As the millennium approached the country became fascinated by the prospect of a new century, as if no-one could have predicted its arrival. It was rather like when we hit 1984, a year that had been imprinted on us all as a symbol of everything terrifying and futuristic. You’d think we’d have learned from that, but no. It was much more fun to picture the world falling apart because of the millennium bug, or even better, the End of the World. Plenty of cults believed they’d be off in a cable car to heaven as soon as the Big Ben bongs died away.
Jon and I were chuffed to be invited back for a special television awards ceremony in December 1999. The powers that be had decided that everyone who was anyone in television should all get together and see the century out with a spectacular bunfight; there was money to burn in those days. The government was burning as much as possible at the Millenium Dome. The Mayor of London intended to burn it all the way down the Thames in a River of Fire, but it didn’t work. Maybe the blue touch paper got damp.
We’d recently got married, and I was pregnant with our first child. I was still Head of Development in Cardiff, but Jon was now a producer on our newest series which promised to be very exciting, a show that combined Welsh wizardry with contemporary science fiction, and was witty and fun too. We were quietly confident that it would be a big success, and would burst out of the quiet provinces to take the country by storm. It’s surprising how little time it takes for your allegiances to root themselves in the country where you’re given a warm welcome.
The awards event took place at the Café Royal in Regent Street, a huge hall with a long history. (Don’t go looking for it – it’s gone now.) Sixty tables were packed with nominees and guests, all knocking back the wine too fast, wanting a fag, and resolving to have their formal outfits let out by a couple of inches. I was wishing I’d splashed out on a maternity frock, but I’d thought I could just about get away with wearing my little black number and save the money. We were sitting at the Regional table, which was, inevitably, situated at the edge of the room.
Hundreds of flushed faces bearing new haircuts and sparkling jewellery chatted nervously. The clatter of cutlery and china rose in a cacophony to the top table where Nik was seated alongside Chris Briggs and his wife Catherine. There was no-one he was interested in talking to on his own table apart from the delectable Head of Policy and Planning, Selina, but she was too far away for comfortable conversation. Already bored, Nik cast his gaze around the room frequently and swiftly, since he was keen to avoid catching the eye of many people present. The Magenta table was near the front – Rex was schmoozing happily, and Haris had for once decided to taste the high life, and had even brought his wife along. Nik had never met her. She looked much more intelligent than he had imagined a stay-at-home wife would be, and she clearly had plenty to say to Penny Cruickshank, who was deep in conversation with her over some photos of what looked to be dogs.
Geordie Boy was sitting at a table full of comedians, dressed to kill and having a whale of a time. To Nik’s chagrin, Geordie had taken the idea he’d rejected as too camp for Magenta to a well-known gay theatrical entrepreneur who had set up a new production company entirely for the benefit of his friends, as far as Nik could see. He didn’t expect it to remain commercially viable. However, Geordie’s new show had wowed them at Channel Four and it now had a cult following; it was nominated for Best Comedy Series. It was many months since they had spoken to each other.
After the first course Geordie passed close by Nik’s table and paused to say hello. He was polite and restrained, congratulating Nik on his job at the BBC and wishing him well. Nik responded minimally, seized with tension; he was anxious to avoid being seen by the BBC bigwigs with the debris of past relationships dangling from his nose. After Geordie had gone, Nik realised that the correct thing to do would have been to congratulate him on his nomination and wish him luck. Too late now. He turned his attention to his companions.
Over at the side of the hall the atmosphere was more relaxed. There were cheerful reunions between us and the adjacent Sisters in Synch table; they were nominated in the Best Film category. Jonathan made a point of shaking Anthea’s hand and wishing her luck. He’d been massively impressed by The Prosecution of Justice, and hoped her achievement would be recognised. He was embarrassed, as he’d never spoken to her when she worked at the BBC. She gallantly ignored this, quietly enjoying the fact that her status was now higher than his; to her, Jonathan was no better and no worse than anyone else, and she no longer cared what the BBC got up to.
Jill Watkins was there, looking exactly the same as ever. Some people don’t age, do they? She’d barely altered at all. I noticed her tense up when Tony Scott came over to the table to chat. He sat next to her and she started fanning herself with a napkin. Poor thing, I thought, hot flushes. If Tony noticed, he didn’t show it. He’d heard that her ex-husband had been elected as a New Labour MP, and asked where he stood politically.
“Wherever there’s a spotlight,” was her answer.
“Follows the trend?”
“’Fraid so. He’s an economist.”
“Ah! The world seems to be run by lawyers and economists these days.”
“What about the workers?”
“Exactly! And the writers!”
Carmen leaned across to join in, “You two make a lovely couple.”
“What?! Mind your manners, Phillips!” Jill was mortified, blushing furiously. Carmen chortled wickedly. Tony leaned back and sipped his wine, head tilted to one side. He thought Jill was rather lovely, in her way. If he weren’t married he would ask her out, he didn’t mind telling her.
Maggie stepped in to cover Jill’s embarrassment, “Doesn’t everyone look fabulous tonight! Sooo handsome in your DJs, boys! And so glamorous in your frocks! I couldn’t bring myself to wear one. D’you like my outfit?” She displayed her white men’s dinner jacket and over-large trousers held up with a wide belt. “I call it my James Bond look.”
“Very nice, Maggie,” said Jill. “Moss Bros?”
“No, Oxfam. Well, isn’t it good to know that there’s life beyond the BBC? You all look a sight better than you ever did in Shepherd’s Bush.”
“Even me?” I asked, listening in.
“Even you. I say,” Maggie said impulsively, leaning over the table. “D’you want a tasty bit of gossip?”
“Yes, go on,” we chorused.
“You see that Chris Briggs?” she indicated him at the top table. “I’ve had him, I have!”
The effect was rewarding, as every jaw fell table-wards.
“Come off it,” said Carmen. “I can’t see you two together in a million years.”
“You’d never fancy a bloke like him, Maggie,” I said.
“Not even Roger would fancy him,” added Jonathan.
“I don’t know,” mused Maggie. “He used to have a certain je ne sais quoi. He carries his authority well, don’t you think?”
“Anyway – where and how, Maggie?” demanded Jill.
“In Edinburgh. August 1985 I think. Chris was with us that day when we got arrested for disturbing the peace. He’s the one who got us out of the police station. I went back to his hotel room afterwards.”
There was a short pause and then a howl of glee, which caused half the room to turn and look.
“You sly dog!”
“She’s got no shame.”
“Didn’t get you anywhere, did it!”
“What was he like?” Jill leaned over, conspiratorially.
“Jill!” I remonstrated. “Spare us the details, Maggie.”
“No, tell us everything!” yelled the others. Maggie beckoned us in, and spoke in a stage whisper.
“He was okay. Nothing spectacular. A bit clinical. Very well-mannered, though. Asked me if I’d had a satisfactory orgasm!”
We all howled with laughter and couldn’t resist looking round at Chris, chatting urbanely with his colleagues. Only Nik noticed us and wondered what it was all about.
Jonathan coughe
d. “Actually,” he said. “I was there too.”
“You what?” We stared at him.
“It was in Princes St Gardens, right? Someone was making a speech, and there was a bit of a fight. We all got arrested. I was still at Cambridge, I had a costume and make up on, I’d directed Henry V.”
Jill and Maggie gawped at Jonathan, stunned.
“Unbelieveable.”
“I’d never have recognised you two,” said Jonathan.
“Same here. Small world, eh? “
“You can say that again.”
“D’you remember the other one? A kid from a youth theatre or something.”
“Yeah,” said Maggie. “Very young. Bit of a squit, wasn’t he?”
“He certainly was,” confirmed Jonathan. “Looking for a fight.”
“Very touchy, as I recall,” mused Jill. What was his name?” No-one could remember. “I wonder what happened to him?”
“Probably behind bars, if he carried on like that,” said Jonathan. “Wasn’t it all his fault?”
“You know who looks like him?” pondered Maggie. “Nik Mason.” The others grinned, she did have a point.
“Nice try,” said Jill. “But you’re pushing it too far now.”
Just as I was going to add my own contribution a handbell was rung on the platform, and the MC called silence for the host. The assembly returned to their seats and faced the front, affecting nonchalant attention as he formally opened the proceedings.
It was an hour before the Best Drama Series category was reached, for which Bus! was nominated. Penny was certain they wouldn’t win. The show was popular, and a third series had already been commissioned, but in her opinion it was too lightweight for an award. Rex was more hopeful and Haris forebore to offer an opinion. Nik’s face was immobile but his hands sweated as the four short-listed clips were played for the audience to admire. The senior colleagues and governors at his table smiled encouragingly, which wound him up; he fought against his resentment of their patronising attitudes. Familiarity had led him to realise that their intentions were generally much more genuine than he had previously believed, but the old reactive instinct still lurked deep inside him, and he had to suppress it on a daily basis. It was tiring but necessary, as his ambitions now extended to the very top. He wanted to be Director General one day. Perhaps Chris would get there first, he was willing to concede that, and was beginning to grasp the virtue of patience. ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day’ was the first unspoken rule of BBC management. However, he had a long road to travel first. He hadn’t won any awards yet, and he wanted one desperately. He was fiercely jealous of every joyful recipient who mounted the platform.
He was disappointed again, especially since his rivals at ITV beat him to it. Then he discovered that the top table was the worst place a loser could sit. Being in view, he was obliged to force a smile to his lips and clap the bastards, and then to shrug with cheerful resignation across at Rex, Haris, Penny and the rest, as if they had merely lost a charity raffle for a basket of fruit.
Next came the award for Best Writer. Carmen Phillips was nominated for her screenplay, The Prosecution of Justice. Carmen had no truck with affecting not to care, and crossed all her fingers: this award could change her life. When her name was called she had to be helped to her feet. Jill hugged her and pointed her towards the stage, and she stumbled to it in a daze, overwhelmed by the cascade of applause. Her speech was unprepared but simple and heartfelt, her thanks to Anthea generous.
The Best Film award was hotly contested as all four were very strong. Anthea feigned calmness, only her eyes blinked nervously, gazing into the middle distance. Carmen bit her nails, willing their film to win, but it didn’t. Donald Mountjoy won for a particularly fine version of Northanger Abbey made not at the BBC, but at Granada for ITV.
Nik applauded dutifully, wishing the stunning black woman had won. He had no favourites amongst the films, but Mountjoy had always got on his nerves and he’d been relieved to see the back of him. He typified the Oxbridge tossers who swanned effortlessly into the BBC and up its ranks. They had the contacts, knew the ropes, and won everything. He sighed, there was more to it than that, he was willing to acknowledge it now. Plenty of others with an equally privileged background failed to make it, there was only room for a handful of people at the top of any career ladder. Carrying a chip on your shoulder only weighed you down, he realised, ‘Dump it!’ he told himself. ‘Get over yourself. Recognise talent when you see it.’ He watched Donald receiving his due reward of hugs and handshakes, and tried to like him. He failed.
Stewart Walker stepped up on the platform, looking louchely handsome in an immaculate tuxedo, holding one of the little bronze models and crooning into the microphone. “It gives me immense pleasure to present the Basil Richardson Memorial Prize for Most Promising Producer to… Anthea Onojaife for her extraordinary, challenging Channel Four film inspired by the Stephen Lawrence murder investigation, The Prosecution of Justice.”
A cheer went up from Anthea’s table, and Nik saw her jump up from her chair. She hurried to the microphone, excitedly tripping on the step in her high heels and tight skirt, and beamed a gleaming smile that few of the people who remembered her as a BBC secretary had ever seen. Nik didn’t pay much attention to her speech, but he wished he could get her back into his department. He made a mental note to lunch her.
Nik grew increasingly bored. These BBC people were so dull. His former lifestyle had been far more glamorous. These nobs were stuffy and uninspiring. He felt as if he were trapped inside Radio 4. Would it always be like this? Maybe he could change the place around him as he rose through the ranks? Bring in more people like himself, widen the workforce to include more real people, as he saw it. He was greatly impressed by Channel Four’s new reality game show, Big Brother, and felt certain this innovative format would have a tremendous impact on all broadcasters. It was a new genre on its own, and the possibilities were endless. Channel Four was doing too well lately. He needed to re-position BBC Drama again.
His reverie was interrupted by Geordie’s arrival on the podium to collect the Best Comedy Series Award. Nik could see him hyperventilating in his astonished joy. He waved his arms about and kept saying, “Howay! I canna believe it!” playing to the gallery as usual. Nik found it in himself to be pleased for his former friend, as Geordie embarked on a lengthy list of thank-yous during which he calmed down.
“Finally I’d like to dedicate this award to a very special person. He’s here tonight.” To Nik’s alarm he realised Geordie’s eyes were seeking him out, and he reddened, afraid of what was coming next. “Nik Mason, ladies and gentlemen, gave me wonderful support in my first years in television. Wonderful in every position. I mean way.” Geordie sighed theatrically and fanned himself, raising a laugh. “And then, when I was poised to launch the new me, the real me, he helped me again. He said, ‘No Geordie, you can’t camp around in my company. Piss off and do it somewhere else!’So I did, and it’s the best move I ever made. Thank you Nik darling, and I hope that closet isn’t making you feel too claustrophobic.” Geordie left the stage to cheers, whoops, and a buzz of intrigue.
Jill and Maggie exchanged astonished looks.
“The personal is political, eh boys!” Maggie observed.
Nik sweated in his seat. He had been outed – he couldn’t believe it. It had never crossed his mind that such a thing would ever happen so publicly, and he had no idea how to handle it. There had been just enough malice in Geordie’s tone to make his message crystal clear, so he couldn’t brush it off with any conviction. He hadn’t even brought a woman along with him tonight, as he often did. He sat rooted to his chair, crimson-faced, staring into his glass to avoid everyone’s eyes.
His fellow diners were equally embarrassed, so they pretended to chat together as if they hadn’t noticed. The Chair of Governors, Philip Townsend, gripped his arm and said quietly, “Disgraceful! It’s men like him who give gays a bad name. Don’t alarm yourself Nik. Rise above it. Th
at’s what I do.” Nik forced himself to smile back at Philip, who was a lean, bespectacled sixty-five year-old, fighting the urge to tell him to fuck off.
Catherine Briggs felt sorry for him. “What a mean-spirited thing to do! Don’t worry, he’s obviously had too much to drink. No-one will take any notice.”
Chris coughed. “Personally,” he said, “I detest discrimination in any shape or form. So does the BBC. In fact our policy is to try to represent all minority groups at every level of the organisation, even senior management. So if that old queen thinks he can turn us against you, he’s missed by a mile.” He looked at Nik encouragingly. “These days it often seems to me that it’s a positive advantage not to be a white, middle-class Oxbridge-educated heterosexual male!”
The little group chuckled appreciatively, Selina among them: she made a point of sending him a sympathetic smile of support across the table, which Nik returned with what he hoped was a charming shrug. He took a deep breath and swiftly scanned their faces as he gulped a mouthful of wine. They were well-disposed towards him. How extraordinary. Maybe he could ride this storm out? He smiled tightly and shrugged as he put his glass down, feeling he should say something but unable to find any words.
Chris sought to help him out. “I’m reminded,” he said anecdotally. “Of something that happened to me once in the eighties. I was in Edinburgh for the television festival, and I went for a walk in Princes St Gardens. There were lots of street entertainers and so on, and it was very busy, and hot, as I recall. Anyhow, there was a young boy there in some sort of dispute with a skinhead who was trying to make out this kid was gay. And do you know what this kid did?”
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