A had decided to come down for a Bumbury in the country today from London but couldn’t get through to National Rail Enquires to see if the journey was possible because of the inch high mountains of snow covering some of the country. The panic this has caused has meant it’s impossible to get through to said rail enquiry line due to the sheer volume of worried commuters wandering if a three hundred ton train powered by thousands of volts of electricity could deal with a breezy bunch of innocent snowflakes. The answer to that was largely ‘no’, but fortunately the line to the coast was open and she made it down for a very pleasant day spend walking gingerly from the pub fireside to the house fireside.
When it came for her to leave in the evening, however, we got to the dark and deserted station to see the electronic information sign saying ‘London Charing Cross… Delayed.’ This is bad news because it normally tells you how late the train is, and it’s new arrival time. Just saying ‘Delayed’ is like a surgeon coming out of the operating theatre and just shaking his head.
So we waited on the snowy platform for half an hour, trying to get though to the lovely National Rail Enquiry people, who are now based, as all call centres are, in India. I’ve personally not got a problem with this at all, but it does throw up some really interesting situations amongst the more right-on members of society (who’ll readily decree almost anything said or done these days to be racist) but still wince in frustration when the Indian phone operator trying to handle their enquiry can’t speak very good English. I don’t think it’s racist to get annoyed when the phone operator apparently representing British Gas can’t understand English very well. It’s just unprofessional. If we were taking calls from India and trying to do it in bad Hindi then there would doubtless be a lot of frustrated Indian customers saying “Can’t speak a word, this one. Typical.�
Anyway, A eventually got through and spoke to a charming Indian man who told her the train we were waiting for hadn’t yet left Ashford, which wasn’t all that helpful, but we did ascertain it would run at some point this freezing night. So we waited, and whilst stomping up and down the platform to keep the circulation in our feet going, I suggested a sitcom set in an Indian call centre. A works in TV and knows the right production company to pitch it to. I’ve got my contacts a the BBC. So we got to thinking about it, sketched out the characters, set out a brief premise, and it immediately took shape. It could be good idea. Well it IS a good idea, it could be a really interesting proposition is what I mean.
We needed a title. Nothing like a snowy country train platform to give you ideas of India is there….? We hit it, smack in the face, a minute later. ‘Callcutta’.
And if you think I’m mad giving away such a brilliant idea on the Interweb, this act of writing it down here acts as copyright. I can even write
© Stanley McHale
if I like, but there’s no point, don’t need it. SO – that’s good way to get 2006 started.
Book finished.
Write treatment for Callcutta.
Do a load of gigs.
Watch and laugh as that all goes to pot by February.
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