human expectations, a living, breathing perky force. She is also, I’m told, very nice, and a real enthusiast about things like Comic Relief. Besides all this, she wears tiny little crop-tops and microscopic little skirts which for somebody like me who spends his time at TV Centre talking to plump, grumpy, unshaven comedians about whether they can say knob before nine o’clock is a very welcome change.
This morning, rather disappointingly, Tazz was wearing trousers. Probably a directive from Downing Street. I don’t think the PM is an ogler, but he’s only human, for God’s sake. Many a strong man’s eyes have twitched downwards to check out the knicker triangle when facing Tazz on the “Hot Seat” sofas. The word is that even Cliff Richard took a peek. The last thing Downing Street wants is the PM caught having a perv on a twenty-two-year- old’s gusset.
Having such a gorgeous girl presenter is an essential part of kids’ TV these days. I mean the kids themselves would probably be just as happy to watch an enthusiastic old granny, but the bleary, beery students who haven’t gone to bed yet want something sexier, as do the dads who say, “Let’s watch Tazz on the BBC. She’s much better than that computer-generated ferret they have on ITV.”
The show started off fine. I got Kylie sat down amongst the other kids whom at first she affected to despise but I soon noticed that she had hooked up with two eleven-year-old sisters whose mother seemed to have dressed them as prostitutes, in so much as their skirts were the merest pelmets and their tops barely covered the fact that there was as yet nothing to barely cover. Having seen Kylie settled in, I went up to the control box. It’s rather fun being an executive producer. People bring you coffee and things and I was surprised to discover that I was clearly the most senior figure present. I recall reflecting how generous it was of Nigel to stay away and let me take my rightful place centre stage as the BBC’s official Prime Minister host. Ha! And double ha!
Anyway, after the usual half-hour of cartoons (“We hate showing them but it’s what the kids want”), Tazz introduced Grrrl Gang. Despite my niece’s snooty contempt for them, having Grrrl Gang on was quite a coup (what’s more I spotted Kylie screaming with all the other little grrrls). Grrrl Gang are the newest girl group, tougher and more street than whatever the last one was. None of these groups is ever going to do what the Spice Girls did in ’96, but Grrrl Gang are pretty hip at present. They were “In the Dock”, which was another of these sections in which the star guest takes questions from the kids in the audience and on the phones. Which in reality means a series of tremulous voices from Milton Keynes and Dumfriesshire asking, “How do you get to be a pop star?”
To my surprise the answer to this turned out to be quite simple.
“You just got to be yourself, right? Livin’ it large. Kickin’ it big. That’s all it takes,” the grrrls of Grrrl Gang assured the kids of Britain.
“You gotta kick it, girl! Big yourself up!”
“Yeah, and don’t let no one disrespect you, right?”
“Cos it’s about babe control, right? Grrrl strength. Like if you tell a teacher you wanna be a pop star, right, or an astronaut? And she says like,
“Yeah, if you want it, grrrl, just grab it. It’s a babe revolution.”
That being sorted out to everyone’s satisfaction, a tiny voice from Solihull asked if the grrrls had heard that their manager was predicting that they would soon be bigger than the Beatles.
“We’re already bigger than the Beatles, aren’t we?” said one of Grrrl Gang. “I mean, there’s five of us and there were only four of them.”
The rest of the Grrrls nodded wisely at this.
Then Tazz announced that it was environment week on
Sometimes these things can be a little sticky, but one of the grrrls from Grrrl Gang had a question right off.
“Talking about the environment, right,” she said, “do you know about animals and stuff, then?”
Simon positively glowed. “Well, a little. I’m Chief Zoologist to the Royal Natural Academy.”
“All right, answer me this, then,” said the grrrl. “How come birds have rude names, then?”
Simon was clearly not following.
“You know,” the grrrl continued. “Cock, tit, thrush.”
Up in the control box we all froze.
“Warbler.”
The kids giggled and Simon stuttered.
“Well, I…”
In control the phone lines were lighting up already as irate parents all over the country began to call in to complain. The producer screamed into Tazz’s earpiece telling her to move on. I could see her wincing on camera six.
“My brother used to have a white mouse called Big Balls,” said a second member of Grrrl Gang.
“Yeah, but that’s just a personal name, innit?” replied the first. “Not a breed.”
At that point Tazz was able to throw to her male partner who was standing next to the Gunk Tank ready to Gunk Dunk the weatherman from
Looking back, I suppose I should have taken it as a warning. The warm complacent glow I had been feeling (Lucy stonked up; me about to be the sole facilitator of a glorious TV moment with the PM) suddenly chilled a bit. This was live telly and things could go wrong. But the panic in the box subsided and I comforted myself that it was probably good luck to get the gremlins out of the way first. A glance at my watch informed me that the PM was due in twenty minutes so I decided to make my way to the front of TV Centre to be ready to receive him.
Oh, how naive I’d been.
To think that I had actually believed that I was to be allowed to glory in this moment alone. Ha! I cringe at my stupidity. When I got to the reception area I discovered that a welcome committee had already assembled. Nigel was there, of course, standing on the red carpet trying to look both relaxed and important in equal measure, but he was way way back, bobbing up and down to see, and you just can’t stand on your tiptoes in a dignified and commanding manner. In front of Nigel, all jostling for position, were the Corporation’s Chief of Accounting, also the Heads of Marketing, Networking, Global Outreaching and Corporate Affairsing. Besides these, I could see the BBC2 Channel Controller, who was officially junior to Nigel but was ahead on the carpet because he was more fashionable and tipped in the media to shaft Nigel by next Christmas. Also present were the Head of Television and the Head of Radio, also the Head of Television and Radio (Radio and Television Group) and the Chief Programming Coordinator and the Chief Coordinating Programmer and the Deputy Director General, of course the Director General himself, the Chairman of the Board of Governors and the Board of Governors. Basically, the entire senior executive management structure of the Corporation had turned out so that they could say they had met the PM and also no doubt to sneak an ogle at Tazz.
I took my place at the back of the crowd quietly determining to find a moment to proclaim loudly that despite being far and away the most junior senior executive present I was in charge on the ground. It was my gig.
There were five or six Downing Street minders buzzing about the place as well, phones and pagers going off like the martians were about to land. I saw Jo Winston and waved but I’m afraid she either didn’t see me or didn’t recognize me. A palpable buzz amongst the minders and the cops announced the imminent arrival of the great man.
Then they were upon us. Outside the main gates heading south towards Shepherd’s Bush was the mini cavalcade, two motorcycle outriders at each end sandwiching three cars of which the PM’s Daimler with its darkened rear windows was the middle one. As the procession drew up opposite the main entrance the front motorbikes pulled across the road into the oncoming traffic to block the northbound traffic. Clever idea, I thought. Wish I could do that. A person can sit in the middle of that road for five minutes waiting for a chance to pull
