Inconceivable

stick of my KitKat.

So anyway, to get on with the story, this afternoon there I was, fronting up to the gates of Downing Street and being saluted through by a policeman. It was like a dream. I walked up the street with my briefcase, just like cabinet ministers do on the news, and in through the famous door.

I must say it’s bloody dowdy inside, or at least the bits I saw are. Amazing. The entrance hall is like a rundown hotel. Nobody could accuse any of the previous fifteen administrations of wasting money on decoration because I swear that the place hasn’t had a lick of paint since Chamberlain was waving his bit of paper about. While I was waiting I noticed an old plastic carrierbag chucked on the threadbare carpet against the skirting board. I remarked to the amiable old doorman that I hoped it wasn’t a bomb and he said that he hoped so too but that it probably belonged to somebody.

Anyway, after about ten minutes one of the PM’s “forward planning team” arrived, a young woman called Jo whom I think I recognized from her having been on Question Time. She ushered me into a small room with a chair and an old couch and some dirty coffee cups on a table. Here she “briefed” me on the background to this particular “outreach initiative”. She told me that the Prime Minister was Britain’s newest, youngest, hippest prime minister since Lord Fol d’Rol in 1753 and that her office had the job of reminding people of this fact and generally demonstrating that the PM was neither fuddy nor duddy.

“We want the kids to know that their PM is not just the youngest, most energetic and most charismatic premier in British history but that he’s also their mate, a regular bloke who likes popmusic, wearing fashionable trousers, and comedy with proper swearing in it. Which is why we think it’s important to place him on Livin’ Large.”

“God yes, great idea,” I said, pathetically. It’s amazing how even the proximity to power seduces a person.

“But in a dignified context,” Jo added firmly. “No gunk tanks or ‘gotcha’s. It struck us that some kind of ‘youth summit’ would be appropriate, you know, the boss chats with the future and all that. It could be an extended version of that section where the celebrity guest takes questions from the kids.”

I said it sounded fantastic and that the BBC would be honoured.

“But nice questions, of course, not political. That wouldn’t be appropriate. Questions about the issues that matter to kids. Popmusic, fashion, computers, the Internet, that sort of thing.”

My mind reeled. This was fantastic. A genuine television event! Like Mrs Thatcher getting grilled about the Belgrano on Nationwide or the Blue Peter elephant shitting on John Noakes. The Prime Minister himself doing an interview with kids on live TV and I was to exec it! Christ! Like I say, I reeled.

“This means a lot to the PM,” Jo continued. “Dammit, as far as ordinary people are concerned politics is boring! The kids don’t want a lot of old fuddy-duddies telling them what to do. We need to let people know that things have changed. Basically, it’s very important to us that the premier gets a chance to point out that he likes popmusic and that he actually plays the guitar. Will that be possible?”

Well, as far as I was concerned he could point out that he liked liver and onions and played the didgeridoo if he wanted, but I said that I thought everybody knew that the PM played the guitar; it seemed to have come up in every interview he’d ever done.

“People have short memories,” said Jo, “besides which we need to make it clear that it’s the electric guitar he plays, not some strummy-crummy, clicky-clacky, Spanish castanets type, classical fuddy-duddy stuff.”

Well, I nodded and agreed and wondered if it would be appropriate to kiss her arse and pretty soon Jo signalled that the meeting was over.

And so there it is. I, Sam Bell, have successfully brokered a historic live TV encounter between the PM and Generation Next. Trevor and I spent the afternoon trying to think of a good hook for the trailers. Trevor kept coming back to “The Premier meets the Little People” but I’m sure that’d just make everyone think of leprechauns.

I must say this business has changed my attitude to my job entirely. I mean, if I was in the independent sector I certainly wouldn’t be meeting the PM. Besides which, it has occurred to me that I could use my newly acquired inside knowledge of Downing Street to write a political thriller. It could be just the inspiration I need.

Good old Beeb, say I. When Tosser offers me a job I’ll turn it down.

Dear Penny

Guess what! Sam nearly met the PM today. I could hardly believe it when he told me. Now that’s what I call cool. I’m so proud of him. I’m married to a man who deals with the very highest in the land and from what he tells me he handled it incredibly well. The only thing that made me a bit sad is that if we never have kids then I won’t be able to tell them that their dad once nearly met the PM. Oh well, I really must stop thinking things like that.

Dear Self

Another bit of good news today. They tell me that I can produce my sperm sample at home! Yes, apparently sperm survives for one hour once outside the body (if kept warm) and as long as you can get the stuff back to the clinic within that time it doesn’t matter where you pull one off the wrist. Great news.

Anyway, I went in to see Dr Cooper after work to pick up the sterilized pot (you can’t just hand it in in a teacup). You can get the pots at Boots, but I’m not asking some sixteen-year-old girl for a sperm pot. Dr Cooper decided to take the opportunity to offer advice and consultation. He asked me whether I was aware of the manner in which I should produce my sample. I told him that I thought I could just about remember, I might be a bit rusty (it being as much as three or even four days since I last played a solo on the one-stringed bass), but I was sure that it would all come flooding back.

I must say I’m delighted about this “home-tossing” development, generally much more relaxing I feel. Interesting as well, because this will be the first time in my entire life that I will be able to have a completely legitimate hand shandy. Amazing really, when I think back over all the sly ones I’ve had over the last twenty-five- odd years, all the lies and stratagems I resorted to, particularly as a child, and here I am positively being encouraged to abuse myself by the National Health Service. Ironic. I thought about ringing my mum, just to rub it in, but I don’t think she’d see the joke.

Dearest Penny Pen Pal

I think Sam’s quite proud of his pot. He’s put it on the mantelpiece in the sitting room like it was a darts trophy. I hope he doesn’t imagine that’s where he’s going to fill it. The bathroom’s more appropriate. And I’ve told him he’s got to think about me while he’s doing it. Horrible business all round, quite frankly.

I adopted a baby gorilla today. She’s called Gertrude. She was advertised in the Big Issue I bought in Camden. You don’t actually get to have Gertrude at home but for ?90 they send you a picture of her and a certificate of adoption. There are only 650 of Gertrude’s type left on the planet. What are we doing to the world? It’s so disgusting.

Sam gave me a rather patronizing look when I told him about the adoption, which infuriated me because I acted out of ecological concern and for no other reason. Although I must say Gertrude does look very sweet, so small and defenceless, absolutely beautiful little thing. ?90 well spent.

Dear Idiot

Rather an unfortunate development arose today workwise. And when I say “rather” what I actually mean is “unbelievably” and such a bugger coming so soon as it did after my Downing Street triumph.

I was sitting at work trying to read a treatment for a game show that had been sent in by Aiden Fumet on behalf of one of his acts. It was bollocks, of course, and depressing bollocks at that. Something about contestants having to identify their partners by smelling their socks and looking at their bare bottoms pushed through holes in the set. The bit they seemed most proud of was that the game would also feature gay and lesbian couples. This alone, the authors seemed to feel, made the idea important, alternative and at the cutting edge.

Anyway, I was just applying my “Loved it but seems more Channel Five to me” rubber stamp when the phone rang and Daphne told me it was someone called Tosser. Good, I thought. Tosser has always been a tiny bit