To make matters worse, there were no rehearsals prior to the filming of the show. Instead Nigel, me and four other reluctant contestants were told to huddle together in silence, out of sight of the cameras. When signalled, we were expected to bolt from behind the scenery onto the set, waving our arms madly above our heads, navigating past the fake breakfast cereal boxes while carefully avoiding the labyrinth of power cables underfoot. Then, under the glare of the blinding studio lights we were to make our way over to the dominating central podium located in the middle of the studio. There was a lot to take on board and by now I was absolutely bricking it. Just what had I got myself involved with?
Although it was Pennie who’d encouraged me to take part, it had been a couple of weeks since we’d been in touch and as a result, I was craving her companionship. Just one bloody good toke from a chunky spliff would I thought, be enough to get me through this unbearable afternoon. As more and more prescriptive instructions followed from an overbearing production team, any residual common sense I had left, welled up inside to alert me to the humongous error I was making by participating in the show, drug-free. Regret is usually experienced after something has happened, but on this day, it happened simultaneously with the event itself. The easiest way of explaining this feeling is to think about the sensation you go through when you’re driving a brand new car and make a move to overtake a random lorry up ahead. You pull out and begin to accelerate, only to discover the lorry is gritting the road and you are now being pelted with small sharp stones which are busy bouncing off your bonnet and windscreen. With vehicles speeding behind you, it is too late to decelerate, so wishing you had never initiated the move, you clench your teeth, fix your eyes ahead and plough on as quickly as you can.
Buddhists believe ‘When the student is ready, the teacher will always appear’. I’d imagined if I was ever fortunate enough to encounter such a sage, my guru would be some bearded old man, full of profound wisdom which could bring about personal enlightenment – someone a bit like Mr Miyagi from the Karate Kid films. Little did I know this was the day I’d discover just how accurate that Buddhist saying was. Such individuals DID materialise when you were ready to hear their messages; however the mysterious stranger who would lead me to a higher level of awareness, turned out to be as diametrically opposed to my idealised image of a mentor as I could ever imagine.
Host Dale Winton flamboyantly arrived on set, flanked by a posse of nodding assistants. Although he was personable enough, he appeared to be a little distracted, so star-struck Nigel bravely attempted to break the ice with an innocuous comment.
“You will be gentle with us Dale, won’t you?”
To which our host countered in the campest voice imaginable, “Only if you two handsome fellas are going to be really ROUGH with me.”
Oh… my… God.
The speed of Dale’s amplified response was enough to send the sizable studio audience into fits of laughter, which in turn made me long for Pennie even more. For the briefest moment (before the next tsunami of paralyzing fear engulfed me), I was conscious that Nigel and I may be perceived as some kind of aging camp couple, taking part on the show just to spend time with our hero Dale. This worry was like being consumed by an unexpected eruption of homophobia which took over for a (small-minded) nanosecond and felt shamefully unpleasant. Hell, I had a gay sister and gay friends but was now all of a sudden concerned about how my sexuality was being perceived. Before I had time to reaffirm my respect for all sexual preferences; a natty young production assistant waltzed over clutching two rather fetching baby pink matching sweatshirts for us to change into.
Next thing I knew the signal was given to run onto the set wearing our snappy clothing along with our best sugary smile. Cue gaudy music and the announcement to, “Fill those trolleys because shopping has never been so much fun”. We all ran over to the contestants’ podium, jostling for position like real life shoppers during the opening hour of the Next sale. My mind began to whirr... podium... podium, hold on wasn’t this linked to one of the Rubie Deramore predictions
“I can clearly see you stood on a podium, in front of lots of people under the glare of bright lights.” Was this the pivotal day foretold?
I just about managed to flash a few mechanical grimaces across to our wrinkle-free anchor-man before the next landslide realisation, that many of the viewers watching this primetime programme would be my friends, my family as well as the remains of a rapidly diminishing customer base. Every one of them would soon be able to witness me running around the studio looking for fake tins of baked beans and evaporated milk. What would they think? What had possessed me to get involved? Why on earth was I putting myself through this? What does a tin of evaporated milk look like?
As soon as we’d settled into our designated places, Camera 1 glided along its well-oiled trolley track scanning the assembled row of contestants, before stopping right in front of me, no more than an arm’s length from my fretful face. Under the critical gaze of this camera, I was powerless to adjust a thing. Experiencing the greatest pressure I had ever known, there was nowhere in the world I wanted to be less.
Then, at this almost unbearable moment, something happened. I was overcome by a palpable sensation. It was as if some kind of internal recalibration was suddenly taking place. At this tipping point, the chaos around me started to fade away – the sense of exposure, the manic production team and the hysterical audience. Every single distraction was pushed into the background as I focused solely on the sizable camera which was obscuring my vision. Hypnotised by this monument to Japanese optical engineering, I looked straight at its gleaming convex lens and unexpectedly caught a glimpse of my own reflection.
This was the closest my well-worn eyes had ever been to seeing the person I had become. Shocked by the barely recognisable face looking back at me, I was presented with a razor sharp picture of the lifeless, lonely little man I had evolved into. This wasn’t easy viewing. Without the distracting presence of my unreliable companion, I was forced to consider how others might perceive me. For the first time since Pennie had ensnared me, I dared to recognise the compound effect of having her around. During this moribund moment of unpalatable clarity; I had no option but to accept the inescapable conclusion: that I was in too deep and my life had become unmanageable.
I was therefore still in a daze when the expressionless Mr Winton asked his opening question. I’d been expecting us all to introduce ourselves at the beginning of the show and so was totally shocked by this requirement to use our brains. Unfortunately for me, bright spark Nigel immediately stepped up, pressed his buzzer and got the answer right. This meant before I had time to collect any of my levelling thoughts, I had to run what was called the Mini Sweep[7]. To secure cherished bonus seconds, I was expected to dart around the studio flanked by a roaming cameraman while the easy-to-please audience watched me frantically search for a mystery object which had been hidden on one of the shelves. Contestant savvy Dale, picking up on my vacuous expression reminded me of what was expected:
“Charlie, are you ready to go wild in the aisles to find the... hairdryer?”
Huh? I thought.
On the televised edition you can literally see the remaining colour draining away from my skin and my eyes blinking rapidly in an involuntary manner. Now I really was in trouble. The look of total dread which covered my face revealed I hadn’t got a clue what our host was talking about. Dale gave it one more go, his voice becoming audibly more impatient with me.
“Charlie if you get this in the next thirty seconds not only will I give you ten seconds extra but I will also give you £50 – now, are you ready?”
I was barely audible as I hesitantly mumbled, “Re-e-dddiee.”
Next thing I knew a piercing siren was activated and I was sprinting in a directionless manner down one of the pretend supermarket isles, while Dale and the other contestants screamed a confusing mixture of instruction and laughter at me. What was I supposed to be doing? All I could think about was
how tight the brand new trainers were on my feet and for a good ten seconds actually forgot what I was looking for. Fortunately many of the studio audience were more clued-up and behind Dale’s back helpful onlookers gestured the best way for me to find the bloody thing. Replica hairdryer now proudly clutched in hand, I rushed back with seconds to spare and obediently handed to him. I must have looked like a nine-year-old boy who’d just passed his cycling proficiency test, chomping at the bit to show his parents the certificate.
Stood by his side, more humiliations followed as Dale looked straight at the camera and with one eyebrow arched, wryly said, “ I’m not surprised he didn’t know where it was – I don’t suppose he uses one of these very often these days, do you viewer?”
I was then given the right to reply, as the camera was turned towards me hoping to capture a humorous response to Dale’s quip. However still breathless, I was unable to summon up a single word and simply acquiesced by dipping my head and rubbing my receding hairline. This was no place for flamboyant gestures, for making fun of my own failings or for parading all the peculiar peccadilloes which the unscrupulous Pennie Fenton had encouraged me to share. No this was serious.
Following this whirlwind of an opening, Dale slowed things down a bit and returned to the podium to find out a little bit more about each of his contestants. Although charming, his memory was only marginally more effective than my own, regularly mixing up key details about each of the individuals in front of him. Nigel and I were inaccurately described as best friends - both born and bred in Scunthorpe – a place which, according to Dale, “Gets lots of stick but isn’t as bad as everyone makes out.”
I’m sure a massive sense of relief swept over the town’s population on hearing this magnanimous assessment. Other abasements came thick and fast, “Charlie, I understand you are a trainee manager...” he said.
Now, still conscious that many of my clients may one day see this program, I felt I had to interject at this misrepresentation. I’d let the ‘born and bred in Scunthorpe’ and the ‘best friends with Nigel’ bits go without a murmur, but thought there was no way I could appear on national TV show and position myself as some kind of youth apprentice.
So I interrupted our host, practically shouting, “TRAINING–ING Dale, TRAININ-ING …ING… ING, NOT TRAINEE!” at him.
In response to my brusque correction, Dale looked rather unsettled. Giving me the cold shoulder, he shuffled his prompt cards and moved swiftly towards the next contestant.
Tedious introductions finally over, it was onto a number of high pressure quick-fire buzzer rounds. Here we were each asked a series of tasking questions such as, “Contestants, the main ingredient of hollandaise sauce is cheese - true or false?” or, “I’m now looking for a French word which begins with the letter ‘S’ and means all puffed up.”
Parking our acute embarrassment, Nigel and I bumbled our way through these rounds answering most of the banal questions correctly. By the half-way mark, we’d even crept into pole position. Motivated by a forty second advantage which we’d gained over the other contestants, Nigel volunteered to represent us in the Trolley Dash[7]. This was effectively the knockout round, where only one team could progress into the ‘big finale’. Fortunately for us, Nigel was like a gazelle that afternoon and skated around the studio set like Christopher Dean at the Nottingham ice rink. In the three minutes, forty seconds we were allowed, he filled a total of four shopping trollies, all brimming with high value items.
As the commentator observed, “It’s Nigel we’re panning to now, who’s comfortably in front as he piles into those nappies with a fine sense of purpose.”
With all the extra time he had to play with and with such dedication to the cause, it was virtually impossible for the other contestants to catch up with him and, as a result, a hollow victory was ours.
Applauded as Dale’s champions we were then offered the opportunity to go for the final Big Money Super Sweep[7] with the possibility of winning £5000. Here was the only point in the show when we could have emerged with any dignity. Unsurprisingly we totally blew it. Away from the protection of the podium and forced back in front of that single probing camera lens, we crumbled. For me, that bastard of a camera had defeated me the instant it moved into position at the start of the show; so being called up to be measured by it again made me impossibly tense. As we were approaching the end of a knackering four hours filming Nigel and I were all too easily mesmerised by the (not too cryptic) cryptic clues. Replicating all the behaviours of every contestant we’d ever ridiculed for appearing on daytime TV, we spent far too long over-interpreting what each of the easy-peasy messages meant.
To compensate for the agonising silences which followed, our lugubrious commentator summed it up by interjecting with, “Charlie did the Mini Sweep and Nigel a fine job with the Trolley Dash – so they should know their way around, but all of a sudden they both seem to be at a total loss...” We were.
Failing the task, Dale provided his perfunctory commiserations, as the studio audience half-heartedly slow-clapped in the same sympathetic way parents do when watching the very last child cross the 100 metre finishing line on sports day.
Before we left the studios, as defeated champions, we were presented with a cheque for half of the amount of the shopping accumulated in our shopping trollies. While we’d effortlessly imploded during our attempts to win the ‘big money prize’, we were still entitled to take home the value of the goods collected during filming. We were each paid a paltry £132. It was a fraction of the money I could have earned by working that day, just less than the cost of the new trainers and return rail ticket to Maidstone and much, much less than the Pokerface prize I’d originally been attracted to. £132, not quite enough to transform my fortunes or regain any of my self-respect.
21. Past Tense
Supermarket Sweep was a watershed in so many ways. Slouched in my saver-return economy rail seat the next morning, was the first time I remember being pleased to see signs for Scunthorpe, the first occasion I truly felt almost home. Something had changed, but I couldn’t quite pinpoint what. All I knew was that I wasn’t the same person who’d travelled down to Kent the day before. It was as if by admitting my inability to cope, I had released myself from the need to demonstrate I could.
I felt very low for at least a week after my return and found it uncomfortable to talk about the experience with my family, who were all desperate to hear about every aspect of the trip.
“Please don’t ask about it, just thinking about it makes me feel ashamed and humiliated,” I’d say.
“But why, what happened?” asked Annie.
“Let’s just say I would put the day near the very top of my all-time worst experiences.”
In my mind, I had been flattened by a giant metaphorical shopping trolley pushed by a ludicrously camp television presenter with a penchant for sunbeds.
Still, it was fascinating to acknowledge the contrast in Nigel’s reactions to filming the show. On his return Nigel told Natasha, “It was one of the best days of my life, one which I’d gladly repeat over and over again.”
Nigel had revelled in the experience and was thrilled to have been provided with a rich collection of anecdotes which could be liberally shared with others. He was eagerly awaiting the screening of the programme, while I prayed to God it would never be broadcast.
Fundamentally, I believed I’d let myself down. It was something I should never have elected to do. Nerves had got the better of me and more than ever before, I felt overwhelmed by the world around me. This sorry episode represented the loss of self-respect, the death of dignity, the shameful experience I’d much rather forget. The problem was - no one would let me. Everyone I bumped into was captivated by news of the trip.
“What exactly happened?”
“What was Dale like?”
“Do you get to keep the shopping?”
“Did they pay for the hotel?”
Parents at the school gate wanted to know how much I h
ad won. Faye called to say her nan was a big fan of the show and asked if I would phone her to talk about it. Clients had heard about my appearance and were planning to record the show. Please make it all stop.
A small proportion of episodes were screened almost immediately, but as we weren’t informed when our particular edition would be broadcast, Nigel and I were constantly reorganising our days to make sure we didn’t miss an episode. Never knowing if or when we would be on the telly was like waiting in purgatory. Then, just as it was becoming increasingly likely our show was about to be aired; the series was unexpectedly taken off the air and replaced with a cookery programme. While this news brought some temporary relief, the uncertainty surrounding whether it was ever coming back left me even more in a state of limbo. With no future screening date determined, I was unable to put the programme behind me or move on. Hanging in the balance, I was forced me to examine why it was I’d felt so unnatural the day.
It didn’t take long to conclude the reason for my poor performance was because of my fixation with Pennie. This alone was to blame. This was the cause of my disappointment, the sole reason I looked like death-cooled-down in front of the cameras. Sensing I’d arrived at a conclusion which every fibre of my being knew to be true, I decided this was the perfect time to stand up to my addiction. One small promise made to myself and I knew with unswerving certainty that while it wouldn’t be easy, I would never smoke again.
Then, the disturbing realisation, that after countless attempts, clever strategies and broken commitments; the shatterproof heart of the matter was it had taken a chance encounter with the positively luminous Dale Winton to give me the impetus I needed to finally put an end my relationship with Pennie. Supermarket Sweep had revealed just how little I was capable of and highlighted the shallowness of the water I was splashing in. I had definitely been shaken when Hattie had discovered my filthy little secret, but in the end, all it took to overcome my fully loaded juggernaut of genetic disposition towards dependency was, it turns out, the cheesiest of daytime television shows.
Drowning in the Shallow End Page 26