The Dead Side of the Mike Read Free

like
Steel
and
Under Milk Wood
and other forgotten masterpieces. It was full of various brilliant producers, who, so far as one can tell, spent most of their time drinking in the George and arguing about whose sports jacket Dylan Thomas had puked over most often.
    â€˜Well, like all good things, the department declined and, some time – in the early Sixties it was – it was disbanded. Since then, whenever anyone feels frustrated about the sort of work they are doing or about the general quality of radio programmes, they say, “Why don’t we start up the Features Department again?” As if the clock could be turned back, the invention of television could be ignored, and England could once again become a nation of nice middle-class families sipping mugs of Ovaltine round the beaming bakelite of their wirelesses.’
    â€˜I see.’
    â€˜The latest in the long line of people to use this rallying-cry is that gentleman over there –’ She indicated a man in his mid-thirties, dressed in pin-striped suit, bright silk tie and complacent smile. ‘His name’s John Christie. He’s a BBC career politician.’
    â€˜I don’t really know what you mean by that.’
    â€˜He is destined for some sort of greatness in the misty upper reaches of Management. His career has been textbook. Out of Oxbridge straight into the African service – I believe he speaks fluent Swahili, though I’m not quite sure when he gets an opportunity to use it. Then he went to Belfast and worked over there in some administrative capacity . . .’
    â€˜And that’s good, is it?’
    â€˜Oh yes, lots of Brownie points for going to Belfast. The BBC doesn’t forget its loyal servants who risk getting blown up in the cause of regional broadcasting. His reward was a post created in Drama Department. Co-ordinator, I think he’s called. Co-ordinator, Drama Department. CDD. The BBC loves initials. But from there he’s destined for greatness. Great greatness.’
    â€˜What, you mean he’ll become editor of some programme or –’
    â€˜Good Lord, no. You are naive. The top jobs in the BBC don’t have anything to do with the making of programmes. No, he’ll end up as Chief Sales Inhibitor for BBC Publications or in some strange and powerful department like Secretariat.’
    â€˜What do they do there?’
    â€˜God knows.’
    â€˜You sound pretty cynical about the whole thing; I take it you are not involved in the meeting.’
    â€˜By no means. I’ll be there.’ The huge brown eyes looked levelly into his. Even if he could have broken the stare, he didn’t think he would have wanted to.
    The interruption came from a third party. A blonde girl came up and threw her arms around Steve. She was only a little over average height, but looked huge beside the other. ‘Steve, look at me – still standing up.’
    She carried a fairly empty wine glass and seemed in a state of high excitement. ‘Have you managed to get any sleep, love?’ asked Steve, with a trace of anxiety.
    â€˜No, I’m held together by alcohol and willpower and sheer animal high spirits.’ The way she spoke suggested alcohol might be the dominant partner in the combination.
    â€˜Can’t you get out of tonight?’
    â€˜No, I’ll be fine.’
    Steve remembered Charles. ‘I’m so sorry. This is Charles Paris. Andrea Gower. She shares a flat with me. Just come back from a week’s holiday in New York.’
    Andrea giggled. ‘Just back in time for the Wimbledon finals. And I’m still somewhere up on a cloud over the Atlantic.’
    â€˜Didn’t you sleep on the flight?’
    â€˜Not a wink. I had a drink and another drink and then the movie and then another drink.’
    â€˜You should have got out of today’s work,’ said Steve, ‘caught up on some sleep.’
    â€˜No, I’ll do that