Booky Wook 2: This Time It's Personal
Page 22
Well, this story went down brilliantly on the wireless, and we all had a bloody good laugh. I laughed, David laughed, the BBC laughed – before the broadcast. The next week, for the show with Jonathan, I was thrilled to learn that Andrew Sachs had agreed to come on the show as a guest. “That will be well funny!” I thought.
Me and Jonathan knew we had a couple of hours, so we didn’t fly out at the first bell, we took our time, danced around, just jabbed each other a little. You’ve got to give the old warhorse his due, he’s been in the game a long time and he can handle an upstart like me. We read a few emails, made a few cracks, kept the people present giggling, knowing that little was at risk, what with the show being a pre-record. Gael Garcia Brunel came on and I conducted a psychopathically shoddy interview, ending every question with the banal enquiry “Is it nice?” For example, “You are from Mexico; is it nice? You were in Y tu mamá también; was it nice? You played Cuban revolutionary hero Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara in the movie The Motorcycle Diaries; was it nice?” I went on with that for ages. When Dennis Norden came on we were appropriately respectful to him as an older gent and politely learned of the craft of comedy writing; I resisted the urge to ask “Was it nice?” for the vast majority of the interview. Gareth came in about half-way through, and told us Andrew Sachs wasn’t answering his phone, and we said, “No problem.” This continued throughout the show until someone suggested leaving a message on his answerphone. Now, I don’t want to point the finger, given the tremendous repercussions, but it was probably Gareth’s idea.
From behind the glass plate that separates the engineers and producers from the talent, the men from the boys, the signal came that Andrew Sachs’s phone was ringing. They patched us through, so listeners would hear the outgoing message to authenticate the call.
“This is Andrew, please leave your message after the tone …” And so began perhaps the most significant minute of broadcasting in the BBC’s history. I started, while Jonathan smiled encouragingly and drank some water.
“Hello, Mr Sachs,” I said respectfully. “This is Russell Brand from Radio 2. We’re all very much looking forward to hearing from you and I’d like to say that I’m a great admirer of your work and your descendants …” I thought it would be funny for listeners and Jonathan to hear me being sweet, with the amusing under-current of the shared knowledge that I’d been involved with a member of his family. I continued: “I respect you, Mr Sachs, and your progeny and would love one day to meet you and if there’s anything I can do to help you or any of those you begat …”
“HE FUCKED YOUR GRANDDAUGHTER!” said Jonathan quite loudly.
Which is obviously both funny and shocking. Funny because it is the extreme and explicit statement of previously concealed information and because it is such an unusual and rude combination of words in such a crazy context that it explodes as it hits your brain. Shocking mostly for the same reasons, but with one additional element: Andrew Sachs is a real person. Because in my mind, as Matt later pointed out, while this was all happening I just saw the character of Manuel in 1975 in a white waiter’s service jacket, holding a silver tray.
“Jonathan!” I exclaimed. “Sorry about that, Mr Sachs, it isn’t true; anyway, I wore a condom.”
This in retrospect did not make the situation any better. It made it a bit worse, if anything. I apologised and hung up the phone. We carried on with the show, frequently referring back to the call and in a joke inspired by the movie Swingers kept calling the answerphone AGAIN and AGAIN leaving further messages; apologies that would always descend into inappropriate attempts to justify what we’d said, making the matter worse.
In one, I improvised a barbershop a cappella apology. Now I know what we did was wrong, but for a moment can you look past that and see what a brilliant improvised song this is? Look at some of the rhymes! This is it. It’s sort of a bit like the tune to “Mr Sandman, bring me a dream”:
I’d like to apologise for these terrible attacks
Andrew Sachs
(Jonathan in background)
Ba-ba-ba-bo
I’d like to show contrition to the max
Andrew Sachs
Ba-ba-ba-bo
I’d like to create world peace
Between the yellows, whites and blacks
Andrew Sachs, Andrew Sachs
I said some things, I didn’t have oughta’
Like I had sex with your granddaughter
But it was consensual
And she wasn’t menstrual
It was lovely consensual sex
It was full of respect
Ba-bo
I sent her text
Ba-bo
I’ve asked her to marry me
Andrew Sachs, if you deign it
This nuptial pact could be …
At this point the harmonies Jonathan was doing became disruptive and the whole thing fell apart a bit.
We wrapped up the show, which was to be broadcast that night, and said goodbye. We did, Jonathan, the crew and myself, have a discussion about whether to include the phone calls in the completed show. Jonathan said maybe they should be cut out, a few of the crew thought they should be removed. I said I thought they were funny so we decided to leave them in.
Gareth Roy’s producer notes from the Sachsgate radio show. He has marked the bits to put in the “highlights podcast”. Note the second one down.
On the way home Jonathan called again to say the phone calls should probably be taken out, but I reassured him, “Nah, I think they’re pretty solid.” The show went out that night and there were two complaints, both about me teasing Jonathan for his soft Rs, a delightfully convenient comic speech impediment he sometimes has.
There was no mention of the phone calls anywhere. Our listeners knew the show was anarchic and silly and sometimes crossed the line, but as I always say, “There is no line, people draw that line in afterwards to fuck you up.”
There was an awareness among the BBC’s administrative hierarchy that something a bit dodgy had happened, and for the next week’s show which I was doing with Oliver Stone they asked us not to refer to the incident, which I didn’t. Well, I did a bit. I replayed the improvised song. I just thought it deserved more credit. Also I’d heard that the Daily Mail, the hated right-wing agitation rag, planned to run with something condemning the show the next day, so I bated them a little. The Daily Mail famously endorsed Nazi leader Adolf Hitler in the 1930s, so I made a remark along the lines of “It is bad to swear on a stranger’s answerphone, and I apologise, but will leave it up to you, our listeners, to decide what’s worse: childish telephone calls or supporting a regime that murdered eight million human beings.”
I had intended to goad the Daily “Sieg Heil” with this pertinent reminder of their bloody past and I clearly succeeded. The story about me and Jonathan’s broadcast was moved to the front page.
The next day I think the Hammers had been playing at home so I was at Upton Park when Nik called to say there had been a lot of calls regarding the show from the BBC. As always it was Nik who was first to notice that my perspective with regards to comedy and what’s acceptable is often slightly askew. “You’ve forgotten how to judge things, mate,” he’s fond of saying. “You’ve become desensitised to shock.” He’s right. I like shocking jokes because they stir something in me. All of us make off-key jokes amongst ourselves, don’t we? In the office, those emails that make the rounds after a disaster, the dubious texts about matters which some say are not fit for humour. I agree with Woody Allen, who said the only criterion by which comedy ought be judged is: is it funny? The more difficult, taboo or sickening a topic, the more I think jokes ought be made about it, to lessen its impact, to give us authority over the terrifying grip of our conditioning and our fear of death. In this instance the problem was that at the core of the matter was an inappropriate remark left on an old man’s, not a Spanish waiter’s, answerphone. That was wrong. But what ensued was far more interesting.
Jonathan sent
a letter of apology to Andrew Sachs and said I should too. I did, and Andrew Sachs graciously accepted that apology. We foolishly, FOOLISHLY thought that would be the end of it.
The Daily Mail is a powerful newspaper. If you ever read it, and I don’t suggest you do, you will notice that its editorial perspective on most subjects relies on the evocation of fear: “BE AFRAID!” it screams in lurid inky horror. In fact, as a game, try stealing the Daily Mail (for God’s sake don’t pay for it, if its readership continues to drop at its current rate we’ll soon all be spared) and, in your mind, before reading each headline insert the prefix “BE AFRAID BECAUSE …” Then continue with their text, and it will always make sense:
BE AFRAID BECAUSE ... “Illegal immigrants are taking your jobs”
BE AFRAID BECAUSE ... “Paedophiles are hunting your children”
BE AFRAID BECAUSE ... “It is going to snow and not just normal English heterosexual snow, immigrant snow, immigrant paedophile snow. For God’s sake don’t build a snowman; it’ll come alive, sneak in your house while you sleep and fuck your children”
They want us to be afraid. Afraid of difference, afraid of change, afraid of each other. But the only things we actually need to be afraid of is them and the fear they generate.
BE AFRAID BECAUSE ... “Ross and Brand make sick call to pensioner”
There were many reasons why this story escalated beyond the usual tittle-tattle and into a national scandal, and here they are:
Newspapers are dying, as are their traditional readers. The generation that listen to my radio show don’t buy newspapers, they get their news from TV and, more significantly, the internet. This means that newspapers have to find a function beyond relaying news to justify purchase. The most successful of these new means is campaigning. So they began a campaign to have Jonathan and me sacked.
The privately owned media detest the BBC, because it is publicly funded, it carries no commercials and it is huge and powerful and loved, so the privately owned media cannot compete. Also there is a profound philosophical distinction at the matter’s heart: the commercial versus the social. Privately funded media are capitalist, publicly funded media are socialist.
The Daily Mail doesn’t like me or Jonathan. Jonathan is the most highly paid broadcaster in the country yet came from a working-class background; his demeanour and attitude could be described as anti-establishment, he is cheeky, smart and fearless. In the eyes of the Daily Mail I am a heroin addict fornicator with no respect for the system. The Daily Mail wants junkies dead, not cavorting around on the telly making money and living it up with thousands of beautiful women. It is antithetical to their joyless, puritanical doctrine.
This was a bad time for the country, a bad time for the world; an economic depression meant that all there was to write about and read about were job losses, interest rates and poverty. The press needed a distraction.
As a story it had exciting elements: the constantly under-attack BBC and its highest earner, a sex-mad junky, a beloved TV icon from more innocent times and an erotic dance troupe called the Satanic Sluts – tabloid gold!!!
Oscar Wilde said, “The English are a people who have no interest in a work of art until they are told it’s immoral.” It went mental. All the other newspapers picked up on it and ran with it on the front pages, then TV news, even the BBC itself made the incident its main story. The guilt-ridden Beeb fell to the floor in a baffling display of self-flagellation and capitulation and the country, bored of hearing how poor they were, discussed the matter in offices, pubs and common rooms. Amidst this chaos I was calmly intrigued, it felt like the maelstrom within me, that supernova black hole of destructive energy, was pulling the planet in. Quietly I watched as my name and face began every TV news broadcast, and far from it seeming odd, the narcissistic tendency that spends all its time restlessly jostling for more focus slept contented. Like Morrissey, my cat, who napped on my knees as I gazed at my reflection on the screen.
Jonathan took on the role of older brother and elder statesman, as each day we talked on the phone, sheltering from the blitz. “It’ll blow over,” he said. But it didn’t and it wouldn’t, each day the momentum grew like a dinosaur rumbling back to life, shaking off the somnolent earth as it rose and rumbled with heavy haunches into the present. The BBC didn’t contact me, but for Lesley, who told me not to worry and that we’d be alright. Strangely, though I knew as the monster roared and grew, that I would be. Each morning brought new madness – they’re discussing it in parliament, the Prime Minister just made a statement – and outside the paparazzi stuck to my window like dead bugs.
Jonathan called to say he’d been suspended without pay. I felt worried for him and about how it would affect his home life, but he was proud and cool about it and positive throughout. The event, we both agreed, the moment of leaving the message, was regrettable, and amends had rightly been made, but this tumult, this tempest that had been darkly conjured by the axis around the Mail, this was insanity. The incident itself was now irrelevant. The objective truth had been removed, dissected and conveniently reassembled by the Frankenstein press to suit their narrative. Now the story was that Jonathan and I had grinned and snarled and, with malice aforethought, howled into the elderly man’s face, “I FUCKED YOUR LITTLE, BABY GRANDCHILD,” then returned to our grinning.
Nik came round one morning whilst I lay in bed. The house purred with our team, our war cabinet. Outside you could hear the cackle-jackals, who now numbered fifty, smoking and burping.
“This is getting heavy now, mate,” said Nik.
The cat slept on.
“Yeah, it does seem to be getting out of hand,” I replied, raising my voice to compete with the helicopter hovering above. “What shall we do?” I asked him. Nik is much more sensible than me, he understands media and diplomacy and hasn’t yet become desensitised to what’s right and what’s wrong.