front. It could run at 11 (and slam More4's The Daily Show right where it fucking hurts - sorry Uncle Dale).

I have never made a TV Programme in my life

I admit I still sometimes celebrate at home, on my own, very occasionally with a white wine spritzer, thanking my lucky stars that not once did I EVER actually have to make a television programme before getting my executive break.

I've never had to freeze my arse off on some shite council estate filming kids with Asbos; not once have I ever needed to bust my balls pursuading some emotionally fragile fat single Mum to take part in a documentary under highly dubious pretences; and not once have I ever, ever, EVER had to suffer the torment or the guilt of thinking that I was truly fucking with someone's life just to make an hour of instantly forgettable telly.

Maybe that's why Kleiny, Higson and the like can get so protective over their favoured directors. That's the trouble with modern television - far too many commissioning editors have come straight from programme making and can easily lose perspective. Then before you realise - WHAM! They've gone native and say things like 'the director wants a more organic structure'...

For me, I'll never be taken in by all that bullshit.

Thursday, 5 July 2007

10 things I *didn't* do today

1. Bothered to ring back that pestering northerner Brian Hill and tell him "sorry, but I'm afraid this time it's a no" for his distasteful Inside the Mind of a Sex Offender idea

2. Respond to a group email from the 'Corporation Club' re: waterskiing trip to Wales w/c 23rd July.

3. Agree to meet the development lackies from September Films [what exactly have *they* made of late??]

4. Call back Richard Macer re: Bjorn Borg/Selfridges access [Think I'll let him stew a bit]

5. Book myself in for an Executive Manicure at The Refinery

6. Agree to sign off a £3K development for ZKK's idea Getting Married to My Mum [not convinced about the access]

7. Agree up have lunch with Rod Liddle [a bit of a waste of time - he's too much of a dinosaur for My Channel]

8. Sort out my ongoing dispute with Accounts re: May expenses.

9. Remind Anthony that he still needs to phone an electrician to sort my broken bathroom mirror lightbulb out for me

10. Watch DVD of The Secretary (Director's Cut)

Awkward Moment in the Lift

La-de-da, there I was listening to my newly uploaded iPod, strutting about the building with my white in-the-ear Shure headphones (and wearing a pair of shit hot white Converse trainers too!) when I stepped into the TVC lift at Stage Door this morning and who should enter but none other than star performer and untouchable talent Dickinson Moss AND his agent Perry fucking Mansell.


Desperately tried to reduce the iPod volume (these modern gadgets are awfully fidly) but by the time I had killed off In My Place by Coldplay I think I had missed the brunt of *exactly* what they were chit-chatting about.


There was just me, Mansell and Moss. Alone. Together. The three of us. Them talking (whispering in fact), but me feeling like they were totally blanking me. I tensed up, knowing I'd sent Mansell that abrupt email some weeks back telling him to put on hold any more self indulgent-Japanese-wankfest travelogues.

But there was no reaction from them. No comment. Not even a second glance. This very uncomfortable 35 seconds (they got out on the 3rd floor) left me reeling and confused to say the least.

How can Mansell fail to recognise me when I'm stood right next to him?

Must be all those late nights in seedy Marble Arch hotels...

[But just in case, I make sure Anthony calls Press & Publicity and checks my photo/biog has gone out to all the necessary departments].

Wednesday, 4 July 2007

I Got Dem Red Tape Blues

HR Jessica (in hot Prada heels) informs me that Silent Stevie's new 1-year PACT ratified BECTU protected freelancer contract makes it impossible to terminate without evidence of gross misconduct. Had I given him three written disciplinary warnings? Had I sat down with him to issue 'clear and constructive objectives'?

No, I told her, I just want to fucking fire him. Is that so difficult?

She sneers and tells me "this is not the commercial sector" (She says the last bit like it's a dirty word).

No wonder the Corporation is home to so much driftwood! How am I meant to run a tight ship when this kind of red tape makes it impossible to streamline my team?

It turns out that the only way to get rid of Silent Stevie is if he decided to embark on a sustained campaign of sexual harassment followed by the embezzlement of programming funds whilst sitting at his desk stark bollock naked. Or if he decided to take voluntary redundancy.

Hmmm, not to be deterred I start thinking of other ways to persuade Silent Stevie that perhaps TV is not the right career choice.

I like a challenge.

Roger Graef's zimmerframe

I had my head down early this morning quietly studying the Charter Renewal terms when I was rudely interrupted by a great kerfuffle outside - what sounded like the loud scraping of chairs and office furniture.

What the fuck?!?

Anthony popped his head in to apologise. Apparently the Films of Record people were coming in and some disability Nazi from the 2nd Floor had rushed up to inform them they "needed to clear more space" for MD Roger Graef's "zimmerframe apparatus".

Anthony gave a resigned shrug: "Health & Safety require six and a half inches of traversing space between desks".

Jesus, how is Graef still alive? The man is ancient (Anthony says that according to wikipedia Graef was born in 1936). What the fuck is he still doing in telly??!! In the days before Stephen Lambert was too important to speak to me I remember he once mentioned that Graef had discovered a Thai mystic, and now lived on nothing but Mangosteen juice and oral sex.

Which got me thinking..... I picked up the phone and told Anthony to put in a bulk order of Mangosteen juice (with added Xanthones) A-S-A-fucking-P.

If the Graef can live forever then so can bloody I!

Tuesday, 3 July 2007

Ambush of the Jewish Mother

Anthony barged in to my office in a bit of a tizz. I was on the phone to Michaela taking in some hot gossip about Dermot and Davina but he didn't seem to care. Impatiently I barked: "WHAT? COCKFACE!"

"Your mother is here to see you."

Time stopped. Started. Stopped again. Then began stabbing me in the brain like a sharp fork.

And no, this was not some sort of humourous executive PA stunt. I could bloody see her standing outside my office, fidgeting with the flower arrangement on Anthony's desk, tutting to herself and arranging some of the things in his in-tray.

I could see Anthony smirk and I ushered him out sharpish. What the fuck was my mother doing visiting me at work on a tuesday afternoon?!?

I was about to hide under my desk when she whirlwinded in, big smile on her pink lips, planting a big smacker on my cheek and launching into: "Bubeleh, is this your office? Nice, very nice, but it's dirty, have you cleaned? Is it south facing? Have you called Shlomo to ask about the leather sofas? Much better than these (pointing at my £5,000 Starck limited editions). This place is so big - you could get lost! I'm so proud of you my kindaleh! You've done so well for yourself... considering we always had such low expectations of you"

and then before I had a chance to close the door - - - she dropped the almighty clanger that is:

"and have you met any nice single Jewish girls yet?"

Argh! Jewish-Mother-In-Office was not a good look for my media brand. Even worse for my fucking non existent (and soon to be extinct at this rate) love life. Disastrous in fact. How the fuck could I get rid of her, in the nicest possible way of course?!

Out of sight for a start. I hastily took her by the arm and led her to the lift. "Let me show you where they film Dickinson Moss" - She squealed in delight - "and if you're lucky ma, I might arrange it so you can sit in his chair!"

She beamed all the way down to Studio 3. A dark, safe cocoon from the many evil backstabbing eyes of the Corporation. I really don't need this kind of shit today.

I'm up to my neck in it…

Monday, 2 July 2007


I am stunned by the sheer incompetence of some people at the Corporation.

Nearly two whole weeks have passed since I asked Silent Stevie to get in touch with the Pentagon A-S-A-fucking-P to figure out whether we could get their 'gay drug' on licence to use for a format that could punch through the schedules.

So imagine my fury as today I discovered that Stevie has yet to have a fucking conversation with ANYONE from the Pentagon! He muttered something about them not returning his emails, and how he'd done some 'digging around' on the internet and doesn't think that such a drug ever existed anyway.

This really isn't good enough.

If I say speak to the Pentagon I want Admiral Mike Mullen, the new joint chief of staff on the fucking phone...

If I say fly to the moon I want a letter of interest from Mike Griffin at NASA...

If I say infiltrate a swinging internet subgroup engaged in weird practises then I FUCKING expect someone on my team to don a pair of high heels and work the fucking weekend....

Is this too much to ask for??! How can My Channel win Edinburgh Channel of the Year at this rate?

I call Jessica in HR and ask her to investigate the terms of Silent Stevie's contract. Sometimes a good manager has got the unenviable task of letting people go, but luckily I feel no such conscience and look forward to FIRING THE LITTLE CUNT first thing tomorrow!