If you remember the stuff I wrote about my mum's time at the BBC in the 1950's, the atmosphere conjured by Andrew O Hagan here will be familiar:
It was a time of Player’s cigarettes and gin after hours at the pubs on Great Portland Street. Broadcasting House was a maze of stairwells, long corridors and unknown powers, a world within worlds that couldn’t quite decide whether it was a branch of the civil service or a theatrical den. Many of the men who worked there were getting their own way in the national interest, and the best (or worst) of them combined the secrecy of Whitehall with the languor of Fitzrovia. It was Patrick Hamilton in conversation with George Smiley down a blind alley off Rathbone Place, with froth sliding down the insides of pint tumblers and lipsticked fags in every ashtray. Men such as Gamlin practically lived in Langham Place: their outer bounds were Soho, Bloomsbury, Marylebone, and everything else was the World Service.
The whole thing is an evocative history of the cerpuscular BBC paedophile demimonde in the pre-Savile era. My mum never told me about working with any of these people. But she was on the Third Programme (the posh bit) alongside the kind of overt bohemians who would never have been let anywhere near children's programming, lest they set a bad example.