The BFI Black Archive

I recently suffered the existential crisis of realising that I did not have a job. It had snuck up on me. Contract work is like seasonal work in that you are often waiting for the spring. Well, this year the spring did not arrive. Furthermore, even though I have over 30 years of experience I had so far failed to win the National Lottery. Desperate times called for desperate measures, which despite everything I've learnt from reading Dandy did not include eating a massive cow pie. No, I would have to get a regular job then use the salary from said job to buy my own pies. It was simultaneously terrifying and tedious.

I applied for a wide range of jobs. Age was a worry, and even though my CV was carefully date-stripped, I would eventually have to meet someone even if it were only over a screen. There were also a lot of scams and just plain poorly-paid work. One particular position caught my eye however. The pay wasn't great and neither was the location, but it was in a field that was close to my heart - film and TV. The British Film Institute was looking for someone to work in their archive. Normally I wouldn't stand a chance of getting interviewed for a role like this. It's well outside my working wheelhouse, but unusually this was advertised as no experience necessary. I imagined it would be overwhelmed with applications, so I made my contribution and put it mentally aside. So I was surprised when a fortnight later I was invited to an interview. The interview was at their Southbank building rather than the main archive in Berkhamsted. This was something I thought little of at the time, but would soon become a very salient detail.

I arrived at the BFI wearing my smartest of smart-casual clothes and was ushered through the labyrinthine corridors which connect the offices back of house. Eventually I was shown into a room so small that I had first mistaken it for a cupboard. 

"Cosy," I said, waiting for the young man escorting me to realise he'd taken a wrong turn.

He was a beanpole with a head of hair that had a highland heritage and his ID card bounced around on the end of its lanyard with a nervous energy. "My apologies Mr Marx," he said, indicating a plastic chair in the corner of the room. "Please wait here and someone will be along shortly."

He watched me as I hesitated before sitting awkwardly in the chair. "Would you like anything to drink?" he added, acknowledging the oddness of the situation.

"A glass of sauvignon blanc would be nice," I joked.

He gave me a look which suggested he wasn't in on the joke.

"Just a glass of water please," I said, hoping to pull the conversation back into shape.

He looked pleased at this outcome. Poor lad, I thought. He's one of the many younger members of the BFI staff. Fresh-faced and keen to get any hand-hold at the edges of the media landscape. He hadn't joined the BFI to suffer terrible attempts at humour from the likes of me.

He left, and I found myself to be sitting in the only chair in the room. My initial assessment of the room as a cupboard hadn't been unreasonable. It was at most 10 ft square and my chair was pushed into a corner. Where my first impression didn't stand up however was the fact that the room was otherwise empty. A cupboard, especially one in the cramped back offices of the BFI, would be piled ceiling-high with a mixture of documentation and memorabilia. 

Before I could reach any conclusion regarding the room, a second door I had failed to notice opened and a robust gentleman wearing severely thick black-rimmed spectacles ushered me through.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," he said. "Everett escaped containment again."

"Sorry," I said. "Did you just say Everett escaped containment again?"

"That's right," he said while descending a spiral staircase in a blur of legs. I hurried after him but the steps were unfamiliar and I worried that I would lose my footing and go tumbling down them.

I had at least two questions but decided to focus on the more urgent task of surviving the staircase before asking them.

"You'll get used to the stairs," he said when I reached the bottom. We were in a dimly lit corridor. "Assuming you take the job of course. It isn't for everyone."

Once my eyes had adjusted to the gloom, I could see many doors stretching along both sides of the corridor. My potential new employer beckoned me towards one with a pudgy finger. I approached the door, and peered in through the small window inset near its top.

I could see an empty room.

"There's nothing there," I said, before exclaiming "Jesus Christ!" because someone had suddenly leapt into view behind the door.

"No," my guide said with a wry smile, "although he has risen from the dead."

I took a step back and deep breath. Grinning at me behind the glass was the DJ and comedian Kenny Everett.

"Welcome," my guide said grandly, "to the BFI black archive!"

I had expected at that point that he would introduce himself, but he just stood there looking fairly pleased with his performance."

"Why is Kenny Everett in that room?" I asked, then added, "How is Kenny Everett in that room?" I glanced through the window and was unsettled to see Kenny Everett was still grinning at me.

"There was an accident at Television Centre a few years ago when they were converting the offices into flats. Someone must have mucked up the wiring or something because it manifested the entire cast of an episode of Blankety Blank."

I stared at him blankety blankly.

"I'm Pearson, by the way. Probably should have led with that, but as you can see I've been having a busy day."

I looked at Kenny Everett again. He waved at me cheerfully.

"Oh, I see," said Pearson. "Why do we have Everett here? Well, the police said that since he's officially dead, he's outside of their jurisdiction. The intelligence services held him for a while, but for one reason or another they didn't really know what to do with him, so they donated him to us. They know all about the black archive, of course."

"There's that name again," I said. It had thrilling connotations. "Just what is the black archive?"

"Everything behind these doors constitutes a hidden national treasure. Artifacts of film and TV the existence of which we can never publicly acknowledge."

I gulped, my mouth suddenly dry. "Such as?"

"Well, Mr Marx," Pearson said coyly. "I can't really discuss that with non-BFI employees."

"You've already shown me Kenny Everett. You may as well show me the rest."

Pearson coughed. He looked at me expectantly.

"Oh," I said. "You're offering me the job."

"Subject to you signing an NDA. Which, I may add, legally deters you from writing about any of this on your blog."

"And if I don't sign?"

"We still have some space down here. Perhaps you could keep Everett company?"

I weighed up the pros and cons of his offer. On the one hand, I would be gainfully employed. On the other, if Pearson's threat were genuine I wouldn't need a job anyway.

I was very much intrigued by the contents of the black archive, but not being able to tell anyone about it felt like something that could hollow me out.

"Can I think about it?" I asked.

Pearson shrugged. "I don't see why not.

UPDATE: I did not take the job, but I did wheedle some details of the archive's contents from Pearson before I left. I am documenting them here as an insurance policy. If I suddenly stop posting, you know where to look for me. Don't worry too much though. I'm sure Kenny will keep me entertained.

• Everyone has seen the infamous BBC VT Christmas tapes. But the BFI black archive holds the BBC Parliament Christmas tapes - all the parts censored from broadcast and never entered into Hansard. Highlights include the time Michael Gove accidentally mentioned Project [REDACTED], and when Tony Blair malfunctioned mid-speech and had to be carried out by technicians.
• The hastily-abandoned pilot for Secret Teacher - in which a celebrity in disguise poses as a supply teacher. Despite rumours this was not hosted by Jimmy Savile. The actual reason it was abandoned is that one of the children was reportedly the Second Coming and his parents complained about his treatment to the Director General of the BBC.
• Pornographic rabbit scenes excised from Watership Down at the request of the BBFC.
• The uncleared art film And Now For Something Exactly the Same, in which Monty Python's parrot sketch is played over and over until even any Stewart Lee fans in the audience give up and go home.
• A haunted copy of North by Northwest. Projected it allows the ghost of Cary Grant to escape from the frame. The only way to recapture him is to chase him while dressed as a giant penis.
• An episode of Songs of Praise where a printing error resulted in all the hymn books being written backwards, and singing them summoned a demon.