The job interview 2

The things I know about soap opera are the things that everyone knows. I know that they were first broadcast on radio in the USA in the 1930s. Short, lurid dramas sponsored by washing powder manufacturers hence the name. The original British version is still going. The Archers - an everyday storyof country folk - began life as part of a government initiative in the 1940s to educate farmers about methods of increasing yields. It quickly out-grew its brief and now contains the same kind of stories as all the others - though the best episodes still contain much to warm the heart of the ministry of agriculture. There's still much discussion of organic leeks, the soil association and breeding of rare pigs...

By the 1950s soap opera had made it across to TV in the states, where they tended to focus on the fabulous skullduggery of the privileged classes. The first British versions were far more dour and came from the whole Kitchen-sink, play for today thing. Far more Saturday night, sunday morning than The Great Gatsby.

Coronation Street which began in 1963, was a place where the tensions of the 1960s could be played out in living rooms across the land. Ken Barlow was the grammar school boy who came back from University to his Northern terrace wanting something better and brighter than his parents generation who, having come through two brutal world wars were just happy to have a house, a bit of a garden, pub at the end of the road and dreamt of maybe one day having an indoor toilet and central heating.

What else did I know?

That Crossroads (every day story life in a West Midlands motel) was crap, though the woolly cap wearing simpleton Bennie captured the imagination of the nation, and that the sister of the cult (and dead) singer-songwriter Nick Drake was one of the leads.

An aside: In the Falklands War the locals were called 'Bennies' by the liberating forces. Understandably the good people of Port Stanley were a tad upset and complained to the military authorities. A few days after the order forbidding soldiers to use this pejorative term, a captain was puzzled to hear a private referring to Port Stanley residents as 'stills' asking why he was informed that it was'because they're still Bennies, Sir!'

What else? Channel Four had launched a gritty Liverpool based soap Brookside as one of it's flagship programmes on it's launch in 1982, and that the BBC had, a year or so later, finally launched it's own soap set in London. Eastenders aimed to out-grit them all announcing it's presence with a storyline based around the sudden death of a baby.

The soaps had comedy too, but twenty-five years after their launch British soaps were still largely working class stories concerned with imaginative, intelligent ordinary people trying to make their way without quite enough money or quite enough options. American soaps on the other hand were still largely upper class stories of people with too much money and too many options trying to discover what really counted in a world of greed and betrayal.

And then the Australians changed everything. Neighbours and Home and Away were sunnier in every way than the British versions. Happier people in a happier climate. Younger people too. These twin soaps were full of pinafore dresses and pig-tails. And Kylie Minogue and Jason Donovan. The blast of sun, surf, sea and germ-free sexuality these shows brought to British television led to a change in the home grown soaps. It took a while but essentially it was goodbye Brookie, hello Hollyoaks.

That's about it. That's about all I knew of soaps - like I said - the same stuff everyone knows, and here I was, drunk, being interviewed for a chance to shape the direction of one of the oldest, most established, most respected examples of the genre. Did I want to climb aboard this train? Was there a train? Was I just being delusional? Was it actually just a friendly beer or two after all?

A job interview

It takes me a while to realise that it is a job interview. About five pints in fact. Until then I'm thinking I'm just out for a quiet night's drinking with the only successful glamourous power couple I know. He's a TV producer on a well established and much loved continuing drama series, she's a multi-award winning writer of books for children and young adults. And in addition to all this , they are - both good-looking, still young and, despite having been together for years, still in a good-naturedly lustful stage in their relationship. Frankly proud of each other and each other's biggest fan. I know it sounds nausating and I know that you are itching to hate them, but you shouldn't. Because they are also good company. Interested in other people in a way that is rare in the truly successful. Often, the fight to claw a way to the front of the rat race means the development of a narrow vision, reflexes trained to focus on what is immediately useful. Often the truly successful are sharks, chewing people up and swimming on towards the sound of the splashing, machine-like in their progress, unheeding of the incarnadine froth around them. Deaf to screams and pleading. The professionally successful often resemble sharks in two other ways also: 1) They don't have much of a sense of humour (this is especially true of successful comedians) and 2) you can only real deal with them by way of a thumb in their eyes. Don't waste time on conversation, go nuclear as soon as you see them circling, punch, kick, bite and try to make sure you have a harpoon about your person.

But Alistair and Micheala aren't like that. They're a laugh. And not in that poisonous, bitchy way that often passes for conversation in the homes of the successful, rich and good-looking. Oh, did I not tell you that they how good-looking they are? I probably didn't want to depress you. I was sparing your feelings. They are fantastic looking. They look like film stars. He's craggily handsome in an ageless Robert Redford kind of a way, and she's lithe and thin, - lithe and thin only with massive tits, how does that work? - and flawlessly complected too. He's Robert Redford and she's Jane Birkin. An English rose with a sexy smear of French dirt.

In fact I'm going to drop this Alistair and Micheala crap. They're not their real names anyway for Chrissake sake. I'm going to call my mates Redford and Birkin from now on. And remember this is Redford and Birkin at their peak. This is 1968 Redford and Birkin. Or possibly 1974. That kind of ball-park.

So Redford and Birkin have fulfilled and successful lives. Yes, they've had their sadnesses in the past. Divorces, wayward children, illnesses, unexpected career set-backs, all that, but they've over-come it all and now they are enjoying the view from the top of the mountain. They've pitched camp here. They're going to stay for a while and when the pressure gets too much, well they've got plans to pack up their lives and travel steadily down the other side to a leisurely but still productive semi-retirement in Portugal, Croatia, Tashkent. Somewhere balmy and relaxed anyway. And there'll still be books to write, films to make, friends to see, wine to drink. They've got it sussed.

And just in case I haven't rammed it home enough, they nice. Not just witty, clever, successful, good-looking and rich - they're properly decent too. Which means they are popular. They'd be popular anyway cos of the whole TV production, book prize, good-looking, rich thing, but kind and interested in others... I'm almost certain they mentioned - and not in a boastful way - a direct debit to Amnesty International, a fun run for epilepsy action, a table top sale to help save the white rhino. Something like that.

Of course I should have known something was up. There's only the three of us in the pub and I think that's a first. We met through mutual friends and there's always been at least one other person around before. But I'm a bit special needs, sometimes. A bit remedial. Which is why it takes me five pints to realise that i'm not simply out for a blether with some friends. We're not simply catching up on children, work etc. We haven't simply gathered to chew the fat and slag off the government and talk about what bastards agents and publishers are... we're in a meeting. Christ. Better shape up. I'm in the bogs when I realise this, so I lean my head against the tiles and try to sober up. Five pints? It's not that much is it. When I was 21 five pints was just warming up... but I'm not 21. I'm just entering 44 with it's very prominent 'please drive carefully' signs...