Chart Throb

by Elton, Ben

  ‘Walked straight in,’ Graham added.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Emma said, trying to be patient. ‘But don’t get too hung up on specifics. We’re here to demonstrate a broader truth which is that you’re blind, OK? In fact we might take a shot of the disabled bay with a car in it . . .’

  ‘My car?’ Millicent enquired.

  ‘It doesn’t matter which car,’ Emma almost snapped. ‘It’s just to show that the disabled bay is always full when a genuine case requires it.’

  ‘But it wasn’t, it was empty and we used it!’

  ‘I KNOW!’ said Emma and this time she did not bother to conceal her irritation. ‘Look, we’ll forget the car bit, OK? It was just a thought. Wait for our signal and then go with Graham towards the queue. Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  The team then retreated to set up their camera. Emma called ‘Action!’ then ‘Cut!’ almost immediately after.

  ‘Millicent,’ she said, ‘do you think you could possibly lead Graham?’

  ‘What, by the hand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve got my stick,’ Graham shouted. ‘And I can hear Milly. I don’t need leading.’

  ‘Yes but . . . well, it looks . . . it looks better.’

  In the end Graham’s desire to please the TV people overcame any wounded pride and he allowed himself to be led by Milly through the car park to join the end of the ‘queue’, which Gary and Barry had carefully placed by the front door and by some miracle managed to persuade to look cheerful.

  When the shot was completed Emma leaned on a car and lit another cigarette.

  ‘Long way to go yet,’ said Chelsie.

  ‘Yes. I know.’

  ‘Better get a move on, hadn’t we?’

  Emma did not move. For a moment she closed her eyes, inhaling deeply.

  ‘Did you see that girl Shaiana?’ she asked eventually.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Chelsie replied. ‘Absolute nutter.’

  ‘Did you think she was a bit too intense? A bit scary?’

  ‘I didn’t think there was such a thing on Chart Throb?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Emma, laughing slightly too loudly. ‘I suppose if she kills herself we can always lose it in the edit.’

  ‘Bollocks, Calvin would put it in the trailers.’

  Mission Statement

  Next came the part of the afternoon Emma had been dreading most of all. It was time for her to play her role in the final humiliation of a person whom she saw as a decent and hard-working old man who just happened to be heir to the throne.

  ‘Wales!’ she called out, following Calvin’s instructions to treat their celebrated entrant no differently to the others.

  ‘Good afternoon, young lady,’ said a gentle voice almost at her elbow. ‘Wales here, reporting for duty. All present and correct.’

  Emma could hardly believe it. He had been not four metres away and she had not even noticed him. Among the wall-to-wall pulsating egos screaming for attention he had simply become invisible, and his detectives even more so.

  Emma curtsied. She had not meant to, and she had not expected to. She had not, after all, curtsied to any of the other contestants and she was supposed to treat them all the same but she could not help herself. This was the Prince of fucking Wales! To her at least this man meant something. Despite the endless embarrassments, the constant erosion of his dignity and authority, the comically anachronistic nature of everything about him from his trousers to his very office, he meant something. Not him so much as his position. He was history. His family embodied the nation. A collective focus that stretched back a thousand years.

  Emma cared about that. Despite living in a world where anything that was not beautiful or fashionable was deemed worthless, Emma considered this man important. She wanted to be respectful to him. That was surely the point of having him. As far as she was concerned if you’re going to have a Prince of Wales, play the game and curtsey. Otherwise spend the public money on something else.

  This man was the heir to the throne.

  He was also, it seemed, an embarrassingly naïve wannabe media celeb and she was the Mephistopheles who was soon to hang his sorry, terminally compromised arse out to dry.

  ‘Uhm, hi, hello, uhm, sir . . . I’m Emma.’

  ‘Hello, Emma. How nice to see you. How are you? Are you well?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, sir. I’m fine. It’s . . . it’s an honour to meet you, uhm . . . Mr Wales. To have you here.’

  ‘Oh no really, I’m just happy if I can do my bit.’

  ‘Well . . . we’d like to get a few words to camera, please.’

  ‘Certainly. Certainly. Absolutely. Where would you like me?’ he replied, with a deprecating laugh. ‘After all, nobody ever accused muggins here of being bashful with his opinions, eh? Some people think I should just pipe down.’

  ‘Uhm, this way, sir,’ Emma said.

  Together with the camera crew, Emma, the Prince and the detectives made their way over to a section of the crowd that Gary and Barry had assembled in order that His Royal Highness might be ‘discovered’ in it.

  ‘I heard you speak once, sir,’ Emma said. She had not meant to bring it up but she somehow couldn’t help it.

  ‘I expect I was awful. Was I? Did I make a hash of it?’

  ‘It was at a Holocaust Day ceremony. You spoke about the need for greater understanding and integration in multicultural societies.’

  ‘Bloody obvious really but worth saying, I always think.’

  ‘You were very inspiring.’

  ‘Was I? Thank you. One does try,’ the Prince replied, clearly delighted.

  ‘You’ve always struck me as a man of principle, sir.’

  ‘Well, as I say, one does try.’

  ‘So . . . may I ask you something?’

  ‘Yes, yes of course.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Oh, that’s very simple. I want people to get the chance to see the real me!’

  It broke Emma’s heart. She wanted to cry. How could he be so stupid? A man who had met and spoken to everybody, making such a foolish mistake as that? Of course they all did, everybody, great and small, rich and poor. From Big Brother 12 to Politicians in the Jungle, everybody thought that if only they could get in front of a camera they could show people the real them. Had they learned nothing from watching the very shows they aspired to be on? Could they not see that between them and the public whom they wished to influence stood the edit? And the edit would make of them what it pleased. It would not necessarily be brutal, it might as easily create a hero as a villain, but what it would never ever do was show anybody as they genuinely were.

  By this time they had arrived at the appointed place and the Prince of Wales, unable to suppress the instincts developed over decades in public life, turned his attention to the group of people who had been assembled.

  ‘Good afternoon . . . hello . . . hello there,’ he said, leaning towards people with an expression of rapt fascination. ‘How are you? Do you think it will rain? I must say I had no idea this hall was so vast, had you?’

  ‘Sir . . . I mean, uhm . . . Your Royal . . . uhm, Mr Wales?’

  Everybody laughed at Emma’s confusion, including the Prince. The crowd were, of course, amused at Emma’s efforts to think of a way to address a person who was so obviously a lookalike, and an extremely good one at that.

  ‘Perhaps you could speak to us?’ Emma continued.

  ‘Yes, yes of course,’ the Prince replied, apologizing to the people around him. ‘Excuse me, I’m afraid I have to speak to this lady and her camera. I’ve enjoyed meeting you so much. You’ve all been marvellous.’

  From the breast pocket of his waistcoat HRH produced some handwritten notes. He spoke first of the ‘much-maligned’ celebrity culture and of the need for community leaders and politicians to embrace its values rather than condemning them.

  ‘Canute could not turn back the tide and nor can we,’ he stated firmly. ‘If we cann
ot go where young people go, if we cannot engage with them in a language that they understand and on subjects that interest them, we risk being left behind. I believe that children are the future.’

  For one horrified moment Emma thought that the Prince of Wales was about to launch into ‘The Greatest Love Of All’ but in fact His Royal Highness had been unaware that he was quoting from that Chart Throb favourite.

  ‘Young people have been intellectually and politically disenfranchised,’ the Prince continued. ‘Conventional news and current affairs programmes do not reach them, because they do not watch them. That is not their fault: the responsibility lies with the broadcasters, the politicians and those like me who have the privilege of high office. We have a duty to find a way of reconnecting with a lost generation.

  ‘I do not believe that young people are stupid,’ the Prince continued. ‘Nor do I think them shallow, self-obsessed and interested only in fame and fashion. They are the life’s blood of this country and they need to be taken seriously. I look forward very much to meeting with and talking to as many of the contestants here today as possible. I’m certain that I can learn something from them, just as I hope perhaps they can learn something from me. I imagine that many of them will not have considered the organic option when preparing their shopping lists, nor perhaps will many of them have given much thought to the urgent need to preserve our historic buildings and to consider the human scale in town planning. They may possibly not even be aware of the healing power of herbal infusions or the fact that in many of our inner cities young black boys are as likely to find themselves in prison as in employment. These are things I can share with them just as they can share their knowledge and their experience with me. In conclusion, of course I am mindful of the fact that this show is about having fun and there is nothing wrong with that. I may be heir to the throne but I’m also a pretty mean crooner and I look forward greatly to what I believe is called shaking my booty and strutting my funky stuff.’

  ‘OK, that’s great,’ Emma called out. ‘Thanks, that was brilliant.’

  She realized he actually meant it. He truly believed what he was saying and that some significant part of his three- or four-minute speech would find its way on to the programme. How could anyone be so stupid? Emma knew exactly what part of his carefully prepared statement was likely to make it through the edit. The last sentence:

  ‘I may be heir to the throne but I’m also a pretty mean crooner and I look forward greatly to what I believe is called shaking my booty and strutting my funky stuff.’

  Telly did not get much better than that. If Emma knew Calvin she was pretty sure that the public would be seeing the Prince of Wales utter that ridiculous line many, many times in the weeks to come. In fact she imagined it would probably form the core of the teaser trailers that would herald the upcoming season.

  The Bites

  Emma returned the Prince to his place feeling sad and shabby and her mood was in no way improved when Chelsie appeared with the news that the ‘Bite’ team were ready to rock.

  ‘What do you want first?’ Chelsie asked. ‘Clingers, Blingers or Mingers?’

  Emma swallowed hard and felt once more for the comfort of her cigarette packet. Gathering the ‘Bites’, as they were called, was hard and emotionally draining work.

  ‘I hate doing this,’ Emma said.

  ‘Best bit,’ Chelsie replied. ‘You need to see it as a hunt. Besides, this is what they want. They’ve come here to get on the telly. The ones you should feel sorry for are the ones we don’t choose.’

  ‘They came here to sing,’ Emma replied. ‘Bites don’t get to sing.’

  ‘They came here to get on the telly and the ones we choose will get on the telly.’

  It was true that Bite selection was the last chance rejected candidates had of national exposure. They were the amusing rejects, the one-shot wonders with which the shows would be stitched together. Anyone who had shown any real talent at Cling, Bling or Ming (or even Sing) had been picked up at their audition and sent to join the pre-selected group marked down for more concerted exploitation in front of the three judges.

  ‘Have I got time for a fag?’ Emma enquired.

  ‘I can do this on my own if you want,’ Chelsie replied.

  Emma was not having that. She might have been finding her job increasingly draining but it was still her job, she was the senior researcher and Chelsie was the new girl.

  ‘No, let’s get on with it.’

  Bite selection was tough work. It was no easy task to locate the shortest, fattest, ugliest people in the crowd and then persuade them they really wanted to announce to the world that Calvin Simms had missed his chance of discovering the next Robbie Williams. That, however, was what classic Bite selection was all about. The collection team would trawl the growing number of rejects, searching for those personalities who not only looked the most pathetic but who were also most likely to deliver an entertaining sentence or two which would make them look deluded and stupid. Those selected were then taken to the Bite Back Box and cajoled into making fools of themselves.

  The important thing was to gain the trust of the victim. The Bite collector needed to form an instant sympathetic bond with their prey, assuring them that they felt their pain and empathized with their outrage. It was probably the part of the job that Emma hated most but Chelsie enjoyed it, viewing it as an amusing game, a challenge, and she had already proved herself particularly adept at it. Chelsie positively revelled in persuading middle-aged female midgets that it would be a good idea to claim to be a cross between Jordan and Nicole Kidman. She would lurk among the rejects and quickly assess their visual potential, then she would pounce.

  ‘How do you feel about it, babes?’ Chelsie would ask, flinging an arm round her victim. ‘Do you feel devastated? Angry? Used? Bet you do, babes, don’t you? And I’m not surprised, I was listening at the door and I thought you were brilliant. I can’t believe they’ve blown you out, you’re so much better than the others. Why don’t you come with me into the Bite Back Box and you can tell that Calvin Simms exactly what you think of his crappy show?’

  The ones who complained and protested that their talent had been overlooked went into the Blingers group, those who cried and spoke of God and how hard they had worked went with the Clingers and the old, the stupid, the ugly and the physically and mentally challenged went into the Mingers.

  Emma and Chelsie began to make their way towards the Bite Back Box.

  ‘Let’s get the Clingers out of the way,’ Emma sighed. ‘I always feel so mean.’

  And so she and Chelsie sat together in the booth as one Clinger after another was brought before them.

  ‘It’s all come to nothing, hasn’t it?’ Emma breathed sympathetically.

  ‘The dream’s over,’ Chelsie whispered. ‘You’re going home with nothing.’

  ‘How do you feel?’ cooed Emma. ‘You must be gutted, you must just want to break down and cry.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell us that God gave you a gift and Calvin has hurled it back into God’s face?’

  And with any luck the person who had spent months dreaming of stardom would cry and wail and another stitch in the tapestry of distraught sad acts would be created.

  Next came the Blingers.

  ‘Do you think you’ve got it?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got it, I’ve got what it takes.’

  ‘Could you be a star, babes?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I could, I could be a star!’

  And the Mingers.

  ‘Do you think you’re sexy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t just say yes, say it all, tell the world, say, “I think I’m sexy.”’

  ‘I think I’m sexy.’

  ‘Repeat after me, “I am one badass, kickass, rock-steady mother lover and I am going to rock the world with or without you, Calvin Simms!”’

  Sometimes Emma and Chelsie would cheat, cajoling from their victims words which, when edited, could be placed in an order that
would entirely misrepresent the speaker. These were called Frankenbites.

  ‘I am not claiming I’m the next Elvis’ could easily be cut down later to ‘I’m the next Elvis’.

  After all, every candidate had signed a form saying that they would abide by the rules of the competition no matter how often the producers changed them, ‘including and at any time, verbally’, as the form made clear. The producers could do exactly what they liked and it made Emma feel deeply uncomfortable, almost ashamed.

  ‘You’re in the wrong job, babes,’ Chelsie opined with exaggerated sincerity. ‘What you’ve got to realize is that whatever we do to these people and however we misrepresent them, they are still getting on the telly and that is always better than not getting on the telly. No matter what.’

  Emma was not so sure.

  Peroxide and Blossom

  Emma looked at her watch. The day was getting away from her and she still had three ‘stories’ left to shoot. What was more, they all required crowds and the crowds were thinning. People were drifting away and who could blame them? Their great day, the day of which they had dreamed for weeks and weeks, was clearly coming to an end and what a disappointment it had been. Hours of standing around and being ordered about had been rewarded for the most part by a minute or so in front of a bored-looking stranger. Some posh girl had heard them sing their song, thanked them, possibly taken down a few details and basically fucked them off. There had been no Calvin, no Beryl, not even any Rodney. No chance to proclaim their self-belief, no opportunity for banter with the judges, nothing. Yes, there was still hope, they had after all been asked to wait around, but the brighter minds among them were beginning to notice that those who had been seen were rarely seen again. They just sat about, stood about, milled about and occasionally Gary and Barry would ask them to shout, clap or cheer. The day was definitely losing its fizz. A couple of students dressed as Danny and Sandy from Grease (in ‘The One That I Want’ mode) had begun to write an article for their college paper about the way they were being used. It was at this point in the day that Trent always made his little speech, gently but firmly reminding everybody of the Terms and Conditions part of the entry form which they had of course signed.