Oh, how naive I’d been.

To think that I had actually believed that I was to be allowed to glory in this moment alone. Ha! I cringe at my stupidity. When I got to the reception area I discovered that a welcome committee had already assembled. Nigel was there, of course, standing on the red carpet trying to look both relaxed and important in equal measure, but he was way way back, bobbing up and down to see, and you just can’t stand on your tiptoes in a dignified and commanding manner. In front of Nigel, all jostling for position, were the Corporation’s Chief of Accounting, also the Heads of Marketing, Networking, Global Outreaching and Corporate Affairsing. Besides these, I could see the BBC2 Channel Controller, who was officially junior to Nigel but was ahead on the carpet because he was more fashionable and tipped in the media to shaft Nigel by next Christmas. Also present were the Head of Television and the Head of Radio, also the Head of Television and Radio (Radio and Television Group) and the Chief Programming Coordinator and the Chief Coordinating Programmer and the Deputy Director General, of course the Director General himself, the Chairman of the Board of Governors and the Board of Governors. Basically, the entire senior executive management structure of the Corporation had turned out so that they could say they had met the PM and also no doubt to sneak an ogle at Tazz.

I took my place at the back of the crowd quietly determining to find a moment to proclaim loudly that despite being far and away the most junior senior executive present I was in charge on the ground. It was my gig.

There were five or six Downing Street minders buzzing about the place as well, phones and pagers going off like the martians were about to land. I saw Jo Winston and waved but I’m afraid she either didn’t see me or didn’t recognize me. A palpable buzz amongst the minders and the cops announced the imminent arrival of the great man. Livin’ Large was covering the main gate with news cameras and I heard a radio crackle that the PM’s car was just coming off the Westway and down into Wood Lane.

Then they were upon us. Outside the main gates heading south towards Shepherd’s Bush was the mini cavalcade, two motorcycle outriders at each end sandwiching three cars of which the PM’s Daimler with its darkened rear windows was the middle one. As the procession drew up opposite the main entrance the front motorbikes pulled across the road into the oncoming traffic to block the northbound traffic. Clever idea, I thought. Wish I could do that. A person can sit in the middle of that road for five minutes waiting for a chance to pull across. For the PM’s driver it was the work of an instant, however, and, leaving behind the two secret service cars, the Daimler pulled up to the famous IN barrier of BBC Television Centre.

And then came the first of the day’s truly momentous disasters.

Book, my hand shakes as I report that the barrier did not rise.

The entire top brass of the BBC (plus me) stood transfixed with horror as the prime ministerial Daimler drew to a reluctant halt whilst a little old man in a peaked cap emerged from the security hut that stands beside the barrier.

“My God,” I heard the Deputy Director General exclaim to the Director General, “that fellow is asking the Prime Minister if his name’s on the Gate List.”

The DDG’s voice was the only sound. None of us could speak. We just watched in dumbstruck silence as down at the gate a negotiation began to take place between the BBC guard and the Prime Minister’s driver.

I could feel my bowel start to loosen. The BBC gate men are notorious, positively Soviet in their trancelike commitment to the letter of BBC law. Their duty is to defend the gates of Television Centre against all but those who have passes or whose names are on the Gate List, and they discharge this duty with a lack of personal initiative that would have surprised a Stepford wife. In fact only last week a story went round that Tom Jones had been refused entry because his name was not on the Gate List, even though he had got out of his Roller and sung “It’s Not Unusual”, “Delilah” and “What’s New, Pussycat?” on the pavement.

Jo Winston’s radio crackled. It was the voice of the Prime Minister’s driver. We could see him talking into his mouthpiece from where we stood.

“They won’t lift the barrier, Jo. The guard says there’s no name on his Gate List.”

Oh, my fucking giddy bollocks!

“Tell him it’s the Prime Minister!” Jo snapped into her radio.

“I have. He says, oh yeah and he’s Bruce Forsyth.”

“But it is the Prime Minister.”

“I know it’s the Prime Minister, miss. I’m his driver, but this man says there’s no name on his Gate List.”

Everyone in the reception committee twitched in horror. The Chairman of the Board of Governors turned to the Director General.

“Why has the Prime Minister’s name not been forwarded to the gate?” he said.

The Director General turned to the Deputy Director General.

“Why has the Prime Minister’s name not been forwarded to the gate?”

The Deputy Director General repeated the question to the Head of Television and Radio who asked it of the Head of Television. He asked Nigel the Channel Controller and Nigel turned to the man who was in charge on the ground, the man whose gig it was.

“Sam!” he hissed.

Before Nigel could ask me why the Prime Minister’s name had not been forwarded to the gate, I pushed my way through to the front of the group and grabbed Jo’s radio.

“Tell the idiot at the gate that this is Sam Bell, BBC Controller, Broken Comedy and Variety!” I barked, and was rather disconcerted to notice that a number of minders, both BBC and Government, noted down my name. “The Prime Minister is appearing on Livin’ Large and he is to be allowed through immediately!”

After a tense moment during which we could all see the driver conveying my message to the guard, the driver radioed back.

“He says he’s going to need a programme number for Livin’ Large to check with the studio. He says nobody told him about any prime minister and he thinks it’s a wind-up.”

Of course!

Now I understood the problem in all its horror. Nobody trusts anybody in television any more. That is its curse. There has been such a plethora of shows based on practical jokes and nasty cons on TV over the past few years that everybody in the industry lives in a state of constant paranoia. They check their hotel rooms for hidden cameras, their bathrooms for tiny mikes. Nobody is safe. Impressionists ring up celebrities pretending to be other celebrities, tricking them into making appalling indiscretions which are then broadcast to the nation. Hoax current affairs programme researchers fool naive politicians into commenting on non-existent issues so as to make them look like complete idiots. False charities con publicity-desperate public figures into earnestly espousing ludicrous fictitious causes and campaigns. Candid cameras record people’s selfish reactions to prostrate figures in the street and ticking bags on buses. Only last week there was a huge scandal at TV Centre when a left-wing comic from Channel Four managed to blag his way onto Newsnight and get himself interviewed as the Secretary of State for Wales. It was only when he said he loved his job because of the ready supply of sheep that they rumbled him.

This hapless gate guard, seeing the Livin’ Large cameras looming behind him, clearly suspected that he was the subject of what is known in the business as a “gotcha”. He imagined that if he let the Daimler through, Noel Edmunds or Jeremy Beadle would leap out of the boot and lampoon him.

Nigel had joined me in the little cluster of people around Jo’s radio.

“Give the bastard the programme number,” he hissed in my ear.

It was the obvious thing to do and I would have done it, except that I did not have the programme number. Why would I? I am a senior executive. I have people to have that type of thing for me. So does Nigel, of course, and his person is me. He was nearly in tears.