Fifty Shades of Gravy did for my career. I specialise – rather, I specialised – in devising high concept television formats. In layman’s terms, I surfed zeitgeists, knew soapumentary from mockudocudrama and brainstormed titles that suggested concepts rather than the reverse. Equine origami infotainment extravaganza Only Foolscap Horses was one of mine, along with white goods retail fest Mr, Sell Fridge. I even brought posh lavatorial quiz Gameshow of Thrones to transmittable pilot stage. But then I scrawled Fifty Shades of Gravy across the Channel 4 whiteboard. Though the team were agog for a concept, I couldn’t deliver. Every telly chef I approached – their supply is, surprisingly, finite – opined that there simply aren’t fifty shades of gravy; those there are turn out to be in all other respects identical. Meanwhile, the sadomasochists declared the stuff the very definition of unerotic. Pitch stalled, I was fired before I could suggest Waltzing With Dinosaurs.
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