BILL DARE

Hello, I’m Laura Shavin, and this is The Offcuts Drawer. Welcome to The Offcuts Drawer, the show that looks inside a writer’s bottom drawer to find the bits of work they never finished, had rejected, or couldn’t quite find a home for. We bring them to life, hear the stories behind them, and learn how these random pieces of creativity paved the way to subsequent success. My guest this week is writer and producer Bill Dare. If you’ve been a regular listener to BBC Radio Comedy over the last 20 years, or you’re a fan of topical, sketch and satire shows on TV, you will doubtless have heard his name on a regular basis. He was the brains behind the 90s comedy sensation, The Mary Whitehouse Experience, the show that introduced the concept Comedy is the New Rock and Roll to the UK when it stars Rob Newman and David Baddiel were the first comedians to fill a gig at the Wembley Arena. He produced eight series of spitting image and created Dead Ringers and The Now Show. With numerous entertainment shows like I’ve Never Seen Star Wars under his belt and comedies he’s written like Brian Gulliver’s Travels and The Secret World, he’s also turned his hand to plays and fiction. And his third novel, The Billion Pound Lie, was published last year. The Standard called his work superb. The Times, quite brilliant. Bill Dare, welcome to The Offcuts Drawer.

I think it’s good to be here. I am actually quite terrified.

What are you terrified of?

I’m terrified of all this work that I’m exposing, most of which should probably never see the light of day. I mean, it’s either been rejected by me or rejected by someone else. So, you know, my knees are shaking.

Well, the first question I always ask is where do you keep your offcuts? What is your virtual bottom draw look like?

Well, I’m old enough to have actually, you know, the old-fashioned kind of bottom draw. I’ve got a big plastic box or even two, really, that I’ve kept a lot of the stuff I wrote on, you know, typewriters. And then I do also have the various stages of bottom draw. I’ve also got stuff on my computer. I’ve got things on DVD or CD or various forms. But I don’t really like kind of delving into the past very much. I don’t often go into to look at old photographs.

Well, this show may not be much fun for you then, as that’s exactly what we’re doing.

Well, it’s going to be very informative. And you never know, there might be something in it where I think, actually, you know, maybe that wasn’t too bad.

Well, let’s get started with your first off-cut. Can you tell us what it’s called, what genre it was written for, and when you wrote it?

This is called We Could Be Heroes. It’s a sitcom pilot script for either radio or TV, and it was written in around 2012.

Hello? Are you a superhero? No, no superheroes here, none at all. Who is this?

I’ll give you a clue.

Nothing.

I was the school keepy-uppy champion.

Not placing you.

Could lick my own elbows?

Still nothing.

Smell the sour milk.

Tony Morphitus. What was that smell?

The sour milk smell?

Yes. That was sour milk.

My mum thought it was full of friendly bacteria. They only seemed friendly.

I heard you’ve become a superhero. No.

Ben said you had. He messaged me on Facebook.

Well, he was lying.

You can’t fly.

Supposing I could fly, it does not make me a superhero. Do you know why? Because a hero makes some sort of personal sacrifice and faces danger on behalf of someone else. I don’t do good deeds. I don’t even recycle, which in Muswell Hill is worse than murder. You sound a bit annoyed. Because I am quite annoyed.

But you can fly. Actually fly just by waving your hands.

Tony, I’ve only been able to fly or ascend for two days and now I’m supposed to be a superhero.

But you can fly.

If you say that again, You’ll vaporize me? I can’t vaporize. Oh. Oh, that’s disappointed you, has it? Oh, I am so sorry, I can’t vaporize.

I can’t pretend I’m not a little disappointed.

This is so typical of Britain. I have a unique talent but you focus on the negative. I now know how Adele must feel.

Will you rescue me? I’m in peril.

How?

Um, hanging from a tall building.

Location?

Not sure yet.

Right, I’m going.

Morning, Fenton.

Oh, Izzy, I would prefer it if you didn’t come into the kitchen wearing only your underwear.

Why? I’m in non-visible mode.

Yes, but seeing a bra and knickers putting the kettle on is, well, it’s disconcerting and, if you must know, a little provocative.

A pair of empty knickers.

Well, they’re not empty, are they? They just look empty. Your bra, you know, it sort of shifts around in a manner that tells me that there’s something inside it. Two things, actually. Two, it’s a reminder that you are a woman, something that most of the time I’m completely oblivious to.

So, tell us more about this particular project. What was the original plan for this script?

Well, it was meant to be a sitcom for radio or TV, but I think I was going to start it on radio. And it was sort of asking the question, what would really happen if people actually got superpowers? You know, they wouldn’t necessarily go around helping people.

Did you actually send the script to anyone? How far did it get in the production process?

It got, I think it was actually commissioned, to my shame, as a script only. And I think in those days, and probably still now, you sort of get a first half fee. And I took the first half fee. And then I don’t think I ever sent the script in or I might have sent various versions. But in the end, I think it was me who wasn’t very happy with it. Couldn’t quite, I just didn’t quite believe in it enough.

Right.

To really want to commit to six episodes.

So it just sort of faded away.

Faded away, yes. But I did read it again recently because of this show. And I thought, actually, there is something in it. There is something in it. It kind of reminded me a little bit of the Big Bang Theory in its tone. And there were some good jokes. So, you know, it might be one of those that I look at again.

Right. Now, comedy is your specialty. It’s the genre you’re most known for. How did that come about? Were you always a big comedy fan?

I’ve never been a comedy fan, actually. I probably watched and listened to less comedy than probably the average person. I enjoy it, but I’m not a nerd about it. And there’s probably not a single series that I’ve watched all of. And I can’t quote you from my favorite shows at all.

So you’re never a fan of Monty Python or The Goons?

I liked Monty Python. I really liked it. Especially as a teenager, definitely. I suppose that was the one that I really, really did want to watch. But I’m not nerdy about comedy at all. I think quite a lot of people who work in comedy don’t watch that much of it.

But what about listening to it, considering you do an awful lot of work on the radio? Did you listen to The Goons?

I’m not quite that old, Laura. I’ve never heard The Goons. I tell you what did have a big effect on me is The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. When that came on, and I do have a connection to that, I did think, wow, that’s the sort of thing I’d like to write one day.

Your connection obviously is your father was the voice of the book. Your father was Peter Jones. But when you first heard Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, it was the comedy itself that you appreciated, was it?

The fact that my father did the voice gave it a personal connection, but I think I would have loved it anyway. And just the way radio can create pictures in the mind was a revelation to me.

Did you ever want to be a comedian yourself?

I think I sort of fantasized about it now and again, but it was the writing of it that drew me more than the performance aspect. The performance aspect absolutely terrified me. So I think given the choice, I think I’d rather have written for a comedian than be one myself. And when I do audience shows, like most producers, I go and do a little warm up. And yeah, I’ve got a sort of half a dozen jokes, but I don’t even enjoy that. I find that quite nerve wracking. And it’s probably the thing I least like about producing radio shows actually.

Well, time for your next off cut. Can you tell us what it is?

I can. This is a letter I wrote to the Evening Standard newspaper in 1972 when I was 12.

Dear Evening Standard, A friend of mine at summer camp said this to me. I like being at boarding school because at day school, once you’ve done your homework and watched TV, there’s not time to play. I thought this would be a good idea for your cartoonist. Please send check to William Jones, aged 12.

Now, that’s quite an unusual piece of writing. We don’t normally have something that’s quite that old in the show. But this wasn’t quite the earliest piece of writing that we could find. There was a poem you wrote when you were nine. Can you tell us about that?

This is just something that I found and probably claimed to have written. There was an old lady from Kent whose nose was remarkably bent. One day, they suppose, she followed her nose and nobody knows where she went. That was something I plagiarized and sent to, I think it was either Wizard or Chopper comic. And they published it and they sent me a Spirograph as a reward. Spirograph was a drawing game. I don’t know if you know what Spirograph is.

I remember, tragically, I do remember what Spirograph is.

Which I was quite pleased with.

Great toy.

That was my first sort of published work, albeit plagiarized.

And that was the first time you submitted your writing and got paid for it. Do you think that was what first gave you the idea of writing being a way to earn money for the future?

Yes. I think the Letter to the Evening Standard did because I got £2 for it.

Really?

And I actually looked up how much that would be worth now. It’s about £25. And my dad said that I should invest it in premium bonds. So, yes, I had a kind of the connection between writing and money was probably laid in those early days.

So what was your home life like? Were your parents very big personalities?

My father, despite being quite famous, was quite reserved. He didn’t have a lot of showbiz friends coming around. And it was kind of tricky because one year he’d be on television and be quite famous and people would go, oh, your dad’s on the telly. Then the next year, perhaps he wouldn’t be. And people say, well, why isn’t your dad on the telly anymore? He used to be famous. Sometimes he was in shows that I thought were kind of quite embarrassing because, as you know, as an actor, you don’t always get to choose what you’re in. You have to sort of do what pays the rent. So it would be in things that were a little bit embarrassing. In fact, there was one occasion, it was 1975. I was 15, and my dad took a role in a film called Confessions of a Pop Performer. Yeah, it’s a sort of X-rated carry-on. You imagine carry-on, but with bare naked bodies.

Yeah, was Robin Asquith in it by any chance?

Robin Asquith was in it, and my dad, I remember my dad got the script and said, Oh, this is terrible, but you know, it’s money. And he was so naive that he decided to take the whole family to the premiere. Bearing in mind, I was 15, my brother was 16, 17, my sister was about 19, my mother, very strong feminist, and we all sat there absolutely cringing at all these sex scenes. And my dad, and I completely believe him, just never realized how explicit it was going to be because in the script it says something like, and now a sexy romp or something like that, it didn’t go into any detail. So he never got the idea that it was going to be anything much more than a slightly cheekier carry on.

So what happened, what was it like when your dad got the job of the book in Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy? That must have been huge.

Well, that did change things a bit because I think I was about 16, 17 by that time. And I’d moved school and had a slightly more sophisticated friends. And we all listened to it. And that I really remember thinking, yeah, I’m really proud of that.

And then, of course, it went on to be a cult. So it sort of stuck around forever, really. It’s still very much.

Yeah, it went to TV. And the strange thing is that I think probably there were two series on radio and one on TV. And I think probably the whole thing for my dad was probably a day and a half’s work because it was just reading. But all the voiceover work that came off the back of it meant that we could live reasonably well for the next 10 years or so.

Let’s move on. Let’s hear about your next offcut, please. What is it?

This is the first chapter of The World’s Longest Suicide Note, an unpublished novel I wrote in 1996.

To the uncommitted browser in Smiths, you could do worse than buy this book. Someone has laid down their life so that you may read. And while you’re there, why don’t you ask them why they never know anything about the books? Ask them about this one. Have they even heard of it? Not a chance. Go to the Hove branch and ask them about Simone de Beauvoir, and they’ll tell you he doesn’t work there anymore. While you’re deciding, I have to contemplate two gargantuan tasks. First, achieving about 70,000 words of honest prose. That’s equivalent to 340 essays for Miss Fraser. And, I’ll be frank, I want to settle a few old scores. And this is the only way I know to do it. But I won’t gabble, I’ll be strictly chronological. I want this to be good. Or, at least, be minus. It’s the last thing I’ll ever do. If it stinks, then my whole life will have been for nothing. The other task ahead is self-imposed death. Not that it frightens me. At best, it’s a return to the state of pre-existence, and I don’t recall that period being particularly arduous. How to do it? I’ve dreamt that I phone a removal service, and then slip both wrists. I drain a little blood onto mum’s hand-made-in-eth-Nikistan rug, then climb into a large wooden crate. The removal man delivers it to the door of my headmaster, who was sometimes called Sod Simmons, but more often God. God hopes it’s a gift from a grateful ex-pupil who’s now a millionaire. Instead, he finds my naked body with some paper stuck to my genitals. A message is scrawled in blood. Ex-spell me now, you bastard! You did this! God collapses. Oh, how terrible I’ve been! Music swells. The end. Sadly, the dream never does end there. After some confusion, I’m sitting in a corner writing I must not commit suicide ten million times.

So, that was written in the voice of a 15-year-old, although you weren’t a teenager when you wrote it.

No.

What kind of a teenager were you? Were you very academic, for example?

Nothing could be further from the truth. There are sort of two phases, really, in my teenage life. Before I was 16, I lived in Hove because my mother decided to go to university when she was 50 and took me off to Sussex, because she went to Sussex University. And I was considered to be the thickest kid in the school. And people used to use the word bill or billish to mean stupid. So other kids would be insulted. If they said something stupid, people would say, oh, that’s so billish, you’re such a bill. I mean, it was part because I was sort of an undiagnosed dyslexic. They hadn’t really invented dyslexia then. But my story about my maths teacher, who was also my form teacher and also my careers advisor. So he knew me quite well. And we all had to go and see our careers advisor when we were 15. And I went along and he said, so Bill, what do you want to do with your life? And I said, well, I’d like to be a psychologist. And he said, you know that to be a psychologist, you have to go to university. And I said, yes, I would like to do that. He said, to do that, you will need to get A levels. And I said, well, I hope to get some A levels. He said, to get A levels, you need to stay on in sixth form. And to do that, you need to get at least three O levels. And I said, well, I’m going to really work hard and try and get three O levels. He said, OK, well, just wait there a minute. And he went to, he sorted through some index cards and he pulled out an index card and he gave it to me. And he said, that is the name of an address of a hairdressing salon in Brighton. And they are looking for a trainee hair washer. So I went from being possibly a psychologist to being a trainee hair washer in about 20 minutes. So yes, I wasn’t academic, I think, to answer your question.

You weren’t considered academic by the school, but obviously they were proved massively wrong because you did go to university, didn’t you?

I did. I went to Smiths and I found all these little books about how to pass O levels. And I just studied them for three weeks. And in fact, I got the best O level results in my form. And then I went to London and went to a different school, different group of people. And then it all changed. I mean, I had friends for the first time, really. And I was in a band and I met a girl and all that sort of thing. And that was all quite fun. And in fact, our band was quite successful. Madness supported us once.

Really?

Absolutely. About three times, I think. And it was, yeah, I would say that was a time that was, you know, what being a teenager should be, really.

Were you doing a lot of creating when you were at university? Had you started writing your comedies or bits of novels?

At uni, no, I think I just thought one day I’ll be a writer. It’s one of those things I now advise people to, you know, don’t think about doing it one day, just actually start. I wrote one play while I was at uni that never got on. I’m glad I couldn’t find that because I suspect it would have been really, really bad. And, yeah, I was into Ben Elton’s plays. He was quite an inspiration.

You were actually cast in his plays, you performed next to him. What was that like?

It was odd because, I mean, Ben Elton was an absolute force of nature at uni. He really was, I mean, everyone knew who he was and he was very prolific. He wrote about three or four plays a year and put them all on.

Did that intimidate you at all, comparing yourself to such a prolific writer?

No, because I think he was writing in such a different style. He was writing in that very, very broad, sort of almost Panto-esque style that I had no interest in writing, really.

Time for your next offcut. Tell us about this one.

This is a sketch I wrote for the TV series Alas, Smith and Jones in 1986.

In just a few moments, you will see, for the first time on any television set anywhere in the world, a talking giraffe. A giraffe who can converse, recite poetry and even sing popular tunes. At least, that is what he told us. So without more ado, please welcome Victor the Talking Giraffe. Victor?

Hello?

Ah, there you are.

When you’re ready.

Just a sec.

Any moment now, Victor will walk up this walkway here and take a seat. Great moment in the history of, well, the history of this kind of thing.

Won’t be long.

Well, you can hear it for yourselves. The uncannily human sound of Victor the Talking Giraffe.

Mel walks on dressed normally. Griff is flummoxed.

I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say it’s all done with hidden tape recorders.

What is?

The old vocalisations. Look, nothing hidden in the mouth. No wires attached or completely genuine. Go on, ask me anything you like. Surprise me, make it really hard.

I’m ready.

You throw it, I’ll catch it. All right.

Where’s the giraffe?

How many giraffes do you want?

One.

And one you have got. Tell you what, I’ll do a bit of Shakespeare.

You aren’t a giraffe.

How do you know?

Where’s the long neck, the four legs, the brown spots?

All right, all right, keep your tights on.

The big ears, the tail.

Those are all very conventional attitudes. Times are changing. Look, you’re not completely convinced.

Well, you did say talking giraffe.

And singing. The singing is important. I know. I’ll sing Bar Bar Black Sheep blindfolded. No joke. Cover my eyes and I’ll do the whole thing, start to finish. Can I give you a bit of advice? Go with it. This could make us.

You singing Bar Bar Black Sheep?

I’m the first giraffe to do it.

But you’re not.

I know. But they’re lapping it up. They are totally taken in. Powers of suggestion.

You mean they think you can sing?

They think I’m a…

He indicates the height for a giraffe.

Television is a very powerful medium. But you’ve got to believe.

But if they’ve all come to see a talking…

He also indicates the height for a giraffe.

They’re all going to be a bit disappointed with you.

All right. What do you suggest?

Well, I could just go and say, Ladies and gentlemen, we present the talking… The talking… Baldi.

No, no, no. That’s not the same. I mean, that is not going to make history.

The all talking, all singing. Baldi.

Let’s try it.

Ladies and gentlemen, the all talking, all singing. Baldi.

Medium shot to include a baby giraffe where Mel stood. It is silent.

So that was from the TV sketch show, Alas, Smith and Jones. Were you actually part of the writing team?

I wish I was, but no, that was a sketch I wrote and sent in to the producer, Jamie Ricks. And I’ve no idea whether I even got a response. But I sort of think it sort of almost works. I could do with a trim. I’d love to rewrite it now. But no, it never got on. I used to write a lot of sketches and send them in. I sent in sketches to Fry and Laurie as well. I got a very nice letter back from Stephen Fry himself saying, it’s awfully funny, but we tend to write our own material. And it was a very personal letter.

This is before you did loads of sketch writing, or is this the same time?

This is in my 20s when I spent most of my 20s as a reluctant actor. I got a job sort of by mistake. And I did a bit of acting, hoping to sort of land a big advert that would pay me a lot of money so that I could just write. And I was really trying to be a sort of playwright. I was trying to create shows, formats, anything I could really to get some kind of foothold in the world of television or entertainment. I kind of did anything I could, including writing a lot of sketches and sending them off to no avail.

Boom.

Sorry to interrupt, but if you’re enjoying the show, please do subscribe to The Offcuts Drawer, give us a five-star rating, leave a review, tell your friends about it. All that stuff’s really important for a brand new podcast like this. And visit offcutsdraw.com for more details about the writers and actors, and to find out about future live shows. Thanks for your support. Now back to the interview. But sketch writing is the genre that you’re possibly the most known for, with The Mary Whitehouse Experience, Spitting Image, Dead Ringers. How did you actually make that shift into being a sketch writer and producer from being an actor?

Well, I did, I suppose, have a lot of practice writing sketches that never got on. And eventually I got a job as a radio comedy producer. That was the start of my actual sort of career, as opposed to just doing bits and pieces. And after doing a show called Weekending, which was the topical show of the time.

As the producer?

As the producer. I still felt that I would prefer to be writing. And I created my own sketch show actually called Life, Death and Sex with Mike and Sue. Oh, yeah. In the sort of mid 90s, I think that was.

When The Mary Whitehouse Experience was early 90s, wasn’t it?

Yeah.

So that was, was that the big break for you?

The Mary Whitehouse Experience was the big break because I was actually asked to do it. I was asked just to create a show for Radio One and I could do anything I wanted. So I looked around at the kind of people who were writing, weekending and doing stand up. And I’d worked a bit with David Baddiel and Rob Newman. So I got Punts and Dennis. Also, I asked Joe Brand and I remember after we’d done a few shows, and we did really push our luck quite a few times with the sort of consent. I was summoned to the, I think it was like the board of directors or something at the BBC. I mean, really senior people, head of radio was there, David Hatch. And he was fuming.

Do you remember why? Do you remember what the sketch was about?

Yeah, it was, the game Shag or Die, and they referred to all kinds of religious figures and so on and…

Offense was caused?

Offense was caused. But only in the BBC, because I went along to this big meeting and David Hatch was furious. He said he’d never been more angry in his career. And all I can say in my defense is that we have had no complaints from the public. And it was true, because it was Radio 1, it was late night Radio 1. Young people were listening, they lapped it up.

Right next, off-cut please, Bill. What is this one?

This is an extract from something called Yes, Neenakanti Really Is On The Radio. It’s a pilot written for the radio in about 2012. Yeah, and you have to imagine that it’s a ventriloquist, I guess. Yes, and her monkey puppet.

Hello, I’m Neena. And I’m Monkey. Welcome to Yes, Neenakanti Really Is On The Radio. Not for long, though. Why would you say that? You have only got a show because the mime artist cancelled. Not true. Well, they know I’m not real. I should think so. They’re not stupid. Oh, not Radio 2, then. It’s Radio 4, the station for intelligent conversation. It’s never on in your house. Mind you, I suppose it’s quite fitting. What is? Ventriloquism and radio. Both dying arts. This is a kind of suicide pact. We’re both going down together. Actually, Monk, radio is going strong. I wish it was ITV. Why? Because I can say ITV. Why can’t you say BBC? Because you’re not a good enough ventriloquist. How dare you? Radio is for people who are too ugly for television. Wandering round Broadcasting House is like a horror show. I’m the sexiest one around and I’m made of polyester. That’s so rude. Can I still swear? No, definitely not. In fact, I’ve had you fitted with a bleeper. It’ll squeak if you try and swear. You did f**king what? You stupid f**k! Can I still say f**k? No, fiddlesticks. Now that we’re on radio, we should try to be more intellectual. An intellectual ventriloquist? That’s an oxymoron. What’s an oxymoron? Well, if you don’t know what it means, why did I say it? Let’s talk about the show. We’ve got lots to look forward to tonight. I’m going to hit the bar later. Can I get me some sweet broadcasting house totty? You’re a monkey. They’re not fussy. Later, Monkey and I will be joined by some other puppets, none of whom are as good as me.

So what happened to this project then?

This was a pilot script and then a pilot program. And Nina Conti, I thought, was brilliant. And Monkey was fantastic. But Radio 4 had never heard of Nina Conti. And they said, oh, we don’t think ventriloquism should be on the radio. I tried to explain that it had been on the radio very successfully in America, very successfully in Britain. And it doesn’t really matter that you can’t see the lips not moving. It’s about two characters.

And so never got commissioned.

It was actually broadcast as a pilot, but it never got a series.

Shame.

Yeah.

Now you like to work in close collaboration with certain individuals like Nina Conti. Also, you’ve done a lot of work with Marcus Brigstocke, who you worked with on The Late Show and I’ve Never Seen Star Wars. What’s the appeal of working with one person?

You can get your shows made. That is the main appeal. If you’ve got a star, it sort of helps to get the show on. But actually, I really enjoyed working with Marcus and Nina because they’re quite collaborative. And they’ll sort of take notes or they’ll take on board ideas. But that’s a little bit unusual. I think a lot of comedians are used to working on their own and they’re used to calling all the shots. It’s not surprising. You know, they’re on their own on stage. So they can be quite difficult to work with. So I haven’t worked with that many.

So how does the arrangement work? Do you sit and write in a room together or do you bring the ideas to them or do they bring them to you?

Well, with Nina, I remember when I first started working with her, I produced a show, a live show that she did and she took to Melbourne Comedy Festival in Edinburgh. And I think it was around that time that I said to her, have you ever tried improvising with Monkey? And she never had said I’ve never improvised anything. And I said, well, let’s try it. Let’s let’s just try it. So we went down to a local comedy club and she just started talking to the audience with Monkey and it really, really worked. And then I practiced with her sort of writing stories, improvising stories. So, you know, that was really, really collaborative. And with Marcus, yeah, I mean, you know, Marcus writes a lot himself. I mean, most of what Marcus performs, he kind of writes himself. And we had a team of writers as well. And I suppose it was more editing that I was doing.

Time for your next offcut. Can you tell us about this one, please?

This is a format document for a radio game show called Unforgettable. And I wrote it in 2015.

Unforgettable Memory Meets Mirth Unforgettable ostensibly tests memory and comprehension, but really it’s a chance to revel in amazing facts and to enjoy people trying to explain things they don’t quite understand, says the host.

What you’re about to witness is Unforgettable, the show that tests how much the brain can absorb and comprehend in just one day. My fellow Swats have had just 24 hours to learn about four fascinating topics completely new to them and to me. How much do they understand? How much can they recall? Who are the goldfish and who the elephants?

Unforgettable ostensibly tests memory and comprehension. The panellists will have been provided before the show with some really unforgettable stuff about four topics, say circus performers, human infancy, nanotechnology and viruses. And their memory and comprehension will be tested. It’s like Have I Got News For You, except instead of reading newspapers, they’ve read a few sheets of A4 and done some of their own probing and thinking. The panel don’t have to be geeks and the subjects aren’t all highbrow. Self-confessed ignoramus Kathy Burke trying to explain string theory will be funny, as will Miles Jupp trying to talk knowledgeably about the work of Coco Chanel or Ian Hislop on Eminem. Funny people with newly acquired knowledge or inspiring concepts or pop culture they aren’t down with, all trying to elucidate them, bluffing where necessary will be the engine of the show. There are bonus points for extra unforgettable facts or flights of fancy. There’s a geeky adjudicator who has really, really swatted up who can be brought in to clarify and assess. Is it a bit like QI? It’s similar territory. Just as Mock the Week, Have I Got News for You, News Quiz, etc. cover the same territory. Luckily that didn’t stop all those shows happening. Unforgettable will be tonally unique. The joy will come from people really excited about having just learnt some amazing, weird or shocking stuff. The excitement will be infectious. The facts will be astonishing. The comedy will be unforgettable.

So this got made as a pilot, didn’t it?

We made it. A very esteemed producer, David Tyler, produced it, and he also hosted it. And Marcus Brigstocke actually was one of the guests. And we all thought it went pretty well, but Radio 4 said they didn’t really understand it.

Oh.

So it never got a series.

Oh.

But it was broadcast.

Right. Right. I see. Now you’ve created a lot of different show formats that you have gone on to produce rather than just write the script for. Yeah. What is the appeal of creating a format rather than writing as such?

Well, I think I probably was influenced by the fact that my dad was in Just a Minute for, you know, since I was about six years old, I think. And he explained to me that the man, Ian Mester, who created Just a Minute, would always get his name on the end of the show and he would always get paid, even though the work he’d done, he’d done many, many years ago. So, this really stuck in my mind. So I thought, well, the thing to do surely is to think of an idea for a show and then it can run and run and run and you’ll still get paid. And it’s almost as if you’re working, but you’re not actually having to do the work. So yeah, that was part of the appeal. And I’ve always tried to think of ideas for shows.

Is the thinking up of the ideas easier or harder than writing, would you say? Is it more fun?

It’s not more fun. No, I think it’s quite hard. But I think what it is, is that it’s rare. You have to think of a lot of ideas before you think of one that actually works. I think that’s what it is. Most just aren’t even worth sending off, I think. But I have created, I suppose, I think it’s 11 or 12 shows that I’ve created one way or another.

Let’s move on to your next offcut. Can you tell us what this is, what it’s called?

This is from a novel I wrote in 2018. It’s called Sexless.

The train comes into King’s Cross, where she changes to the Metropolitan Line to Hammersmith. She takes the escalator to the main hall, and she looks to see if anyone is at the new hug hub. Two pairs in a clinch, two young men, and a young man with his arms wrapped tightly round a middle-aged woman. All have their eyes closed, their bodies firmly attached. The two men sway slightly. A smart woman of about forty sits alone on the bench. Laura approaches, aware that her intentions might be mistaken. The woman smiles and gets to her feet, her arms beginning to part. Actually, I only wanted to ask you something. The woman looks a little deeper into Laura’s eyes. I know you, don’t I? You may have seen me on Sarah Dean. Laura Dean. Oh, I’m so sorry. Don’t worry a bit. Laura is recognized a few times most days. Would it be okay if I asked you a couple of questions? I won’t attribute. Is this an interview? It’s just a little research, if that’s okay. Could I get a hug afterwards? said the woman with a chuckle. Why not? First question. Is this something you just enjoy or do you think you need it? The woman looked around the station as if the answer might be scrawled on a wall. I don’t know. There was something in her eyes that Laura had seen in crime victims. The sick, the bereaved, the abused. She would not press the point. Do you have a gender preference? Not at all. It’s not about sex, I know. And this isn’t something you would have contemplated before. Oh, no way, the woman laughed. It was an obvious point, really. Now that sex was no longer on anyone’s agenda, affection could be exchanged, mutually enjoyed, without the possibility of being groped or meeting with an unwelcome erection. It wasn’t that affection was more in demand, per se. It was just that the risks had been greatly lowered. A few more questions, and then Laura senses her interviewee is getting anxious about time. She thanks her and held out her arms. The woman steps forward. As they gently squeeze, Laura tries to monitor her feelings. Hairs from the woman’s head tickled her nose. She looked to see if commuters would glance at them, and they did, but only with casual interest. A balloon of anxiety expanded with each breath. Why couldn’t she just relax and enjoy? She felt for signs that it might be over. What was the etiquette here? One hugger gently taps the other’s back. Ah, she felt a light tap on her shoulder. Thank you, said Laura once they decoupled. Thank you. The woman bent to collect her bag, smiled and went on her way. Laura had no idea if the embrace had been successful.

So did you finish this novel?

No, I didn’t. I wrote about probably about 20,000 words of it. And, yeah, it’s about a world where all sexual desire, for some reason, disappears. And I don’t think I ever worked out quite why it’s disappeared. And I gave it to an editor friend and she referred to it as dystopian. I kind of thought, why has she assumed that it’s dystopian? Because I wanted to explore the positives of a world without sex. I think there could be a lot of great things about a world without sex. I mean, women could feel a lot safer for one thing. But one, it would be a novel without any sex, which possibly isn’t necessarily a seller. And I think people just expect if they get a book set sort of in the future where something has tampered with nature, that it’s got to be disastrous, hasn’t it?

Yeah, I suppose that is the received opinion.

You can’t say, well, we’ve tampered with nature and guess what? It’s all worked.

That’s true.

So that is the problem for the book. I mean, the one thing I could do, and if I do ever revisit it, I think I might do it as a series of short stories where for some people, the sexless world actually works and for some people, it doesn’t.

Why did you choose to write it as a novel rather than say a drama?

I think by that time, I’d written three novels and I just felt more comfortable writing a novel. The thing about a novel is that it is whatever happens, if you write a novel, it’s a complete work of art, whereas a script is not really a thing unless it’s actually made.

Obviously, writing a novel, for example, the whole process is a much less sociable affair. I understand that you obviously have complete control over it in one sense, but it is quite a lonely process, isn’t it? You have nobody else contributing to it until an editor comes along and says, change this, change that. But do you not miss the working with other people?

I do a little. I mean, when I have been writing novels, whenever I’m writing alone, I sort of want to sort of turn to a team of writers and say, well, what do you think? Is this working? And of course, they aren’t there. So in that sense, you know, it is. I also really like feedback. I’m not particularly confident about writing, so I always like to get, you know, get someone to give me an opinion.

So you show people your work as you’re writing it. You don’t wait till the end.

Yeah. In fact, I pay people to tell me it’s rubbish.

Right. So we’ve come to your final offcut. Can you tell us a little bit about that one, please?

This is called Support. It’s a pilot script for a TV series and it’s from 2014.

Scene 1. Interior. A meeting room in a church. Evening. Close up on David, a man who finds it hard to assert himself.

Hello. My name is David Bowie. No, not that one. Though I do sometimes think that planet Earth is blue and there’s nothing I can do. Pause for titter.

Widen to reveal David is alone in the room. David has arranged some chairs in a semicircle.

Wish I was that David Bowie. Not that I want to be anyone else. Quite happy with who I am. Quite happy in my own skin. Thank you. Don’t ever state it, David, you’re here for them. Not you. Right, start again. Hello. My name is David Bowie. No, not that one. Although I do…

Tittle sequence. A group of mostly nervous looking people on the semicircle of chairs. David is trying to look in control.

Well, I think we’re all here. Mark, you don’t have a chair. There’s a fold up one there.

Is your name really David Bowie?

Yeah, I’m coming to that. No, it folds the other way. Mind your finger.

Ow!

I bought some fold up chairs at a car boot sale. I love a car boot.

I use them to sell retreads and alloys. Need any?

I think I’m all right, thanks. Cairn, isn’t it?

Anyone need any retreads or alloys?

Or the snide?

Who’s asking?

Or the knockoffs?

They’re at a knockdown price.

I could use some.

See me after. I’ll sort you out.

Right. Well, if we’re all…

I bought a lovely set of cushion covers as a car boots. Two quid.

Oh, you did well there.

Right. Is everyone settled, Mark?

Do you mind if I squeeze my chair in here?

Why don’t you sit there?

Got to think about odd numbers.

Well, don’t be daft. Sit there.

But if he doesn’t want to sit there…

He might have a syndrome.

I’d just rather sit on an even seat.

If you count round the other way, that’s seat number four.

He might have a thing about counting clockwise.

I don’t have a thing about counting clockwise.

Well sit there and have done with it.

Fine, I’ll stand.

Debbie.

I’m Sally. I’m Debbie.

Sorry, could you bring your chair in a bit?

What are the tissues for?

Oh, therefore if anyone gets a bit tearful, that can happen. It does with my other ones.

You’ve got other groups?

Divorced women, women with depression, single mothers, larger women and… women. I seem to enjoy them.

Well, we might as well start. My name is David Bowie. No, not that one.

Now this project looked like it might get made, didn’t it?

Well, we’ve got some names attached. We sent it to David Mitchell, who agreed to play the kind of main character, Mark, or no, David Bowie. I’m surprised I couldn’t remember that. And it was all set in one room. It’s really cheap. So I thought, you know, it might be in with a shout. But no, it was never made.

But it was written for television, though, wasn’t it? Not radio.

It was originally written for TV and then I did a radio version. I’m always sort of flitting between sort of radio and TV versions of things. So I never really know. Sometimes I write something and don’t even really know whether it’s a radio or TV.

Which do you prefer writing for? Which would you prefer it came out on, apart from obviously the money side?

I think my ideal is to write for radio first and then for it to move to TV, which quite a few of my shows have. That’s the ideal because you can you can really get things right on radio. And, you know, hopefully by the time it moves to TV, it’s sort of matured. What I really like is the process of radio because it’s so much quicker. I find producing particularly in TV really pretty boring. It’s very, very slow.

Right. Final question. Having revisited these old bits of writing, how do you feel about them? Are you surprised by anything you’ve heard?

I’m surprised not to have cringed more. I was expecting, I think I said at the beginning, to really hate everything that I heard. I found them not too difficult to listen to and in some cases I quite enjoyed them actually. That’s good. And the extract from Sexless, I thought sounded sort of quite cast, I thought, oh, I can just hear that on Radio 4.

Maybe that’s something you should be doing next. Finish that for Book of the Week.

Yes, we’d love to.

Oh, that’s good. So do you think you might have another stab at any of them?

I think I would possibly, I think I might look at Sexless again, the novel, and I might look at Support, the last two in fact. I might just consider whether I could give them another shot.

Well, we’re very glad to have helped. Bill Dare, thank you for opening your virtual bottom drawer and sharing your offcuts with us.

It has been enlightening. Thank you.

The Offcuts Drawer was devised and presented by me, Laura Shavin, with thanks to this week’s special guest, Bill Dare. The offcuts were performed by Rachel Atkins, Beth Chalmers, Toby Longworth, Chris Pavlo and Nigel Pilkington. And the music was by me. For more details about this episode, visit offcutsdrawer.com, and please do subscribe, rate and review us. Thanks for listening.