For an industry so irredeemably middle-class in its make-up, television is surprisingly lax in its observation of that most defining of middle-class rituals – the writing of thank you letters.
It’s five weeks now since a dozen festive packages were dispatched on Admirable Productions behalf to the offices of various controllers and commissioning editors and I’ve yet to receive a syllable of acknowledgement. The only proof these ribbon-tied smart bombs even reached their intended targets has been an email from the Remuneration and Reward team at BBC People asking me to verify, in line with section 8 of its Declaration of Personal Interests Policy, that a gift box that arrived on the 6th floor of Television Centre has a monetary value of less than £25.
Of course, what every controller and commissioning editor really wants for Christmas isn’t sold by Fortnum & Masons. If you’ve a Nigel or Nigella under long-term contract or a series rating several points above slot average you can post them desiccated Llama snot in a used condom and you’ll still be treated like Santa Claus, Willy Wonka and Jimmy Savile all rolled into one.
Unfortunately, after nine fruitless months, Admirable boasts neither of these advantages. So I’ve spent my first festive season as an independent feeling as twitchy as Nick Clegg at a student anarchists’ bonfire party as I’ve tried to navigate the nightmarish politics of gift giving.
Like much else, it was simpler in the old days. When I worked in broadcasting the only gifts my assistant had to purchase were for presenters and, like most children, these overgrown Pollyannas are easily pleased. With ‘talent’ the only criteria is price; you can give Gordon a dose of scabies and he’ll be as happy as a rat with a gold tooth as long it was caught at Tiffany’s (he’ll be doubly happy if you tell him he cost more to infest than Jamie).
But the “Gucci route” is not an option for the humble producer, even those conveniently related to multi-billionaire media moguls. This kind of crude-but-effective bribery is out of fashion, with the BBC undergoing one of its periodic bouts of mortification under the wintry grip of The Bishop and the new Haircut at Horseferry Road trying to prove he looks equally fetching in a hairshirt.
In these austere times a gift to a commissioning editor has to say so much more than “because you’re worth it”; it has to speak volumes about your ability to be creative with a limited budget. Send a budget holder something safe but unimaginative, like a scented candle, and they’ll pigeonhole you as ‘a little bit daytime’. Put it in a Jo Malone box and they’ll worry that if they commission you not enough of their budget will end up on screen.
The line between success and failure is exceedingly fine. Take the example of the former commissioning head at Five who on being told that Christmas was no longer a funded slot splashed his own cash on a jam making course and dispatched impeccably gift-wrapped pots to the entire PACT directory. What did that say about him? He was aiming for sweet and fruity, but the reality was acid and poisonous and likely to scald when hot.
This is work best suited to women. After twenty years of marriage I find it hard enough to get my presents to speak a word of comprehensible English to the Right Hon Mrs O, let alone murmur multi-lingual love poetry to a dozen middle-aged TV executives. But there are female producers of a certain dress size and less certain vintage who excel at these kind of soft skills. One of these W11 Viscountesses is rumoured to keep a personal shopper on the payroll and guard with homicidal jealousy a little black book containing the birthdays of every terrestrial and multi-channel controller from Gerald Cock to the present day, plus the dates of birth and bar mitzvahs of their step kids, style advisers, shitzus and significant others.
So what did I end up sending? That’s a trade secret, but suffice to say I sourced everything from www.shoperotica.com (your pleasure is our passion!). And what do I hope that says about me? That I’m fun, fearless and flexible enough to fit any slot from a 5 minute quickie to a two-hour marathon, at my best after dark, happy being hand-cuffed to a format and eager to reach a climax on a Saturday night.
And my other tip? Well, I actually didn’t bother giving anything to the controllers and commissioning editors themselves, but sent all my gifts to their long suffering assistants. It won’t guarantee me 8 x 60 mins in peak at £150k an hour or even a thank you letter, but it might just get me a bloody meeting.
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