Inconceivable

across. For the PM’s driver it was the work of an instant, however, and, leaving behind the two secret service cars, the Daimler pulled up to the famous IN barrier of BBC Television Centre.

And then came the first of the day’s truly momentous disasters.

Book, my hand shakes as I report that the barrier did not rise.

The entire top brass of the BBC (plus me) stood transfixed with horror as the prime ministerial Daimler drew to a reluctant halt whilst a little old man in a peaked cap emerged from the security hut that stands beside the barrier.

“My God,” I heard the Deputy Director General exclaim to the Director General, “that fellow is asking the Prime Minister if his name’s on the Gate List.”

The DDG’s voice was the only sound. None of us could speak. We just watched in dumbstruck silence as down at the gate a negotiation began to take place between the BBC guard and the Prime Minister’s driver.

I could feel my bowel start to loosen. The BBC gate men are notorious, positively Soviet in their trancelike commitment to the letter of BBC law. Their duty is to defend the gates of Television Centre against all but those who have passes or whose names are on the Gate List, and they discharge this duty with a lack of personal initiative that would have surprised a Stepford wife. In fact only last week a story went round that Tom Jones had been refused entry because his name was not on the Gate List, even though he had got out of his Roller and sung “It’s Not Unusual”, “Delilah” and “What’s New, Pussycat?” on the pavement.

Jo Winston’s radio crackled. It was the voice of the Prime Minister’s driver. We could see him talking into his mouthpiece from where we stood.

“They won’t lift the barrier, Jo. The guard says there’s no name on his Gate List.”

Oh, my fucking giddy bollocks!

“Tell him it’s the Prime Minister!” Jo snapped into her radio.

“I have. He says, oh yeah and he’s Bruce Forsyth.”

“But it is the Prime Minister.”

“I know it’s the Prime Minister, miss. I’m his driver, but this man says there’s no name on his Gate List.”

Everyone in the reception committee twitched in horror. The Chairman of the Board of Governors turned to the Director General.

“Why has the Prime Minister’s name not been forwarded to the gate?” he said.

The Director General turned to the Deputy Director General.

“Why has the Prime Minister’s name not been forwarded to the gate?”

The Deputy Director General repeated the question to the Head of Television and Radio who asked it of the Head of Television. He asked Nigel the Channel Controller and Nigel turned to the man who was in charge on the ground, the man whose gig it was.

“Sam!” he hissed.

Before Nigel could ask me why the Prime Minister’s name had not been forwarded to the gate, I pushed my way through to the front of the group and grabbed Jo’s radio.

“Tell the idiot at the gate that this is Sam Bell, BBC Controller, Broken Comedy and Variety!” I barked, and was rather disconcerted to notice that a number of minders, both BBC and Government, noted down my name. “The Prime Minister is appearing on Livin’ Large and he is to be allowed through immediately!”

After a tense moment during which we could all see the driver conveying my message to the guard, the driver radioed back.

“He says he’s going to need a programme number for Livin’ Large to check with the studio. He says nobody told him about any prime minister and he thinks it’s a wind-up.”

Of course!

Now I understood the problem in all its horror. Nobody trusts anybody in television any more. That is its curse. There has been such a plethora of shows based on practical jokes and nasty cons on TV over the past few years that everybody in the industry lives in a state of constant paranoia. They check their hotel rooms for hidden cameras, their bathrooms for tiny mikes. Nobody is safe. Impressionists ring up celebrities pretending to be other celebrities, tricking them into making appalling indiscretions which are then broadcast to the nation. Hoax current affairs programme researchers fool naive politicians into commenting on non-existent issues so as to make them look like complete idiots. False charities con publicity-desperate public figures into earnestly espousing ludicrous fictitious causes and campaigns. Candid cameras record people’s selfish reactions to prostrate figures in the street and ticking bags on buses. Only last week there was a huge scandal at TV Centre when a left-wing comic from Channel Four managed to blag his way onto Newsnight and get himself interviewed as the Secretary of State for Wales. It was only when he said he loved his job because of the ready supply of sheep that they rumbled him.

This hapless gate guard, seeing the Livin’ Large cameras looming behind him, clearly suspected that he was the subject of what is known in the business as a “gotcha”. He imagined that if he let the Daimler through, Noel Edmunds or Jeremy Beadle would leap out of the boot and lampoon him.

Nigel had joined me in the little cluster of people around Jo’s radio.

“Give the bastard the programme number,” he hissed in my ear.

It was the obvious thing to do and I would have done it, except that I did not have the programme number. Why would I? I am a senior executive. I have people to have that type of thing for me. So does Nigel, of course, and his person is me. He was nearly in tears.

“Sam! You’re in charge on the ground!” There was no pretence at hissing now. “Get the barrier lifted!”

I gave Jo back her radio and set off for the barrier, which was a distance of perhaps fifty metres. For a moment I tried to maintain my dignity but trying to walk at running pace looks even more panicky than running, so I ran. At the barrier I could see that the guard was shaken but determined. For all he knew this could be a test of his guarding abilities. We have all seen films where the guard nods the general through and then the general turns on the guard and bollocks him for not demanding to see a pass. The gate guard did not wish to make that mistake. All in all he had clearly decided that whether it was a hoax or not the safest policy for him was to cling to the rules like a paranoid limpet.

“He hasn’t got a pass. His name’s not on the list and you haven’t got a programme number. The rules are very clear.”

I wondered how the PM was taking all this. It was impossible to say since, as I have said, the rear windows of the Daimler were darkened. To see him I would have had to put my head through the driver’s window, which would probably have resulted in my being shot. The shadowy nature of the PM’s countenance was of course a contributory factor to the gate guard’s doubts. I thought about asking whether the Premier would mind stepping out for a moment and showing himself, but I did not have the nerve.

“Right,” I said, and grabbing the gate I attempted to lift it by brute force. This was pointless, of course. I heaved and I heaved and the guard threatened to call the police, of whom there were four in evidence. I think if I had bent the barrier backwards it might have snapped but supposing it had boinged back and killed someone? A flying splinter might blind the PM!

I had to think straight. Force was not the answer. I let go of the gate and strode back to the guard.

“Ring the switchboard,” I said. “Ask them to ring Livin’ Large and get them to give you a programme number.”

There was an agonizing wait for the switchboard to respond. It was a Saturday, after all, and TV Centre is always a bit dead on a Saturday. Eventually the guard got through, but only as far as the switchboard, who refused to put him through to Livin’ Large.

“They’re live on air at the moment,” the guard said, “and not taking calls in the control box.”

“I know they’re live on air, that’s the whole…”

What could I do? I know these people, people at gates, people on doors, people with lists. They are immovable. They cannot be reasoned with. Over the years they have stopped me going into clubs, pubs, departure lounges, the wrong entrance at cricket grounds and, most days, my own place of work. The mountain would have to go to Mohammed.

I set off to run back to the studio to get the programme number. As I sprinted up the carpark turning circle and back into the studio complex I could feel the eyes of every single superior I had upon me. They burned into my back as I ran past the famous Ariel Fountain and into the Centre. Amazingly, I did not instantly get lost and rush