Last week QI and Blackadder producer John Lloyd claimed interfering TV executives were ruining British comedy.

He said he despaired of the modern commissioning process where office-bound execs insist on meddling with scripts when they should be putting their faith in talent.

His comments echoed a recent speech by former BBC factual production controller Tom Archer, who said commissioners were an "uncreative crust".

Of course Lloyd is right. But it's only once you've been through the process that you realise just how destructive that interference really is.

My sitcom was picked up in 2010 for a pilot by Danny Cohen, at the time BBC3 controller, after he saw it performed at a live reading – Martin Freeman, Simon Day, Una Stubbs were all in the cast. As a writer I was unspeakably happy. And so I should have been. It was a great script. And then … it got handed over to BBC in-house comedy … oh dear.

So there I was … sat in a comedy exec's office. My pilot was to begin shooting in a few days' time and I was worried it no longer resembled the show it was meant to be. The sitcom was about a northern pub. A carvery on a Sunday lunchtime. The twist was that you never saw the bar, you just went from table to table where different groups of people had different problems.

But suddenly it was nothing to do with me any more. I felt like a spare part while decisions were being made without me. It had been youthed-up, dumbed-down, two episodes had been merged into one, characters had been removed because they were deemed "not part of the BBC3 demographic" and one producer actually wrote a few bits himself. Oh, and now you always saw the bar.

Back in the room, the eyes of the exec went wide. An idea! He touched his nose with a finger. And spoke:

Him: "You know what's really popular right now?"

(A fearful silence from me)

Him: "Vampires!" (his hands make an "offering" gesture)

Me: "Right…"

Him: "Do you think we could bring in a supernatural element?"

Me: "It's a pub."

I knew at that point that not only was my show doomed, but that I never wanted to work in TV ever again.

A sitcom is like a delicately spiced soup. A bouillabaisse. You go to incredible lengths to ensure the seasoning is spot-on – a branch of fennel, an extra pistil of saffron; that the balance of ingredients is right, the stock sublime. Eventually it's done. You taste it – it's perfect.

Then you give some to a BBC exec and they're not really sure what to do with it, they've never made one themselves. They might dip a teabag in it or try to wear it as a hat. Or more than likely they'll turn round and proclaim – not bad, but what it really needs is… sprouts!

"Sprouts!" you say.

"Yes," they say. "We have focus-group research which shows people really like sprouts. So you must have them. And while we're at it not many people like fish, so get rid of that. And do we actually need this bowl?"

I was one of six TV writers chosen from more than 1,000 to develop new sitcoms for the BBC. In theory we were the six funniest "newish" – with a few TV credits – writers in the land. Out of us six I was the only one to actually have a pilot made. What my show turned into was called The Inn Mates, which went out on BBC3 in August 2010. It was awful.

Now I don't want to be too cruel to BBC comedy execs. I'm sure they are very good managers, but comedy doesn't need managing. It needs faith in talent.

That is why the only great comedy shows of recent times are ones where execs haven't been allowed to meddle. They have either come from independent production companies that help talent to flourish, such as Steve Coogan's Baby Cow, or from writer-performers who know not to let execs near – the likes of Ricky Gervais, Peter Kay, Miranda Hart and Brendan O'Carroll.

The comedy execs on my show were well-educated people and if they were, say, managing a potato factory I have no doubt they would be very successful. Possibly (they might starve).

Anyone can be funny. But understanding funny – and knowing how to weave it into the complex emotional tapestry of a sitcom script – is a rare talent. If you have that talent you don't become a comedy exec.

I gave up writing for TV because I got tired of dealing with a certain kind of idiot. I now run a small PR agency in Manchester and occasionally perform stand-up. I have a wonderful wife and two lovely kids who think I am a certain kind of idiot.