AS I WAS SAYING
For less than this, I once had an ink-pot thrown at my head
PEREGRINE WORSTHORNE
Then about three months later the tele- phone rang and it was an ebullient Darcus Howe on the line eager to tell me the good news. He had just heard that Channel 4 was so pleased with the ratings of the pro- gramme and the viewers' reaction to it, that they had decided to commission a whole new series of six hour-long programmes with the general title of Uncool Britannia. They wanted Darcus and me to travel round Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland and the various regions of England, on the eve of the millennium, testing the UK waters. At first I was sceptical, even incredulous. The idea of Channel 4 wanting me to be the co-star in such a television blockbuster struck me as simply out of this world. Dar- cus must be drunk or dreaming. Not at all, he assured me. The senior commissioning editor had said that the project enjoyed the full backing of Channel 4's head, Michael Jackson. Needless to say, my vanity was tickled. Six hour-long programmes on prime time! If Channel 4 had thought so highly of the race programme perhaps it had not been so bad after all. Perhaps I was about to become the second septuagenari- an television star, following in the footsteps of the great Malcolm Muggeridge who also began his meteoric career on the box at a great age. In any case, what a rejuvenating challenge, the professional equivalent of a handful of Viagra pills." So, excited but not convinced, I told Dar- cus that I was agreeable in principle, but that before definitely deciding I would like to hear from Panoptic, the independent production company who had made the race film and had received the commission to do the new series. Next day, Michael Jones, the Panoptic boss, rang to confirm what Darcus had said. Yes, Channel 4 was indeed over the moon about the series. In fact, they had put the idea to him, not the other way round. Yes, of course he had been as amazed as I was. But there it was, the series was definitely in the bag.
Lunch and hours of discussion took place, out of which Michael Jones drew up a first-class outline. I, too, spent weeks mugging up in the London Library on Scot- tish devolution, English nationalism, etc. I even consulted a publisher about getting a book out of the series and, something I've never done before, persuaded a top televi- sion agent to take me on to her books. In addition, various directors were approached and cameramen lined up. As to money, that, too, was discussed, with a possible sum of £40,000 mentioned — the equivalent of what I used to be paid by Dominic Lawson for a whole year of writing columns for the Sunday Telegraph. So rosy did the financial prospect seem, believe it or not, that I bought a new Citroen with the, for me, unheard of extra luxury of leather seats. Nor was that all. Such was my confidence that I got the Guardian to mention my great television future at the end of a piece they were doing in a Saturday issue.
You can guess the rest. Out of the blue I got a call from an utterly shattered Michael Jones saying that he had just heard from Channel 4 that Michael Jackson had had second thoughts. The project had been can- celled. And that was that. Not a further word of apology or explanation, nor, of course, any mention of a penny's compen- sation for all the work already done.
How does television get away with such high-handed and unscrupulous, not to say uncivilised and unmannerly behaviour? Panoptic, the main sufferer, would be unwise to complain of course, because, if they did, Channel 4 would never give them any further work. The same applies to my new friend Darcus Howe who no doubt also has every reason to keep in with Chan- nel 4, as does the chosen director who had probably readjusted his 1999 schedule so as to be able to undertake what was going to be such a king-sized project. That is the trouble with television, there are so few channels that those who make a living in this medium simply cannot afford to kick up a fuss. Hollywood, I gather, where the monopoly enjoyed by the big companies is equally overpowering, can also get away with treating writers in this insultingly cava- lier manner.
Fortunately, British newspapers, of which, mercifully, there are still a great number, can't and don't, or at any rate didn't in my day, as I have cause to remember. In fact, it is one of my most shameful memories. In the Sunday Telegraph's early days the then editor commissioned the fiery actress Diana Graves, niece of the poet Robert, to write a regular column, only to find a few weeks later that there would be no space for it. On being told of this Diana Graves stormed into the office, threw an ink-pot at my head — I happened to be the deputy editor sit- ting in the editorial chair — and refused to leave until the paper's accountant had given her a fat cheque for what she rightly insisted had been a breach of a gentleman's agree- ment. Never again, at least so long as I was there, did we risk trying to make the poor contributor pay for our own mistakes.
Do I protest too much? Very possibly. That is one of the advantages of getting old — not to have to care too much about keep- ing in with careless and thoughtless execu- tives accustomed to change their minds in the certain knowledge that they have the Maxim-gun, so to speak, and we writers have not, unless, that is, they are privileged, like me, to have a column in The Spectator. Not that a Spectator column is mightier than the sword, still less the Maxim-gun, but at least it allows a poor hack to let off steam.
May I draw attention to a beautiful — needless to say, privately printed — book of filial piety. It is by Lieutenant-Colonel Lachlan Gordon-Duff about his father Lieutenant Lachlan Gordon-Duff, a young officer in the Gordon Highlanders who was killed in the 1914-18 war. Because the author's widowed mother understandably could never bear to talk about her husband, the son was only able to appreciate the true measure of his father when years later a case of family letters came to light. This is an inspiring story, not only of a heroic young soldier-father, but also of a devoted soldier-son's lifetime quest to do justice to his memory. Not for the beach, but ideal for reading under the shade of an elm or, preferably, oak tree, it is available at £18.99 from Travis Books (telephone 01260 252236).
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