Authors: Iain Banks
‘Is fucking irrelevant, Phil,’ Debbie said, putting her glasses down on the surface of her desk, which covered about the same area as our whole office. Her view, from near the top of the Mouth Corp building, was out over the Square and the cluttered rooftops of Soho, towards the blunt, pitted blade of Centrepoint. Debbie was thirty but looked older; she was fit in a chunky sort of way, her hair was mousy brown and she had tired, puckered eyes.
‘I’m not sure I see it as irrelevant at all, really,’ Phil said with the air of an academic discussing some fine point of ancient Etruscan property law, or the historical basis of estimates for the Yellow River’s silt-deposition rate during the Hang dynasty. ‘The whole point is that you put a disclaimer at the beginning and the end. You’re not saying, “Go and kill these people.” You’re saying, “No one here is
saying
, ‘Go and kill these people.’”’
Debbie glared at him. ‘That’s just semantics.’
‘No, it’s … grammar,’ Phil said, appearing baffled that anybody could possibly think otherwise. He looked briefly at me. Of course it
was
semantics rather than grammar (I was almost positive), but Debbie, who was certainly one of the more human execs in the Mouth organisation in general and Capital Live! in particular, and not an ignoramus, wasn’t quite smart enough to feel confident arguing the toss over that. At such moments I loved my producer.
‘Phil!’ Debbie said, slapping the surface of her desk. Her flat-screen monitor wobbled. ‘What if somebody, what if a Muslim person switches on just after your so-called disclaimer at the start of this, this … diatribe, and then switches off, totally fucking incensed - as well they fucking might be, if they can even believe their ears - just before the end? What the fuck are
they
going to think they just heard?’
‘Oh, come on,’ Phil said. ‘That’s like asking what if somebody hears the word “country” but switches off before the “—ry” bit. I mean, it’s just one of those things.’ He held his hands out.
‘That’s one word; this is a whole speech.’
‘Yes, but it’s the principle,’ Phil insisted stubbornly.
Debbie switched from Phil to me. ‘Ken,’ she said, ‘even for you …’
‘Debbie,’ I said, holding up both hands as though in surrender. ‘We’re proving our own point here.’
‘What?’
‘About prejudice, about bigotry.’
‘How does insulting people do that? How does the Islamic Council of Churches screaming down the phone at me do anything to defeat bigotry? You’re just—’
‘Because we had the Head Rabbi screaming down the phone last month,’ I pointed out.
‘The Israel-as-a-rogue-state rant,’ Phil said, nodding.
‘So fucking what?’ Debbie said loudly. ‘Are you trying to claim that insulting two religions is somehow better than insulting one?’
‘It’s being even-handed,’ I agreed.
‘It’s being bigoted towards ethno-religious groupings!’ she shouted. ‘It is, arguably, inciting religious and even racial hatred towards Jews and Muslims!’
‘That’s not fair,’ I protested. ‘We insult Christians too whenever we possibly can. We did that whole week of Christ as Certifiable Nutter.’
‘But he was a Jew!’ Debbie yelled. ‘
And
sacred to Islam as well!’
‘One stone; three birds!’ I yelled back. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘All Abrahamic religions have been selectively targeted, over time, for trenchant, robust, but above all fair criticism,’ Phil put in. ‘I have the relevant records.’
Debbie looked from Phil to me. ‘This isn’t a fucking joke, guys. There are mosques, synagogues being fire-bombed—’
‘You sure?’ Phil said.
‘—people being attacked because they’re “Middle Eastern” in appearance—’
‘Yeah, I know,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Jesus;
Sikhs
have been attacked for being Islamic terrorist sympathisers.’ I spread my arms. ‘So proving the essential point here; bigots are fuckwits. ’
‘The point,’ Debbie said exasperatedly, ‘is that some nasty little dickhead from the National Front or the British National Party could listen in to a programme of yours where you lay into the Jewish people or the Muslims and
fucking cheer you on
, Ken.’ Debbie slapped the desk again, but softer this time. She put her glasses back on and fixed her gaze on me. ‘Now is that what you want?’
This was actually a pretty good point, and one that Phil and I had worried over ourselves. ‘That’s why we have to attack bigotry and stupidity everywhere!’ I blustered. ‘If we stop now they’ll be left thinking the last lot we went after were the definitive bad guys.’
‘
What
?’ Debbie said, looking over her glasses at me again. (Fair enough; this last assertion didn’t make much sense even to me.)
‘I think that is a fair point,’ Phil said, nodding.
‘Well, here are another two points, gentlemen,’ Debbie said, sticking her glasses back up her face and pulling herself closer in towards her desk. ‘There’s such a thing as this station’s licence and the Broadcasting Standards Authority. There are also such things as our advertisers. They pay all the fucking bills and they can pull their ads even faster than the BSA can pull our licence. Several already have.’
‘But they’ve been replaced,’ Phil said, looking just a little red in the face now. He took his glasses off.
‘For now, at lesser rates,’ Debbie said steelily.
‘Rates have been going down everywhere for the whole year!’ Phil protested. He started polishing his glasses with a clean hanky. ‘New ones are always going to be lower than old ones in the current climate! It’s—’
‘Some very important people, some very vital advertisers, have been having words with Sir Jamie,’ Debbie said through clenched teeth. (To our credit, I thought, at this point not one of the three of us even glanced towards the Dear Owner’s portrait on the wall.) ‘At cocktail parties. In his club. At board meetings. On the grouse moors. At charity events. Over his mobile and his home phone. He is not happy. He is not happy to the extent that he is seriously weighing up which he needs most: your show or his good name. Which do you think he will choose?’ She sat back, letting this sink in. ‘Guys, you run a reasonably successful programme for us, but in the end it’s only ten hours of air time per week out of one hundred and sixty-eight. Sir Jamie’s backed you until now, Ken, Phil, but he can’t let you jeopardise the station, let alone the reputation of the Mouth Corporation or the goodwill he’s built up from nothing over the last thirty years.’
Phil and I looked at each other.
‘Jesus Christ, Debs,’ Phil said shakily. ‘Are you telling us to tone it down, or are we sacked? I mean, what?’ He put his glasses back on.
‘You’re not sacked. But it’s not just tone it down, it’s make amends.’
‘Make
amends
?’ I squawked.
‘This attacking Islam and Judaism, in particular, has to be reversed.’
‘So we
can
attack Christianity?’ I suggested. Debbie glared at me. ‘What?’ I said, holding out both hands.
‘We’ve got the perfect thing,’ Phil announced, just like that.
I did probably the first genuine double-take I’d ever done in my entire life. ‘We have?’
Phil nodded. ‘Ken doesn’t know about this yet,’ he told Debbie.
‘I don’t?’
‘Suggestion came in just yesterday from the
Breaking News
people.’
(I
just
managed to prevent myself saying, ‘It did?’)
‘The new Channel Four thing?’ Debbie asked, eyes narrowed.
‘Yeah; their competitor for
Newsnight
,’ Phil said.
‘Weren’t they trying to poach Paxman for that?’
‘I think so, but he wasn’t having it. Last rumour I heard was their main presenters would be Cavan Lutton-James and Beth Laing.’
‘She’s on Sky, isn’t she?’
‘Contract coming up for renewal.’
‘Anyway,’ Debbie said, waving one hand.
‘Anyway,’ Phil said. ‘They’re still doing dummy programmes at the moment but they start for real on Monday and they want something hard-hitting and controversial; something that’ll get them headlines.’
‘I thought they just wanted me to practise on in one of these dummy programmes,’ I said. (Stupidly, I realised, as soon as I’d closed my mouth again; it was entirely possible Phil was winging it here.)
‘They did, at first,’ Phil said. ‘I persuaded them otherwise.’
‘They want Ken for the Monday programme?’ Debbie asked.
‘If we can get the terms right,’ Phil said.
Debbie could probably see the surprise on my face. ‘You’re not Ken’s fucking agent, Phil.’
(This was true, though he sometimes acted like one. My real agent, the long-suffering Paul, complained that thanks to my - to him incomprehensibly bizarre - political fastidiousness, what I needed was an anti-agent; somebody who would look for brilliantly remunerative work I could then cheerfully turn down. In fact, he said, aside from contract negotiation time at the station, all I really needed was an answering machine that shouted ‘No!’)
‘I mean the terms of control over content and the people involved,’ Phil explained patiently. ‘I didn’t want Ken going in there thinking he was about to do a short piece of light relief about mike technique or something and then being confronted with half a dozen swivel-eyed fanatics representing all the different brands of fundamentalists we’ve upset over the last year. That’s the sort of thing that can happen and I just wanted to make sure it wouldn’t.’
‘Why is Ken looking like … well, like that?’ She gestured at me.
Like what?
I thought. I tried to look business-like and unperturbed.
Phil glanced my way then said, ‘Look, this is something Ken and I talked about. We’ve had too many dodgy, manipulative offers for TV appearances for him in the past. Either they’re too trashy to be worth considering in the first place, or they sound really interesting and we get all fired up about it then it falls through, or they change their mind, or it turns out there was some hidden agenda. We agreed that I’d handle these proposals until there was something worth taking to Ken, then we’d talk about it.’ Phil glanced at his watch. ‘If it hadn’t been for this meeting we’d be doing just that right now,’ he said. (Happily he didn’t add ‘in the pub’.) He looked at me. ‘Sorry to land this on you like this, Ken.’ I waved a hand.
‘So …’ Debbie said, still sounding and looking suspicious. ‘What are you proposing?’
‘That we give them something hard-hitting and controversial, ’ Phil said.
Debbie still looked deeply dubious, but I could see she was interested. ‘Which would be what?’
‘One of their ideas is to get Ken to debate with a genuine Holocaust denier; a guy from the extreme-right Aryan Christian Movement who claims the Allies built the death camps after the War,’ Phil said. All three of us exchanged looks. ‘I wasn’t so sure about that,’ he added. ‘But, well, maybe - given what you’ve been saying about the perceived if mistaken bias against the Jewish and Muslim faiths - that would be the way to go after all.’ He turned from Debbie to me. ‘Obviously, only if you feel comfortable with the idea, Ken. I’m still not sure about it, frankly.’
‘Oh, I’m comfortable with it,’ I said. A fucking Holocaust denier? Somebody from the extreme Christian right prepared to put themselves up for a tongue-lashing? What self-respecting militant liberal wouldn’t want to get their teeth into one of those fucks?
Debbie’s eyes were so narrow they were almost closed. ‘Why do I feel that this might just be a good idea,’ she asked slowly, ‘and yet we seem to have come back to the original, totally facile and childish proposal that the way out of all this was to insult Christians some more?’
‘Oh, come on,’ Phil said with a laugh in his voice. ‘This guy’s Christian like Satan is Christian. The point is he’s wildly anti-Semitic and he’s mad. Articulate, but mad. Ken’ll be seen defending—’
‘You sure this guy’s mad?’ Debbie asked.
‘Well, he agrees with the idea currently gaining ground in sections of Arab society,’ Phil said, in the sort of slow, considered voice that told me he felt back in control here, ‘that the September eleventh attacks were organised by the International Zionist Conspiracy to discredit Islam and give Sharon carte blanche against the Palestinians. But it’s okay; he hates the Arabs too. This guy has a consistent belief system totally based around race, religion and sexuality; Nordic/Aryan/ Christian/straight equals good … everything else is just shades of evil.’
‘Who is he? What’s his name?’
‘His name is Lawson, umm … Briarley or something.’
I was only half listening. It was while Phil was talking about this that I thought of it; my big idea. I knew what I was going to do. If they did let me onto the show with that anti-Semitic fuck, I knew exactly what I was going to do to him.
It was perfect! Mad, bad and dangerous to contemplate and it probably meant I was a bit mad, too, but hey; fire with fire. My mouth went dry and my palms felt suddenly pin-pricked with sweat. Oh, fuck, I thought. What a sweet, beautiful, terrifying idea. Did I really dare?
‘Okay, I’m going to have to consult on this,’ Debbie announced.
I clicked back to reality. Debs was going to kick it upstairs. Sensible woman.
‘Fine by me,’ Phil said. He looked at me and I nodded. ‘But we need a decision by Friday at the very latest; tomorrow would be better.’
‘We’ll have one,’ Debbie said. She pushed back on her desk, her big, black, leather executive chair rolling over the wooden floor. We were excused, obviously.
‘Debbie?’ I said, getting up.
‘What?’
‘I want you to make it very clear to whoever else you talk to about this that I really want to do it. I mean,
really
want to do it. I think it’s important.’ Phil looked at me with a frown, then smiled at Debbie.
‘I’ll let you know,’ she said. ‘In the meantime, I think we’d all really appreciate it if you avoided offending any major ethnic or religious groups. Could you do that for us?’
‘We can certainly try,’ Phil said merrily.
‘Fuck.’
‘No, it’s okay,’ Phil said as we walked away down a broad corridor lined with framed plaques, discs, awards and letters of thanks and endorsement, none of which were mine. ‘This is a feature, not a bug.’