Downfall

“Alaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan they’ve gone completely crazy in Edit 17 you have to do something”

Fiona came running down the stairs into reception shouting at me for help, tears running down her face like she had just stared straight into the heart of darkness. Something had gone seriously tits up in that edit suite, something really dark had happened up there.

“Peter Fincham's arriving in half a hour for a viewing in there, and Dixon and Toby seem to have gone completely fucking mad, do something Alan, please.”

What was she on about? What the fuck were these two clowns playing at now? I'd just about had enough of the Dixon and Toby show.

I slowly walked up the stairs, there was a eerie feeling emanating from the second floor that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up like electricity. I could hear murmuring in the distance; a inane barely legible babble that turned my stomach. Everything was moving in slow motion, and as I turned the corner the horror of what had happened came directly into focus.

Toby was sat crossed legged in the hallway wearing nothing but a torn American Apparel T-shirt, a makeshift Rambo headband ripped from its side and pulled taught around his head. His eyes rolled and dribble glistened from the corner of his mouth. A fecal smell filled the air, as Toby then applied a thick brown streak of his own effluence across his cheeks. He looked like the lead in a scat movie remake of Apocalypse Now. Toby pulled a zippo from his pocket and lit it, rocking back and forth staring at the flame, his mumbling chokes forming the words, "the horror the horror….."

I stepped past him towards the edit suite, and the sound of hardcore porn filled the corridor. I pushed the door of E-17 open and was even more shocked. On the monitor, a loop played constantly from the latest episode of Ambulance Chasers in preparation for Peter Finchams viewing. Where there should have been shots of injury lawyers chasing claims, there was now Bang Brothers porn clips spliced randomly into the action.

I heard a noise and my eyes turned to the right. My jaw literally dropped to the floor. In the middle of the room, Dixon was stark bollock naked, on his knees, his face down, licking the carpet. He stopped and turned to look up at me in wonder, his eyes burning madness and as wide as dustbin lids.

“Dr. Gonzo, come here, come down here and taste it….it tastes of…. it tastes of….. jupiter juice.”

Toby and Dixon seemed to be in a very dark place indeed. They had entered there own galaxy, in a nightmare of their own darkest pop culture references. Like they said at Woodstock, you got to watch out for that brown acid.

The door burst open, and in charged Sergei the security guard. “Stand back Alan my friend. I will sort this out.” He grabbed Dixon by the neck, causing him to cry out in shock; "No!! My jupiter juice!!" Sergei charged out the room with him, grabbing Toby by the scruff of the neck as he moved, Dixon stretching out in awe to touch Toby's shit streamed cheeks. The screams and hoots waned as they were marched down the stairs and thrown out onto the cold hard pavements of Soho.

Then Stephen, the main boss, stormed into the edit suite.

“Fincham's here in fifteen minutes what the fuck is happening? Alan whats been going on?”

"Um I…I think Dixon and Toby might have been taking lots of drugs lately and went a bit too far. They’ve had a meltdown."

The boss stared at the monitor, as a particularly hardcore clip played from Dixon's porn collection.

“What the fuck is that! If a commissioner sees this we're totally fucked!!"

“I think Dixon might have been using the edit suite to make compilations of his pornographic film collection"

“Fuck! Have we got anybody who can fix this before Fincham arives???" Stephen knew there was no time, but I had an idea.

"I've been Dixon and Toby’s runner for the last few weeks so I know the programme they’ve been cutting pretty well; I might be able to fix it, if you give me the chance."

Stephen stared at me and thought it over, time was of the essence here but would he take a chance on me. He smiled and said “Give it a go kid.”

I jumped on the Final Cut and quickly switched it back to the original cut minus Dixon's porn collection. Ten minutes later and the project was restored. The suite was ready for the viewing.

Stephen was amazed. “Fuck Finchams here - Alan you’ve gone and saved the day, I wont forget this. You've done a bloody good job! I think its time you moved up the ranks here. "

And with that it was all over.

Now I know what some off you might be thinking. Why on earth would Dixon and Toby take a strong dose of psychedelic drugs at work a few hours before such an important appointment?

So Miss Marple,was foul play involved? Did anyone bare a grudge against these two men?

Perhaps someone got hold of some extra strong LSD that a work mate was offloading, and maybe he or she really hated Dixon and Toby for all the shit they had given them and decided to get his their own back. Perhaps a handful of Wall.E’s were added to that pot of Earl Grey that went up to Edit 17 a few hours before. Maybe while Dixon and Toby were outside having a Marlborough light, that someone reconnected their edit to Dixon's 'special harddrive' of pornography, to make it look like he had been editing porno clips instead of the tv programme he was meant to be working on. Then that someone, may have just sat back and watched the shit hit the fan, before saving the day.

You could think that but you would be wrong of course….......well mostly.

Part of the Weekend Never Dies: The Weekend - Part Deux

Five fucking hours. Five fucking hours of motorway stretching up to Manchester, listening to Dixon and his mates while all I was thinking about was standing Nadia up. I had called to tell her I couldn’t make it, but she just didn't get it.

"Alan you are fucking pussy. I thought you were good, strong man but you are weak. Papa was wrong about you - I have no time for men who have, how you say - no testicle. Why don't you go buy Dixon some new boots so he can walk over you some more! I will go for drink with someone else, someone confident."

Gutted. Not only has Dixon ruined my work life, he's now ruined any chance of me ever having any luck with the ladies. Twice. Why does this shit always happen to me? I'm such a pussy. The car consumed the road as my mind pranged with all manner of hatred towards the biggest coward on the planet. Me.

Finally, after hours of traffic we arrive in Manchester. They were staying at the Lowry; at least it looked like a decent place. Then Dixon dropped a even bigger cunt bomb.

“Oi oi boys! Team Dixon has landed!!! Lets get our fucking coke on! Hold on Alman, where you going? Your not staying here shag, not at the price of these rooms no chance! We got you a doss down at a the youth hostel! Be back here at eleven tomorrow to pick us up”.

So while Dixon and friends were pissing and snorting it up on the town enjoying their boutique hotel, I was in a shitty YMCA being kept awake by a drunk Australian backpacker couple fucking in the corner of the dorm. I tried to call Nadia to explain, but got no response. Just an accidental answer, and the loud sounds of electro music. God knows where or who she was with, all I know is that I'd blown my chance and it was all Dixon’s fault.

I had to ferry them around the next day. First to the match - they didn't have a ticket for me and I had to drive around for two hours while waiting to pick them up. Chelsea won 2-0. Quite possibly the worse possible result for me. Cue a hours worth of Chelsea songs in the drive back to Manchester, then a chauffeur driven tour of the best the city has to offer that lasted until 6 in the morning.

Three hours sleep before we began back to London, as they wanted me to wait outside the hotel from 9 am in case they decided to leave early. We didn't leave until mid-day. Then I had to spend the entire journey listening to them go on about how many drugs they had taken and the back street strip bar they went to. Dixon squawking and shoving his camera phone under my nose, a grainy video depicting a polish striper doing unmentionable things with a root vegetable. Him and his mates laughing and shouting like some baying pack of hyenas.

This was the worst day of my life. No scratch that. The worst WEEKEND of my life.

When we get back to London, Dixon makes me drop everyone off then get the tube home from his house. Then just when I think it couldn't get any worse, my phone chimes. Its a text message:

From: Toby
28-09-08 18:37

Oi Alman! Guess who went Russian Friday night?
That Nadja bird couldn't resist the power of my remix.
Thanks for fucking up - you got my balls dipped!
Put your fucking hands up!! LOL

No. No. No no no. Not Toby anyone but Toby. I don't believe this.

This is all Dixon’s fucking fault. All Dixon’s fault. All Dixon’s fault….

The Weekend - Part One

Last Friday afternoon I was especially looking forward to getting the hell out of work. I had a hot date lined up with Nadja, and I couldn't wait. I wanted it to be something special. So about half four I asked Fiona (the head runner), if as it was quiet I might be able to get off a bit earlier.

“Sorry Alan, Dixon’s having his Friday viewing of the latest cut of Ambulance Chasers with his producer. He asked me earlier if I could send you up after - I think he has a job for you - you'll have to wait I’m afraid”

My heart sank immediately. This week I'd had just about enough of his twatting voice and prima-donna demands - god knows what he needed me to do for him now. I just wanted to get out of this place and enjoy the possibilities of romance. Dixon's viewing ended a hour later - and a call on my radio summoned me to his room.

As I cautiously entered E-17 Dixon swung round in his chair, taking a swig of his trendy bottle of Cambodian lager and fixing his eyes on me.

“Alan shut the door and take a seat.”

God what now. Is he going to ask me to take over Tobe-a-fundarians duties?

“Listen right. Me and a couple of the lads have got tickets for the Chelsea game up at the Britannia stadium in Stoke tomorrow. Should be a decent game, im sure Lamps can turn over the potters for three points, job done. I’m gonna have a bit of a session in Manchester after while we're up there.”

Great, but why the fuck do I need to know the pricks plans?

“Were going to drive up this evening, and stay in Manchester as its not far from Stoke. Should make it in time to get a few in at the Dry Bar. But me and the lads have a little problem. It being Friday night and all, we want to get some of the old marching powder in us as soon as possible. So this is where you come in Alan.”

Dixon placed his hand on my shoulder and smiled like a crazed Phil Collins.

“I thought you could do me a little favour and drive me and the lads up there and back. You can drive the Beamer; probably going be your only chance to ever get behind the wheel of one of those…. so what you think about that then Alan?”

What a complete and utter cunt. That’s what I wanted to say.

“Sorry Dixon I can’t - I've got a hot date tonight with Na....”

“Alan I don’t think you quite understand what I’m asking you. Now I’ve been good to you here, and since I’ve started I’ve not mentioned to anyone about your little incident at the last place. You know the one, that old bloke snuffed it and I think if I remember rightly you spazzed out and called everyone a cunt or something. Now quite rightly that should have brought your running days to a end for good. But I like you Alan, so I thought I would keep it quiet for you. Nows your chance to say thank you.”

Fucking hell, how was I going to get out of this…

“You got to look at the bigger picture really Alan. Do you want to keep your job or not? I’m the star editor round here and your just the one who makes me coffee and wipes my ass. So if I want you out your out. I can do it in a second. Then where do you go? Straight back to Mummy. And if thats not enough to convince you, there’s also about 80 gig of hardcore porn on one of the hardrives up here in E17 which I might have to tell everyone is down to you getting your hands dirty while your digitizing for me in the evenings. Don't fuck with me Alan. I'm in charge round here and I'm giving you a break - don't turn this chance down. So what’s it going to be sunshine….?”

Nadja

Monday morning in E-17 and already the weekend can’t arrive soon enough as I bring Dixon and Toby their first pompous designer beverages of the week.

“Hey Alman Ive got a little job for you”

Once having been a fellow runner, Toby took great pleasure in being able to order me around as it polished his ego.

“Run down to the tape monkeys and pick up the Digi that D’s asked them to dub over the weekend will you? Oh, and while your there - do us a big favour yeah? There’s this hot new Eurotrash girl started last week, find out what her name is and shit will you….Koika’s back in Japan for a few weeks, so the accounts back open while shes away!!.”

Great, perhaps I could organise some prostitutes to come and fellate you both while you edit I thought. Dixons far too busy staring at his customised 32” HD monitor to thank me for his Vivanno. Then he pipes up.

“Tobe mate, take it easy, old Casanova Alan here might want this bird all to himself. You never know he might get a sympathy fuck if he goes ‘full retard’ on her like he does round here all the time!!! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!!!”

They both laughed in my face, wankers. At least a little trip downstairs will get me away from them for a bit.

The arid claustrophobic cell that passes for the tape duplication room was empty. I started looking for Dixon’s tape, then felt a soft hand on my shoulder.

“Are you Alan…the runner?”

I turned round to see the five foot nine splendour that was Nadja. Half Suicide Girl, half Bond beauty she’s the kind of girl I chase after all the time apart from the fact she’s real and not someone’s pimped up second life avatar.

"Um yes.. I’m Alan are you new here?”

“I’m Nadja. My father is Sergei the security guard. I now have job here as I used to work for Leningrad Televisikion. I’ve heard a lot about you from pappa…you are actually better looking than he described you.”

“Yeah..um I bet he, er thinks I look a right geek”

“No my father told me you are a good , strong, handsome man… I think you are in fact a good strong.... very handsome man”

Hmmmm was she to use the technical term ‘ripping the piss’ out of me I wondered. Girls generally treat me with disdain or have no feelings about me at all, sort of like a pop tart, not disliked but certainly not liked much either.

“Um I got sent down to pick up a Digi for Dixon? Hes in Edit 17.”

“Dixon, he’s the one who dress like a soldier, right?”

I prepared myself for the worst. Here we go, now i'll have to listen to yet another girl go on for ages about how cool and sexy that prick is. She was just buttering me up to try and get some info about the strutting cock of the building. How does Dixon do it with the ladies? I nodded and replied with a fake smile. “Yes that’s Dixon”

“Ahh. He is Alan, what we say in Russian...bivneetca”

“Sorry Nadja my Russian really isn’t as good as it should be”

“Alan I think it translate to English as ….show off asshole’”

I think I’m in love, this girls beautiful, funny, intelligent and she thinks Dixons a tosser. If only I could grow a pair of balls and ask her out!

I laughed, she laughed. We had a moment........then I then lost my cool so moved things along.

“So is the tape done, I’ll take it up.”

“Oh yes, here it is.

As she gave me the tape our hands touched and we looked into each others eyes, time seemed to freeze. Those beautiful green eyes of hers were staring right at me. I’m going to do it, I thought. I’m going to ask her out, my mouth opened but no words came out, it was just dry. I couldn’t get the words out. I’m fucking useless at this. Then something amazing happened.

“Alan, are you free Friday evening after work, perhaps we could go out, just you and me we could have drink, if you don't have girlfriend?”

“YES.YES.YES!! No I mean, I don’t have a girlfriend and yes I would really like that, Friday night, we could go for a drink."


Fuck me.


I used to think I was an atheist now I believe in Christ, Allah, Buddha, Vishnu and everyone else staring down at us, I love them all. I love them all, and today it seems………….



……..they love me as well.

The Night Watchman

Because editors such as Dixon always insist on working late the facility employs a night security guard. Of course this doesn't get me off the hook, I've still got to sit around and wait till all the poncey fuckers decide to turn it in for the night, just in case they need to call their 'bell boy' for anything. If Dixon cut out all the time he spends looking at porn and pissing about with his latest imported Japanese toy and I’m sure he could nail it in the nine to five instead. More and more each day it begins to feel I'm working in a hotel, but the great thing is I can go and play cards and listen to the ever amazing stories of Sergei the security guard.

Currently editing in the building we have, ‘2 Fat 2 Fly’ (a heavily obese eight year old trying to loose enough weight to fit into a airline seat and fly to the US for revolutionary gastro reconditioning) and School Jumpers (a Etonian schoolboy trades places with a boy from a shanty town classroom in South Africa). While their fabricating documentary stories of freak shows and social engineering if any of them spent five minutes talking to the night watchman they might realize there are real life stories out there much more interesting than the latest celeb fronted ‘journey’.

Sergei is keeping his head down in London. He looks like the bloke in Eastern Promises and has the tattoos to prove it. Don’t get him talking about his scars or you’ll be in for a blow by blow description of how the Stassi officer came off much worse. He's killed men with his bare hands and survived in the coldest, remotest Russian wildernesses. From behind his hip flask of cheap vodka he will tell tales of escaping the Russian secret police and smuggling East German double agents across the border at the height of the cold war. Apparently he’s only working in this post house to lie low in London with his daughter. He's a wanted man and needs the cover provided by working as a humble nightwatch man. He seems to have taken a shine to me as I like listening to his stories.

“That Putin is a pig, he is dog, I spit on him. Until he is gone I cannot return to my motherland. I keep my head low…. I say little… I look after my daughter. Nadja she is very beautiful. Her hair is like a Altai cornfield at sunset, her eyes like the full moon glistening over the Caucasus. The smile she gives her father makes every day so very happy for me. Alan I think you are good man, I would very much like you to meet my daughter, maybe you marry and I be even prouder father.”

I really like Sergei. For all I know everything that comes out of his mouth could be utter bollocks, but his stories, sure pass the hours. And he's refreshingly normall compared to the prima donnas in the edit suites. Then the phone rings. Fucking Dixon wants some sushi.

Sergei grabs my arm “be very careful with the sushi around here, Alan. A friend of mine fell very ill after eating it. FSB is everywhere.”

With any luck i'll take Dixon a nuclear Maki roll.

8.00 am Tuesday morning....

I'm sat in E-17 doing a playout before Dixon arrives. Then all of a sudden;
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!
My ears pulsate and I spring from my seat, the shrill piercing pain of the klaxon ringing in my brain.

"Oi oi! Alman!! Back from the Bestival, haven't slept since Thursday it was well brutal!"

Christ not again. Toby has been going on all summer about how fucked he’s got at the latest music festival he has attended. What a bellend. He’s been to so many this summer, he has a collection of wristbands where his lower right arm used to be. Of course he doesn't take them off - he wants the world to be able to identify how so on the fucking cusp of everything he is wherever he goes.

“Me and Koika ended up doing loads of K backstage with the Boosh and that bloke from the Iceland adverts. That Fielding's well nutbag! Oh check this yeah, Koika knows a girl who works at the hair salon that Rob Da Bank goes to and arranged for us to meet up with him - we gave him a six twats and a drum machine track, and he got us to do an secret gig in the hidden disco - I reckon we’ll be giving it well main stage next year!"

Toby really is the worst kind of person - he barely tries in life and everything just falls in his lap.

"What the fuck you think of that! I'm having my own festival next year as well on my parents estate while their in Tuscany. Our drummers mates with Alfie Allen so we can have all that crowd down, and you know just hire in some yurts and a fuck off big sound system, all my peeps down for the weekend with lots of drugs, real mad decent like.”

This guy is amazing - I'm surprised he gets away with wearing such tight jeans with that silver spoon protruding from his anus.

"I'm so fucking mashed still Alman!! Couldn't even take all my drugs - I've got some acid left over that I bought off this morris dancer; they've got Wall:E on them, you want some? Apparently they're well strong!"

I politely decline.

"Ha ha ha, stupid question really your too fucking box aren't you Alman!!!"

Too square?

"Go on then you twisted my arm, can I have them on tick?"

"Course Al, you can have them mate - probably can't afford them on your wages anyway!! Get on them Wall.e’s"

He gives me the trips and continues to hoot off about his new video.

“Gonna get well viral with this, our new tracks gonna blow the shit out of you”



With Toby’s latest monstrosity burnt on to my retinas I make a run for it before Dixon arrives.

An Apology

I recently posted a story about BBC producer Tarquin Proud. I would like to apologise to anyone who actually thought he drowned while taking a wild swim and checking his Blackberry. Tarquin is alive and well, and has even decided to stop any false web rumours by starting his own blog. Hopefully he wont get his thousand pound-a-minute media lawyer to take every penny of my fully stretched overdraft away from me if I issue this apology. As a lowly paid runner, I might have to work off the legal costs by making him organic earl greys for the rest of my life. So I hereby issue this heartfelt apology to Tarquin’s family, friends and the production team of Chasing Dreams for any inconvenience or offense caused.

E-17

"Oi Oi! Almans in the house! Get us some fucking coffee will you! You know how we like it - me and Tobes are well strung out! And clean this shit up will you, we've had no runner for six hours over the night, the service here is fucking terrible!! I'm going to complain to Fiona, suggest you work the same hours as us Alman! Put-put-put-put-put...."

Dixon is making my life a fucking hell. Every morning I come in and get the same shit. I thought I was beyond this.

".....put your hands up!"

I dream of flipping the script. Making his life hell, but I can't lose another job can I? Maybe if I work hard I can get moved on to another part of the building, like the machine room or something. Theres this well fit girl down there; she can teach me how to stripe tapes and I can make her tea. It'll be well good. But instead I'm stuck working 17 hour shifts to facilitate Dixons edit binge, scoring chaz and sushi, washed down with the latest beer fad, while Dixon prats about on the internet and dictates to his trusty sidekick how to edit the London way.

"Its a fucking baptism of fire this Tobes, no other fuckers going to give you this opportunity - you stick with me you and you'll go far, maybe even get your own song innit! Don't be like that loser Alman! The running man! He's well Schwarzenegger! Put 'em up! Oh alright Alan, didn't see you there - HA HA HA HA HA!!!! Hows Stella Girl!!!! Probably still recovering from my rough assembly!!! Put-put-put-put....."

I can't take this. One week into the edit of a whole series and the fucker hasn't stopped talking since the first second I laid eyes on his camouflage.

".....your hands up! Only pulling your leg Alan!! Get us a fucking Latte though!! What do you want Tobes? "

Not only do I have to play on this cunts every whim, but the stella girl thing and his comments about Rudyard just add insult to injury. Dixon is my mortal enemy. I will get my revenge. But the question is, how? I can't do anything, I can't. I can barely afford to eat let alone be on the dole. I can't give in not yet. But I can take Dixon out of the equation. Slowly.

"Oi Alman can you get a grande double shot iced mocha-chino, with soya milk for Tobes? Don't bring it back cold though!! Ha ha ha ha!"

"No problem guys!"

Just watch me.

Ape Shall Kill Ape

Regular readers of the blog will have no doubt encountered my updates on the trials and tribulations of life as a runner in the heart of Soho. These updates have been thin on the ground lately, mainly because I've been in the 'honeymoon period' that comes with a fresh start: new job, new girlfriend etc. life’s been well not too bad really. I’ve just got my head down and worked and ignored the bullshit that goes with it, just smiled and kept the coffee coming, but today that all changed.

The head runner Fiona (more on her in the future), calls me on the runner team mobile (yeah man, this place is so big I need a team mobile, which means I can't even take a shit in peace) and says;

“Alan we've got a new editor coming in today. Apparently he’s the next big thing; all the productions are clamoring to work with him and he’s booked up further in advance than the Ivy! Make sure you look after him properly, we want to impress him in case he can swing productions to bring work our way. Oh, and he’s bringing his assistant along as well if he’s learning from the best he obviously must be good - we must make them feel at home here, give them the VIP treatment. Ive been really impressed with your hard work lately so I think you’re the man for the job.They'll be in Edit 17."

So I go up to E-17 and get the suite ready. Its about 9am, I go downstairs to take the mornings deliveries and prepare the breakfast platter for the new edit (when they really want to impress someone they always get the danish pastries out). Thats when I heard the sound, like an air raid siren bleating through the night.

"Put your hands up!"

Where have I heard that before? I broke into a cold sweat, the nightmarish memories hitting me like a bad acid flashback.

"Put your hands up for Dixon! He loves this facility!!"

Shit. Shit. Shit. Cuntface fucking Dixon.

I hadn't seen Dixon since that fateful day at the last place. I hoped our paths would never again cross, especially after what he had said about Rudyard. But this was only the tip of the iceberg. I walked into reception and there he was, strutting around like a peacock with camouflage feathers.

"Oi oi!! Its only the Alman! Hows it fucking sequencing! So you my runner then! At least someone knows how I like my coffee!"

I was lost for words; a smile spread across my face faker than a Miliband endorsement.

"Well well well Alman your gonna be looking after me and my assistant then. I think you’ve met before!"

And then from behind Dixon appears Toby. "Alman your a runner here, that's well nang"

Trust fucking fund Toby, sporting the latest neon coloured wayfarers, designer goatee and the couture camouflage bathing ape t-shirt. They look like twins. I feel sick.

"Alright Alman! Sort us out some chaz will you, we're going on a edit binge!"

And so it begins.

Let battle commence.....

BBC Producer Dies While Conducting 'Wild Swim'

I don’t think this story has reached the national papers and just thought I would like to pass on my condolences to anyone who knew Tarquin Proud, series producer of among others 'Chasing Rainbows' and 'Lunchtime Doctor'.

BBC Producer drowns while conducting ‘Wild Swim’.

A BBC producer was dragged to his death in a Devon river while indulging in the latest town and country pursuit of the creative middle classes. Tarquin Proud, 41, was dragged under by strong currents while swimming and attempting to check his Blackberry mobile device in an undisclosed North Devon river. As a keen observer of trends, he was said by colleagues to have been desperate to undertake in this increasingly popular pastime.

A 'Wild Swim' involves taking a innocuous dip in a secluded country river, and has lately gained popularity with the release of a book of the same title, by author Daniel Smart. Articles in 'The Guardian' and 'The Telegraph', have caused a distinct increase in the activity in recent months, with participants distinctly unaware of the dangers of strong river currents and aggressive river fish such as pike. Swimmers are also susceptible to Leptospirosis (commonly known as weil's disease), which can be contracted in river water from rats urine, and results in death in 10% of cases.

Mr. Proud's wife, speaking to the paper from their £625,000 Stoke Newington town house, moved swiftly to warn fellow swimmers of the dangers of wild swimming and urged city dwellers to holiday in safe coast guarded Cornish beach areas such as St.Ives.

Source: North Devon Bugle

Cocogrim

Regular readers of the blog will remember the posts back in the day, called 'Nu Cunts On The Block' and 'Grimshaw'. I predicted the latter would explode on to your screens like a dirty kay bomb; I wasn't wrong as the cunt was all over the Glastonbury coverage and has got his own show on Radio 1 - fortunately my ears have yet to be poisoned by this as I'm more of a BBC6 man, but I'm sure its as shit as the curly fringed fuckwit.

What I didn't expect to see was the other two all over the telly 'mang'. Thats right, the cococunt twits are starting to get people to believe their own hype and have gained employment from our wonderful television stations. They so have their finger on the pulse of Britain's youth don't they! The moomim-a-like has taken up Sarpongs mantle on T4, and the purveyor of 1990s Spike Lee stylisms has secured herself a prime self-promoting slot on BBC Three's new show 'Class of 2008'.

Apparently this show is introducing Londons latest bright young things to the world - as if they hadn't caused us enough pain with Kate fucking Nash - and it won't be long before the most nausiating one has their own late night chat show with James Corden on the sofa.

What I really want to know is, wheres the rest of the country?? Give some of the bright young things outside of the M25 a leg up for once Auntie.

P.S Notice how I failed to mention Lily Allen once there? Heres why.

1 More Thing I hate About Glastonbury.........

How everyone wears their security wristband for months afterward, just so everyone knows 'They were there'.

Its not cool, you just look filthy.

Cunts.

10 Things I hate about Glastonbury

1. Mud and piss and shit and rain and the people in the above picture (shit four already just mud then)

2. People who have gone there solely because it’s the place to go and get your picture taken for a facebook profile.

3. The way it tries to hang on to hippy non conformist credentials when a few years ago purchasing a ticket became some sort of Orwellian big brother nightmare, I mean putting photo id on tickets, do you want the microchip implant as well, fuck off please.

4. BBC, the Guardian etc hooting off constantly about it being the best music festival in the world from the comfort of the media lounge.

5. The fact that there is indeed a great array of music on offer but that your unlikely to get to see much of it,because the place is so big stages are in different postcodes. Unless your happy with the diet of piss weak flavor of the month indie bands that play the Pyramid and Other stages most the time. The Hoosiers, why do they exist again?

6. 177,500 people. Just because some of them might like the same music as me it does not in anyway mean i will like them, just because someone likes the same colour as me it does not mean ill like them either. 177,500 people is a fuck lot of people and a good ninety nine percent of them will probably irritate me.

7. Speaking of which, at several points of the weekend a pervy BBC cameraman will zoom in on a girl in a strap top, straw cowboy hat, big sunglasses and wellies still looking hot despite the traces of mud and vomit over her. First the cameraman will tighten up his focus by zooming into the girls breasts but that bits not shown. What the audience will see is the girl on a blokes shoulders realizing she is on the big video screen and also being broadcast to the whole nation, after being caught like a rabbit in the headlights she will then seize the chance to show how much fun she is having, though not go as far as the classic slutty rock chick and bare her breasts. People always get over excited at festivals as though they really want everyone else to know their having the ‘time of their life’. Nothing you see here is ever going to be as good as these people think it is.


8 Flags (look at me,look at me)

9. Drugs. They are a part of any festival, they can add to the enjoyment and perception of a weekend in a field. They can also make you think your whole head is about to cave in. At Glastonbury the professionals come out to play, no weekend warriors here, these cunts have a different type of Special K for breakfast. Why bother spending all that money to subject your body to three days of torture, they play music at Guantanamo bay as well.

10. Jo Whiley

Am I the only one?

So I'm sat here watching the Bafta's. Mainly agreeable (bar the fact that Boy A didn't win best single drama, a utter travesty for quite possibly the best piece of television in the last ten years) apart from one glaring piece of turd.

Gavin.

And

Fucking

Stacey.

Am I the only person on this island who finds this programme the most nauseating, self indulgent, prime time cuntwash that has ever graced the screens? Maybe. The fat bloke who loves himself (Gavins mate in said toss) who also doubles as the writer, walked away with some best comedy performance. He beat Mitchell (nominated for Peep Show, quite possibly the best sitcom ever, bar Partridge) and Merchant. After watching his performance on Something for the weekend a few weeks back (a I'm so great bastian of cuntishness pastiche with a layer of I'm famous name dropping), followed up by a disgusting display of unmitigated flirtatious puke on Lily Allens couch (like she'd ever, and the thought of even the possibility makes me want to peel my skin from its bones anyway) made the guy (I don't even care to learn his name) Alan's public enemy number one.

But to my surprise, his award speech was unbelievably humble and grateful, dedicating the award to his co-writer, Saxondales wife. My previous view felt harsh, and my guilt ran deep. I was preparing my apology.

But then said bloke stepped up to accept another award with the rest of the gang, Bryden and all.

Return of the cunt.

Please tell me I'm not the only person who feels this? Is Gavin and Stacey really the genius that we are led to believe? Am I just being harsh, led by my obvious disdain for BBC3 or because every time the news comes on they only mention the fact that G&S won two awards, in turn winding me up? Or just because the writer bloke annoys me and seems to be everywhere at the moment? I don't mind Gavin, he seems like a nice guy. But the other blokes just gets on my nerves! I feel like my judgement is stained. Please tell me, under this intense pressure from the great bastions of our television society saying this series is great, that my vision is somewhat clouded? No it is not. Gavin and fucking Stacey is rubbish. And so is Cranford (The 'I'd rather have a period' school of drama).

Bring back Spaced!

Mother Knows Best

I've been here a week and I think I'm pretty well positioned to start passing judgment on the people I encounter conducting my duties. Being a bigger facility theres a greater array of weird and wonderful folk, but none more stranger then James, the editor who resides in edit 9.

James is an awkward fuck. He's a slim chap, with a kind of 1990s style floppy hair do that fans of Pop Will Eat Itself used to wear. He wears a tatty brown corduroy suit and bright patterned shirts made from organic cotton. No matter what the weather, a old pair of Birkenstocks that look like hes owned them since he stopped growing adorn his feet. If James was any more eco he would actually be a six foot tall Hessian sack labeled "I am not a plastic bag". If James was any more middle class he would be a semi-detached house in Islington.

His messy English gent style is complimented with the latest Blackberry and Macbook Pro, and an immense need for every single technological advancement in his suite, like hes about to guide the next space launch home from the confides of his edit. Fortunately he also insists on configuring all the settings himself (he has an array of USB drives permanently hanging around his neck containing his personal settings for every piece of software ever created), which makes my job slightly easier. I say slightly because theres more to come.

James likes to mate. How do I know this? Well the man has six children, and hes been insisting on bringing in at least three every day the past week due to the late easter holiday break. Another poor runner has to spend the day offering free childcare for his demanding brood; "Tabatha needs a break, you don't mind do you?".

Just like dog owners, people with children think the whole world loves their spawn as much as they do. Personally I'm with the late Bill Hicks on this one: "Childbirth is no more a miracle then eating food and a turd coming out of your ass."

Media kids in general - Tarquin, Rowan and Sasha etc, all seem (according to their parents) to be special little geniuses. One day they might all grow up and rule the world from behind their TV specs, but to me they generally just seem posh and wet. They could expect years of torment from bullies at school, apart from the fact they're probably sent to special little media kids ones where the alpha males are the kids with the latest iphone, instead of the ones who can do something half decent with a football. Media kids are wrapped in layers of cotton wool and protected from the real world, god knows what would happen if they went to a inner city comprehensive, it would be like dropping the famous five into the Bronx.

This is honestly just the tip of the iceberg though. James is currently indulging his love of children with his current edit job, a upcoming cookery series for new mothers called "New Mum in the Kitchen". The production company have already sold the format to a U.S. network retitled "New Mom in the Kitchen". Do you see what they did there? So just what TV needs, a 6x30 of organic whole food recipes for puking, crying newborns, and tips for their post-natally depressed mother's on how to lose that baby flab. James likes to consider himself a method editor and to get himself in the 'zone' he has been demanding that his cappuccinos be made with his 'special milk' which he brings in every morning in a old thermos flask.

Intrigued as to what was so 'special' about his milk, I couldn't help but ask, thinking he'd reply with "We keep goats at home and Tab's gets me fresh milk from them every morning". I couldn't be further from the truth. Tabs indeed does supply the milk fresh, but it doesn't come from goats.

Having six children means that Tabs has had to have a certain amount of milk on tap for years now; and even though its been a while since she popped the last one out, the family (James included) has developed a distinctive taste for her own special blend of Cravendale. This has seen her invest in a breast pump to keep her brood full up on all manner of lactational treats, from breast milkshakes and hot chocolates for the younger ones, to lattes and cappuccinos for James. She has set up a 'no teat' rule on his request; he's insistent that to have the children sucking on her breasts now that they are slightly older would be socially unacceptable. Drinking her milk in a cappuccino seems absolutely fine in his book though!

So thats what I've been doing in the mornings lately, making cappuccinos from Tabs' breastmilk. James seems to love it so much, that he pretty much uses up all his supplies by lunchtime. But fortunately for him, theres a coffee shop round the corner that offers the same service. I am not kidding. So if anyone out there ever fancies it, you too can get yourself a lovely tasty breast milk cappuccino.

You have to wonder whose supplying it though.

Answers on a postcard.........

A Fresh Start; The Office

I cautiously knocked on the MD's door trying to judge the ratta-tap-tap somewhere between self assured and not too cocky. It was only my second day and I wanted to tread very carefully. My last encounter with the upper echelons of media power still smarted; I wanted to get this right. The MD had requested my presence in his office and it was an encounter I wanted to go as smoothly as possible this early in my employment.

A deep voice commanded through the door.

"Enter."

I opened the door.

"Ah Alan - our new runner, take a seat."

I already knew a lot about Stephen, the boss. The facility grapevine had fed me some gossip and the tragic story of recent events pretty much as soon as I was through the door on my first day.

Stephen had recently come out of the other side of a a particularly bitter divorce, with his wife pretty much taking the denim shirt of his back and giving only fleeting monthly meetings with his children for the foreseeable future. It was only by employing the talents of a divorce lawyer so expensive and talented (he would have even made Heather Mills shit it), that he kept hold of the facilities house from the clutches of his ex-wife. Stephen apparently didn't really have a leg to stand on in most of the proceedings (absolutely no pun intended relating to the previous paragraph!); there would have been many evenings when he could have gotten away with receiving a blow job from a Soho rent boy in his office, but alas for Stephen the night of the company Christmas party his wife had organised was not one of them.

Although caught trousers down, Stephen had aparently been devastated by the breakup. Thrown out of the family home, he spent two months sleeping in his office watching his wedding video on a loop and listening to Coldplay and Dido albums. Now he seemed to be getting himself back on track, and has bought himself a bachelor pad in Vauxhall.

He sat the other side of the desk and stared at me as though examining the like of which he had not encountered before. Stephen was cut from a different cloth than the posing prick who owned the last place I worked. He seemed a bit more old school; clad in the fifty-somethings uniform of head to toe denim, widely know as 'The Clarkson' in fashion circles. Eventually with a theaatrical flourish he began.

"I've already heard good things about you Alan. Keep it up and you could go far here. There are only two things you really need to remember...... one there are no glass ceilings here.... and two...... I like my coffee black, strong and no sugar, none of these poncey frappa-latte things."

And with that he wished me luck and motioned me out of his office. Not bad I think, I got out of that one alive. Must remember how he likes his coffee though. Strong and black, that's easy enough...........

As according to the office rumour, its how he likes his men as well!

Sugar Daddy

Another year, another series of The Apprentice. Now, you probably think I'm about to give the show both barrels - well your wrong.

The Apprentice is the most entertaining show on television. Why? I'll tell you.

First we have Sugar himself, the king of sarcasm. With great lines such as "You need to stick to that sale like shit to a blanket" I can quite easily forgive the fact that he looks like a angry hedgehog. Sugar is pure entertainment; he knows how to play the game and to keep the most annoying contestants in as long as possible. They're the ones the public want to watch, they get the ratings and Sugar gets more cash - the mans a genius! I actually remember watching the original American version of The Apprentice with Donald Trump (I've never understood why one of the richest men in the world can't afford a decent hairpiece) and while entertaining, Sugar blows that shit right out of the water.

But its not just Sugar that makes the show - its the contestants. The girls spend all their time arguing, and the boys wooping and hi-fiving each other. They're generally all quite posh (with the addition of a few token 'geezers' and self-made ghetto kids), and are as thick as pig shit, having spent the majority of their privileged lives banging on about how great they are at 'sales' and forgetting to learn any common sense. I wouldn't be surprised if they had motivational words tattooed on to the inside of their eyelids so they can can focus on winning even with their eyes closed. In any normal situation I would run a mile, but by giving these idiots simple tasks to do which their combination of egos ultimately always fucks up makes for utterly riveting television.

This series has already set a benchmark in a stupidity, which is a considerable achievement at such an early stage in proceedings. The teams (which I would personally call 'testorone' and 'estrogen') were set the task of running a launderette. The boys were managed by Raef, who was constantly edited laughing like a crazed megalomaniac, and also featured Vicky Pollards brother (he's done a food hygiene course apparently). The monumentally frog stupid girls team, managed by Jenny (who looks like a female version of footballer Darren Anderton), tried to charge their clients £4.99 to wash a pillowcase, and also lost a mass of their clients clothes. This was discovered AFTER they had begged these people for tips, a sequence which hasn't caused me to cringe so much since watching Borat. These 'business' decisions were met with absolute derision by Sugar, and the girls reacted by arguing like mad and pointing the finger at each other, with the upper crust Lucinda feeling the force of the rest of the team. Suffice to say the boys won. Thankfully Sir Alan fired the boring one and we can look forward to many more weeks of bungling and backstabbing.

I'm yet to make judgment on the rest of the contestants, but my first impressions tell me that the ex-army guy is going to win it, but I'm not really that fussed to be honest. The most important thing is that at last, theres finally some television that I can sit down and watch.

Thanks Sugar!

A Taste Of Paradise

Regular readers will remember I came across a particular nasty development gurus ideas book a few months back. I completely forgot about this until having a clearout at the other day (well I have got time on my hands the moment), so heres the best of the rest...........

Tate and Kyle (30x30, ITV1)

Jeremy Kyle takes guests from his early morning chat show to the Tate Britain, to see if art can solve their problems.

Wheres Wallace? (1 x 120, More4)

Danny Wallace has another drunken bet with Celebrity house mate Dave Gorman, and challenges him to be able to spot him in mass crowds at the worlds pilgrimages. Think Way of St. James, the Hajj, Vatican city Rome, Lourdes France, Santiago de Compostela Spain, and Fatima Portuga. More4 are all over this.

Bounty Hunters (15x60 + 1xCeleb Special)

On a scale not seen since the heady days of Challenge Anneka, Treasure Hunt and the Interceptor, the mass UK wide gameshow format returns to ITV. Two teams of intrepid Bounty Hunters are given a list of dangerous criminals to hunt down, capture and deliver to the authorities to claim an array of amazing prizes. High adrenaline, high octane, dangerous, daring and breathtaking; the UK will be glued to their seats as the whole nation goes Bounty Hunting. This is going to be huge!!!! Presented by Duane 'Dog' Chapman and teams guided and trained by his wife and sons.

Pete and Diddy (6x30 BBC3 or E4)

Pete Doherty and P-Diddy join forces to create a hip-hop indie fusion hit and the cameras are there every step of the way.

May Days (6x30 BBC2)

James May sets off on a personal mission to compete in the most bizarre ancient British customs know to man, from cheese rolling and bog snorkelling, to tar barrelling. If May's not interested then Fogles definately your man.

Wife Shock (Ch5 1x60)

When wives go mad it can sometime end with some of the most horrific ramifications. John Wayne Bobbit had his penis severed by his wife Lorena (a popular revenge act for Thai Ladies as well), Kerrang! DJ Tim Shaws wife sold his Lotus Esprit on Ebay and Jane got her revenge by hiring out a advertising board. This is just the tip of the iceberg - hell surely hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Friends of Fogle (BBC1 30x30)

New flagship Saturday morning chatshow hosted by the ever loveable Ben Fogle. Every week Ben will be joined by the nicest celebrity guests, who join him for a cup of tea and a piece of cake. There will be music, animals, DIY tips - Ben will even be cooking! This has the potential to be huge - think Blue Peter for adults. Everyone loves Fogle don't they? Ross won't be happy but fuck him, hes got enough money. Fogle is the future!

The Runner Strikes Back

So I had a job interview last week - I bet your all wandering how I got on. Its in Soho and I got there with plenty of time to spare. Made sure I got my classic runners garb on - got to make sure they think you can fit in, always good to make a good impression and first impressions always last. The interview flew by; I seemed to get on well with them and fielded there questions like a pro, but you can never tell what they really think of you. They toured me round the facility and introduced me to the other runners; this was going more than well! But they still left it hanging saying they were interviewing all day and would get back to me within the week.

So fast forward to today. The phone rang.

I only got it!

Its a bigger facility but very similar to the last. I start on Monday. Really looking forward to a fresh start and meeting new people. I can finally draw a line under Rudyardgate and get on with my life, and try and get my career back on track. But the best thing? No more fucking Dixon!!!

Things are on the up again.

A New Hope

I've got a job interview today!

Wish me luck..........

"Alan, can i have minute.........."

"..........of course, in fact you can have two." I answered to the facilities manager's question.

There was a sense of foreboding in the air; my outburst last week had hung heavy round my neck like a particularly overweight albatross. In fact I was amazed it hadn't been a instant dismissal, it can only have been the madness and anger in my eyes that had stopped them sacking me on the spot. Perhaps they were now afraid of me, worried that i might really snap and do a Soho version of Columbine. The thought had crossed my mind a few times while playing Call of Duty 4 on my X Box at three in the morning, but I had concluded that a murder spree was a bad career move. In the last few days I had become a social pariah, no one talked to me. I hadn't even been asked to make any cups of tea since Rudyardgate.

So there she was, shepherding me into a empty edit suite clutching a brown envelope, containing without doubt my P45. My mind wondered to the scene in Goodfellas when Joe Pesci's character thinks he's gonna get 'made' and instead gets a bullet in the head; what differs is that I had no misapprehension about the subject of this 'meeting'. One thing that unites the lowly runner and the channel exec is that at some point you will probably cop a bullet, get the boot, the sack, shown the door, sling your hook - and it doesn't help if you have called the boss a cunt. So here's how it went down:

"Alan I'm sure you have an idea whats this about."

"Sorry I'm not sure." I answered.

"Last week Alan, your little outburst."

I went silent and let her talk. Don't really see your future here, don't fit in as well as others, not sure what direction you want to take, think you might find a better fit elsewhere.... My eyes glazed over, I nodded and refrained from telling here to go fuck herself.

Sometimes its best to take whats coming to you on the chin, talking only makes it worse. I need to find a new job and any more discrepancies in my reputation will spread round the industry quicker than a fire in a Japanese tea house. This looks like the end.

For now.

Fickle Hearts of Darkness

I was briskly walking through Dean Street on the way to work when I noticed a single lily tied to the railings at the side of the road. It was beautiful, almost poignant - a solitary beauty shining through the grit and stress of the city mid-morning. I was suddenly overcome with emotion, but I couldn't put my finger on it; this sight had triggered something deep within me. I wanted to stop and absorb the moment but couldn't as I was running late, so had to quickly move on.

When I got into work, people were gathered round in the lobby talking. Several runners, the facilities manager, Dixon and even the MD. Just my luck - late for work and I have a welcoming committee. Then Erika on reception calls me over and greets me with her dulcet tones (shes a bit thick and has this really dull voice, she stretches out my name so it comes out more like Aaaaaaaaaaaaaalllllllaaaaan, its really annoying).

“Alan have you heard the news?”

Great - not even been in the office for five minutes and already I’m going to have to pretend to be interested in Fincham’s latest career move. I replied no, resisting the temptation to admit that I have better things to do than surf Production Base and Broadcast Now all evening.

“That editor up in the Yentob, the old dude - Rod - or whatever he was called, him in the Yentob suite”

“Rudyard… I thought they finished up last night.”

“Yeah they did, but not until early this morning after the executives changes. It was light when he left, and he was on his way home. But he only got as far as Dean Street. Oh Alan its so sad.”

The flower.

Then Toby piped up.

"A Soho courier on his bike smashed into him. He got a bike wheel in one side of his head and the kerb in the other. Well fucked him up. They said he died instantly. The courier didn’t even have a scratch on him.”

It can't be. Rudyard. He can't be dead. I only saw him yesterday. We were going to work together - he was going to give me my big break.

Then Dixon, cuntface Dixon, chips in. “Did you see how he cut? It was like watching someone in slow motion. If he crossed the road the same way no wonder the poor bugger got a bicycle wrapped round him .” Toby (who has recently become Dixons fucking sidekick) sniggered.

No-one else seemed to hear them, but I was in utter disbelief at these cunts - a good mans died and they find it fucking funny? Something exploded within in me like a reactor. I wanted to scream, I wanted to put them in their place. I wanted to say:

“You bunch of self obsessed fickle heartless fucking cunts, all of you. ALL OF FUCKING YOU.”

Then everyone went silent. All eyes were suddenly on me, their faces painted with a look of utter disgust. The MD's jaw dropped like someone had just keyed his Porsche (or stuffed prawns under the lining of his seat). And it was then that I realised.

I realised that I had actually said it out loud this time.

Run Love

Been hanging out with Rudyard again today - its his last day before his holiday so hes been showing me loads of tricks and telling me stories while he waits for his viewing and no doubt a late night after a million changes by the executive producer.

We got on to the subject of the king of porn, Paul Raymond passing away last week. Back in the sixties, Rudyard used to edit blue movies in the heart of Soho before getting his break in films. "Good old Raymond, he gave me one of my first jobs. Even though it was on the blueys, it got me that vital experience and I'm eternally grateful to him, god rest his soul." He welled up talking about him, it seemed they were close and he was obviously moved by his death so I quickly changed the subject.

I found out that he was also a edit assistant for David Lean on Doctor Zhivago. "Mr.Lean started as a teaboy himself so he was always very good to me; in fact I've never heard anyone ask for a cup of tea with the politeness of Mr.Lean, he was a absolute gent. Some of the directors and editors of today could learn a lot more than just the art of film making from a great man like him".

We also joked about the other edits in the building "Have you seen those two in the Attenborough at the moment? Theres a short one and a taller chubby one, both wearing those awful spectactles - they look like the two ronnies!" This was a man right after myself! We laughed long and loud. Then all of a sudden he stopped laughing and went all serious. I wandered if I'd said something out of turn, or if my blog had been rumbled. I was shitting myself, I'd never seen Rudyard look like this before. My hands went clammy. Finally after what seemed like an age, he began to talk. "Alan dear boy, I'm getting to old for this business. I need a break, I need to enjoy life - the time has come for me to retire. But I feel like I need someone to replace me, someone who I can pass all the wonderful things I've learned on to who I know will appreciate it. I've been struggling to find someone suitable; everyone I meet talks hot air about grading and vignettes and never about the art of storytelling. But then you walked into my edit and I knew instantly. I'd like that someone to be you Alan."

Milk.

And.

Fucking.

Two!

This is amazing! When he gets back from Tuscany, hes going to give me a job as his assistant and start getting me work cutting as much as possible - that way he can start to enjoy his free time and his vintage wine collection. He's also going to get me a broadcast credit as his assistant for the sequence I cut on the weekend dropped in on the online, he just needs to check with his producer tomorrow before he catches the plane. This is my big break, this is it! No more making tea, running across fucking Soho dropping tapes off, collecting lunches and all the other shit that goes with being a runner! This is a life changing moment. My name up in lights on the BBC for everyone to see. All my dreams are coming true!

Maybe I can update my blog: The Secret Diary of a Broadcast Editor! Don't worry I won't forget my roots, I know where I've come from and I won't ever treat runners the way I've been treated.

I know where to get my own fucking latte! Run love.

On The Edit Bench

Often due to overrunning, executive changes or generally just because they can, editors will want to work on the weekend. This of course involves me having to come in and make tea and collect lunches for them, and generally sit around for most of the day doing nothing.

This weekend though was different.

Rudyard wanted to come in as he needs to leave his edit early to take a holiday in Florence. Normally, the editors will just get on with what they have to do - not Rudyard. He appears to have seen the potential in me, as he insisted I sit in on his edit all day today so he could teach me the art of cutting.

It was amazing; one on one tuition from the best editor I've ever met. He showed me the importance of a creative approach to the material while also considering the impact of your choices on the viewer. Where Dixon shows off and throws all manner of worthless plug-ins at a shot and only considers how cool it looks, Rudyard only considers its worth in the programmes overall narrative.

Then something amazing happened - he insisted I cut a sequence! Alan Runner, taken under the wing of the best editor in the business and now cutting a broadcast television show! Today was quite possibly the best day of my life. If I can stay in with Rudyard, who knows what the future may hold for me. Freelance wages, the respect of my peers - maybe even the odd holiday! Things are looking up for me, this has been a very good weekend.

Thankyou Rudyard.

Home

As a runner and living on a measly wage, it generally means you have no choice but to house share with as many people as possible. I'm currently sharing with 8 people; a mixed bunch, and we're all crammed into a spooky old Victorian house on the wrong side of the tracks.

The kitchen is the social hub of the place (we don't have a front room as the landlord wants as much rent out of the place as possible, I'll come to her later), so you generally only ever see the other inmates when they cook, otherwise they just hole themselves up in their rooms. First theres Aron, or as I like to call him 'The Man With The Red Face". Aron's a big lad and carries a lot of weight. He works on the underground and his cheeks look like he lives on a permenant diet of game birds - its as red as a smacked ass. He spends the majority of his time talking guff about the internet to me; I really couldn't care less about his avatar in Second Life. With all this time spent in front of the computer, Aron likes to spend as little time as possible cooking. Hes the only person I've ever known to buy pre-sliced mushrooms. His fingers look like chipolata sausages as well, just in case you wandered.

Then we have Kate. Kate has lived in this house since time began, and therefore thinks she has 'squatters rights' and first dibs on all the best cupboards and the most freezer space. She hordes shit in every corner of the house - like Mr.Trebus from life of grime. I've taken to calling her 'Bakery Squirrel', as when shes not alphabetically storing tupperware boxes full of her own faeces, she bakes cakes (a lot of fucking cakes) for her friends at work. I think shes probably got the ice man buried in the garden as well.

Steffan is a city high-flyer from Germany with a penchant for lap dancing. He has a membership at Spearmint Rhino, and Peter Stringfellows personal phone number. The rest of the week he spends his evenings traveling across London to various Salsa classes, as he swears this is the best place to pick up Women; apparently they love the rhythm in his hips. I think its probably because they're all quite ugly and gagging for it, but he doesn't seem to really give a shit.

Every now and again while cooking my cheap pasta meal I bump into Glynn; a crazy welsh lad who seems to be permanently fucked in one sense or another. Hes the kind of person who is able to juggle a impossible intake of drugs and hold down a utterly amazing job - hes my favourite of the bunch. The only part of his personality I can't take is that when we run out of toilet paper he will use what ever is to hand - mainly the Yellow Pages - if we ever need a plumber we're fucked.

There's three more house mates, but I'll come back to them in the future. So that just leaves me with my landlord.

Gabriella looks like a Brazilian prostitute. She struts around in mini skirts and skimpy vests, and is often accompanied by her boyfriend who looks like a club owner from Phoenix nights (he actually wears a sequiened jacket). She aspires to be a actress, and has dreams of going to RADA. I haven't the heart to tell her she'd be about as useful as a chocolate teapot on stage at the National. Fortunately for her, she has her singing to fall back on. She entered the X-Factor last year, and was featured in the show - during the montage of the shittest auditions of the series.

So thats my home life - expensive, cramped and cold but home all the same. At least it gives me a break from the toils of the facility.

And even more blog material!

The Nightwatch Man

Because Editors such as Dixon always insist on working late (probably becuase its more fun at work then going back to your Mums house where he still lives), the facility employs a night security guard.

Of course this doesn't get me off the hook, I've still got to sit around and wait till all the poncey fuckers decide to turn it in for the night, just in case they need to call their 'bell boy' for anything. More and more each day it begins to feel I'm working in a Hotel, but the great thing is I can go and play cards and listen to the ever amazing stories of Albert.

While you've got all the people in the building fabricating documentary stories (Fatman Slim is one we've got in at the moment - they just put fat people on a fucking crash diet but they keep sneaking off for fry ups, how interesting), if any of them spent five minutes talking to Albert instead of just loving the sound of their own hot air they could produce some of the best television in years.

Albert used to be a spy. He's killed men with his bare hands and survived in the coldest, remotest Russian wildernesses. Ray Mears hasn't got shit on this dude. He regales stories of espionage, winding tales of escaping the Russian secret police and smuggling East German informants across the border at the height of the Stasi. Apparently hes only working in this post house as part of his re-integration back into society, he's a wanted man and needs the cover provided by working as a humble nightwatch man.

Albert, to put it simply is a legend. For all I know everything that comes out of his mouth could be utter bollocks, but the way he tells his stories, make me feel alive again. Then the phone rings. Fucking Dixon wants some sushi.

"Same time tomorrow Albert?"

The Buddha of Soho

There's a edit on at the moment where the director has just returned from a six week shoot in Nepal and Tibet. Of course she wants the world to know what an amazing place it is and how it effected her spritually. "I got there a few weeks early before the shoot started. I felt at home as soon as i landed in Thamel, all the locals there wear North Face - it was like being at a TV conference!" I overheard her tell Dixon. This female director now seems to think she is some sort of buddhist spritualist, its like the Dalai Lama is in the bloody building.

She wears a pashmina, gets runners to leave thier shoes outiside the edit suite when they bring in drinks, and does a little bow of the head and puts her hands together in some sort of psuedo spritual way whenever she finishes a sequence she's happy with. Its a shame she's working on "Kyle Mclachlan: In Search of Snowcats" for Discovery US - not exactly going to change the world with that one! Also, I'm no expert on the ways of buddhism, but I'm guessing this director hasn't quite mastered one of its fundimental principles - not being a cunt to people. At the moment she is sending me all over london in search of Dhal Bhat "Just like you get in a Himilyan tea house." The smell of her now strict vegan diet filtering through into the edit suite come late afternoon nearly had me feeling sorry for Dixon having to sit next to her as well.

Well nearly.