by Dillon Khan
DILLON KHAN
PENGUIN BOOKS
Contents
1. The Impossible Dream
2. The World Is Yours
3. Break On Through (To The Other Side)
4. Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood
5. It’s The Hard Knock Life
6. Space Oddity
7. China White
8. Bicycle Race
9. The Choice Is Yours
10. Girls On Film
11. Alphabet St.
12. Every Breath You Take
13. All Night Long
14. Aicha
15. Purple Haze
16. Chalo Dildar Chalo
17. Don’t Look Back In Anger
18. Three Lions
19. Paid In Full
20. Karma Police
21. Summertime
22. Perfect Day
23. Tom’s Diner
24. Yeha-Noha
25. God Is A DJ
26. Mas Que Nada
27. Here I Come (Broader Than Broadway)
28. You Got Me
29. Toccata and Fugue
30. Keep On Movin’
31. Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This)
32. Happy Birthday
33. New York, New York
34. Sympathy For The Devil
35. Frozen
36. Me Against The World
37. Brown Paper Bag
38. Could You Be Loved
39. Welcome To The Jungle
40. Hooray For Hollywood
41. Gentleman
42. Stan
43. I Want Her
44. Run On
45. Beat It
46. Blowin’ In The Wind
47. Police Officer
48. Are You Gonna Go My Way
49. Unfinished Sympathy
50. Losing My Religion
51. Bitter Sweet Symphony
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
PENGUIN BOOKS
THE INTERN
Dillon Khan was born in London, a city that gave him a rich music education. After graduating from university, he spent eight years as a journalist and producer, making shows about music, lifestyle and youth culture at MTV. In his collection he has 4,786 CDs, 3,669 tape cassettes, 6 vinyl records, one 8-track and counting. The Intern is his first novel.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For advice on internships, more information and extras, go to www.theintern.co.uk
‘A great insight into how hard it is to be an intern at a music television company’
– Trevor Nelson (BBC Radio 1, 1Xtra)
‘A brilliant insight into a world I know all too well. A real page-turner’
– Reggie Yates (BBC Radio 1)
‘A blast from the past. Takes me back to the good old days’
– Lisa Snowdon (Capital FM)
‘An amazing read. It’s a brilliantly told story about getting ahead in the media world’
– Rickie H-Williams and Melvin Odoom (Kiss FM and T4)
‘A revealing and engaging account of taking those first steps into music television. The Devil Wears Prada meets Entourage’
– Laura Whitmore (MTV)
‘The way Dillon has brought [this] era back to life … is amazing. After reading The Intern I wish I’d partied even more’
– Nihal (BBC Radio 1)
Dedicated to my nieces
and interns (past, present and future)
‘Your attitude determines your latitude.’
1
The Impossible Dream
‘Single to Notting Hill,’ I said hurriedly, no time to buy a weekly or monthly pass. I looked at my watch, compared it to my phone, then the clock above the turnstiles and, out of the corner of my eye, quadruple-checked the watch of the cute girl waiting behind me in line. My desperation was a sorry-ass attempt to reclaim some wasted minutes that I had lost somewhere between getting ready early and walking out of the door late. This particular morning I was blaming The Big Breakfast and a mesmerizing feature about a skateboarding dog.
My journey became a DVD ‘forward skip’ moment, where I hopped on to the Tube, got squashed inside the carriage under someone’s armpit, saw the cute girl reading her Heat magazine and bored myself silly re-reading the onboard adverts for the umpteenth time as the train slowly meandered from east to west London.
Apart from the renowned carnival and the film starring Julia Roberts, Notting Hill was famous for being a melting pot. Some of the capital’s elite rich inhabited the Victorian townhouses, while a stone’s throw away were the poor working classes living in squalid social housing. From the posh yummy mummies and the whispering drug dealers, to the antique-shop owners and backpack tourists, everyone mixed like a canteen in the UN building. It was cool, creative and ‘edgy’: read – prone to the odd drug-related stabbing.
It was 9.55 a.m. as I surfaced from the underground on to the busy street. Opposite the station people jockeyed for position to get on the approaching bus like marathon runners before the sound of the starter’s gun. I ignored the man screaming ‘Big Issue!’ and ducked past the group of nursery-school kids out on a day trip, getting into a sprint of my own. Ten minutes later, I arrived in a sweat at my destination not far from the trendy Portobello Road.
The building in front of me was so ugly the Broadwater Farm council estate in the 1980s looked more welcoming. Even after the riots. Its front stretched down the street, the two-storey walls covered in pigeon shit, unattractive graffiti, puke and urine. You wouldn’t think it, but it housed American media giant Gibaidem Corporation’s best-known business, The Beat. It was an unrivalled youth channel spanning the globe that played music videos and irreverent TV shows and it was synonymous with all things cutting edge and ‘cool’. They’d only moved in a few weeks earlier because the previous office had become too small. From here the iconic channel broadcast all across Europe, with its corporate headquarters still based in the best spot on the Monopoly board: Mayfair.
As I stepped on to the huge forecourt beyond the security barriers, I passed the only colourful thing in sight. I tell a lie: two colourful things. They were identical except one was ruby red and the other arctic blue, but the latest BMWs certainly added some bling to an otherwise dull place. To the side of the main entrance was the only clue that gave away what was inside this monstrosity of a building. A small fifteen-centimetre by fifteen-centimetre silver plaque with black writing that read ‘THE BEAT’ in Helvetica typeface.
I pressed the stop button on my Sony Walkman and took my headphones off, resting them round my neck. I headed through the revolving glass door, coming out the other side to a cacophony of ringing phones, shouting voices and lots of different music. And this was just Reception. In a small room to my right was Security, with a host of CCTV screens manned by three uniformed men who were staring intently at them like they were showing porn. Further on, the small passage opened into a larger area where a receptionist sat behind a long desk as the huge plasma screen behind her showed the Red Hot Chili Peppers painted in metallic silver. As I walked towards her, the post room on the left blasted out its own music, setting a tempo for the packages and l
etters that were being flung into pigeonholes. This morning’s track was Adam F’s ‘Circles’. The walls were covered in posters saluting Arsenal FC and some voluptuous FHM beauties alongside fire-escape plans and various DHL courier forms.
As I stood in front of the receptionist, who was on the phone, nerves and a sense of anticipation tingled through my body, visible only in the goofy smile plastered on my face. I looked around at the visitors waiting on the big red beanbags next to the water cooler. A middle-aged man in an expensive-looking suit clearly felt out of place. He sat uncomfortably low down and would definitely need a hand getting up. Even more amusing to me was his early-twenties female colleague sitting on the beanbag next to him. Obviously all dressed up, trying to be cool and trendy for the occasion, she looked even more awkward than the man as her skirt rode dangerously high up her legs. As hard as she tried to hide them, her knickers were blatantly pink.
‘Hi, I’m here to see Maximilian Miller, producer of Total BEATS,’ I said to the receptionist once she got off the phone.
I stood in front of her in my dweebie clothes and within a split-second she had given me a full up-and-down glance from my waist to my hair. If the desk wasn’t in her way it would have been a complete scan, quicker than you could say the word ‘pervert’.
‘You mean Max. Who may I say is calling for him?’ she said in a posh accent.
‘Jay Merchant. I’m his new intern,’ I replied proudly.
She picked up the phone and after a brief chat that seemed more about the must-see TV shows that weekend than about me she put the phone down. Exhaling through her nose, she gave me the same look I got when I failed my first driving test.
‘Max said you weren’t starting today but next week. I think there’s been a mix-up,’ she said quietly, almost whispering.
I smiled. ‘April Fools’ is a few days away yet,’ I joked.
The muscles on her face didn’t flinch.
My smile dropped and the excitement became short-lived. ‘Oh … OK,’ I said in shock, not knowing what I should do next. I instinctively reached for the letter in my pocket, opened it up and there in bold was my start date: 27 March 2000. I hadn’t got it wrong. But I couldn’t wait another week – I wasn’t just broke, I was in the red thanks to my student loans. I’d already cancelled the shifts at Foot Locker and told them to stick their job because I had a new one. I can’t eat humble pie and go back, I thought. It would taste of double choc shit.
‘Max said to say hello before you go,’ she added.
‘Oh, OK,’ I mumbled, still feeling sorry for myself.
‘He said to meet him in the Greenhouse,’ she said, pointing into the main part of the building.
I followed her directions and stood at the entrance to the huge break-out space, marvelling at its mish-mash design from left to right. It was filled with huge green plants, funky and futuristic-looking furniture, an arcade area, laptop stations, a pool table, weird sculptures and paintings in a gallery space with white lino on the floor, perfect if you fancied a bit of breaking on it. It looked tempting. One wall was covered in graffiti art like an iconic 1980s New York subway train while another had autographs from famous visitors. There was a stage with a permanent backline including DJ decks. Above it was a banner proclaiming The Beat’s mantra: Doin’ it for the Kids! Was this an office or a weird youth centre?
I answered my question by looking up at the next floor where the actual offices were. That had a traffic flow all of its own, as people passed each other hurriedly, notebooks in one hand and spilling coffee with the other.
All of a sudden a gaggle of people brushed past me into the Greenhouse, like a rugby scrum with a woman in a hat and shades in the middle. Was that Mariah Carey? I wasn’t sure as in no time she was rushed through a door and the quiet returned. As I stood soaking it all in, my nerves were momentarily replaced by a rush of excitement: I was at the heartbeat of music.
2
The World is Yours
As I waited for Max, I plonked myself into a beanbag in the Greenhouse next to a well-dressed bloke about my age, a fellow recent graduate perhaps. We sized each other up and saw a familiar look of nerves running through the other. After a head nod and introductions, Leon and I began making small talk as there were no magazines on a coffee table to occupy us. Eventually I asked ‘So, what you in for?’ like we’d come to court for a misdemeanour.
‘I’m here to drop my CV off to someone in HR. Hoping they’ve got some entry-level jobs. What about you?’ asked Leon.
‘Starting my internship,’ I replied, although I was still unsure when that would be.
His eyes lit up as he sat up straight – hard to do in a beanbag. ‘Niiiice. It’s so hard trying to get a look in anywhere. How did you manage it?’
‘Long or short version?’ I asked.
He looked around. ‘I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes already so you can go with the long one.’
‘Well, I left Birmingham University with a degree in Classical Literature and Civilization but without a clue about what I wanted to do with my life. I’d kept putting off addressing it for years.’
‘You and me both!’ he said, our camaraderie cemented.
‘I sent CVs out to marketing and advertising firms and kept getting rejected. With a huge student loan to pay off and no job in sight, I was in the doldrums for months and unable to do anything except watch daytime soaps.’
‘Sunset Beach was my guilty pleasure,’ he said, causing us both to chuckle.
‘Oh no, not you as well. So anyway, one day I was watching Total BEATS and it hit me: I want to work on that show. I knew it inside out as we all watched it religiously at university and it became the centre point for most of our discussions, several heated arguments and one small punch-up.’
‘About?’ Leon enquired.
‘Who was better, Tupac or Biggie?’
He laughed and then asked, ‘So you wrote to The Beat for a job?’
‘Yeah, but I decided to hunt down the producer, Max, first,’ I said, hesitating before being remarkably honest to a stranger. ‘You could say I stalked him.’
‘Nice!’
‘I didn’t want to be just another letter. Luckily for me a few weeks later Max was a panellist at a talk on the impact of technology on the music industry to three hundred students. As soon as it was done, two hundred and ninety-nine kids bum-rushed the stage to talk to people from the record labels as he slipped away round the back. Believe me, I wouldn’t normally do this but I found myself giving chase after him like he was a pair of limited-edition Superstars in the sales.’
‘You chased Max?’
‘Yep. I shouted down a darkened corridor behind him and harassed him into taking my CV before Security escorted me away.’
‘Didn’t he think you were a bit weird?’ he said, looking astonished.
‘Course he did, but I had to show him I was serious. He didn’t call for two weeks so I went about tracking him down. At first he never picked up except once in a blue moon for a few seconds saying, “I’m busy, call back next week.” But I soon realized Friday was the best day to get a proper chat out of him and that’s when I showered him with ideas I had for the show.’
‘And how long did this courting period last for?’ asked Leon cheekily.
‘Several months but I persisted.’
‘And then you got the internship?’
‘No,’ I responded.
Leon suddenly became distracted and looked over my shoulder at someone official walking down the stairs, but when she went into the toilets he realized it wasn’t someone from HR coming to collect him. I continued my tale of how I got through to the Production department’s Rottweiler-like PA who was answering his calls. Her response to a request for Max’s email address was: ‘Don’t call him, he’ll call you.’
‘So I got her name and decided to go old school on her ass. I wrote her a poem. That’s right, a
poem. Dedicated to her, her greatness and begging for an appointment to see Max.’
‘And?’ Leon said in anticipation.
‘Three years of studying literature finally proved useful in getting me coffee with him two days later.’
‘And then he offered you an internship?’
‘No. He said there was no paid work but I could come in and do work experience. So I juggled shifts at Foot Locker and went to The Beat’s other offices and helped out part-time.’
Leon fidgeted in his seat as though his legs were going numb having been sat in the same position for so long. ‘So then what happened?’ he asked.
‘Well, I thought I’d be going on shoots, edits and learning. Instead I sat logging tape after tape of artists’ interviews and Max’s footage from the BRITs and the GRAMMYs, basically watching him have fun. Mind-numbingly boring and hardly an opportunity to make an impression. But I didn’t have anywhere else. Then after a few months Max gave me another box of tapes and told me to go see some bloke called Robert Johns.’
‘For more logging? You should have said something!’ said Leon, exasperated on my behalf.
‘Well, the words formed a jumbled queue in my head. “You” and “piss-taker” wanted to get to the front but were being held back by “I”, “don’t”, “want”, “to”, “sound”, “ungrateful” and “but”.’
‘You chickened out?’
‘I had to and in the end the most pathetic word managed to get bumped to the front of the queue – “OK”.’
Annie Ferguson, one of The Beat presenters I recognized, distracted us both this time, walking past with bouncy blonde hair and flashing us her distinctive smile.
‘So who was Robert Johns?’
I described the meeting with the blond dreadlocked chap sat in a lotus position on his sofa in a corner office, who turned out to be a senior producer and Max’s boss.
