Sunday was spent driving to Brighton to hear Matthew Delooze talk about The Serpent Cult. My daughter and I left late. Not for the first time, I wished that South London would be nuked out of existence as I negotiated stop/start traffic, culminating, just prior to taking the M23, in the irredeemably purgatorial Purley Way, where chavs enacted their godless Sunday victuals of visiting B&Q, Ikea and T.J.Maxx. Simply put, South London is in the way of my house and Brighton. It bears no redeeming features whatsoever, populated as it is with cowboy drivers, tatty high streets and marshy tube-less ground.
“But how am I supposed to get my equipment (which at that time included lights, medium format, SLR’s, a caseload of film and of course my personal suitcase) by myself to the station otherwise?” I pleaded with this ridiculous bean-counter.
The team back at Broadcasting House were nothing more than politicking forelock-tugging civil servants. The only decent people were the technical film crew and the presenter Chris Serle, surprisingly sympathetic and supportive considering his fame at the time. It amazed me that the BBC ever produced anything decent with such an uninspiring set-up, although this was the start of the terrible Thatcher-sponsored ‘Birt years’.