Ben Elton - Inconceivable

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 should have been safe.

“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 on the friend of a friend of a scene-shifter. I would promise a full investigation and then cover the whole thing up. I was about to bound out of the box when I saw Kylie tearfully hailing a passing floor assistant. I watched in horror as the floor assistant put her microphone to her lips. It all seemed to happen in slow motion. My whole life passed before my eyes.

“Hello, Control.” The floor manager’s voice floated out of the console loud and clear. “I’ve got a little girl here called Kylie, says she’s Sam Bell’s niece. Is he about at all because she wants to go home.”

Dear Pen Pal

Honestly, trust Sam. Just when I want to be at my absolute most relaxed and non-tense he has gone and made a complete ass of himself at work. He tried not to tell me about it which was nice of him seeing as I’m trying to be as one with my Karma, but he was writing at his book for so long that I had to ask him and it all came out. I feel awful for him, but I’m afraid I’ve had to tell him that I’m not going to think about it, I just can’t. Every fibre of my being is currently dedicated to being in tune with the ageless rhythm of life and, however you look at it, the politics of television are simply not a part of the ageless rhythm of life. Sam doesn’t mind. He never wants to talk about anything anyway. He’s a terrible bottler-upper, like most men, I think. They don’t want to touch, they don’t want to talk. They just want to drink, watch TV, drink and bonk.