95% of viewers who, like her, had never been to Oxford let alone Oxford University, and weren’t remotely interested in it.
Sally was defending the film. “Even if the satire did go over some peoples’ heads, they still enjoyed it on a literal level. My hairdresser loved it.” People chuckled.
Maggie spoke out without thinking, “On a literal level it’s totally crass. There isn’t a single character you can care about and none of them really communicate with each other. I really don’t see what it’s got to offer a nineties audience.”
Sixty heads seemed to turn as one and glare in disgust at Maggie. She almost gasped, and could hardly believe what she’d done. Her hands and armpits sweated as a drone of disbelief and noisy tutting rippled round the room. She rallied when a sarcastic woman said she presumed Maggie thought the women were misrepresented too. “They were no more stupid than the male characters,” she replied. Her heart pounded. She would have to maintain her dignity for now, but this was obviously the end of her career at the BBC. She had managed to impress herself on every member of the department as a whinging, humourless feminist – a stereotype which was evidently about as popular here as maggots in the canteen kedgeree.
After that, she really did keep her trap shut. She couldn’t leave early, it would look pitiful, so she sat out the rest of the discussion on Zuleika Dobson in humiliated rage, and barely listened to what they all said about the latest classic serial, Eminent Victorians . No-one else said anything controversial apart from Anthea, who remarked that apart from EastEnders none of the shows discussed featured black actors at all; the assembly listened in polite silence and gazed expressionlessly at the stained carpet.
Finally the purgatory came to an end, and Maggie shuffled out keeping her eyes low to avoid Sally and Jonathan whilst telling herself she hadn’t liked either of them anyway. A silver-haired man with whisky breath pushed past her and squeezed her arm. She looked up momentarily and he winked at her. What did he mean? Was that some sort of encouragement, or was he just laughing at her? She walked off as briskly as the crowd would allow.
As she neared the lifts she heard her name called, but she pretended not to hear – she just wanted to get out of the hateful place. The caller was not put off, and hurried up behind her.
It was me, chasing after Maggie. I’d watched it all unfold with my heart in my mouth. There was no way I would stick my own oar into that shoal of piranhas. I thought Maggie was right in most of her opinions, and I wanted her to know she wasn’t alone. They’d all made her look like an idiot, but she seemed like a good person to me. I caught up with her at the lift doors.
“Hello, I’m Rhiannon. I just wanted to say that I agree with you.”
“Thanks for your support!” she snapped sarcastically. I felt terrible. Perhaps I should have spoken up in the meeting – but it wouldn’t have helped Maggie, it would just have put me in the same boat.
“Look, I’m sorry. I’m new to this kind of thing too.”
“Oh, right. Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I take it back.”
“I don’t suppose you fancy a drink?”
“Why not?” Maggie smiled, relaxing a fraction. “Just what I need. Shall we go to the club?”
The BBC Club was a big lounge area concealed on the fourth floor of the Television Centre doughnut (in the middle of the Light Entertainment department, inevitably). You had to join to use it, and there were two bars, tables and chairs, and little else. The atmosphere was relaxed, and it was the place to retreat to after studio recordings (or to spend an hour or two at lunchtime, if you were in the LE Department).
We found a quiet table near the window overlooking the grim redbrick blocks of the White City council estate, and introduced ourselves. We hit it off pretty fast. After half a pint of draught Guinness and
Sally was defending the film. “Even if the satire did go over some peoples’ heads, they still enjoyed it on a literal level. My hairdresser loved it.” People chuckled.
Maggie spoke out without thinking, “On a literal level it’s totally crass. There isn’t a single character you can care about and none of them really communicate with each other. I really don’t see what it’s got to offer a nineties audience.”
Sixty heads seemed to turn as one and glare in disgust at Maggie. She almost gasped, and could hardly believe what she’d done. Her hands and armpits sweated as a drone of disbelief and noisy tutting rippled round the room. She rallied when a sarcastic woman said she presumed Maggie thought the women were misrepresented too. “They were no more stupid than the male characters,” she replied. Her heart pounded. She would have to maintain her dignity for now, but this was obviously the end of her career at the BBC. She had managed to impress herself on every member of the department as a whinging, humourless feminist – a stereotype which was evidently about as popular here as maggots in the canteen kedgeree.
After that, she really did keep her trap shut. She couldn’t leave early, it would look pitiful, so she sat out the rest of the discussion on Zuleika Dobson in humiliated rage, and barely listened to what they all said about the latest classic serial, Eminent Victorians . No-one else said anything controversial apart from Anthea, who remarked that apart from EastEnders none of the shows discussed featured black actors at all; the assembly listened in polite silence and gazed expressionlessly at the stained carpet.
Finally the purgatory came to an end, and Maggie shuffled out keeping her eyes low to avoid Sally and Jonathan whilst telling herself she hadn’t liked either of them anyway. A silver-haired man with whisky breath pushed past her and squeezed her arm. She looked up momentarily and he winked at her. What did he mean? Was that some sort of encouragement, or was he just laughing at her? She walked off as briskly as the crowd would allow.
As she neared the lifts she heard her name called, but she pretended not to hear – she just wanted to get out of the hateful place. The caller was not put off, and hurried up behind her.
It was me, chasing after Maggie. I’d watched it all unfold with my heart in my mouth. There was no way I would stick my own oar into that shoal of piranhas. I thought Maggie was right in most of her opinions, and I wanted her to know she wasn’t alone. They’d all made her look like an idiot, but she seemed like a good person to me. I caught up with her at the lift doors.
“Hello, I’m Rhiannon. I just wanted to say that I agree with you.”
“Thanks for your support!” she snapped sarcastically. I felt terrible. Perhaps I should have spoken up in the meeting – but it wouldn’t have helped Maggie, it would just have put me in the same boat.
“Look, I’m sorry. I’m new to this kind of thing too.”
“Oh, right. Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I take it back.”
“I don’t suppose you fancy a drink?”
“Why not?” Maggie smiled, relaxing a fraction. “Just what I need. Shall we go to the club?”
The BBC Club was a big lounge area concealed on the fourth floor of the Television Centre doughnut (in the middle of the Light Entertainment department, inevitably). You had to join to use it, and there were two bars, tables and chairs, and little else. The atmosphere was relaxed, and it was the place to retreat to after studio recordings (or to spend an hour or two at lunchtime, if you were in the LE Department).
We found a quiet table near the window overlooking the grim redbrick blocks of the White City council estate, and introduced ourselves. We hit it off pretty fast. After half a pint of draught Guinness and
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