‘Bale, we are too old. Even the lads and ladettes we know are aspiring to “me-time” and their own pads. We can’t do anything for the teen market.’

‘Well what then?’ he asks petulantly. I bet he’d already chosen the bunny outfit for the receptionist.

‘I don’t know. Late twenties and early thirties are always rich pickings.’ I know I’m clasping at straws. ‘We should think of a schedule that targets them.’

‘Yeah, they all have more money than sense, no direction and lots of time. How about sport?’

‘I’ve never believed in encouraging sports fanaticism, the next thing you know they are actually playing, which involves turning off their TV sets. We don’t want them out playing sport. We want them slouched in front of the box. Besides, ASkyA are there.’

‘Yes, whilst I think about it, write a complaint letter. ASkyA are running sports updates throughout their ad breaks on sports programmes. They’ll be charging advertisers a premium for that. Where there’s advertising there is money for programme development,’ he warns.

‘You could argue that it distracts the viewer from the advert. Maybe it’s worth less money.’

‘Yeah, send a spoiler letter to the advertisers,’ he instructs.

‘Get your secretary to do it,’ I counter.

We glare at one another. Both livid and arrogant.

And scared.

‘I want an idea,’ he yells again. ‘A single idea, but a big one. A humongous one. A bloody big-dick-swinging one. An astonishing, unique, bang-those-bastards-and-their-new-shows-into-the-ground-idea.’ He changes tack. He leans towards me and starts to whisper menacingly, ‘The tabloids and the men’s mags have a host of new wannabe babes who present meaningless shows and are prepared to pose topless for publicity.’ I’m about to condemn this, when he adds, ‘You’re going to have to come up with something really good to top that.’ He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The idea of topless wannabes has made him salivate. ‘Got it?’