Inconceivable Read online

  ‘Well, what are you angling for, then?’ Trevor asked, and George said that he was very excited about his current position and had no plans to move, which of course means he’s angling for something juicy at Channel Four.

  That got us thinking. Because if George did go to Channel Four, and if he is, as he insists, BBC Head of Comedy, Television Group South, then either I or Trevor will be able to take over his job (which we both thought we already had anyway). Now, if one of us takes over George’s job it would leave whatever job that person currently held vacant for the other. We could all move on and hence would all be guaranteed that precious mention in the media pages of the Independent so vital to the profile of us usually anonymous execs.

  Trevor insisted that he knew what my job was because he’d been offered it ahead of me (slightly disheartening). Apparently, I’m BBC Controller, Broken Comedy and Variety, which if true is disappointing because only last year I was BBC Entertainment Chief, Comedy Group, London and South East. Which would mean I’ve taken a step down without realizing it and am further away from becoming a Network Channel Controller than ever.

  Anyway, at this point a bike arrived with a package for Trevor addressed to him as Independent Commissioning Editor, BBC Worldwide, which is a post none of us had heard of. Most confusing.

  We all agreed that at this year’s Christmas drinks we really would pluck up the courage to ask the Deputy Director General what our jobs are.

  After that the talk drifted on to other things. Trevor and George had their usual row about booze. Trevor no longer drinks, which George strongly disapproves of, particularly since Trevor has been through ‘recovery’ (another thing of which George disapproves) and feels the need to mention his ‘problem’ on a regular basis.

  ‘As an alcoholic in recovery I have no problem with the alcohol on this table,’ said Trevor. ‘In fact I can enjoy the fact that you’re enjoying it.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said George. ‘Like we give a fuck.’

  Trevor protested that he was only saying and George asked him not to.

  ‘Look, Trevor,’ he said, ‘you don’t drink any more, that’s great, not that you ever drank that much in the first place, but now you’re cured, isn’t it time you moved on?’

  ‘But that’s the point, George. You can never be cured. I’m an alcoholic. I’ll always be an alcoholic. I could have nothing to drink for fifty years and I’d still be an alcoholic’

  This is the bit George hates most.

  ‘Well you might as well have a fucking drink, then!’ he said loudly enough for people at other tables to turn their heads.

  At this point I thought I could bring up the subject of sperm to smooth things over a bit but George, having dealt with Trevor’s obsession, moved on to his own, producing some photos of little Cuthbert. I had thought that producing pictures of one’s baby in all-male company was against the law but like everything else that seems to have changed, we’re all carers and nurturers now.

  I blame those posters that were popular in the late eighties showing huge muscular male torsos tenderly holding tiny babies.

  Soppy, I call it, but then I suppose I’m not in touch with my feelings or something.

  As a matter of record, though, I must confess that young Cuthbert is beginning to shape up a bit. He’s definitely filling out and losing his scrotal appearance. He looked quite jolly in his togs from Baby Gap. George said that Cuthbert’s clothes cost more than his own do, which he thought was obscene. What is the point of giving babies and kids designer clothes? They puke on them, they roll in mud in them, they shit in them. Tonto, absolutely bloody tonto. George says that he’s going to give Melinda a serious talking to. Trevor, on the other hand (who is rather an elegant sort of bloke), thought we were both being Philistines and killjoys and that he wished his boyfriend had half the dress sense of young Cuthbert. To which George replied that it was all very well for him because being gay he would never have to face the appalling cost of bringing up a baby. Trevor said that George was not to be too sure about that; with a Labour government in who knew what might happen to the adoption laws?

  Oh, God. Trevor is going to get kids before I do and he’s a homosexual.

  Dearest Penny,

  Sorry I haven’t written for a couple of nights. I’ve been feeling a bit sad.

  You know I was telling you that Sam isn’t very tactile? Well, I’d been thinking that perhaps it was partly because our sex life has become so clinical. You know, it’s got so inextricably wound up in my quest for fertility that I thought perhaps I was turning him off. So I tried to broach the subject. I said to him that I was sorry that things have got a bit dreary for us in the lovemaking department of late and told him that it was only because of the baby thing taking my mind off it. I told him that I still found him desirable and once we got through all this I’d leap on him regularly and purely for the fun of it. Well, I have to say, he didn’t seem that bothered either way, which was rather dispiriting. He just pecked me on the nose and said I mustn’t worry and that he was fine. Quite frankly, this was not the reaction I was looking for.

  I know Sam loves me but he hardly ever holds me any more. I mean he only really holds me, properly (as opposed to perfunctorily), when we’re having it off and as I say our having it off is not what it was. I think we need a physical relationship that extends beyond sex. Sometimes I’d just like a bit of a kiss and a cuddle without it leading to anything, but he doesn’t understand that. He simply doesn’t see the point of snuggling unless it’s in preparation for sex.

  Except when he’s pissed, of course, then it’s the other way round, then it’s all cuddle and

  chance of a seeing to.

  ‘I love you I love you I love you,’ he dribbles. ‘I really really honestly love you.’

  I mean, I ask you. As if any woman desires the sweet nothings of a sad sack of beer and flatulence?

  But anyway, I do feel a bit rejected. This evening I tried to snuggle up when we were watching

  Channel Four News but when Sam watches telly he really watches it, no distractions allowed, even during the adverts. It’s amazing. There he is, concentrating on the golden crispiness of a packet of fish fingers or the sheer joy of driving a Fiat Uno and nothing must intrude. If I put my arm round him or my head on his shoulder I can feel him tense up and if I should dare to ask him to massage my feet or some other such pleasantry, well blimey! It’s like I’ve demanded that he sacrifice his entire existence for my comfort. I suppose I must just accept that he is not, nor ever will be, much of a cuddler. I don’t think many men are. At least I hope it’s not just him.

  Yesterday I had one more go at the visualization class. Drusilla made me. She said it was absurd to do it just once and that if I didn’t go again then I might as well not have gone at all. So I gave it another chance, but it really isn’t for me. We’re all supposed to know each other now so the American lady was a bit bolder and she hopped straight in with some cathartic roleplaying. She made us all cry like babies. Ten grown women sitting in a circle, crying and wailing. I think the idea was to physicalize and project our need for children and hence stop us feeling like it was some kind of guilty secret. That

  may have been it. Anyway, it was bloody embarrassing. After that we had to hug each other and offer comfort, sharing our sadness and recognizing that we are not alone. Well, I tried to be communally supportive but it was pretty gruesome. I ended up clamped to the bosom of a woman who smelt of dogs. I really shan’t go again now. I wouldn’t have gone at all if I hadn’t been feeling so helpless.

  One strange thing, though. During the meditation bit of the class (which happens at the end we have to sit around and go all dreamy) I found myself thinking about that appalling hoity Carl Phipps, you know, the Uhoaa from work. Can’t think why, I don’t even like him or find him attractive. Although he does have a nice smile, that is when he deigns to bestow it upon one so lowly as I.

  Dear Book,

  Trevor and I played squash today. God,
I am so unfit. I coughed up something that looked like it lived in a pond. I hardly smoke at all any more but I do like a drink. I think I’ll try and switch to Spritzers. The beer is beginning to lie rather heavy.

  Anyway, I talked to Trev a bit about my impending examination re sperm and we both agreed that it is not a test of my manhood.

  A poor result, a thin scrotal mix in the pot, does not mean I am any less of a man. Trevor pointed out that I have always prided myself on my liberal outlook and have never had any respect for all that macho bullshit. He was actually very sensitive and nice.

  He asked me whether I’d think him any less a whole man if it was him who was suspected of having a sad sorry sack full of bugger- all banging betwixt his legs. I said of course I wouldn’t.

  But I would! I know I would. I’d pretend I wouldn’t but I would.

  ‘Poor old Trevor,’ I’d think, ‘not much going on in the bollock department,’ I’d think, ‘something of a testicular void’.

  And that’s what he’s going to be thinking about me when I fail.

  I told Lucy about my fears and, here’s a funny thing, she burst into tears, which I wasn’t expecting at all. I mean, after all, I’m the man with the suspected empty balls, aren’t I?

  So I said, ‘Hang on. I’m the one with the suspected empty balls, aren’t I?’

  I thought she was going to hit me. She said that I was already thinking in terms of ‘fault’, which was pathetic and destructive!

  She said that the truth was that the problem was far more likely to rest with her than with me because a woman’s tubes are a lot more complicated than any stupid horrible little knob and that if my sperm proved acceptable our infertility would henceforward be her ‘fault’ and I would blame her! This was of course followed by more tears.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘a: I don’t care whether we have kids or not and…‘ I didn’t get to b, because she called me an insensitive shit, redoubled her wailing and weeping and ran out of the room.

  I hate seeing her cry. It really makes me sad. On the other hand I do think it’s a bit much that I can’t worry about my sperm count without her turning it all back on to herself. I mean, I’m in on this too, aren’t I? Or aren’t I?

  But life goes on. There is after all more to it than my bollocks, although I do tend to forget that fact with a sperm test pending.

  But turning to other subjects, I’ve been thinking about the conversation I had with Trevor and George at Quark about our job titles. Perhaps I should be moving on from the Beeb? After all, there’s so much independent production going on and what with my Beeb experience, I’d probably be in huge demand. Of course I would. And I must say that I quite fancy a bit of that indie cash that’s swilling about the place. Honestly, I see children making five times what I make and all because they’ve rented three square feet of carpet in Dean Street, a secretary with a nice belly button and commissioned a witty documentary about chalet girls on the piste or something equally blindingly obvious. I mustn’t get resentful, but on the other hand I must get off my arse.

  Of course what I’d really like to do is write an original script myself but since even coming up with an initial idea seems to be beyond my creative powers I might as well do my present job but for a decent salary, which means the indie sector.

  Only eight days to go until the big test and I am definitely feeling quite relaxed about it. In fact, it’s actually seven days and thirteen hours, so what’s the problem?

  Dear Penny,

  I can’t believe it!

  Sam thinks about is his sperm test. I mean for God’s sake! From what I can gather, as a younger man he practically had a degree in masturbation. His horrid hand was never still! Even now I suspect he occasionally indulges in a sly ‘excuse me’ when I’m not around.

  All in all masturbation is clearly a much-loved hobby to Sam and yet here he is, moping about as if he’s been sentenced to be hanged by the scrotum until dead.

  What’s more, he’s

  desperate to get a good result! Terrified that he might be found to be lacking in the tadpole department. This is unbelievably selfish of him because basically and in reality what this means is that he’s desperate for there to be something wrong with my body. I mean, that’s what it comes down to, surely? When he prays for a full complement of the damn stuff he’s actually praying for me to have shrivelled tubes, or blocked follicles or nodules on my whatsit or something equally ghastly. Because, let’s face it, it’s either him or me. We can’t blame Mrs Thatcher for everything like we used to when we were young.

  And this is the

  whole point. There is basically only one thing that can go wrong with a man. N.E.S. Not Enough Sperm. That’s it and once you know you know, and you can start to deal with it. I imagine there are creams or possibly vitamin supplements of some kind.

  But with a woman! Well, a woman’s plumbing is like…well, I don’t know what it’s like, I’m trying to think of something really complex but also very beautiful. The ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, for instance, or Paul Simon’s

  Graceland album. There’s a hundred things to be checked and every single one of those checks involves a gang of doctors placing something up one’s doodah not dissimilar to the equipment they used to build the Channel Tunnel! How could he wish that upon me?

  There was a documentary on this evening about orphans of war.

  I wanted them all.

  Every single one, disabled, dying. There was one little girl with no mummy no daddy, no home and no legs. I’d bloody have her any time. Does that make me a patronizing Western imperialist who wants to deprive a child of its culture merely to satisfy my mawkish maternal needs? Probably, but I don’t care. If Sam I can’t have kids (oh God, I’m going teary again) I think I’ll try and work for a children’s charity. I sent £100 to War Child but didn’t tell Sam as we already have a charity covenant and have agreed not to respond to impulse appeals.

  Dear Self,

  I feel much better about the sperm test now.

  I’ve decided that it’s actually politically offensive to get all worked up with fear and shame about something which is simply an accident of nature. Would I consider someone who is born with less than fully functioning legs or arms less of a man or woman for that? No, I damn well wouldn’t. So enough of this nonsense.

  I’ll take my sperm result like a man and if it’s a poor one then so be it. If it turns out that the contents of my balls is all stew and no dumplings then that’s fine by me. I’ll simply shrug, c’est la vie style. In fact I’ll take pride in the way God made me.

  ‘I have runny spunk,’ I shall announce at dinner parties. ‘Does anyone have a problem with that?’

  Nonetheless, despite not caring at all, I’m planning to go into a bit of training. Well, you want to do as well as possible, don’t you? I might as well give it my best shot, so to speak (quite funny that, must suggest it to one of our ruder comics). I’ve resolved therefore to cut out the booze for a few days and eat a lot of fruit. Also George told me that he’d heard that zinc was good, so I’ve bought a tub of five hundred tablets from Boots.

  I’ve also got multivitamins, a crate of Energizer sports drink and an American book entitled The Testicular Workout. Having said all this, I wish to stress again that I’m not in the slightest bit concerned about my test result.

  Turning once more to other matters, I did something a bit devilish at work today. I instigated a bit of tentative job exploration and on BBC time too. I wrote a letter to Simon ‘Tosser’ Tomkins, with whom I was at college. Old Tosser’s done very well of late, having practically cornered the market in supplying the BBC with programmes fronted by posh smart Alecs.

  He and his partners have had a quite extraordinary run of success, producing quiz shows (fronted by posh smart Alecs), chat shows (fronted by posh smart Alecs) and endless travelogues (fronted by posh smart Alecs). All these shows, I have to say, have been pretty good, not least, I might add, because the BBC itself pioneered most of the f
ormats on radio.

  Anyway, Tosser recently floated his company on the stock market and it turned out that it’s worth seven million quid! Which really is a quite astonishing amount of money. And to think I once saw him shove four radishes up his arse at a May Ball. Blimey.

  Anyway, I just sent him a friendly note, you know…

  ‘Dear Tosser. The Beeb’s a bit crap these days or what? Too many shows full of yobs going on about how much they like football. I was thinking of putting myself about a bit. What do you think?’

  I signed it ‘Sam Bell, Executive Chief Commissioning Editor, BBC Worldwide,’ which is actually a post I made up but I didn’t want old Tosser thinking I’m not a major player. Of course, being me, as I was putting the note into an envelope I began to worry about it. I suddenly felt all guilty and started to think that I might be burning bridges at the Beeb. Suppose my negative thinking is showing in my attitude? I wouldn’t wish to blow the credit I’ve built up at TV Centre, certainly not before I get a new job. So I also sent a note to the new Channel Controller asking if he’d like to come to dinner. I very much doubt he will, since as I believe I’ve mentioned he’s younger than me and also knows pop stars and people like that, but it’s nice to ask him. A bit of smarmy arselick never hurts. I sent the letters through the BBC franking system. Let the licence payers stump up the cash. I’ve given them the best years of my life.

  Dear Pen Pal