by Sam Holden
'No. They were never promised a party, and besides, these people's real thrill is appearing on TV. That's reward enough for them.'
It was clear that I wasn't going to win this one. So the next exchange came as no surprise.
'I'd like to email you a list of some people I want to invite. Don't worry, they're friends and family, not the cooee brigade.'
'OK. How many?'
'I've got thirty.'
'Thirty?'
'Why, is that too many?'
'WAY too many. Can you get it down to six?'
'SIX? But that's nothing.'
'I'm sorry, Sam, but there's not much room for friends. You could do eight, at a pinch. Sorry, but that's the way it is.'
'Gee, thanks a bunch.'
'There's nothing stopping you having your own party.'
The logic of that was perfectly unassailable, but it wasn't really the point. And besides, holding parties in clubs in London is not cheap.
'Right,' I said. 'I'll get it down to eight.'
'Great,' she said. 'And remember your wife counts as one of those eight, OK?'
Somehow that didn't surprise me. I can't believe I was so easily charmed by her at the Clarendon. I can see why she's a good PR now. In a way, I should count myself lucky that I have such a tough cookie on my side. I hope she doesn't rub up journalists in the same way. I doubt it – I expect she's in full seductress mode for them. It's only people like me, the poor old fool who came up with the idea for the programme, and who actually stars in the bloody thing, who get treated like crap.
Wednesday 3 September
I saw Emily – where else? – in the supermarket. Today our accidental meeting-place was near the household-cleaning products, glamorously enough. We did the normal hellos, and then Emily said, 'I expect I won't be seeing much of you soon.'
'Why's that? Are you moving?'
'No. But soon you are going to be so rich and famous you won't bother coming to the supermarket, you'll have slaves to do it for you.'
'Too right,' I said. 'And a punkah-wallah to cool me down in the summer.'
'What's that?'
'One of those chaps out in the Raj who used to pull a rope all day attached to a sail-like fan that kept the room cool.'
'I could do with one of those,' she said. 'It's far too hot at the moment.'
I didn't know what else to say. This is always a problem when you know someone is in love with you (the expert speaks) because the only thing on your mind is the great unspoken.
'Kate tells me that you're having some kind of party on Friday up in London.'
Oh shit, I thought, somebody is angling for an invitation. I've invited Kate and her husband, because they are new best friends, and I want to cement our friendship.
'That's right,' I said.
Never apologise, never explain, I said to myself.
'I'm sorry not to invite you, but the numbers are limited,' I told Emily.
'Honestly, I wasn't expecting to be invited,' she replied. 'I doubt Sally would want me there.'
I smiled weakly.
'Probably not.'
We said perfunctory goodbyes. As I trolleyed away, I reflected that Emily had changed radically. Her spark had died, fizzled out in a muddy pool. She seemed depressed, gloomy. The flirtation had gone, and there was an edge of chippy bitterness to her. If I'm being harsh, I'd say all this was her own doing, all down to her giving into her sexual incontinence. But then isn't the definition of incontinence suggestive of a lack of control? How can you be blamed for something you can't control? What makes Emily so special that she feels she can cheat on her husband, and get other women's husbands to cheat on their wives?
I'm worried that Emily is going to turn sour, like forgotten milk in the back of the fridge. If I could, I would help her, but I know I'm part of the problem, and I also know that sympathy friendships always end badly. I shall just have to keep an eye on her, and be as nice as possible, from a distance mind you.
Thursday 4 September
Halet said that she was very excited about my programme.
'I've told all my friends to tune in tomorrow night,' she said.
'Excellent,' I said. 'The more viewers the merrier. I expect you will find it a bit silly though.'
Halet flicked that aside.
'It's TV, isn't it? It's all silly.'
Why hadn't I known that?
I'm getting really nervous about tomorrow night now. I've decided that I'm not going to drink, as I'll only get mullered and make a fool of myself. Laura tells me that all the newspaper and magazine TV editors will be there, and it will be quite a bash. When I told her that I was intending to stay dry for the night, she sounded as pleased as I do when Daisy tells me that she has been to the loo all by herself.
Peter asked me a funny question during teatime.
'Daddy? Are you going to be famous?'
'A little bit, yes.'
'Cool!'
'Well, I don't know if it's cool.'
'It's really cool. Josh's mummy told Josh that she had seen you on the TV! Are you going to be on the TV again?'
Josh's mummy must have seen one of the trailers. I hadn't seen one yet. Oh God, I thought, it's really happening.
'I will be, yes.'
'Cool! And will you be really rich?'
'Erm, no. I shall have a bit more money, yes.'
Now it was Daisy's turn to pipe up.
'I like money,' she said.
I had to laugh.
'Why do you like money?' I asked her.
'Because it is shiny,' she said.
'I like money too!' Peter announced.
'And why do you like it?'
'Because money buys lots of toys,' said Peter.
'That's right, but you have to have lots of money to buy lots of toys.'
'I will have lots of money one day. Enough to fill the whole world, and I will buy all the toys in world.'
'And where are you going to get all the money from?'
'From being famous and being on TV like you.'
The sad thing is that I pretty much thought like that too a few months ago.
Saturday 6 September
6 p.m. Back home
Still hung-over, but I don't care, because I'm on a high. The party went well, the reviews in this morning's papers are mostly excellent, and the initial viewing figures are looking really positive. Perhaps all that PR bollocks was worth it after all, although I'm pretty sure that the whole success of WonderHubby is down to me. After all, it was my idea, and what's the point of having a trumpet if you can't blow it?
The one thing I found strange about the party was that even though it was notionally in my honour, I barely knew anybody there. It rather seemed to be an excuse for journalists to get drunk at someone else's expense, which is fair enough I suppose. Most of those who had interviewed me came along, but they showed more interest in talking to each other. Perhaps I had bored them. Anyway, it didn't matter, because Sally and I had a great time talking to Kate and Nigel and Clare, etc., which Laura moaned about until I told her that I had tried talking to the hacks, but they weren't interested.
However, I did make a short speech, which went down well, as most people appeared to be listening. Just as one would expect, I thanked everybody who needed to be thanked, and then I made a great point of thanking the poor buggers who had appeared in the programme, and expressed regret that they couldn't attend. That earned a somewhat muted clap.
At one point, Dom and Dave collared me. There was a lot of 'dig' and backslapping and clumsy high fives, and then the invitation to have some 'yayo'.
'I think it's about time, now that you're a telly star, that you enjoyed all the trappings of your new status,' said Dom.
'Dig,' said Dave, who was sniffing as though he had a bad cold.
'I'm, er, not sure . . .'
'C'mon mate! Just a celebratory line!'
Drugs. I've always had an ambivalent attitude towards them. Of course, like 99 per cent of people
in their thirties, I've tried them, but nothing serious. All just felt a bit pointless, really.
'That's ever so kind of you,' I said to Dom. 'But I'll leave it, thanks.'
'Sure? This is excellent Bolivian, you should really try it.'
'Bolivian, eh? This isn't just normal cocaine, this is Bolivian cocaine,' I said, imitating that woman's sultry voice in the well-known supermarket ad. 'You'll be saying that it's Fairtrade next.'
Dom laughed.
'I doubt it, but I do know that it's organic.'
'You're joking!'
'Not at all. My man told me it was.'
'And you believed him?'
'Of course. I trust my drug dealer implicitly!'
With that, Dom and Dave disappeared to powder their noses. I was slightly jealous because it seemed like fun, but I was paranoid enough not to be tempted, and besides, one of the journalists might have seen me. And what about Laura? If she didn't like me drinking, what would she say to WONDERHUBBY IN COCAINE SHAME all over the tabloids? Quite a lot, I would imagine.
As the party dwindled at around ten o'clock, Laura came up to me.
'A few of us are going on to Cooper's,' she said. 'Do you and Sally fancy joining us?'
My reply was instantaneous.
'No thanks,' I said. 'I've got a table for me and my friends. Sorry, if I'd known . . .'
I didn't have a table. I just couldn't face hanging out with media people any more. I wanted to be with my wife and my friends. As it was we did well, and although it was probably the worst restaurant in the whole of Soho, the Greasy Kukri, or whatever it was called, did us proud. I must have drunk every variety of sub-continental lager they had, and even Sally was keeping up.
'To WonderHubby!' said Nigel at one point, and I responded by toasting them. It seems a bit cheesy and sentimental now, but at the time it felt just right. It was good to know that I would always have these people around, as the Doms and Daves and Emmas and Lauras will no doubt flitter off as soon as a more nectar-laden flower blossoms into view.
We caught the last train home, and I just had time to buy every first edition of the newspapers in order to read the reviews. Sally and I drunkenly spread them out over our table, and read them aloud to each other. Our fellow passengers must have thought we were partly insane, but I didn't care.
In the main, they were pretty good. The best was in the Daily Advertiser, which read:
WonderHubby is a bizarre mixture of management programme and childcare, and more bizarrely still, it does the trick. It works not only as a system for raising your children – the results appear to be impressive – but also as a TV programme. The presenter and inventor of the eponymous system is Sam Holden, a former management consultant who decided to apply the principles of his old job to raising his children. He makes an engaging host, and although he sometimes bedazzles the viewer with his vocabulary, he radiates much warmth and decency, all too rare qualities on our screens these days. I predict that this series is going to go a long way, and I wouldn't be surprised to see Sam Holden becoming the new childcare guru of our times. Move over Gina!
All I could to say to that was, 'Wow!'
All Sally could say was, 'Please make sure your head doesn't get too big.' But I could tell she was proud, and she gave me a massive kiss.
The more downmarket Herald loved it as well.
WonderHubby is the best reality TV to hit our screens since Gay Up Your Kitchen. Host Sam Holden, the inventor of a whacky new childcare system which seems to involve lots of long words, shows families how to look after their kids by using the techniques of business folk. Judging by last night's show, it really seems to work! He stops short of putting the kids in pinstripe suits, but there is method in his crazy bizspeak! Look out for this next week, it's a must!
And even the normally rather snooty Clarion gave it the thumbs up:
There are many of us who are sick of reality TV, childcare TV, and 'Business is Sexy' TV, and it took a brave commissioning editor to go ahead and order six episodes of WonderHubby, which mixes all three. Nevertheless, this combination of stale ingredients produces a highly digestible dish, which blends much good sense, situational humour and surprisingly useful advice. The presenter, Sam Holden, does a good job in holding it all together, and this reviewer would not be surprised if WonderHubby has a great future.
The only mixed review was from the Gleaner:
It's hard to think of a bigger mess of formats, and although WonderHubby has its comic moments, they are presented at the expense of the participants, who are mainly from low-income families. The supposed childcare system is the brainchild of the show's host, Sam Holden, a former management consultant, who seems to think that by chanting bullshit business mantras at the harassed families, their children will somehow behave better. I wasn't convinced it worked, and I suspect WonderHubby is more a triumph of editing. I'd be interested to see what the families really thought off camera, and would welcome an update in a year's time, to see if the Holden Childcare Programme really matched the hype.
Funnily enough, that one didn't get me down at all, because I pretty much agreed with it. In fact, I was more surprised that only one of the reviewers had seen through it, but then maybe the rest chose not to, no doubt not wanting to jeopardise their free evenings at places like the Harpo.
As if to ensure that my feet stay rooted in the soil, Peter and Daisy have been uncharacteristically foul today. For some reason, they've just been whingeing at the slightest thing, and my and Sally's patience – never particularly long with hangovers – has been painfully tested. Still, I can't complain about anything at the moment. It's all feeling a little too good to be true.
Monday 8 September
And it gets better. Laura phoned me at 8 o'clock to say that a car would be here at midday to take me to London. I was to be interviewed on nothing less than Joseph and Mary, which is THE daytime chat show to appear on. Unreal, utterly wonderfully unreal. And the car was no ordinary car either, but some massive top-of-the-range Audi, complete with all of today's papers neatly laid out on the back seat, and even a TV set with a DVD player.
The interview went well, partly because Laura wasn't able to sit next to me telling me what to say. It seemed as though both Joseph and Mary were genuine fans of the show, and they asked me a load of piss-easy questions.
'I wish we had brought up our children with the Holden Childcare Programme,' said Joseph.
I glowed with a very sheepish pride.
'So do I,' said Mary. 'We had all that Dr Spock nonsense. Your system seems a lot better.'
'We just threw Spock away, didn't we darling?'
'I remember throwing it out the window one night,' said Mary.
'Well, I hope that doesn't happen to my advice,' I said, and they laughed a bit too much.
As soon as we were off air, Mary asked me whether I wanted to come on again.
'We need someone like you in the mix,' she said.
'A younger man, eh, darling?' said Joseph.
'Oh shut it!'
'I'd be delighted,' I said.
'Do you think you could do a weekly slot?'
'I'd love to, although I'd better check with the TV company to see if they're happy.'
'I'm sure they will be,' said Mary. 'Who's your agent by the way?'
'Agent?'
'You mean you don't have one?'
'Er, no.'
'You're joking! You must have an agent! Joseph, did you hear that? Young Sam here doesn't have an agent.'
'Lucky him,' he said. 'If you can get away with it, don't bother.'
'But nobody will take him seriously without an agent,' said Mary.
'I'm not sure they take me seriously anyway,' I said.
Mary scribbled a number down on a piece of paper.
'This is our agent,' she said, handing it to me. 'Give her a call, and she can negotiate a fee with our producer.'
So, two hours later, I had not only an agent called Cat, but also a weekly slot on Joseph a
nd Mary that will net me £1,000 per week. Fuck me.
Tuesday 9 September
2 p.m.
Better still. I've just had a call from Toby Andrews at the Sunday Advertiser. They need a new weekly columnist in their lifestyle section, and how would I feel if it were me? I told him I'd feel delighted. He said that they would pay me £1,500 per column. I almost fainted. In the past twenty-four hours, I've become £130,000 per year richer. This is on top of the £90,000 TV money. Bloody hell. This is a lot better than being a management consultant. This is better than winning the lottery, because it sort of means something.
2.30 p.m.
Just phoned Sally to tell her. It was clear she was having a (nother) shit day at work, but she more than registered her astonishment.
'But that's amazing,' she whispered. '£1,500 per week? Really?'
'Really!'
'I knew I was right to encourage you to do this,' she said.
'Hey!' I went.
'I must go,' she said. 'Let's celebrate later.'
'I won't need much persuading.'
4 p.m.
Dom has just phoned me.
'Mate, are you sitting down?'
'No. Should I be?'
'Yes.'
'Has someone died?'
'Nope. Even better than that.'
'Go on.'
'You know we were talking about getting a book out of this?'
'Oh yes.'
'Well,' he said, 'we've had a few offers.'
'Really? From whom?'
'Publishers, you twat!'
'OK, sorry, yes, not quite with it. Carry on.'
'Three are not worth considering, two are OK, but there are another three which are not bad at all.'
'OK.'
'MacIntosh Tanner have come in with £150K. Nesbit are at £140K. And Artemis are in at £175K.'
'Fucking hell!'
'Obviously, these are just the opening offers. And remember, these get split fifty-fifty as per our contract. Our literary agent should be able to beef those up to well over £250K. She says she wants best bids by 5.30 today, so stand by your phone.'
'I will, don't you worry.'
Holy smoke, Batman. I won't phone Sally. I think I'll present it as an afterthought later.