Ben Elton - Inconceivable

“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 into a drama studio, ruining a take, like I normally do. I pushed my way straight into Livin’ Large , bursting in on the show while a boy band (called Boy Band) were singing a song about being in love (called “Bein’ In Love”). I grabbed a camera script from a floor manager, noted down the programme number and charged back out towards the gates.

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 Livin’ Large , and that the Prim-o Minister-o, the Main Man UK, was already in the house!

There was cheering, there was shouting, the Livin’ Large goblin puppets jumped up and down in front of the camera, Tazz beamed, the male presenter (whose name I can never remember) grinned, the floor managers tried to look all serious and then the great moment was upon us, the PM was about to go on. Most of the bigwigs were watching the show in a hospitality suite on the sixth floor, but I was in the control box along with Nigel and the Head of Television.

“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.”