into a drama studio, ruining a take, like I normally do. I pushed my way straight into
As I emerged from the building clutching the precious number I could see that the Daimler had been allowed through. The police, it seems, had taken charge and threatened the gate guard with immediate arrest if he did not lift his barrier and now the Prime Minister was on the red carpet being profusely apologized to by the Chairman of the Board of Governors and the Director General.
The PM laughed, he smiled, he said that these things happened and that we were not to worry about it at all. Had it not been for the flashing eyes and gritted teeth I might almost have imagined that he meant it.
As they bustled the great man off for make-up I tried to make a face at Nigel as if to say, “Phew, got away with that, didn’t we?” He would not even look at me.
Back in the studio Tazz was telling the cameras that the most mega honour in television history was about to be visited upon the kidz of
There was cheering, there was shouting, the
“Terrible fucking cock-up at the gate, Nigel,” said the Head of Television.
“Heads will roll,” said Nigel.
“Yes, they certainly will, I’ll make sure of that,” I said quickly, but I knew that Nigel had meant my head.
Then the bank of TV monitors which faced us over the heads of the vision mixers, PAs, directors, etc, suddenly lit up with the beaming countenance of the Prime Minister. He looked great. The kids cheered. I felt that the worst of the day was behind us.
Tazz, bless her, lobbed him the first ball beautifully.
“Is it true, Prime Minister, that you play the electric guitar?”
“Perfect!” shouted Nigel in the box. “Well done, Tazz.”
Nigel was clearly attempting to assume credit for the planting of this question, which had actually been my work. I wasn’t having it.
“Yes, good girl, that’s exactly what I told her to ask,” I said pointedly.
The PM smiled broadly. He raised his eyebrows in a self-deprecating shrug as if to say that he couldn’t imagine how Tazz had heard about that.
“Look,” he said. “You know a lot of kids these days think that politicians are fuddy and they’re duddy but it’s just not true. Yes, I do play the electric guitar and I love to surf the Internet. I’m just a regular bloke who likes popmusic, comedy with proper rude bits in it and wearing fashionable trousers. Just like you, Jazz.”
We all gulped slightly at this but Tazz quite rightly let it go and threw the floor open to the assembled children. It went wonderfully. The Prime Minister was frank, open and honest. Yes, he had a pet as a child, a hamster called Pawpaw. His favourite meal was egg and chips, but there must be proper ketchup. He loved soccer with a passion and he thought that Britain could again be great at it. He mentioned again how much he liked popmusic and that he played the electric guitar.
We could see that the PM was enjoying himself. Jo Winston had joined us in the box and she was beaming. The incident at the gate seemed to be forgotten. It was beginning to look like we’d got away with it.
Then my niece Kylie asked a question.
“Mr Prime Minister. With more young people than ever living rough on the streets, with your government cutting benefits to young people more than ever before, with class sizes at record levels and with children’s hospitals being forced to close, don’t you think that it’s an act of disgusting cynicism to come on here and pretend that you care at all about what really matters to young people?”
Oh my raving giddily diddily fuck.
The PM was absolutely not ready for it. He was stopped dead. At any other time he could easily have fielded an attack like Kylie’s. He would have told her that they were putting in more money than the other lot. That they were tackling a culture of dependency. That they were targeting benefit where it was really needed. I’d heard him do it any number of times in interviews and he always convinced me. But on this occasion he just wasn’t ready.
He had thought himself safe. He
“Well… I… uhm… I do care… but I…”
Kylie pressed home her advantage.
“Do you care about the children of single mothers? Because most of them will go hungry tonight…”
“Shut that fucking kid up!” the Head of Television screamed. Jo Winston’s knuckles were white around the pen she clutched. The control box hotline rang. Nigel picked it up. “Shut that fucking kid up.” I could hear the voice of the DG himself crackling on the other end.
“Shut that fucking kid up!” Nigel shouted at me and I dutifully relayed the message into the studio link, nearly blowing poor Tazz’s ear off.
“No, for heaven’s sake, let him answer!” Jo Winston shouted at me, but it was too late.
“Well, we’re going to have to leave it there,” Tazz was saying, with a grin frozen on her face. “So here’s the new video from Sir Elton John.”
It could not have looked more terrible. Jo Winston was right. The PM needed to reply but instead Kylie was left with the last word and the Main Man UK looked like a piece of shit.
Jo Winston left the control box without a word. Her look, however, spoke volumes. She thought I’d stitched her up.
“Who supplies us with the fucking kids?!” the Head of Television shouted. I knew which kid he was referring to and I kept my mouth shut.
Even before Elton John had finished his song the Downing Street posse were out of the building, departing in fury, swearing revenge on the BBC and claiming loudly that the PM had been set up. The Director General had tried to tempt the great man to a glass of wine (a grand reception buffet was all waiting). He actually chased after the prime ministerial Daimler round the turning circle with a bottle of claret in his hand. But any hope of post- broadcast jollies, I’m afraid, had been dashed by the as yet unclaimed little girl in the studio.
In the control box an inquiry was underway. The Deputy Director General had arrived and also the Head of Radio and Television. They knew they were in trouble. Relations between the Beeb and Number Ten are always strained and the licence fee always seems to be up for renewal. Everybody was all too aware that publicly embarrassing the Prime Minister on live TV was not the best way to ensure the future of advert-free public service broadcasting in the UK. As my various superiors spoke, contemplating the wrath that they must face from their own superiors, I was painfully aware that below us the studio was emptying. Looking down through the great glass windows onto the floor, I could see that the bulk of the audience had been escorted out and the scene-shifters were beginning to strike the set. Standing alone in the middle of all the activity and looking rather lonely and scared was my niece Kylie. Obviously she had no idea where to go or what to do; I had said that I would collect her after the show. The problem was that I knew that if I went anywhere near her the game would be up.
Then the game was up anyway. Nigel spotted her.
“That appalling little anarchist is still there,” he said. “I don’t believe it! That means she must belong to one of the crew!”
They all stared down. Kylie was looking more isolated than ever. The deconstruction of a TV studio after a programme has been made is a noisy, frenzied business. Large things roll across the floor, even larger things descend from the ceiling. Many men and women bustle about shouting. To be a twelve-year-old child abandoned in the middle of it would be a pretty intimidating experience and I could see that Kylie was starting to think about having a cry. She wasn’t the only one.
“If Downing Street get to hear that she belongs to an employee they’ll never believe we didn’t set them up,” said the Deputy Director General. “Go and find out who the hell she’s with, Bell.”
Hope! A chance! I might just get away with it! All I had to do was rush down, get Kylie out and then blame it
