As one scholar to another

NEGOTIATIONS for a new Root television series are set fair to become a field day for the lawyers - and this is not a consequence of any ill-considered criticisms Mark Chapman and Justin Judd have made here in the past few weeks about Marcus Plantin, ITV's astonishingly accomplished central controller.

Mr Plantin is far too considerable a figure to notice facetiousness aimed in his direction by media small-fry on the make - as I would have discovered, had I not already known it, when I attended a party at the Groucho Club on Tuesday to celebrate Zamit & The Postman's debut as smart-talking independents.

Like you, I wouldn't ordinarily be seen dead in the Groucho Club, but since I had brought Miss Zamit and the postman together in the first place I judged that it might seem like sour grapes were I to blank their do; a decision I very soon regretted when I found myself in a roomful of power-crazed, swivel-eyed women and awkwardly ambitious young men with loud suits and flat-top heads.

When I say that Ian Hislop had already left because he'd found the other guests too oafishly self-satisfied, you'll appreciate how bad things were. Just as I was about to call it a day myself, however, I spotted a tall, distinguished-looking man whose modest, somewhat donnish aspect suggested that he might be as uncomfortable as I was in this vulgar milieu.

I smiled sympathetically in his direction and he smiled back, this small, conspiratorial exchange shortly encouraging even a couple as decently reserved as us to strike up a conversation.

'A nightmare, isn't it?' I said.

'It is a little depressing,' he said. 'It's when one sees cads like these, crammed cheek-by- jowl in a confined space, that one understands why our television programmes are so woefully bad, compared to America's, at least.'

Startled as I was to discover that my scholarly looking new friend was able to tell a television set from a bar of soap, I now drew him into a most interesting discussion on the subject of education, popular culture and the malign influence of metropolitan taste, allowing him to put forward a range of sternly Leavisite arguments, seldom advanced - least of all in the Groucho Club, I think - since the great man's death.

'One would hardly expect popular programmes of any particular quality,' he said, pointing across the room, 'from, say, that loud gentleman shamelessly networking over there.'

'That's Justin Judd,' I said.

'No, no,' said my new friend, blinking owlishly, like a high-table classicist obliged to correct an erring fellow academic. 'I mean the common- looking one to whom Mr Judd is trying to sell some duff new programme.'

'That will be Marcus Plantin,' I said.

'I think not,' my new friend said. 'I'm Marcus

Plantin.'

We had a good laugh, but I was a little embarrassed, frankly - and not just on behalf of Mark Chapman and Justin Judd, who, for the past few weeks, have been making silly jokes here about ITV and Mr Plantin, but on my own behalf as well for letting them work off their spite and disappointment in my column.

'I should apologise,' I said, 'on behalf of Mark Chapman and Justin Judd, whom, I may say, I have already shafted, entrusting the new Root series, should there be one, to our hosts this evening, Zamit & The Postman.'

To my surprise, Mr Plantin looked a little troubled, 'I wouldn't do that,' he said. 'I have the highest regard for Zamit & The Postman, but it would be quite wrong to ditch Chapman and Judd after the excellent job they did on Root into Europe. My advice is that you look more closely at your own contribution. The first series suggested that you're no sort of dramatist. If I were you, I'd take on board Pete the Schnoz and, more importantly, Roger from Chicago. Since he was fired for posting a lampoon on the Independent's noticeboard the jokes in your column, Chapman's and Judd's notwithstanding, have deteriorated badly. I'd also advise you to hire a first-class lawyer.'

'Chapman and Judd aren't to be trusted?'

'On the contrary,' said Mr Plantin. 'However, I have devoted my career to protecting the writer's interests, which are liable to be perverted in the hurly-burly of production. A cast-iron contract is a writer's best defence.'

The problem is I haven't got a lawyer, nor can I find Pete the Schnoz and Roger from Chicago. When I rang up the Independent to see if, by any chance, Roger from Chicago had been reinstated, I was told by Alice, his immediate superior, to mind my own bee's wax. And when I sought to discover the whereabouts of Pete the Schnoz I was told by his agent that he was on the coast.

'LA?' I said.

'Broadstairs,' he said.

Never mind. I can at least secure this column against any further silly jokes by Chapman or Judd about the brilliant Mr Plantin.