Tampon TV

Readers,

This morning, just to prove to you how little I need Arthur, that skulking, brooding judas who recently left to join StudioLimpet, I have coined a brand new phrase to describe the aspirational TV output I am going to make in 2008: Tampon TV.

It's warm, it's emotionally enagaged and intelligent, but it can also be raw and bleeding if I need it to be

(If you don't believe me, just witness the end of my new BBC3 varicose vein removal format for obese teens.....)

I am really confident that I can be the main exponent of this new type of lifestyle television - and have the likes of Ben G eating out of my lilly-white manicured palm. Which reminds me, I simply must make sure I am the first person Ben calls when he's looking for big glossy feelgood factual to fill his schedules next year. A couple of D&Ds (dinner and drinks) at Claridges should do the trick.

Before I go, here's my favourite tampon-inspired poetry by the marvellously talented Julie Hull

Love and Maxipads,

HM xxx

The Boy Who Stops The Rain

Good news dear readers, Yusmany the beautiful peasant rain child I was telling you about finally arrives from Venezuela next week thanks to some seed money from Andy Mac.

As soon as he gets to rainy England (!) I'll pop him on a National Express coach up north to start filming a pilot for my new hit idea The Boy Who Stops The Rain, Channel 4's answer to Springwatch and Jesus of Nazareth.

[Lucky people of Rotherham you can see him perform his naked rain-dance at the Wickersley Working Men's Social Club Tuesday afternoon. Tickets are only a fiver. Senior citizens can get in for half price. Anyone who works for the MET office can take advantage of the buy 2 tickets get 1 free special offer.]

It's just a pilot dear readers, so you may never see the results. But when the series is eventually greenlit (who could live with themselves by turning it down?) and Yusmany becomes a national hero in Rotherham, I will have him visit other dreary places like Huddersfield, Wigan, Cleethorpes, Swansea and then finally Horsham-on-Sea to wave his magic weather wand to stunning results.

I am so excited at the prospect of this happy super weather-bending child making it as a bonafide star in this country that I have already trademarked his name so as to protect him from the capitalistic cynical vultures who will no doubt be circling him. Yusmany™ could be the brand that launches a thousand umbrellas and even wakes up the nation on BBC Breakfast with his weather map reading skills. With his dashing latino looks (hands off - he's mine, I say!!!) who knows where the height of his fame will take him?

In anticipation of our great success together I have already jotted down a rain inspired poem that we could co-publish together and release to promote the series....

Enjoy!

When a storm begins in the clouds,
it sometimes may look frightening.
You see a quick electrical spark -
Flash! goes the lightning!

Long and thin and streaky and fast,
its glow is oh so brightening.
Watch for the electric spark -
Flash! goes the lightning!

When a storm begins in the clouds,
it truly is a wonder.
You hear a rumble loud in the sky -
Clap! goes the thunder!

Lightning bolts are heating the air,
over clouds and under.
When the air expands enough -
Clap! goes the thunder.

The Headmistress xxx

Planning a Soirée

Dear Ladies (but only those who work in TV - sorry!)

I'm sure you'll sympathise with me when I say this: I simply haven't enough hours in the day to run a successful independent TV production company, inspire the people around me, pen poems for my new anthology, create life-changing TV formats for a cynical and world weary audience AND run my enormously hectic (but fulfilling) home life.

Just this evening, as I was knocking up a wonky willy organic choccie tart for the kids' lunchboxes tomorrow, I remembered that I still needed to:

1) Double check the aupair had cleaned the mansion properly and ironed my sexy powersuit for work tomorrow
2) Write a thousand words for The Spectator on the subject of 'female circumcision'
3) Watch as much of Hamish's output on my Sky+ as I possibly can before our meeting this week
4) Write a few letters (by hand, of course!)
5) Not to mention entertain my husband with the freebie naughty Ann Summers gear my Deputy Headmistress had managed to get from that silly Sex Coaches for the Over-50s format I've got in with C4.

(sigh) We females in TV have so much to deal with on our plates.

Yes, I know I can't complain having made a few sexy pounds being the all-singing, all-dancing, all-dieting, all-world conquering creative television entrepreneur that I know I am, but nothing compares to how limited and held back we are in this dreadful industry compared to men.

Not only are we expected to take care of our husbands, wash and feed our kids, flirt with channel controllers, pour over the women's weeklies to originate knock-out creative ideas for a female demographic AND suffer the indignity of period pains, but less talented MALE execs simply swan into meetings, wave their winkies in the air and strut away with all the big expensive commissions.

So I have decided that to help us girlies stick together I'm going to throw an exclusive tupperware soiree for the 21st century thoroughly downtrodden and struggling TV lady.

It will be a stress free, all-female friendly evening of wine, song, dance and poetry. I'm sure I can teach a few of them how to knit, and perhaps if all goes well - and after the odd glass of chardonnay - the conversation can turn to important issues like how to balance the work/life dynamic, breaking the glass ceiling, and perhaps most important of all, where have all the sexy, strong, single HETROSEXUAL male researchers gone to?

I know my many critics out there will seize upon this soirée as evidence of an all-female Bilderberg Group of well-to-heel TV execs with nothing better to do than bitch and bemoan their enormously successful and well paid lives, but if the likes of Hincksy and Pete 'Red' Barron can get together and bond over crap Status Quo cover songs, or Grandad Grade can do all his deals during high stakes Texas Hold 'Em poker and cigar nights, then what's stopping me from doing the same??

But who to invite dear reader? I don't want to offend the girlies in TV, but not everyone is important enough to come.

Who do you think should make my RSVP list?

The Headmistress x

POEM 7: Hamish my Hero!

Dear Reader,

For some reason my BlackBerry was not working whilst we were in North Africa, so I had missed the important news that the man they call 'the History boffin' has been appointed to run the Channel 4 documentary team overseeing the other super-clever boys and "Ms" Angry Mulvey.

To be totally honest, I am deeply worried about having to deal with a man who stole away my Deputy Headmistress earlier in the year, and someone who frankly looks like he should be running a provincial library rather than a cutting edge documentary department. This unfashionable bit of Channel 4 simply has no glamour, what with Meredith's farmer market cardigans and Simon's ill fitting chino trousers. From what I've seen Hamish actually dresses worse than dear old Angus McQueen ever did - which takes some doing!

Ivan, my financier has set me strict goals for 2008 to "diversify my revenue stream" away from the glamour of Sue's features department and to spread my fluffy wings and branch out into other parts of the broadcaster if my business is to survive (hello Andy Mac, have you missed me?! x)

But how can I be seen in the capital's best restaurants with the badly dressed Boffin by my side? What will the chatterring media classes have to say?

Oh well, nothing like a challenge! I remember fondly the last Head of Documentaries who I spent 9 months grooming, letting him wine and dine me, letting him get close to the intoxicating Headmistress midas touch, enjoying me, wanting me, needing me, loving me....

Sigh, now it all starts again:

I want to be your Ocean
I want us to ride the choppy seas
I want to build you a hurricane
of stunts and concepts that will make amazing TV
I want to be your Tsunami
that glistens and makes huge waves and roars
I want to build you a great island
that rocks and pillars all our shores

You challenge the idea of Diana's assassination
I just want to know what she was wearing that night!
You spend time with people like Starkey
I want to know how he'd cope in one of my play fights!
Oh Boffin, oh Boffin I want to dress you
in Hugo Boss and take you out all on my own
To seduce, enthrall and capture you
so we can make documentaries that make us both moan!!

x

Hello from Morocco!

Dear Reader

It's half term and I have thankfully swapped the hubub of London for the ethnic delights of Morocco with my 4 demanding children (Herbert, Mathilda, Giselle and Siren), husband Nicholas and Magda, the lovely 19 year old Polish aupair.

Everything was going swimmingly well until we arrived last night in Marrakech to be greated by the world's most horrendous kerfuffle from the balcony of our exclusive riad:



Yes, grown men openly brawling in the street - how very North of England! These people are so aggressive and angry all the time and I think I know why... the traffic. It is so oppressive I cannnot breath somedays from all the exhaust fumes and smog-craziness.

I feel like I am taking my life into my own hands on every sightseeing trip I make (unlike the reassuring safety of driving my own 4x4 back in London, say). This afternoon I even refused to visit the valley of flushing water in Ourika, and instead spent some much needed time rehydrating my tired feet whilst Magda occupied the children.

I am more certain than I have ever felt before that this country desperately needs my help. As I write this, thank goodness my (soon-to-be) award winning congestion series is airing in the UK. Dear, dear, poor people of Morocco, I can help you stop your car related street violence!

For the next 3 months my plan is that everyone - even the tourists - must leave their cars at home and travel in one of these:

I have texted Arthur back in London to dig out his filofax and track down the owner of Radiodiffusion Television Marocaine, Morocco's state television network, and government minister in charge of public transport. This deal I can do on my own, without Ivan or Freemantle's meddling.

Nicholas was furious when he caught wind over breakfast that I needed to "pop out for a quick meeting"

My top lip quivered vulnerably, and I flashed him a bit of cleavage:"But darling cheeks, the people of Morocco desperately need my help!"

He rolled over like a puppy.

Must dash dear reader- I have a special tummy tingle (no, it isn't excitement it must be the mutton and preserved lemon tagine we had for supper last night!)

Much love until next time,

TV's favourite Headmistress xxx

POEM 6: Kleiny you're so Finey

Hey Kleiny
You're so fine
You're so fine
You blow my mind
Hey Kleiny!
Hey Kleiny!

Oh Kleiny!
What a pity you don't understand
You take me by the heart
When you take me by the hand

Oh Kleiny!
You're so pretty
Can't you understand?
It's guys like you Kleiny
Oh what you do Kleiny, do Kleiny
Don't break my heart Kleiny...

Oh Kleiny!
Why don't we say goodnight
so you can take me home, Kleiny
It'll be alright
If you do Kleiny, do Kleiny
I'll let you get to third base, baby

Oh Kleiny!
Come on and give it to me
anyway you can
If you commission my latest eco series
I'll treat you like a man
Hey Kleiny!
Hey Kleiny!
Oh!

x

PS. Best read out loud to this thrilling tune by Toni Basil

Making myself cry

I'm in the office early today, and to start this sunny and bright week off I am about to reveal a secret to you dear loyal readers... I have an extraordinary gift. You see, sometimes, when meetings are going particularly badly and I feel stressed, or someone is threatening to unravel me for all and sundry to see and pick apart, I am able to turn on my waterworks.

Yes. Like most good, honourable women out there, I too can cry on demand. It is the last word in power us women have when dealing with emotionally-stunted male creatures: they just cannot deal with seeing our mascara all smeared, and our blood-red cheeks flushed after a heavy bout of weeping. They collapse and give in. It is often a gorgeous moment in my day if I have to resort to this final act to get my own way.

I cannot tell you how many uncomfortable situations I have been able to escape thanks to My Gift.

My Gift allowed me to escape the furore that surrounded that awful historical parenting show (even though I made Marsha take the brunt of the nasty, bullying criticism)...

My Gift gave me the neccessary financial boost from Lloyds investment when I needed it the most after going it alone three years back....

My Gift made Ben Frow feel really, really guilty after he shouted at me down the phone during the second series of Grand Designs and threatened (rather stupidly) to decommission it....

I simply can't imagine how I would have reached this lofty perch without my extraordinary gift. It is something rare that makes us strong women stand out in this sometimes cruel and cynical world where men dominate and rule.

So thank god I have mastered this uniquely feminine art right down to a tee.

yours, sniff sniff (!),
Love The Headmistress
x

Water

One of the dilemmas dear reader I face almost hour-by-hour when I'm behind my desk at work is this: what kind of mineral water should we, as a progressive, caring, youthful and ethical production company, be sipping?

When a commissioning editor decides to grace our boardroom for one of those "face-time sessions", what *will* they be thinking if we just serve up bubbly Perrier or plain-old Evian? I know what I would be thinking if I were in their shoes...

So late last night, just before she was about to leave for the day and go on some Valentines "date" with a boy-runner she had recently met (don't you just *adore* young love - so sweet!), I got the new junior researcher-thingy to spend a couple of hours ringing round some of the top sommeliers in the capital to ascertain just what waters they were serving to their discerning clientel.

Based on her multimedia powerpoint presentation first thing today, I have decided upon this.

I know you'll all be thinking, gosh that's terribly expensive, and yes, dear reader, it is.

But by god it will be worth it.

I don't transform people's lives for the better whilst sipping on 69p Evian you know!!

Happy St Valentine's Day dear readers

Happy St V's my dear readers. I hope you find (like I did!) the person you are looking for in your life. My husband has given me 4 beautiful children and I feel truly blessed today. This time of year is one for renewing our love vows and making new ones with the person in the photocopy room (or the boardroom!) who has caught your eye.

When I feel particularly unloved and I'm having an off day (it does happen sometimes you know!) I often lock myself away in the warm, safe embrace of the Headmistress's office and stroke my collection of published poetry anthologies.

As this is a special day, I wanted to share with you my favourite Valentine's poem by the marvellous and talented Myra Cohn Livingston:

If you won't be my Valentine
I'll scream, I'll yell, I'll bite.
I'll cry aloud, I'll start to whine
If you won't be my Valentine.
I'll frown and fret, I'll mope and pine, and
It will serve you right---
If you won't be my Valentine
I'll scream, I'll yell, I'll bite.

x

I often feel like this when I fail to inspire people with my latest ambitious television shows. Although you'll be pleased to hear that I have not (yet) actually yelled at or bitten a commissioning editor!

How to stop the rain?

As a busy mother of four, published author, TV presenter, and successful businesswoman, I never quite know where my inspiration will strike for my next big television idea.

For example, just this afternoon I was sat in the waiting room for my final smile makeover with Farydon just off Marylebone High Street, flicking though an old copy of National Geographic, only to come across the most heart-wrenching story about a Venuzuelian miracle child who is worshiped as a "raindancer" in his local community. What's more, dear reader, he is just 11-years old!

Think of the power that this dear child could wield on our shores! Maybe I could ask him if he could stop the rain, here in dreary cold England! Imagine the smiles in Streatham, the happiness in Hull, and the merriment in Manchester if this poor miracle child could pull this stunt off.

As soon as I'd finished my final dose of teeth laser treatment I called Meredith and pitched it to him on the phone. He loves the idea and has given me some development money to fly to Venezuela to meet the child.

What a bother. Whatever happened to the good old days when you could call up a commissioning editor and get a commission right there and then??

Oh well, I suppose I could always get one of my team on the plane in a jiffy.