The Dead Side of the Mike Read Online Free Page B

have with us the composer – dare I say
avant garde
composer? – Seth Hurt and –’
    â€˜I don’t really regard myself as part of any movement,
avant garde
or –’
    â€˜No, well, I don’t think it’s necessary to get bogged down in definitions. What I was –’
    â€˜Definition, and particularly self-definition, is very important to me as an artist. I regard the music I write as unique and I rather resent being bunched into some blanket category with a lot of self-indulgent experimenters, who –’
    â€˜Yes, well I’m sorry to have got you wrong there, but if I could just move on, we’re delighted to have with us Dave Sheridan, who, I’m sure, will excuse me for describing him as at the more popular end of the artistic spectrum . . .’ The disc jockey inclined his head graciously. ‘. . . But I do think it’s important that we don’t lose touch with popular culture. We also have Ian Scobie, whose work as a presenter and interviewer in the news field I am sure you all know, and the famous actor, playwright and great specialist in the poetry feature world . . .’ He glanced at his notes. ‘. . . Charles Paris.’
    Charles looked at the floor to avoid seeing them all mouthing, ‘Who?’
    â€˜So I think it might be very instructive if we were to hear from some of them as to how, as artists who might be employed by the BBC, they would best like to see feature projects set up.’
    Charles continued his scrutiny of the carpet tiles. The only thing he had to say was that he thought he probably shouldn’t be there and was there any chance of one of the wine bottles being passed in his direction as his glass was empty.
    But, fortunately, Dave Sheridan willingly took up the challenge. ‘I think, speaking as a kind of outsider, who has worked in a great variety of different styles of radio all over the world, there is an excellence in BBC programming which is unrivalled, and this –’
    â€˜Oh, but there’s a lot of shit too,’ observed Seth Hurt, who, despite his unwillingness to be categorised, Charles had already pigeon-holed as a repellent little tick.
    Dave Sheridan rode the interruption with dignity. ‘If I may finish. Sorry, I have to go off in a moment to pre-record the opening of tonight’s show, so I must be brief. The point I was coming to was that features are a wonderful way of bridging traditional gaps between popular and more esoteric forms of culture and I would hope . . .’
    He continued to develop his theme with skill and coherence. There was a lot more to him than the public stereotype of a disc jockey. Beside him, Nita Lawson’s head nodded to reinforce his points, occasionally murmuring, ‘Right on, Dave’. But Charles found his mind wandering. He shouldn’t have come. He knew that all he had wanted for that evening was to get drunk, and yet somehow here he was stuck in the spiralling tedium of a committee meeting in whose subject he had no interest at all. To compound his gloom, he saw the feminist up the table trickle the last of the wine into her glass. Good God, how long would this thing go on? Already an hour and a half had passed and they still seemed to be waffling round preliminary remarks. Surely they’d stop before the pubs shut.
    He contemplated just getting up and leaving. After all, he didn’t know any of them and he wasn’t going to be of any use to them if he stayed. Maybe he could leave as if to go to the Gents and forget to come back . . .
    â€˜. . . and maybe you have something to add, Charles?’
    He looked up to see John Christie and the rest of the meeting focused on him. Dave Sheridan had finished his peroration and gone off to pre-record the opening of that night’s show. Charles had been chosen as the next creative contributor.
    â€˜Um, er, well,’ he said, like an art dealer valuing a Rembrandt. Then,