Set the scene – A television studio, London (England for the US among you), 1952. Picture the sharp suits, the cigarette-smoking executives with the natty waistcoat, their waxed slick hair and uncomfortable trouser waist-line. Picture the huge cameras, hunched on their stands. Picture the sickeningly beige and grey backdrop of the London skyline.
The ‘talent’ sits in the comfortable leather chair, cameramen, make-up ladies and lighting crew getting ready for the interview of the century. That’s THE INTERVIEW OF THE CENTURY.
Backstage I sit, trying to juggle a scantily clad, buxom wench in one hand and a fifty-year old scotch in the other. The effect is curiously calming, although that may be the effect of the weed.
A runner pops his head into the green-room and asks me to make ready for the interview of the century. That’s (once again) THE INTERVIEW OF THE CENTURY.
In the days that follow the fallout from this night’s broadcast will resonate throughout the world, particularly in Belgium.
FADE TO BLACK and the words “There is no punchline”.
One day you will thank me for this small scene.