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.
x
Friday, 20 July 2007
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.
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.
MY ARSE IS ON THE LINE!
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!!
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.
MY ARSE IS ON THE LINE!
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.
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,
TVC
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,
TVC
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.
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....
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!
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...
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!!
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?
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.
Shit.
"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!
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.
Shit.
"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....
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!]
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:
I...R...U...N...T...H...E...F...U..C..K..I..N..G..
Y...O...U...T...H...C...H...A...N...N...E...L...
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??!
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:
I...R...U...N...T...H...E...F...U..C..K..I..N..G..
Y...O...U...T...H...C...H...A...N...N...E...L...
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!!
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
Hello
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.
Best,
TVC
TO: Key Independent Suppliers
CC: Fifi01@Corporation.co.uk
BCC: Mark Thompson
Hello
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.
Best,
TVC
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.)
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.
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:
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!
W H Y D I D N T
U
C O M M I S S I O N
M E 4 Y E A R S A G O
U C U N T S U C K E R !
I
W I L L
F U C K I NG
G E T
U!
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).
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.
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)
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.
GULP!!!!!
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.
FUCK!!!!!
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].
GULP!!!!!
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.
FUCK!!!!!
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.
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!
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…
"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
Incompetence
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!
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!
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