Inconceivable

by Ben Elton

  ‘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.’

  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.

  Dear Book,

  The Livin’ Large story was in all the papers on Sunday (PM humbled by child) and they’re still carrying it today. I’ve been named in every single article, of course. Despite me issuing a very clear statement, nobody believes that I didn’t set it all up.

  It’s just too convenient what with the girl being my niece and all.

  The papers tried to go after Kylie as well, but I’d guessed they would and told Emily that if Kylie said even one word to the press Emily would no longer be my sister. Kylie is now house grounded with the curtains drawn until it blows over.

  I did not go in to work today and took the phone off the hook. I really am in very deep shit and I don’t want to talk to Lucy about it because she has enough on her mind. Funny how writing this book has actually ended up as a sort of therapy for me, although it has nothing to do with having kids.

  Dear Penny,

  I feel terribly sorry about Sam’s travails but despite that I also feel curiously centred and at one, almost elated. I know I must not get my hopes up, but I do definitely feel different. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with being positive, is there? I don’t want to suppress or fight whatever may or may not be happening in my body with negative thinking. I’m sure that mental attitude has enormous power over the physical self. And I do feel differently this month. I don’t know why, but I do. Who knows…?

  Sam seems to think he’s going to lose his job but if only I could be pregnant I wouldn’t mind about us being poor or anything. I’d live in one room. I wouldn’t care, not if I had a baby. Sam always says, ‘Ha!’ when I say things like that and of course I know he’s right. Nobody wants to be poor and live in just one room, but if all we have would buy me a baby I’d spend it tomorrow.

  Dear Book,

  Lucy keeps going on about not caring about being poor, only about getting pregnant. She says she’d happily see us with nothing as long as we have a child. The problem is that we’re probably going to have nothing whether we have a child or not.

  Penniless and infertile would be a lot to take, I think. On the other hand, Lucy seems very certain that it’s going to work this time. She really has started to believe in the power of positive thinking. She’s even said that if it’s a girl she’ll call it Primrose. I hope she’s right. She does look glowing.

  Actually if it does work I’ll get her to do some positive thinking about me keeping my job.

  nothing

  Penny,

  My period started this morning.

  I just want to die.

  Why did I let myself hope? How could I have been so pathetic? I don’t know why, but I was. What with the crystals and the ley lines and the positive thinking and everything. I just thought for once I’d get some luck. Just for once it would be me who was lucky. But of course it wasn’t. Obviously. Shit, shit, shit, shit.

  Why me?! Why bloody me?! Some women scarcely even want children and have them.

  I want

  else! All my life I’ve wanted to have children. Right from the first game I ever played, I’ve known I wanted to be a mum. It’s my life’s fucking ambition.

  But I can’t do it.

  Sixty-three periods! Sixty-three fucking months of trying and trying and trying and

  nothing! I feel wretched, just wretched (quite apart from these God-awful period pains). I keep thinking, why me? I mean, why should I be the one who can’t have a little baby to hold? Why? My sister’s got two. Melinda’s got one. Every bloody woman in Sainsbury’s seems to have about twelve. I know I shouldn’t resent them but sometimes I do. It just is so unfair! Of course I know that lots of other women are in the same boat as me and all that but I just don’t care about them. That’s all. I don’t.

  Dear Self,

  Well, the Primrose Hill Bonk bore no fruit. Bugger.

  I’m afraid to say that even I had begun to get my hopes up a bit.

  Poor Lucy was being so positive that she made me feel positive too. I was even having fantasies about what life would be like if we had one. Just tea-time and story-telling-type fantasies, that sort of thing. Loading up the car to go camping and I’m going to stop now.

  Dear Penny,

  I was alone at work again today so I spent five hours on the phone trying to get through to Dr Cooper to see if I can get a referral to have a laparoscopy. Most of the 247 ‘getting pregnant’ books that I own suggest that this will pr
obably be the next step and Dr Cooper certainly said it would be. The alternative and homeopathic books of course do not approve of this kind of brutalism but what is one to do? I’ve tried so many things and honestly if I gave up eating and drinking all the things that some of these books tell you to give up I’d starve to death before I could conceive.

  I couldn’t even get through to the surgery. There’s some sort of flu epidemic on and it’s obvious that they’re a bit pushed. I’m afraid that we’re going to have to consider having it done privately. I don’t like to because Sam and I have always felt very strongly about the NHS, but I don’t think I have any choice. I mean the waiting lists are so long now that even though you want to do the right thing you can’t. Funny, really, because these days I actually feel that because the lists are so long I should go private anyway if I can afford it, just in order to free up a bed. Extraordinary. I remember when Mrs Thatcher had that operation on her hand and said, ‘I didn’t add to the queue,’ we all went potty at dinner parties all over London and now we’re saying exactly the same thing.

  I am

  depressed.

  Dear Sam,

  Lucy wants to have a laparoscopy done privately because she can’t get through to Dr Cooper. I said absolutely not. I pretended that it was a matter of political principle and expressing our solidarity with the NHS. The truth is it’s the money pure and simple. What with my cock-up over Above The Line Films and the fiasco with the Prime Minister it’s now pretty much a certainty that Nigel is going to shaft me and until I know what the future holds I can’t countenance any additional expense.