My end goal was not to educate and entertain the great British public. I just thought that this novel approach would generate huge viewing figures, that the channel would be an unprecedented success and that I’d get more material rewards than I’ve ever had before. The added benefit, the incalculable advantage, would be that I would have control. A smaller pond to swim in perhaps, but I’d certainly be a much bigger fish. A shark.

I’d honestly believed that the public wanted new programming. New thoughts, new ideas. It pains me to admit that this was a misjudgement on my part. It’s unusual that I miscalculate human nature and it’s unprecedented that my miscalculation is rosy. It appears that the general public is very happy with repeats of Different Strokes and Fame. Channels that, three years ago, looked as though they’d never sail are beginning to race in the white waters. It could be that I am on the Titanic.

‘The competition are whipping our ass. Have you seen their Internet policy? They’re not fucking around.’ He throws a competitive annual report in my direction. I’ve read it. ‘And they are capturing the youth market.’ He throws another annual report my way. Again, I’ve seen it.’ Youth is the name of the game. We should go after that.’

‘What and be a “me too”?’ I comment scathingly. I notice that the slats in the blinds in Bale’s office are damaged. I briefly wonder who he’s fucked up against them. Bale ignores my put-down.

‘Let’s employ some designers with trendy jeans. We could get the girl on reception to serve our clients vodka and Red Bull.’ He looks at me hopefully. My eye falls on his desk. He has a mug with a dozen identical, yellow, sharp pencils. All this in the digital age. Oblivious, he carries on. ‘They could listen to trance music and send their friends text messages. They could wear blades to work.’

‘And that would help with the schedule, would it?’

‘It would bring fresh ideas.’