by Harry Hill
‘Midlife crisis,’ muttered Matt’s mum under her breath, rattling a spoon in a ceramic dog bowl.
‘Yeah, he’s a quantity surveyor now,’ said Ian showing Matt a picture of a portly middle-aged man in a hard hat.
Matt could hear the dog flap whirring as seven dachshunds came running into the kitchen from the garden for their tea.
‘Here, Matt?’ said Rob, interrupting this picture of domestic bliss. ‘Have you seen what time it is?’ He tapped his phone. Matt squinted over – it was half past two. ‘They’ll be picking you up for Sunday at Six soon!’
‘Oh, I love that show,’ said Matt’s mum. ‘I never miss a single episode do I, Ian?’
Ian shook his head. ‘Oh I don’t believe it!’ he said holding his phone up to the group. It showed a page from the Daily Mail and at its centre was a photograph of him in his vest and underpants on the front step of their house talking to the postman. ‘I’ll never live this down!’ he groaned.
‘You’re right, Rob,’ said Matt with a chuckle, suddenly full of energy. ‘I’d better go and get myself together. See you in a bit!’
7
Six O’Clock Show Time
A sleek silver Mercedes S-Class pulled up outside Matt’s house and the horde of paps and selfie-seekers crowded round it. There was a groan of disappointment as the door opened and the diminutive figure of Kitty Hope got out and walked up the path to Matt’s house. ‘Where’s your door knocker?’ she said as Matt opened the door to a flurry of camera flashes.
‘Stolen!’ said Matt looking at her more closely. She’d done something with her hair and was wearing a really smart little outfit.
‘Yes, it was nicked by the phantom door-knocker stealer of Old Staplefirst. Local legend states that whosoever has their door knocker stolen will end up on Sunday at Six,’ he said, looking past her at the silver Merc.
‘That’s the second nice car I’ll have been in today!’
‘The second? How come?’
‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ he said pulling her into the house and closing the door.
‘We should have got the train, it would have been a lot cheaper.’
‘No, Matt, can you imagine the fuss if you tried to take a train up to London? You’d be mobbed! Don’t worry about the cost – Sunday at Six are paying. There’s no fee for doing these sorts of shows but they do pay transport. You all set?’ she said.
Matt took one last look in the hall mirror and ran his hand through his freshly combed quiff.
‘Yup let’s get to work!’ he said, opening the front door.
There was a flurry of activity as the paps swung into action, but it had almost become like water off a duck’s back for Matt now.
‘Good afternoon, Matt!’ said the chauffeur. ‘Big fan! I’ve got the rest of your team on board already!’ He opened the door to reveal Rob, Magda and Mrs T stuffed on to the back seat like sardines. ‘Blimey!’ said Matt ‘This is going to be a bit of a squash. Perhaps I should sit in the front?’
‘Sorry, bruv, already taken!’ Ahmed’s face appeared from around the front passenger seat.
‘You?’ said Matt.
‘I’m your tech guy,’ giggled Ahmed. ‘Plus, am I going to miss a chance to meet the one and only Amelia Wong? No way José!’
Matt shook his head and climbed into the back next to Mrs Trottman, followed by Kitty. He spent most of the journey with his face squashed up against Mrs T’s hair. At one point he wondered whether it was possible to survive for an hour and a half only breathing pure hairspray. ‘Actually,’ he thought, ‘there’s an idea for a gag.’ He tried to reach for his little black book but he was jammed in so tightly he couldn’t reach it.
‘I need to see you after school on Tuesday to go through the schedule,’ said Kitty. ‘I’m looking at a few options for gigs. You’ll need to work on some new material before you can go on stage again.’
‘Really?’ said Matt. ‘What’s wrong with the stuff I’ve got?’
‘You did ninety per cent of your act on The T Factor audition so I’m afraid that stuff is pretty much dead and buried. That’s the problem with doing your act on TV – once those jokes are out there you’ve got to write new ones. It’s all about turnover I’m afraid! Like I say, we need to start small, do a few low-profile gigs to work up some new stuff and fill up the tank again.’
The idea that his act was over as soon as he’d got the hang of it hadn’t even occurred to Matt, but he knew from seeing comics on TV doing stuff more than once that it was diminishing returns – gags just didn’t fly if the audience already knew the punchline. The surprise was gone and one thing he had learnt was that a punchline was pretty much just a very big surprise – that’s what made people laugh. Remove the surprise and you removed the laugh too.
Kitty continued. ‘No, the secret to being a successful TV comic is either turning over a lot of material – like say Jimmy Carr, but he’s unusual – or to come up with a TV format where you can be funny and use your stand-up skills without having to do your act. That’s why so many comics do panel shows and chat shows.’
‘How do you know all this stuff?’ asked Rob, a perplexed look on his face.
‘My dad told me and his dad told him,’ explained Kitty.
‘The great Sir Bernie Hopestein,’ said Matt, tapping the name into his smartphone then passing it to Rob.
‘Oh, I’ve been meaning to tell you, my great-uncle Buddy’s coming over from the States,’ Kitty said excitedly.
‘Wait a minute? Great-uncle … You mean …?’
‘Yes, my grandad Bernie’s younger brother. I say younger but he’s in his nineties now, and still going strong. He used to work with Bernie but they went their separate ways back in the sixties. Bernie stayed over here and ran his show-business empire—’
‘Including the Apollo …’ said Matt.
‘Including the Apollo,’ agreed Kitty. ‘And Buddy moved to the States. He runs one of the largest TV production channels in New York. He’s a force of nature, he really is – he still turns up for work every day.’
‘Who could be bothered, with all that money?’ said Magda.
‘You should meet him,’ said Kitty.
‘I’d love to!’ said Matt.
‘Who’s Bernie Hopestein when he’s at home?’ asked Ahmed from the front seat.
‘You’re having me on?’ said Mrs Trottman shifting in her seat and suddenly allowing Matt to take a couple of lungfuls of hairspray-free air. ‘Everyone knows Bernie Hopestein!’ she exclaimed. ‘He used to be at all those royal variety shows back in the day!’
Kitty nodded. ‘He owned the theatres—’ she said.
‘Including the Apollo!’ chipped in Matt, basking in the reflected glory of being associated with the great man’s granddaughter.
‘You mean he was your grandpa?’ said Mrs T in wonder. Kitty nodded again.
‘Why didn’t you tell us sooner? If that was me, I’d be telling everyone as soon as I met them. I’d even have a T-shirt printed with his face on!’
‘It just muddies the waters, Mrs Trottman,’ said Kitty. ‘This way I can’t be accused of trading on his name.’
‘Oh! That Bernie Hopestein!’ said Rob, reading through the old impresario’s Wikipedia page. ‘Looks like he pretty much ran show business in the fifties and sixties.’
‘That’s because he did!’ said Matt.
‘He was very, very successful,’ said Kitty.
‘Amazing!’ said Mrs T.
‘So anyway, I’ve got some ideas for gigs, Matt, and I just need to go through them with you – when you haven’t something else on your mind like TV appearances. So late Tuesday afternoon would be great.’
‘Ah, there’s a problem with that,’ said Matt. ‘See, I’ve got a gig.’
‘A gig?’ said Kitty suddenly stiffening in the seat next to him. ‘I thought we’d agreed you’d only do gigs that we’d worked on together? I mean I don’t mind in principle but I would prefer it if I was kept in the loop
– this is a very crucial time for you …’
‘No, silly!’ said Matt cutting her off before she got too carried away. ‘I’m not doing a gig, I’m going to one! Me, Rob, Ahmed and Mags here have been offered free tickets to Russel Perkins’ gig at the O2!’
‘Wow! Those tickets are like fifty pounds each!’ said Kitty.
‘I know,’ grinned Matt, ‘and they’re sending a cab to pick us up!’
‘They?’ said Kitty looking a little confused. ‘Who are “they” exactly?’
‘Er … some bloke from a management company,’ offered Rob. ‘Dickie somebody …’
‘Hart,’ Kitty said tersely. ‘Dickie Hart, one of the most unscrupulous operators in the business.’
‘Yeah?’ said Matt with a grin. He loved it when she got wound up. ‘Free tickets for the O2? What’s not to like? It’s not costing us a penny!’
‘Hmm, there’s no such thing as a free lunch,’ said Kitty ruefully as the car slowed to a halt.
‘He didn’t mention lunch …’ joked Matt.
‘I’ve got Matt Millz in the back for Sunday at Six?’ said the driver, pulling up at the barrier outside the TV studio.
The gatekeeper, in an official-looking peeked cap peered through the window. As he saw Matt he smiled and gave him the thumbs up. ‘Big fan!’ he said. Matt smiled back, the man raised the barrier and waved them through.
As the driver opened the back passenger door they literally fell out on to the pavement. One of Matt’s legs was numb. He staggered slightly and gulped in the cool, early evening air. Team Millz arranged themselves on the pavement. Matt took a look at them and felt a lump in his throat. It was amazing how these people were giving up their time just for him.
They were met by a young man in a headset and carrying a clipboard.
‘Hi, Matt, I’m Mo, we talked earlier on the phone? How was your trip down?’
‘Great. Not only was it a very nice car but we also broke the Guinness World Record for the number of people you can fit in an S-Class Mercedes!’ said Matt.
Mo looked blankly at him and continued, ‘So you’ve got about an hour before the show starts. Let me take you to your dressing room. Are these people …?’
‘Yes, we’re with him!’ said Kitty.
‘I’m his tech giant,’ said Ahmed playfully.
‘Is that so?’ said Mo. ‘Maybe I could wangle you a visit to the gallery, if that is of interest?’
‘Er … Rob’s the one who’s interested in art, bruv,’ said Ahmed.
‘Ah, not that sort of gallery,’ explained Mo. ‘The gallery in a TV studio is where all the tech people hang out.’
‘In that case count me in,’ said Ahmed looking really excited at the prospect.
Team Millz followed Mo through some double doors, up a couple of floors in a lift, down another corridor and up some stairs, then along another corridor.
‘This place is enormous!’ said Rob.
‘Yeah, takes a while to get used to,’ said Mo. Eventually they came to a corridor with a series of doors off it. One of the doors opened as they passed it and a small guy in little round black-rimmed glasses and a trilby hat peered out.
‘OMG! It’s will.i.am!’ said Magda.
‘Hi,’ said Will. Then he clocked Matt and a big smile lit up his face. ‘Hey! You’re that kid off the show! Man you were funny!’ He took Matt’s hand and attempted a complicated handshake, which sadly Matt wasn’t able to reciprocate. ‘Best thing on that show! Shoulda won! And who’s this lovely lady …?’ he said indicating Mrs T, who started to shriek with nervous laughter.
‘Hope you don’t mind, Will, can we get a selfie?’ said Magda, producing her phone from her pocket.
‘Sure,’ said Will. ‘On one condition, that I get one with my man here!’ He pointed to Matt. Matt couldn’t believe it, this felt like proper showbiz!
‘Here we are, star dressing room number three,’ said Mo moments later, dialling in a code and opening the door.
‘Hear that?’ said Ahmed. ‘You’re a star apparently, bruv.’
‘Can I get anyone a cup of tea or coffee?’ asked Mo.
Mrs T looked like she was going to have kittens at the prospect – she was even more excited at the idea of a cup of tea than meeting will.i.am.
‘So I’ll be back in about twenty minutes to take you down to make-up. In the meantime, just relax and help yourself to snacks and drinks.’ Mo hurried out, leaving them to it.
Before the door had even clicked shut Rob and Ahmed were up and exploring the room.
‘Woah! There’s a minibar!’ Rob said opening the door to a little fridge under a worktop that was loaded with bottles of water, juice and Cokes.
‘And look! Chocolate!’ said Ahmed moving over to a coffee table with a basket on it loaded with mini versions of chocolate bars. Rob immediately took a couple of handfuls and stuffed them into his pockets. As he reached to take another his hand took a hefty slap.
‘Ow!’ he exclaimed.
It was Mrs T. ‘Behave, you two!’ she barked.
Before they knew it, Mo was back and leading them all down the corridor the way they had come. Mo introduced Ahmed to another runner who took him off to have a look round the studio gallery. He then dropped Mrs T and Rob in the green room before taking Matt, Magda and Kitty to a narrow room lined with mirrors – the make-up room.
‘Hello, Matt! Take a seat,’ said a blonde lady who was wearing a lot of make-up. ‘She obviously practises on herself,’ thought Matt.
‘Is this your girlfriend?’ she said looking at Kitty.
‘Er no …’ said Kitty, uncharacteristically flustered.
‘Not yet anyway!’ said the make-up lady.
‘Kitty’s my manager,’ said Matt firmly, taking a seat in front of her and looking in the mirror facing him.
‘Good, well, I’m Vanessa. Now, before I start, are you allergic to anything?’
‘Penicillin!’ said Matt.
Vanessa the make-up lady laughed. ‘No, I mean make-up wise?’
‘How would I know?’ shrugged Matt. ‘I’m a twelve-year-old boy! I’ve never worn any make-up!’
‘Fair point,’ she said. ‘Well, I think you’d better get used to it judging by your performance on The T Factor!’
Matt was amazed at just how many people had caught his short set. It had only been five minutes long but it seemed to have had a huge impact.
‘You’ve got good skin so I’ll put as little as possible on you – we don’t want you coming out in spots in a few days time, do we?’ said Vanessa.
‘What’s that you’re using to put it on with?’ asked Magda, taking a step forward.
‘Oh, it’s a kind of diffuser, like an airbrush,’ said Vanessa. ‘You fill the little bowl at the end with foundation and turn it on, and it turns it into a fine spray. A lot of the girls use a brush but I prefer this as it ensures an even coat. We can’t have him looking patchy can we?’
‘Magda here’s interested in doing what you do,’ said Matt as Vanessa set to, spraying him with make-up.
‘Yeah?’ said Vanessa. ‘Well, you’re welcome to hang out back here with me and see what it involves.’
‘Oh, that would be soooo cool!’ swooned Magda.
Once Vanessa was happy with his make-up, Matt and Kitty were taken down a corridor and shown through a door into a fairly plain-looking room with a couple of sofas and a small bar area. Sat on the sofa watching a large monitor were Team Millz.
‘Looking good, boyfriend!’ joked Rob.
‘Yeah, but steady, Matt – remember Amelia is the one for me,’ laughed Ahmed, helping himself to a handful of cheese Wotsits from a bowl on a coffee table in front of him. The monitor was showing a live feed from the studio before the show started.
On another sofa was an older man with a pigeon in a cage, and an actor who Matt thought he vaguely recognised, plus various others.
Matt didn’t have long to wait till Mo wandered back in to get him.
‘Matt?’ he
said. ‘Can I take you through to the studio now please?’
‘Ten seconds, people!’ announced the floor manager as Mo led Matt on to the studio floor.
‘It looks—’ started Matt.
‘I know,’ said Mo, ‘it looks much bigger on TV.’
The floor manager started to count down backwards from ten on his fingers as Matt watched the announcer on the studio monitor.
‘And now on BBC 1 we join Amelia Wong and Mark Butcher for Sunday at Six!’ said the announcer.
‘Roll titles,’ said the floor manager.
‘Wow! There they are!’ said Matt in wonderment as he spotted the two hosts through the forest of cameras. Matt couldn’t believe he was actually standing less than six metres from the hosts of one of his mum’s favourite TV shows.
‘They’re—’ started Matt.
‘I know, much smaller in real life,’ said Mo somewhat wearily. ‘So the running order, just so’s you know: you’re on last and before you we’ve got an item on a one-legged pigeon called Nelson, then we’ve got that bloke from the sci-fi thing – you know Chair of Swords or whatever it’s called – talking about the new series, then we’ve got a rather sad item about homelessness, and then it’s Matt Millz time! You’ll stay on after your bit as we go to an item on international sausage day. Are you OK to try a sausage?’
‘Yes! Of course, ha ha!’ Matt laughed. The line-up was a real hotchpotch of serious, sad, funny and quirky items plus a bit of food-tasting – in other words, a classic Sunday at Six.
The title sequence finished and Mark and Amelia started their introduction, headlining what was coming up. Matt grinned like a Cheshire cat as he heard his name being mentioned. ‘But first our reporter Rod Hall this week caught up with Nelson, a disabled pigeon …’
Matt heard a voice in the floor manager’s ear that barked ‘Roll VT!’ and as the filmed item on Nelson the one-legged pigeon appeared on the monitors there was a flurry of activity. Vanessa from make-up rushed in and started powdering Amelia’s face. The lady from wardrobe appeared with a clothes brush and started picking lint off Mark’s jacket. The floor manager darted in with a couple of bottles of water for them both and talked them through the next item. At the same time they were responding to comments from the director in the gallery through their earpieces.