Heather Peace started her career working in touring theatre, commissioning and directing new plays.
She joined the BBC Drama Script Unit in 1989, later script editing productions in Drama Serials under Michael Wearing, and Comedy under Robin Nash, where she developed Lisselle Kayla's groundbreaking sitcom Us Girls. In 1991 she left the BBC to become Head of Comedy Development at Witzend Productions, returning in 1994 to edit one week in four of EastEnders for a year. From 1994-1996 she was a senior script editor in Drama Serials, leaving to become a freelance editor and writer.
She wrote for the second series of Crossroads and has written a number of short stories; she trained to teach English in 2003. Heather is an Associate Lecturer at the Open University on the Advanced Creative Writing course.
Legend Press Ltd, 2 London Wall Buildings, London EC2M 5UU
[email protected] | www.legendpress.co.uk
Contents © Heather Peace 2011
The right of the above author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.
ISBN 978-1-9082481-3-8
eISBN 978-1-9082482-9-9
‘SCUM Manifesto’, Valerie Solanas Used by permission of the publisher: © AK Press & Freddie Baer 1996
All characters, other than those clearly in the public domain, and place names, other than those well-established such as towns and cities, are fictitious and any resemblance is purely coincidental.
Edited by: Lauren Parsons-Wolff
Set in Times
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Acclaim for All to Play For
‘Takes you right back to the intrepid walks round (and round) the baffling corridors of power that were the BBC and offers an insightful, witty glimpse of what really went on behind those doors. And anyone who’s ever slipped into the parallel universe that is the Edinburgh Fringe will be instantly plunged back into the heady cocktail of earnestness and debauchery (without the hangover). Endearingly revealing and alarmingly honest.’ Victoria Pile, Writer of Green Wing
‘All to Play For lifts the lid on the inner workings of the BBC Drama department like no other book I have ever read. Written with an insight that can only come from someone who has lived through it. A bitingly honest, funny, poignant, and brilliant debut novel.’ Owen O’Neill, Award Winning Actor, Director and Comedian.
‘The whole book has a wonderfully authentic feel, clearly penned by someone on the inside!’ Tony Grounds, TV Writer.
‘A vivid and passionate evocation of a crucial period in British broadcasting history. The writing is shrewd and funny and fuelled by the writer’s obvious commitment and idealism. The characterisation combines unmistakable authenticity with a wicked satirical spin.’ Alison Lumb, Former BBC and ITV Drama Producer
‘Wickedly perceptive, revelatory, funny and at times shocking, this is less a work of fiction than it is an inside job, and all the better for it. This writer certainly knows what she's talking about. A highly credible cast of characters (many of whom you would definitely refuse a Facebook friend request) guide you behind the scenes of the viper world of White City and the TV industry in general. What takes this story up an extra notch is its backdrop, a time of dizzying political, social and institutional upheaval. Landmark pre-millennium changes are rocking the foundations of a boozy, smoke-hazed era of dinosaur practices and unfair privileges. The digital age of television rushes forth with the inevitability of a high-speed train crash, and you read on, not knowing which of your favourite passengers will survive the wreckage, nor how. For those of us who have ever had anything to do with the Beeb, this is an absorbing read; for the remainder, this is just as much a voyeuristic journey of pleasure. The chortle-a-minute ending satisfyingly unites the beginning of the story and leaves only one burning question: when's the in-house screen adaptation?’Carmen Harris (formerly known as Beeb scriptwriter, Lisselle Kayla)
‘I felt this was more than an honest book, but an absolutely needed breakdown of the industry that we all try to understand. This book is important for men and women both to realize it's actually okay to still believe in what you've always believed in, and although you can't make changes here, you can make changes there.
This should be an industry bible that you read before you enter, just in case you lose hope, this book will help you not to take it too personal.
There are times I felt this book was more of a breakdown of the BBC I had sadly come to understand, a place where a lot of people have lost confidence, and taken their rejection to heart. To know that sometimes there were real people on the inside trying to allow for the creative soul to develop gives us hope.
I love the detail, but felt I wanted more deeper stories from the characters, I felt I was in the lives of the big decision makers, but never understood them enough.
A very thought provoking book, that has left me feeling quite inspired against the odds. I loved All To Play For, it allows you to question yourself in all areas of your life, which will make you question, have you ever sold a piece of your soul. This book is excellent and really honest and hopefully for those who sadly put their dreams on hold, after countless rejections will read this book and get back on track, and not let those who don't get it, stop your dreams.’ Angie Le Mar, Comedienne, Actor, Writer, Director and TV Presenter
‘An insider’s view of the BBC drama department; Heather Peace could be the Chris Mullin of TV Centre.’ Ian Pattison, Writer of Rab C Nesbitt
‘A fitting legacy for the Doughnut, brilliantly skewers TV and lays bare the shambles behind it. As honest, shocking and funny as the world of television it satirises; brilliant if you ever lived in the office next to the lift, brilliant if you haven’t and want to know what it was like. A gem.’ Geoff Atkinson, Writer, MD of Vera Productions and Producer of Bremner, Bird and Fortune.
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Lauren Parsons-Wolff, Tom Chalmers and Lucy Boguslawski at Legend Press, to Steff Humm for her marketing work, and to Barbara Herbin. Also, for their support in the early stages, Alison Lumb, Andy Croft, Cheryl Moskowitz, Janet Goddard, Dave Fox, Wendy Suffield and Merric Davidson. Not forgetting special thanks to all those who provided my inspiration.
To Robbie
Let's spend less time measuring audiences and more time enlightening them.
Jeremy Paxman
From The James MacTaggart Memorial Lecture 24/8/2007
Contents
Before I Begin
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
A Last Word
Before I Begin
Janua
ry 2011, Penarth, Wales.
Middle age isn’t as bad as you think it’ll be. There are compensations. I’ve reached that stage where life levels out a bit, and the steady tramp uphill finally rewards you with a glorious view back down the mountain. You can pause to rest and congratulate yourself on having made it this far. Retracing the route you discover tiny figures crawling up the path, as if you’re looking into the distant centre of the universe, back in time to its first beginnings: there’s yourself, an insignificant new creature creeping along with all those other determined little ants, full of hope and enthusiasm and blissfully ignorant of the agony that lies ahead. I’m not at the summit of my Mount Snowdon yet, but I’m well over halfway up. I can afford to sit down for a while and consider my journey, take in the panorama… I’m rambling already. Get back to the point, Rhiannon. Okay.
This is my story, in case that wasn’t obvious. The tale of a late baby-boomer from Cardiff, who set off to see the world and arrived in Valhalla, amongst her heroes; who rubbed shoulders with the movers and shakers of her generation before they moved or shook anything. Who found herself caught in the middle of a phenomenal clash of cultures as class war collided with art and commerce in the 1980s and 90s and almost destroyed the BBC – I’m doing it again.
Life’s an adventure, that’s for sure. You don’t really know where you’re going until you get there. Whatever you think is true about yourself turns out to be only the half of it. So, who did I start out as? Rhiannon Jones, second child of two Welsh teachers, (Geography and English) with an older brother and two younger sisters. Dark hair, not skinny. (Not fat though; well maybe a bit since having the children.) Five foot two. I wasn’t going to mention that, but it’s significant, I have to face the truth. Being short makes you more determined. I wouldn’t say I have a chip on my shoulder, mind. Having older and younger siblings makes you stand your ground, and know your place, your rights and your responsibilities. Especially when your parents are teachers, they also give you the confidence to try anything. Encouragement is so important – but I digress again, gentle reader.
By the time I was in the sixth form I realised that good old Cardiff was in fact the dullest, dampest, most tedious old-fashioned city in Britain. Everything colourful and interesting was happening elsewhere, be it Liverpool, London or Leeds, I couldn’t wait to get away from my cosy home town that seemed to secrete a relative behind every corner and curtain. Perhaps you felt the same at seventeen? I was torn between acting and teaching. I would have loved a career on the stage, but I had a suspicion that I wasn’t the kind of extravert who makes it to the top. I had diabolical stage fright. Plus I was rather short. Okay, it’s no big deal. I’m not hung up about that. No, really. Not now, anyway.
So, I went for a compromise, being such a bloody sensible girl. I went to an East London drama school and took a B.Ed. in Drama; that way I got to do lots of acting and professional training, but I would also get a teaching qualification (picture the joy on my parents’ faces). I planned to give theatre a try after I graduated, and if it didn’t work out I’d go into teaching. I’d be in London – well alright, just outside London – and I would have access to all the exciting stuff going on. I couldn’t wait. Life was bursting with opportunity; it was all to play for, and I was up for it.
That spirit was to lead me, against all expectation, into the BBC, the august institution that illuminated my childhood like a second sun. I had never even considered the possibility of working there, it was so remote. When I was young the BBC seemed even more secure than the royal family: it was the veins and arteries of our national culture, even in Wales. Okay, it was rather stolid, overbearingly English of course – but it brought us together, and it was a safe place to come home to. We loved it despite its faults. We could squabble over our places at the table but still feel secure in its patriarchal bosom. When did that disappear? What changed? The BBC still exists, its charter remains the same, but everything about it is different. It’s a great loss, to my generation, but of course it had to change. Its antiquated structure desperately needed reform, but not like that… the baby was halfway down the plughole. It’s still stuck there, as a matter of fact.
Looking back I see the two huge powers we call Art and Commerce fighting over the flag of the BBC. As they tear into each other a third sneaks up behind, and snatches the colours: they thought he was their loyal servant, but they weren’t paying proper attention and now they’ve lost control and he’s running off with it… I’m getting ahead of myself again, sorry.
I need to go back to the start, to the days when the BBC was stuffed full of talented people rather than overpaid managers and public school interns. Back to the 80s, when art and commerce were the left and right of clashing ideologies, when Britain was still an industrial nation, politics was clear-cut, and we all knew where we stood.
Back then, my new friends and colleagues-to-be were all just as fresh, young and wet behind the ears as I was myself. Our hearts were open and our integrity was still intact. Long before most of us had found our way into the Big Boys Club, some of us unwittingly gathered together in the creative maelstrom that launched a thousand careers: the Edinburgh Festival Fringe…
Chapter One
August 1985, Edinburgh
I remember it was a sweltering hot summer that year. I know it’s a literary cliché, but it’s true, no use pretending otherwise. I was in my second year as a trainee drama teacher, and was volunteering as assistant director with the Newham Youth Theatre. We’d devised a show with the kids and brought it up to the Fringe Festival with the aim of expanding their horizons, giving them a voice, and having a good time. (You’re right, it wasn’t just altruism that inspired me to do all that extra work. I was also having a fling with the director, Steve, but I’m not proud of it – he was married. At the time it seemed to me that his commitments were his own responsibility and none of my business; that’s another example of how your perspective can change as you get older.) As it turned out, five or six other people whose lives were to become intertwined with my own were there too. One or two would become leaders of the BBC. One or two would win the recognition they craved – and one of these unappealing folk would become the love of my life. So, I’ll back off now, and let you get on with the story.
Sitting in the back of the stifling hot police van the two women, the two men, and the boy cursed their luck and their handcuffs, though not aloud, in case they were overheard by the four constables in the front. They shifted uncomfortably, glancing out of the window at the traffic jam they were stuck in on Princes Street, and quickly withdrew for fear of being seen by someone they knew.
They cast embarrassed looks at one another, united by their desperate circumstances. All were strangers from England, visiting Edinburgh for the festival season. None of them had ever been arrested before, and all of them were regretting it like mad.
Jill began to cry quietly. She was furious with herself but couldn’t help it. At eight months pregnant, two stone overweight in the hot August weather, and overflowing with hormones, she could just about keep control of her bladder but her tear ducts were incontinent. Hampered by her handcuffs she sought a tissue in her skirt pocket but failed to find one and had to rely on sniffing.
The young woman sitting next to her offered a less-than-fresh hanky, murmuring that she was sorry it wasn’t clean, and Jill’s tears burst forth again in gratitude.
“Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. I’m sure they’ll let you go straight away. I’m Maggie, by the way.” She patted Jill’s leg clumsily, her handcuffs jingling. “Are you okay?”
Jill nodded, crimson-faced. “Thanks. I’m Jill. If only it wasn’t so hot.”
Maggie agreed, and Jill blew her nose as the van began crawling forward again.
“Excuse me!” Maggie called to the policemen, “Can this woman have some water?”
A perspiring neck turned to reveal an impassive Scottish hard man’s face, which answered a terse ‘no’ and turned away again.
“You do realise she’s about to have a baby!” Maggie pursued, angrily.
The cop answered calmly, without moving, “We havena got any.”
“I’m all right, really” said Jill to Maggie, anxious to avoid any further trouble.
She closed her eyes and practised deep breathing exercises.
Maggie sighed as her anger subsided. This was crazy. She wondered how long they would be detained at the police station, and whether she would be late for the show: she was in Edinburgh with a feminist theatre company, and had directed a play which would be on an hour’s time. Fortunately she wasn’t in it, so it could go ahead without her if necessary, but she needed to be at the venue for the twenty minute turn-around during which the company preceding theirs removed their set and props whilst her company put up their set and refocused the lights – a mad scramble which took place about twelve times a day in each of the hundreds of theatre spaces on the Edinburgh Fringe. Oh well. If they ran late it wouldn’t be the first time. The sun was hot on the back of her neck, her short spiky hair and tatty t-shirt offering no protection. She stretched out her ring-less hands, admiring the look of the light steel handcuffs chaining them together against the faded denim of her mucky jeans. It would make a good image for a poster.
Opposite her the serious-looking bloke in an open-necked shirt and slacks was trying to fix his glasses, which had been twisted in the scuffle. He kept trying to bend the frame so that it would stay on his face, but one arm always stuck out from the side of his head. His concentration was fierce, and finally he forced the frame too far, and one of the lenses shot out and skidded across the floor.
“Shit,” he whispered through clenched teeth. He peered around for it, his damp shirt sticking uncomfortably to his sweaty thickset torso.
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