From the Archives ... On My Dealings with Channel 4

My application for a job as an Assistant Editor 

(Youth and Entertainments Features) at Channel 4

 

 

I.

 

My first dealings with Channel 4 were in the autumn of 1983, less than a year after the station started broadcasting. Rather naively, I believed that they fully intended to stick to their public service remit and provide a genuine alternative to the shit served up by the BBC and ITV. 

 

That is to say, provide 'a broad range of high quality and diverse programming which [...] demonstrates innovation, experiment and creativity in the form and content of programmes; appeals to the tastes and interests of a culturally diverse society; exhibits a distinctive character.'

I was then collaborating with a spiky-haired student of Communications, Arts and Media called Gillian Hall on various projects and, encouraged by Alan Fountain - an independent producer hired by Channel 4 as a commissioning editor and mentor to new filmmakers - we submitted a proposal for a series that would be profoundly anti-Christian in nature and feature music, dance, witchcraft, sex-magick, and Satanic ritual.

 

In other words, we basically assembled ideas and images from all the usual suspects - from Aleister Crowley to Killing Joke (the album Fire Dances had just been released and I was under its spell all summer) - and visualised a kind of postmodern black mass with a post-punk soundtrack. It may well have been catastrophically bad had it ever been made - but it wouldn't have been Songs of Praise.

Alas, whilst initially intrigued by the proposal, Fountain lost his nerve somewhere along the line and Gillian and I were politely informed by letter that our Pagan TV show was not something that Channel 4 would be willing to commission, not least because many of the ideas that the show intended to explore were ones that the vast majority of people would find profoundly offensive.  

 

 

II.

 

Several years later, I again had dealings with Channel 4 - and again suffered the pain and disappointment of rejection (although these feelings were alleviated by the fact that I didn't give a shit).

 

Having failed to land a role as a presenter on the 24-hour cable and satellite TV channel the Music Box (a sort of naff pan-European version of MTV), Malcolm had advised me that I needed to be a 'little less Johnny Rotten and a little more Simon Le Bon'. With that in mind, I decided to apply for a job as an Assistant Editor (Youth and Entertainments Features) at Channel 4, which I had seen advertised in The Guardian. 

 

The ad for the post (reference number BH01) made clear that applicants should have 'definite opinions regarding youth programmes, journalism and the youth entertainment market in general'. 

 

Well, I definitely had opinions regarding these things; unfortunately, they were largely (if not entirely) negative and, Sex Pistol that I remained at heart, I basically just wanted to destroy everything and cause as much chaos as possible. (Of course, I didn't list this under career goals and ambitions on my CV, though I suspect that something of my underlying nihilism shone through the bullshit that I did write.)

Instead of the requested covering letter to accompany the CV, I sent the above poster which clearly illustrated who and what they would be getting if they hired me. The text on the poster, which paraphrased Zarathustra and referenced a favourite song by Bow Wow Wow reads: 

'If culture is, before all things, unity of artistic style in all the expressions of the life of a people, then barbarism is surely a lack of style; or a chaotic jumble of all styles. Thus we postmoderns, we parodists of world history and plunderers of the past, are the new barbarians: we are the TV savages! We are that hybrid breed, without meaning, substance, or style: we are Youth!'

 

I don't remember if anyone ever bothered to reply: if they did, I don't have the letter or recall its contents. 

 

And that, pretty much, was the end of my dealings with Channel 4 - a short (and not particularly spectacular) history of failure and rejection (but no regrets).

 

 

Notes on the Kelvin MacKenzie and Fatima Manji Controversy

Let me say at the outset: I really don't like Kelvin MacKenzie. He's the sort of red-faced, reactionary bigot who brings British journalism (and white masculinity) into such disrepute.

Let me also say that I have nothing but respect and admiration for the Channel 4 reporter Fatima Manji, who's the kind of intelligent, courageous young woman that I find particularly attractive. If I were to be shipwrecked on a desert island or trapped in a lift with one of the above, it wouldn't be the former editor of The Sun that I'd choose for company. 

However - and it pains me to say this - I think Mr MacKenzie has a fair point when he objects to a hijab-wearing woman (i.e. one who proudly identifies herself as a Muslim) being deliberately used to front the news of yet another terrorist outrage (the Nice massacre) carried out by someone who also declares himself to be a member of her faith.

I understand perfectly the politics at play here and certainly don't think it was done "to stick one in the eye of the ordinary viewer" as MacKenzie suggests. It was, rather, a clumsy and patronising attempt by C4 to show unity and demonstrate that there are plenty of good Muslims, like the lovely Miss Manji; not an attempt at malicious provocation or insult.

And yet, in truth, there was something inappropriate about her staged appearance; in the same way that, for example, it wouldn't have been quite the done thing to have news of an IRA bombing reported by a newsreader dressed as a leprechaun, or to be told during the Blitz of another Luftwaffe attack by a reporter wearing lederhosen. It's a question of semiotics; of being sensitive to the ambiguity of signs and meaning.

It's also a question of style and the language of fashion, since it wasn't Miss Manji's onscreen presence as such that caused unease in certain viewers, but the fact that she was wearing a veil, thereby overtly signifying where her ultimate loyalty lies; not to the men, women and children killed in Nice, but to a God who is at best indifferent to human suffering and at worst fully complicit with it.

It would have been touching I think - and incredibly powerful as a symbolic gesture - if Miss Manji had dispensed with her hijab for one night and read the news as a woman of flesh and blood and not a woman of faith.