office when I heard the strains of the Stranglers’ classic song, ‘Peaches’. The studio, with its imposing veranda, lawns, and rosebushes, reminded me of one of those convalescence homes you saw in black and white films about recuperating fighter pilots and torpedoed seamen that were so popular in the Fifties. I could easily imagine nurses in starched white summer uniforms wheeling the staff about in the lovely gardens and bringing them cups of tea. Appearances can often be misleading though, because in these sedate surroundings the likes of Angela Rippon, Sue Lawley, and Jill Dando started their illustrious broadcasting careers. Like any television station, no matter how small, it was full of talented people keen to progress in the industry, tempered with a sprinkling of those whose love affair with television had finished a long time ago and who were now longing for a caravan in Brittany. I wasn’t quite sure where in this scenario I fitted in.
The sound of the Stranglers was coming from the technical area where they recorded and transferred programmes onto videotape. I had chosen this brilliant song to end a brand new series that I’d made, but was as yet unseen, called Floyd on Fish. I saw this as an antidote to all those rather starchy and clinical studio-based shows in which all the ingredients were measured out in teaspoons or carefully weighed, and they always had a finished dish they’d made earlier.
I’d never had so much fun making a television programme before and after long sunny days of filming, my ribs used to ache from laughing so much.
On one of the many screens in the room I could see that the end credits were running. They were superimposed over a shot of Keith Floyd, with a very young-looking Rick Stein, sitting down with full silver service on white linen, laid out on the deck of a trawler. It had all seemed like such a brilliant idea and I felt extremely pleased with myself as I entered the room. I didn’t have a clue how all this technical stuff worked but I thought it would be quite interesting to see what my very first programme for BBC South West looked like on a real telly, rather than an editing machine.
‘What a load of crap!’ was the first utterance I heard coming from an open talkback (this is a microphone and speaker system, which lets people in the recording studio communicate with people in the control room).
Greg, the video operator, went to switch it off but as I was nearer to the speaker I stopped him.
‘This is probably the worst programme ever to come out of Plymouth,’ said another voice.
‘That bloke’s pissed out of his head. It’s insulting.’
‘It’s a disgrace. It shouldn’t be allowed,’ said another.
Well I think there were a few more comments, but by then I felt as if my shiny brand new Spitfire was crashing down to earth with all my ammo used up and black smoke streaming from the engine cowling.
I could recognize nearly all of the voices. They belonged mostly to engineering staff, whom I’d see often in the BBC bar after work. Greg looked very embarrassed and kept finding interesting things to look at through the window. I put on one of my best smiles, the sort that says, ‘Hey, am I worried? I really do appreciate these thoughts. You’ve been most honest and I’ll bear your criticisms in mind…When I come round to your house and set fire to it.’
I was smiling so much my face hurt but on the inside I was unsettled and a trifle scared. Maybe I had been too cavalier, too much under the spell of the mercurial Mr Floyd? All this time I’d been happily filming away at wonderful locations in the south-west without a care in the world. We’d eaten well, drunk rather too much, and probably in the process I’d created a false sense of euphoria. Now, I wondered to myself, if it really is as bad as they say, how could I possibly get something so wrong? I’d probably have to resign and become a freelance, or, worse, be faced with the sack. My mother would be horrified, not to mention my wife and daughter and the Bradford and Bingley. And this would mean no more expensive, over the top food shopping. Bye, bye Scottish sirloin and Gevrey Chambertin—not that I saw very much of you. Adieu roast goose washed down with a serious bottle of Pauillac—well that was only for birthdays really. Cheerio to all the lovely things I love so much, especially lobster, turbot and Iberico ham—although you were strictly for high days and holidays. I would be entering a bleak world where no doubt I’d have to beg a commissioning editor half my age to grant me the opportunity to make a film about the state of rural transport in north Devon.
The last time something like this had happened to me was in 1978, when I’d made a new series for the BBC in Bristol. It was called RPM and it was about pop music, architecture, real ale, and lots of other stuff—basically things that I and my small production team found interesting. It was new, it was vibrant—or so I thought—and it was due to run for thirteen weeks. I had high hopes for it.
A day or so after the first transmission they started to appear. ‘They’ were pinned on the notice board outside the canteen, up and down the corridors, outside the studios, everywhere. ‘They’ were cuttings from the Bath Chronicle and they carried a searing review of my very first programme. The headline in the television section screeched something like, ‘Is this the worst television programme ever made by BBC Bristol?’ Clearly someone who didn’t care for the programme, or more likely, me, had been busy scampering around the studios with a roll of Sellotape.
Well, of course, I read the review—and then I read it again—desperately looking for something good that would stand out. I was searching for words like ‘innovative’ and ‘brave’, but the more I read it, the more I realized that the only good thing in there was the question mark. Something deep inside me told me not to touch these critiques that seemed to be everywhere; leave them where they were, and after a few weeks they’d shrivel up to brittle pieces of unreadable parchment, fall off and float away like autumn leaves, never to be seen again. As it happened RPM went on to be a big success and ran for eight years.
Over the years I had decided that there are four ingredients in the cocktail that is essential to the well-being of any television producer or director. One: an enquiring mind. Two (not surprisingly): imagination. Three: loads of passion. Four (and this was the big one): a total belief that whatever you do is going to be a resounding success. Optimism plays a large part in a director’s bag of tricks. I’ve known directors waxing lyrical about the dullest of concepts. One of my friends spent over four years making a film about the construction of the Scottish Parliament building and he was as passionate about it as if he was making Life on Earth. I suppose in 400 years’ time it might be quite interesting to see.
Also, I strongly believed in regional broadcasting, and still do, despite the fact that it has often been decimated over the last few years. I know that many executives and programme makers at the BBC in London think of the staff in the regions as rather like irritating sand fleas, but I see regional TV as a great place to experiment with new talent. Floyd, I thought, would never get off the ground in London. Most food programmes in those days came under the auspices of the Education Department and Floyd certainly wouldn’t have made for a good proposal on paper. I could imagine a committee discussing the glasses of wine and the haranguing of the cameraman. I’m a great optimist, but I don’t think they were quite ready for a culinary version of Reginald Bosanquet.
No, my plan was to make the programme with Floyd first and let the great and the good decide afterwards whether it worked or not. After all, as BBC features editor for the south-west, I was lucky enough to be my very own commissioning editor. So I didn’t have to convince anyone, except myself, which was why, that afternoon, I was sitting on a train on the way to London, running scared.
The only thing to do in a situation like this, I had decided, was to consult someone whose opinion I really treasured. This could be a pretty risky strategy, but I was desperate, because I had already commissioned myself to make a further five programmes with Keith Floyd. I was on my way to seek the opinion of one of the most talented producers in the land at the time, my good friend and mentor, John Purdie. John made the award-winning fly on the wall series Sailor, filmed on the aircraft carrier HMS Ark Royal.
Armed with a video cassette and a bottle of champagne bought from an off-licence in Chelsea, I arrived at John’s houseboat on the Thames. When he opened the door his little beady eyes lit up at the sight of the