I Am Spartacus

I'm starting to feel something might be happening here. As more people read my tortured tales of the shit end of TV perhaps there is some sort of groundswell of support forming. Perhaps together we could make a change!!

I'm thinking off launching national 'fuck off and get your own latte day'. With enough support, maybe every runner in the country could at the same time turn round and say "I'm not paid enough for this shit - you can get your own latte today!". If we all got together and said fuck off what could they do? If every Producer/Director/Exec etc was suddenly forced to see that runners all over the country are underpaid and treated like shit they might be forced to change things (these people have generally never been runners themselves, so do not understand how demeaning it is to be treated the way they treat us!).

We could all revolt - what would they do? Have to stay late doing pointless jobs (watching media copy springs to mind). Do their own fucking digitising! Learn how to make a cup of tea (and not complain its not to your taste because you made it yourself!) Actually get a suntan by leaving the edit suite to collect their own lunch! This could actually be liberating for all involved.

We can change the future. We can make a pledge to stick together, and to never treat people the way we were treated! Runners of the world unite! Lets make the future a better place for all the runners who have yet been born. It could be like the scene in Spartacus when everyone pretends to be him so the Romans can't kill old bum chin Douglas. Minus the homo-erotica of course.

You in?

Put Your Hands Up For Dexter

I've given ITV a few knocks recently - not least for being the chaviest of the terrestrial stations (don't get me started on Linda Lusardi on Dancing On Ice with her cowboy routine on Saturday - you should stick to getting your tits out love); but this Wednesday the channel has the potential to rise like a phoenix from the flames.

Dexter (ITV1 Wednesday 10.35PM) is quite simply the best television drama I have ever seen (the internet is a wonderful place), and for ITV1 to sign up this show is surely a masterstroke by their acquisitions department. The show centres on Miami police department blood spatter analyst Dexter Morgan; who in his spare time just happens to be a serial killer. But Dexter doesn't kill anyone; he only kills other serial killers, and somehow this makes his whole character criminally endearing. The production values are top notch; from script to screen the whole show oozes class and the story is utterly captivating.

I will not spoil any of the plot, and lets just hope ITV1 have also signed up for Season 2 - which somehow even manages to surpass the first in its excellence. Forget Lost, 24 and Prison Break - Dexter is simply the best imported Drama you will see on television this year. It won't be long before everyones talking about it (especially that snake eyed witch on the radio). So don't miss out on the chance to finally see some decent television.

If only I could hire Dexter to dispose of Dixon? I can only dream. He did give me something to smile about today though. He turned up for his edit in a sour mood - he'd wanked the best part of £500 on match tickets yesterday to watch the media club of choice lose the cup to Tottenham. He was acting like he actually cared about the match but the prick can only name about five Chelsea players - I've got a feeling he only went so he could tell everyone "The match? Yeah I was there bruv! Blinding mate. Put your fucking hands up!". But instead he found out that no-one actually cared. They were more concerned with taking the piss out of his shit new semi-mohican haircut. Which he'd even died blue for the game.

What.

A.

Cunt!

An Edit For Old Men

“It must be something pretty important if your going to open up the Yentob” Erika on reception told me as she handed me the keys. It was a rare event indeed that the mythical edit 15 was being opened up; this was the most exclusive of suites, pimped to the max with a Italian designer sofa and a original Banksy hanging on the wall. It was shrouded in secrecy with only the very top runners being able to enter and take drinks in; when any of them did they never spoke about it, sworn to silence in fear of their jobs. I always presumed they cut porn in there - the facility wanted the blue pound but kept it quiet.

I found myself in this intriguing position after being accosted by the facilities manger. She had asked "Alan, could I have a word with you in private". By past experience this usually meant a bollocking. My heart sank. I must have been seen nipping into Borders when I was meant to be delivering some tapes - was this it? Was I going to be put out of my misery and be given the boot? I sheepishly walked in.

“Now you’ve been with us for a while now haven’t you”

“Few months isn’t it” I replied, grimacing at the oncoming bullet.

“Well you might have heard we have a edit going into the Yentob, and I thought you would be best to look after it.”

I was shocked.

“It’s a landmark series Alan - confidential stuff. What you see in the Yentob, stays in the Yentob right.”

I nodded.

“Of course, its not like I’m going to go post it on the internet or anything is it!” (I didn’t actually say that, but couldn’t resist adding it later, come on John Grierson got away with much worse!).

So who will be working in the Yentob? It must be someone important. I walked into the kitchen and fucking trustfund Toby was there, stuffing toast into his mouth. “You got the Yentob, good luck, have you seen who’s in there? He looks well Grandad! He wants a coffee taken up with his Sanatogen - re-record not fade away!”

Televisions a bit like the film Logan’s Run - its obsessed with youth and oldies are ‘retired’ early when they stop being able to work the Video timer. As I tentatively entered the suite, the editor turned to look at me.

“Do you like dogs young man? I cant stand the bloody things but its work isn’t it......"

The editor Rudyard was a real old timer, an elder statesman. Piles of classic musical CD's covered the desk and there wasn't a Mac Book in sight. He looked a bit like Ken Russell with big red cheeks - one too many glasses of port with Dr Johnson maybe. He was also by far he nicest editor I had ever met. A real kind gent of a man. He was working on a high profile ‘landmark’ BBC documentary called ‘A year in the life of the Queen’s corgi’s’. It looked about as interesting as a 14 hour digitising shift for Time Team, but there was no denying the quality of the programme. Watching Rudyard work was fantastic; not obsessed with speed like so many editors he cut at his own pace, making each edit work perfectly for the benefit of the films story.

He took me under his wing and let me sit in with him - I think he rather liked the company and telling his stories to someone young. He regaled great anecdotes about cutting on a Steenbeck; “Get it on the edit bench dear boy”, and how he had worked on World in Action. He was as wise as Mother Nature. He wound tales of old Soho and cutting feature films with all the greats; this was the kind of talented person I had dreamed of meeting in the TV industry instead of the charlatans and show offs I regularly had to wait on. IE cuntface Dixon.

I've had a really good day today and things are looking up. If I can spend as much time with Rudyard as I can I might actually learn something useful and poignant about the art of storytelling. And corgis.

The Carwash

As a runner you have to listen to peoples crap excuses all day and why they can’t do anything themselves. For instance I’ll get a call on my CB: “Alan – Edit 11 wants a GBK and is to busy to take a lunch break, can we go out and get him one?" (Note they always say we when there’s certainly no fucking we involved its just yours truly). In truth, the words that should have came out of that room were probably something along the lines of: "I'm too fucking lazy to leave this room, send a runner out to get me my lunch so I can feel all high and mighty while I burn what’s left of my already shoddy retinas (hence the black rimmed spectacles) by fixating them on this monitor for the next 48 hours”.

But this sort of things expected. This is what runners are employed to do and you come into the industry expecting to do things like this. You have to do the shit jobs.

But sometimes people really take the piss. People will ask you to do those things that just really cross the line. Travel to Highgate to walk their dog, clean some cunts fish tank out, polish their shoes - go and let their fucking decorators in! This isn’t in the job description! It's aimed at purely degrading the poor runner. Which brings me on to today's events.

Recently my boss purchased a Porshe Carrera for 70 odd grand, an amazing penis substitute of a car. The sort of machine that would make Jeremy Clarkson soil his pants in joy. You would think for that price it would come with its own 24 hour a day pit team like Formula One cars have. No. Wanting to keep his new cock extension constantly clean (but not wanting to spend five pounds on taking it through a car wash), he approached me.

“Hey Alan. You know my new Carrera. Could we perhaps give it a bit of a wash over?”

I thought he was joking because he was definitely taking the piss.

“I've got a big meeting this afternoon and am taking her along. Its really for the good of the company she looks her best”.

What do you say to that? “Fuck off. I didn’t do a media studies degree for three years and get into thousands of pounds in debt to clean your fucking car you complete prick”.

No. You smile, keep your head down and fill a bucket of water. Go downstairs and throw it over the car, conquer the huge desire to key it all the way down the side or pull a Ferris Bueller, and slowly scrub, shammy and apply wax for hours. By the end the cars sparkling, free of the dirt of the city and looking its best. Then you stuff a couple of left over prawns underneath the leather lining of the seat, and fuck off to Oxford street with a big, big smile on your face.

Points Of View

18th February 2008

Dear Mr.Controller,

Last week heralded the re-launch of BBC3 (or should I call it 'Three'). You obviously spent millions removing the quite brilliant Aardman idents and replacing them with the pink logo, I have to ask why. Also, to celebrate this monumental occasion you launched the night with ‘Phoo Action’; a translation of a comic strip aired in Face Magazine in 1996, which was created by Gorillaz artist Jamie Hewlett. It sounded good so I tuned in; just what you needed to wrestle those viewers back from Skins!

You obviously thought so to. I imagine you wanking over your own brilliance, as you immediately commissioned the program for a whole series before the pilot went out.

Big mistake.

Phoo Action is quite possibly the worst thing I’ve seen on television for a long time. The production values are utter toss: it’s over lit, there’s no definition to the picture and every shot has a headache of neon splattered across it. The program was edited together like a poor mans Mighty Boosh, and the music so on the cutting edge of cool it’ll be probably be out of fashion by tomorrow. The story line was clunky, (something about a basketball headed mutant murdering the queen?) - and the direction and acting wouldn't have looked out of place in a Carry On film. Hot new ‘talent’ Jaime Winstone was akin to Barbera Windsor faffing about in hot-pants, while another Bruce-Lee-A-Like character was like Sid James at his calamitous best. Also, if I see one more thing referencing that fucking yellow suit from Kill Bill I will honestly slit my wrists. Unfortunately all the finger-on-the-pulse creative’s you employ seem to think this is the epitome of cool from the Far East; how further could they be from the truth. I think my fate is sealed. Not even Apollo Creed as the police officer could stop me. He should have stuck with Rocky.

So I'll just leave you with a word of advice - if you want something to look Japanese import it in from Japan. Check out Samurai Champloo – you could’ve saved a fortune by buying this in. It also benefits from actually being good as well! Plus it has DJ scratchy stuff so the kids will love it yeah! Oh and next time you commission a whole series on the strength of it being appealing to 14 years olds, put it on CBBC – the poor kids haven’t got Grange Hill anymore.

Yours sincerely,

A.Runner
(Age 23 ¾)

PS: I just caught Lily on the Iplayer. That was shit as well.

St.Valentines Day Massacre

Regular readers might have picked up I rather like a girl at work nicknamed Stella girl. Her real name is Gemma but everyone calls her Stella Girl because she made the faux pass of buying some cans of Stella Artois instead of expensive Japanese bottled imports when she was sent out to get some beers. While everyone else thinks shes a bit of calamity, I happen to think shes really cute. I don't mind wiping up the slugs trail of coffee that she leaves behind her when shes delivering drinks, or taking the blame when she fucks someones lunch order up. I’m not great with the ladies but I decided I'd go for Valentines; I think she likes me, she laughs at my jokes and sometimes twiddles her hair when we talk (I’ve heard that’s good).

Valentines day started well. I was in the kitchen waiting for her to check in, knowing full well what was waiting for her on the front desk. Toby (another runner) came in, happy as usual as he hasn’t got a care in the fucking world. He just works as a runner while he waits for the trust fund to kick in, and Daddy gives him a fat weekly wedge to top up his measly runners paycheck. Toby stood there in his American Apparel garb looking like a glowsticks vomited over him, and starts making conversation with me even though I tried my best to ignore him in case Gemma showed up. He continued to spew out some shit about his band, six twats and a drum machine, who are apparently playing at Bestival this year. I have no interest in this at all, but then suddenly he says: “Did you see Stella girl got some flowers for Valentines?”.

Of course I know this. I sent them to her. But trying to play it cool I answered: “Really? When did that happen”.

“Just before lunch, she’s well happy”.

Everything was going to plan. “Does she have any idea who sent them?” I asked.

Toby smiled “ This is what’s great right, she thinks Dixon sent them to her but he didn’t”.

"DIXON!? What! Why does she think Dixon, Dixon the editor would have sent them”.

“Because Dixon’s been pumping Stella girl since the Christmas party behind his missus’ back, even did it in the Fincham once - I thought everyone knew that, he was flexing his muscles at the CCTV while banging her. He's posted the tapes on x-tube if you want to watch it. Dixons a legend!”

Dixon….Dixon DIXON FUCKING CUNTFACE!!!

“Dixon’s gonna get his balls proper dipped for the flowers and he didn’t even send them!” (makes dj motions with his hands) "Put your hands up for Dixon!".

I was in complete shock, I felt like I had been kicked in the balls. I stared into his smug trustafarian face as he sniggered away doing Dixons stupid catchphrase, and I actually felt my right hand tense into a fist. If I hit him hard enough, right in the middle of his face, then maybe I could send his nose cartilage right into his brain killing him instantly.

But instead, I went outside and smoked a cigarette. This is just my fucking luck, I finally grow some balls and once again I get shat on by the tosser whos higher up in the industry than me. I went back in the kitchen and the phone rang. It was Dixon after his usual cup of 'Builders'.

Rather than say something I just got on and did it. What a pussy. But little did Dixon know, that teabag that I'd been keeping up my ass crack for the past two weeks (just in case anyone really fucked me off, a trick I learnt from a friend of mine) made him a lovely cup of (organic) tea. He even rang to state the fact. So although I've lost the girl, I may still win the war. This is just the beginning. Put your fucking hands up now Dixon!

The Devil and Jamie Oliver

Channel Four have found once again found themselves in hot water with OFCOM, but this time its golden cockney love boy Jamie Oliver pushing them in head first.

In his programme 'Jamie At Home' the naughty little scamp prominently used his own invention 'the flavour shaker' for two whole minutes (describing in detail how to make a dressing using it), and the item featured prominently again in a later broadcast.

Two viewers complained.

He also slit a sheeps throat in 2005 for Channel 4's Jamie's Great Escape, and suffocated baby chicks and electrocuted Chickens for Jamies Fowl Dinners. He is surely Satan personified.

More tremendous journalism from the Daily Mail.

Everybody loves Dixon…..

.....but I think he’s a tosser. Every facilities house has one, the cooler than fuck editor. I have to put up with Dixon, a twenty six year old wannabe wide-boy, freelance editor who everybody seems to think is some sort of messiah just because he can cut quickly and bang shit out. Everything with Dixon is a competition; he once cut a whole series of the kids in debt show 'Bankbusters' in a five day coke fueled edit binge to prove he's faster than everyone else; no one seemed to notice it was utter bollocks.

Dixon has every gadget going and has a designer hands free kit permanently attached to his ear. He dresses like he has fallen out of a couture army surplus shop and has T Shirt’s that cost more than my whole wardrobe. He's seen every film before you and has every cool album before anyone else. He supports the media tossers football club of choice, Chelsea, and often says people mistake him for ‘lamps all the time'. He talks pure undiluted mockney bullshit and pretends he was brought up in a Hackney Road gutter (born and bred working class hero apparently), when he’s actually from Surbiton. Watching Dixon edit is like seeing someone truly at one with the machine (his Dad bought him a Avid for his fourteenth birthday when Dixon said he wanted to be a film director), and when he finishes a cut he’s happy with he makes a little movement with his left hand like cutting back and forth on a DJ mixers crossfader while scratching a invisible record with his right fingers. Along with this he vocal scratches the words “Put your hands up for Dixon." Twat. Sadly everybody else seems to find this endearing.

I took him a Starbucks this morning, while he was in the middle of a massive eight hour render due to seventeen layers of unnecessary grade and effects (hes the offline editor for fucks sake!); he looked sad, like someone had finally told him that the designer goatee on his Cary Grant esque chin made his face look like a Brazilian wax. Maybe, just maybe his girlfirend had realised he was a vapid fraud of a person and dumped him. I asked him what the matter was, and he said that his favourite Camden pub The Hawley Arms had burnt down on Saturday night. "I was there from the start man, well before Burrell and Winehouse. I've spent so much money in that place I practically had shares." At least that kept him quiet today. Last time I had to listen to a hour long rendition of his DJ'ing holiday to Ayia Napa a few years back. "Remember the Premiership football roasting scandal yeah? I was holding the camera! Put your fucking hands up!"

Of course if you say anything slightly derogatory about Dixon to co workers they look at you as though you’ve just called their mum a whore, its like he can do no fucking wrong. Whats worse is that every single runner also thinks hes a legend, and never complain when he causes them to work a 60 hour week to cover the building while he arses about drinking expensive lagers and ordering Sushi on the company, in the hope he might show them one of his exclusive keyboard shortcuts. So therefore I have to keep my mouth shut.

In Soho no can hear you scream.

Lily and The Beeb

I was planning to lay off Lily Allen after recent documented events, but then I read todays news about the filming of her BBC 3 chatshow 'Lily Allen and Friends'. Hailed as the new saviour of BBC3, Lily has this week been filming the first show to be broadcast during the channels relaunch this coming Tuesday. But it appears to have all gone wrong.

An article in todays Mail On Sunday has revealed that Lily's endearing personality caused a large proportion of her audience (amassed from her army of cyberfriends on the once popular social networking site Myspace) to walk out of filming, citing the programme as "limp" and "horrible". I for one am not surprised. The BBC has a distinct habit of thinking its so unbelievably on the fucking pulse, that by sticking a popular social networking celebrity onto the television as well as on the website its been wanking off about for so long that it can create a popular viewing experience that ticks all the boxes of its future programming mandate. They must have spent so much time coming up with this mind-blowingly shit concept, that unfortunately they've forgotten to give their cooler than fuck popstar any training in the art of presenting; I'd hardly call a guest stint on The Friday Night Project suitable cause to give anyone a entire series.

While popular among fourteen year olds, BBC3s target audience of twenty something Trev's and Trevette's will be harder to win over by Miss Allen. Her attempts to address this fact included screening videos of Animals having sex - a decision that was met with much retort from guest Cuba Gooding Junior. What reaction did she expect? He's hardly David fucking Attenborough. The crowd were also not impressed, but were forced to clap their hands in false appreciation by the desperate production staff. As if this wasn't enough, she also went off on a tangent during a interview with Peep Show's David Mitchell, complaining that people write horrible things about her on online forums - which Mitchell pointed out was the very target audience that the BBC has aimed the program at. Good work Lily!

Why would anyone want to watch this fucking toss? This is typical of BBC3; choose a presenter for your flagship programme that has a reputation of being positively repulsive on most of her previous television appearances (I remember a particularly 'loveable' outing on Never Mind The Buzzcocks), completely based on her popularity as a mockney warbler. Lily certainly doesn't have the pulling power or personality of previous celebrity singers turned TV hosts such as Johnny Cash or the voice of the valleys Mr Tom Jones, so the omens certainly aren't good. The ineptitude of the producers has to come in to question. They should have got Fogle at least he's a lot more likable.

I for one can't wait to witness this car crash this coming Tuesday, especially as Lily already thinks the whole world is against her. Surely come the critical onslaught on Wednesday this view should be further confirmed. I really don't think that replacing the channels idents and giving a mediocre pop artist their own chat show can really cover up the underlying sewage of BBC3. You can't polish a turd. But every cloud has a silver lining, and with any luck it will also signal the end for the shittest channel on British Television. And if Lily can achieve this single handedly, we should all add her to our friends list.

Fact Of The Week: Lily Allen is the daughter of actor Keith Allen. Just in case you didn't know that already. Kieth Allen played a drug dealer in Trainspotting and the personification of tooth decay in a mouthwash commercial

Mrs.Robinson

Last week a new edit started bringing with it big problems. I was in Edit 4 (the Fincham suite) replenishing the stationary and fruit bowls when she burst through the door. The ice maiden cometh, one seriously obnoxious series producer had arrived in my world. She radiated power; I've never seen my boss brown nose any client this bad, which meant she must be trouble. Usually, he'd get me to do the dirty work.

Having carved a highly successful career producing what can only be described as televisual turds, this woman has all the personal phone numbers of every top exec in town. It seems her pursuit of success has sadly drained all positive human qualities from her. No one is safe from her venomous tongue, and she instantly appointed me as her personal slave. Meekly I walk into the edit to deliver her skinny Latte (10 am on the dot or heads will roll), and I never escape without a raft of personal requests for mein feuhrer. Nothing is asked, its demanded and it’s more important than anything else in the world right now. Time after time teaching her how to play the cut on the Avid when the editor is on lunch (just hit the fucking space bar!) or spending hours to no avail to get the wireless connection to work on her Macbook. Rarely does she crack a smile - until she finds an excuse to look at my ass. She seems to have developed a strange fascination with this part of my body that usually gets little to no female interest. Perhaps I should be flattered apart from the fact she makes me feel sick and scares the shit out of me.

Could I use this to my advantage? If I sleep with this woman will it further my career? Maybe. Could it be like Mrs Robinson in the Graduate? But what would the consequences entail? I could end up being her gimp, receiving 'booty calls' at untold hours. Plus I'd probably have to sign a release form to ensure her confidentiality. She’s also started staying behind late and is requesting me to 'stay and help her' this Friday. I really don't know what to do, this could go wrong either way.

So how do I give her the brush off? The girls are used to the male directors lusting over them - its disgusting and bordering sexual harassment, but why does it seem more acceptable when the boots on the other foot (and extremely funny to the entire facilities team?). Whatever I do I'm the laughing stock of the facility. Maybe I should stand up to this woman, pull up my low slung Carhaarts and say "Sorry but I've got 12 hours digitising to get through I'll have to send someone else to help you."

Or I could just wait till Monday. When a new runner begins. Normally in TV you have to worry about anyone who is younger, better looking and will work for less money than you do, but I might be able to use him to my advantage. When the booty call comes in from the Fincham suite, I'll know just who to send up.

Guerilla Warfare

Channel 4 are currently interviewing for their head of documentary role at the channel. The remit for applicants is "Making programmes that are as innovative, diverse and provocative as they are popular".

This 'phrase' certainly sums up the state of documentaries on Channel 4. Current boss Angus Macqueen left to return to filmmaking after becoming frustrated at the early promise not materialising of high-quality films returning to the schedule. The factual output on Channel 4 is designed to shock and disgust - good for ratings amongst the caveman population ("Ug biggest scrotum in the world, must watch that"), bad for documentary viewers of a more discerning position. I've watched one single factual programme on Channel 4 this past year (Nick Broomfields 'Ghosts'), and even that was dramatised.

Filmmakers need to go back to their roots. Forget the formats - The Supernannys, The Secret Millionaires - lets get back to making the tremondous one off documentaries we're capable of producing. Drop the Celebrities, drop the guff and get out there with a camera and film what happens naturally in the world. We live on a very interesting planet, you don't need to force things to happen! It needn't be contrived, it needn't be controlled. Guerilla filmmakers of the future let the cameras roll, and finally the revolution will be televised.

The Beauty Pageant

Apparently, ITV productions are sending a group of key executives to Los Angeles this March to hold what they are calling a 'beauty parade' of it shows for US Networks. Chief executive of Granada America Paul Buccieri is quoted as saying "I want to bring excitement in the UK to the US".

I think he may have a problem. For those of us who have watched ITV for the past few years, we are all aware what a massive pile of shit it is. Its schedule is drum tight with awful programmes, from GMTV in the morning (like watching a feature length version of OK magazine) through to acts of pure nonsense like the Japanese game show that is 'I'm a celebrity' in the evening. In televisions class system ITV is right at the bottom, sat on Jeremy Kyle's sofa in her Kappa tracksuit and hoop earrings with a giant jewel encrusted clown necklace on, complaining about how she doesn't know who the fathers of her kids 2,3 and 4 are.

The saddest part of this story is that ITV productions might actually be successful in their quest. America is still suffering from the writers strike, so much so that it has started re-making formats from television past. Shows such as American Gladiators have made a return to the screen with Hulk Hogan as host. Whats even worse news is its been successful, and Sky One are set to re-make the show here as well. So unfortunately for the yanks a ready made show may be too good to turn down at this barren time, no matter how bad it is - they may end having to sit through an Amercanised version of 'The Danan Busters' what I would relly like to see is a remake of one of ITV's few decent programmes and see Corrie go state side, imagine the Rover's turned into a branch of Hooters .

Family Affairs

The recent news story of how the, now ex, Tory MP Derek Conway gave his son a rather unique student grant of £40,000 from his staff budget, has got me thinking about family business's. Of course there’s nothing wrong with wanting to have your children or other relatives work with you, unless as in Conway’s sleazy case the family are paid out of taxpayers money and don’t actually do the job. Though when the bosses son or daughter turns up at work their never going to be thought of as just another employee. Everyone views them as a obvious extension of the boss, a bit like Mini Me in the Austin Powers films.

TV is an incredibly nepotistic business, a great deal of people have got their ‘in’ because of Mum and Dad, Uncle Monty etc. Its quite understandable that having built a business up that you would like your offspring to inherit it, and not showing paternal favoritism to your employees you get your son or daughter to start at the bottom. Sadly this practice is just another bag of shit for me to hold. Because come every school holiday I get a little helper in the form of the boss’s son, lets call him Tarquin.

One day Tarquin will have his own facilities empire but right now he is learning it 'from the shop floor up'. Understandably Tarquin couldn’t jump in a edit suite and start cutting and he hasn’t got blonde hair and breasts so he couldn’t sit on reception (though the bosses daughter has, but I better not go there) so that leaves him with the lowly task of shadowing a runner all week, and I get a surly 16 year old to ‘help’ me out. But Tarqs really wishes he could be back home in Islington, staying in bed all day, smoking spliffs and playing his XBox 360 between wanks, so getting him to make a couple of cups of tea for Edit 5 (the Goodwin suite) is like asking him for help with emergency brain surgery.

So I have to be really careful what I say with a spy in the midst, I have to explain everything and don’t really get any help at all, and I have to put up with hearing ‘you know what I mean blud’ all the time. Funny I once looked forward to school holidays with such joy, now I fucking hate them!