Truman Locke - Some Things You Should Know: Confessions of a TV Executive

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SOME THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW

SOME THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW

Truman Locke

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.

FOREWORD

The original, intended publisher of this book was disappointed with the manuscript I delivered:

Dear Mr Locke,

Copeland Fischer is one of the oldest and most respected publishing houses in London.

18 months ago we commissioned you to produce a record of your activities as a leading executive producer, during the course of a calendar year, for the edification of students of television and the general reader. You have produced a record of recklessness, dishonesty, criminality, violence and sexual depravity, which will surely edify no one.

It is clear that your standards and ours are completely incompatible.

I trust we will have no further dealings of any kind.

Sincerely,

Dominic Taylor

Publisher

Ill admit that year didnt go the way it was meant to. Im not proud of all the decisions I made.

What can I say? Some things that are lies can feel true when you say them. Some things that can only spell danger dont look that way at the time. And I never claimed to be flawless.

So fuck you, Dominic Taylor. Real life is full of mess and trouble.

I dont know why I carried on keeping the diary, once things had started to slip. To make sense of what was happening, perhaps. To help me find a way out.

Which makes it a record of what?

Of an adventure, I suppose. Of curiosity indulged and secrets uncovered.

And of doing what it takes. Of the bad things you have to do, sometimes, to do just one thing thats good.

Im in no position to offer advice. But if you want to work in TV, or just understand how it really works, these are some things you should know.

Truman Locke

CHPATER ONE:

JANUARY

January 1

I feel like I dont know you, Boo said. Im not sure anyone does.

I said, Im sorry.

She said, No youre not.

Id planned for us to spend the day together.

Boo is a lovely and patient girl. But something came up, as it always does, and I let her down, as I generally do. This time will be the last.

Its an opening, I said. An opportunity.

She looked away and said nothing.

She quietly collected her things a half-read book and some underwear kissed me on the cheek and went outside to wait for a cab, dignified and stiff, like a fallen woman in a film from the 40s.

I hope its worth it, she said as we parted, more in sadness than spite. I hope you get what you want.

Which leaves me here, at a train station in a seaside town at dawn on New Years Day, cold and hungover, in yesterdays clothes; very good at TV, very bad at everything else.

I feel awful, of course, but not bad enough. I wish that I felt worse.

Its 7.45 am. Ive been loitering for over an hour, not sure what to expect. Crowds come and go. A policeman is keeping an eye on me, and nods my way to let me know. A train pulls in, and the station fills up again. A tall man in a long coat comes over and catches my arm. He walks me down a sooty alleyway to the back of the station, past a row of overflowing dumpsters, and opens the rear door of a big black Jag. I suddenly think that no one knows where I am. And then that it doesnt really matter, which feels oddly comforting. We set off and I make a fumble at conversation, about whether winter is colder by the sea. I cant remember the science of it. I think that it isnt, though it tends to feel like it is. The man in the car says nothing.

We go along the coast, and then down a ramp to an underground garage. He parks and we get out and into a 4x4. Then off to another garage and into a big black Merc, driving back the way we came. We get to an abandoned bed factory, and drive in through a pair of cast-iron doors. I want to seem relaxed, like I do this all the time, but I can tell by the light that someone is closing the doors behind us.

The car pulls up next to another, just the same. The driver jerks his head towards it. Youre welcome. Chop chop.

Sitting in the back, low and comfortable, is the man Ive come to see.

Get in, then, he says. I havent got all fucking day.

January 3

I once met a great political figure, a key player in one of the defining struggles of the late twentieth century, an episode that almost brought down the government. Hes a northerner, like me, though I moved away when I went to university, and have rarely been back since. Hes never spoken of the events that made his name, and I wanted to make the definitive film about him, a sort of authorized biography. I wrote him a long and thoughtful letter, and he agreed to meet me. I was very excited so much so, I made two basic mistakes. When he asked me if his old nemesis was on board, I said yes, which wasnt true. I think he could tell. And when he asked about my personal politics, I was clumsily evasive, which was far worse than simply saying that I thought he was wrong. The next day, he politely scuppered the project, and I learned an important lesson: if you want to make TV, you need to be straight with people. Or get much, much better at lying.

The man in the car was a gangster called Rankin, an arms dealer who customized guns and then sold them on to the rest of the criminal fraternity. Hes just been released from prison; he did a deal, and now he says that 50 people want him dead. Hes reputed to have left his mark on every gun he sold a sort of designer logo. Which is how come the police know his guns were used in most of the murders committed in London over the last ten years at least according to the guys own boasts. But he says the murders are nothing to do with him people might be violent, whereas guns are just tools, not inherently better or worse than cars or shovels and hes smart enough to almost persuade you hes right. Hes as sharp as anyone Ive met.

We drove along by the sea, listening to some sort of compilation opera tape, turned up loud. We got to an empty restaurant, formally laid out for dinner, and he asked me his only question whats the angle? I could have said there isnt one, but of course there always is. Or at least there always should be. Access to a person or place is nothing without a take. A perspective, and a sense of purpose. If theres no real reason to make a film, theres no real reason to watch it.

You say you love guns. That theyre things of beauty. That everyone should have one. I want to change your mind.

Specifically, by taking him on a journey to meet the families of people shot with the guns he sold.

Ill look like a cunt, he said.

Not necessarily. How you come across is down to you. If what you say about guns is true, youve got nothing to worry about. In fact, youll be in a position to change other peoples minds. So the question is, do you really believe the things you say?

I.e. are you full of shit? Quite a risky line to take.

I asked some people about you, he said. Quite a varied response.

He stared at me, weighing my balls. Then smiled, awkwardly, like he didnt know how, and his face transformed, all the menace gone.

Youre bold, he says to me. And then to the driver, I think we can work with this guy.

So far so good. All I need now is to persuade a broadcaster to commission it.

But thats not going to be easy. Because as a rule, TV is warm and fuzzy. Its there to comfort and reassure us, and distract us from harsh realities. Hence all the shows about pets, weddings and baking. Thats where the money is in shows that people love. The sensible thing to do is go with the flow. If you have ideas for a living, thats certainly what your boss is going to want. And if youre even slightly interested in money, thats what you should want as well.

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