Opinion: In Defence of BBC Three
Comedian Liam Pickford takes a look at the lost legacy of the Beeb's brief dance with the next generation, and dreams of what might have been
When I was a boy, I dreamed some dreams. I dreamed about being Peter Schmeichel, and using my massive Danish hands to save all the goals ever to the delight of the pie-crumb coated Stretford End. I dreamed that one day I’d convince my gran that knitted green balaclavas would never catch on and however well intentioned her gift was, I looked like a proper belm. But most of all, I dreamed about being on telly.
That dark, mysterious, foreboding box in the corner, so full of the vivid colour of life, sounds from places never visited, laughter from characters ill conceived. One day in the North in the mid-90s, bathed in the Sun Lolly light of a donewithschool evening, a bloke in a blue suit came round and put a tiny satellite box on top of the TV. Had I known what Pandora’s Box was about to be opened, I’d have said “Hang on a minute pal! That’s too much telly!”, but I couldn’t because I had braces and sounded like a piece of my mouth had been shot out by a bad man.
The arrival of cable television made the dreams I’d nurtured seem all the more possible. If Terry from Leeds with the denim face can get on Challenge TV, then so can I! But it was not to be – I waded through ten years of being told I couldn’t go on Gladiators and wept tears of frustration as I made Tamagotchi after Tamagotchi poo itself to death in a callous dirty protest against all technology and its arbiters. The tiny digital box had actually made TV seem further away than ever. Until, that is, the arrival of BBC Three.
The possibilities seemed infinite. For people who’d always fancied projecting their self-indulgent, conceited but sometimes funny mouthspewings to a wider audience, BBC Three held its tattooed and American Apparel-clad hipster arms open and said “Send us your shit. We’ll ferment it into a telly friendly brew!” The brew would optimistically ferment under a banner of fresh, young, bold, edgy and, above all, accessible.
The much-maligned channel was created with 'da yoof' in mind. A bold mission statement for your 16-30s, who were seldom catered for by Auntie Beeb. We wanted coke, she gave us jam. And, by the hands of Arthur Christ, they captured the spirit of this age. Lily Allen talking to Jermain Defoe. That’s what we want. Girls and boys going on holiday and weeing on Spanish things. Yes! Yes, BBC, that’s what we’re like! Thank you! Thank you so much!
Alas, this celebration of human endeavour and discovery was deemed too raw, too free, too alive by the powers that be. BBC Three is being taken off the air. In the comedy circles I inhabit and borrow money from, this has been extensively discussed, with its proponents and opponents airing their views with the freedom of a promiscuous daft bastard. At first I was slightly resentful. Despite its obvious flaws and the brunt of commissioning being left to Cambridge Footlights graduates who made sketches about Hitler and the poor, it nevertheless provided aspiring comic writers some platform for new and fresh ideas, however terrible, racist or clichéd.
A shining example of this bold statement, never-say-die, gung-ho bold programming is a programme called Hair. It's about people cutting hair. No attempt has been made to appease the nasty, grumbling cynic with a clever wordplay title. They rose above that. It's just called Hair. It's about hair. Young people love hair. A lot have it on their heads, arms and balls. Some don't, but a lot do. Good, honest programmes like this are vital to inspiring young people. I only watched four seconds of this, but I've already written four series of similarly naked telly. Scabs, Butchers, Bums and Widge Nurse all owe their potential 5000 viewer rating to programmes such as this.
So to deny the public BBC Three is to deny Oxbridge graduates the right to make these shining truth orbs of things and that would be a grave mistake. Support your local Oxbridge graduate intern and film your balls for 30 minutes. Send it to them. The solidarity will be palpable and is the only way to satiate the vanities of that fading childhood. Support them, or force an entire generation through the curtain of the Channel 4 berkcircus, where they’ll just write stuff about poor people. Then, literally dozens of viewers will go “Ahahahah. Their lives are terrible. Burn them!”
But above all, remember those dreams. Dreams. They dreamed such beautiful dreams.