Chart Throb

by Elton, Ben

  Keely looked like she wanted to cry. She could never get used to Beryl’s rudeness, it always shocked her as if she was experiencing it for the first time.

  The minutes were ticking away. Trent looked at Calvin and then pointed towards his watch. There was most definitely no time for this type of halt in proceedings on a Chart Throb audition day and Calvin’s was the only authority that Beryl would acknowledge.

  ‘Beryl,’ Calvin snapped, ‘brilliant though your Fifi pissing gag is, as indeed are all the numerous jokes you suggest concerning the incontinence of your menagerie, we are not set up to record sound on this shot. So we will simply have to move on.’

  ‘So much for sponta-fucking-neity,’ Beryl said, accepting the inevitable.

  Finally able to proceed, the director asked the script girl what the next shot was and the script girl informed him that it was to be Rodney’s arrival.

  The limo from which Beryl had emerged was driven away and a new one manoeuvred into its place. Rodney went over to it and with exaggerated casualness walked along its length, appearing to be inspecting its glossy black paintwork. He fooled no one. Everybody had seen him doing exactly the same thing to Beryl’s car and they knew that he had been pacing them out to ensure that Beryl had not been given a longer car than him to arrive in.

  Once Rodney was satisfied that the car was of a dimension appropriate to his status he took the important-looking briefcase that Props provided him with and got into the back of the car.

  ‘Action!’ called the director.

  Nothing happened.

  ‘Action!’ the director called out once more.

  Still nothing. The director approached the parked limo with its smoky black windows.

  ‘Rodney?’ He tapped on the window. ‘Can you hear me in there?’

  The window of the limo descended and Rodney looked out, smiling pleasantly.

  ‘Yes, I can hear you,’ he said. ‘All good in here. Any notes?’

  ‘Uhm, no. We haven’t taken the shot yet.’

  ‘Good, OK. Well, I’m ready.’

  ‘Good. Great. So we’ll go, shall we?’

  ‘Fine.’

  The window closed once more. The director retreated to his position behind the camera, the shot was marked and once more he cried, ‘Action!’

  Still nothing happened.

  ‘Action, Rodney!’ he called out again.

  The window descended for a second time.

  ‘I’m here, I’m ready. I can hear you. I’m waiting.’

  Minutes were ticking away. Calvin interjected, ‘Well, get out of the fucking car then!’

  ‘I can’t. The door isn’t open.’

  ‘Of course it isn’t open, it’s supposed to have just pulled up.’

  ‘Exactly, and then the minder opens it and I get out,’ Rodney explained, confident that he was not the one holding up proceedings. ‘I’m not the first cue. The minder is the first cue.’

  Calvin turned to the director. ‘Where’s the minder? It’s his cue.’

  ‘The minder?’

  ‘Yes. To open Rodney’s car door.’

  The director looked helplessly towards the continuity girl, who, being made of sterner stuff than he was, decided to state the uncomfortable truth.

  ‘There is no minder,’ she said without apology. ‘This shot’s down as a single on Rodney.’

  Rodney was not a large man and he was cramped in the back of a stretch limousine but everybody within fifteen metres felt him bridle.

  ‘A single on Rodney?’ he almost hissed.

  ‘Yes,’ the continuity girl replied fearlessly, then glancing down at her shot list she read out: ‘Shot Two. AM. Ext Audition Hall. Loose single. Rodney gets out of car and scurries past camera.’

  ‘Scurries?’

  ‘Yes. You’re in a hurry.’

  Rodney began to go very red. The make-up department, who were used to this, hovered close by with wet wipes and cold towels at the ready. They knew that if Rodney had a meltdown he would have to go back into the chair for his powder, eyes and lippy to be fixed, at which point Calvin would probably sack everyone.

  ‘Calvin?’ Rodney said through clenched teeth, clearly struggling to master his emotions.

  ‘Yes, mate?’

  ‘Beryl has a fat, bald minder who opens her car door and then follows her respectfully and protectively as she strolls into the building. Am I expected to open my own door and scurry into the building alone?’

  ‘I don’t have a minder for my arrival shot, Rodney.’

  ‘Yes, I know that, Calvin, because you drive yourself. You arrive commandingly in control at the wheel of your own personalized Rolls. Beryl is met by her security staff and I . . . I . . .’

  Once more, Keely, ever kind and cheerful, attempted to pour oil on troubled waters.

  ‘I could run up and grab your door for you, Rodney. I don’t mind.’

  ‘You want to get into my shot, Keely?’ Rodney replied icily.

  ‘No!’ Keely almost shouted, shocked at the spin Rodney was placing on her innocent offer.

  ‘You don’t think that what with introducing the show, doing all the links, interviewing the candidates, sending them in to us, hugging the winners, weeping with the losers and top and tailing each ad break, perhaps you might already have enough fucking shots in this show, Keely? Without having to muscle your way in on mine?’

  ‘No, really, I—’

  ‘My arrival shot no less. One of the very few featured solos I have in the whole fucking show.’

  ‘But . . . but . . .’ Keely could find no words with which to proclaim her innocence.

  ‘Maybe we could use Beryl’s bloke again?’ the continuity girl suggested. ‘Make him kind of the greeter?’

  An angry screech emanated from the quick-change tent where Beryl was slipping out of Dublin and back into Birmingham.

  ‘Fuck right OFF!’ she shouted, sticking her head out from between the flaps of the tent. ‘He’s not having my fucking bloke!’

  ‘Please, Beryl,’ shouted Hair and Make-up together. ‘Your hair!’

  Beryl ignored them.

  ‘What kind of security would that be? “Oh sorry, Beryl, we can’t defend you from that mad psycho fan at the moment because we’ve to go and open a car door for Rodney fucking Root.” Oh, do please FUCK OFF!’

  Beryl retreated back into her tent with Hair and Make-up hurrying in after her.

  ‘Calvin?’ said Trent, once more staring desperately at his watch. ‘The time . . .’

  ‘Right!’ said Calvin decisively. ‘Get in the car, Rodney, we’ll arrive together.’

  Instantly Rodney’s face lit up.

  ‘What, you and me in the same car? Like proper mates?’ he said, scarcely daring to hope.

  ‘Yes. You can even get out camera side, I’ll get out of the far door and walk round behind you.’

  ‘That’s fantastic,’ Rodney gushed. ‘What a great shot. No minders, no security. No faff. Just two tough professionals, colleagues and great mates, arriving to do a job together.’

  ‘That’s right, Rodney, get in the car.’

  ‘I’ve a thought,’ said Rodney eagerly. ‘How about we’re in the middle of some animated discussion as we get out? You know, we could still be talking as we slam the doors and walk into the building together, ignoring everyone, locked in our own high-powered argument stuff . . .’

  ‘No sound, Rodney, we aren’t mic’d. Get in the car.’

  ‘But we wouldn’t need sound. It’ll be mute. We can be talking about anything because the credit music will be playing, we just need to look like we’re having a really animated chat, like two tough pros oblivious to—’

  ‘Rodney. Get in the fucking car.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And on action, get out of the car again and walk past camera into the building. I’ll be right behind you.’

  Both men got into the car.

  ‘Action!’ they heard the director call.

  ‘Go, Rodney,�
� said Calvin. ‘I’ll follow.’

  Rodney got out of the car and Calvin watched him through the window as he made his way past camera. After Rodney was well out of shot, Calvin got out himself and called cut.

  ‘Great shot, everybody,’ he said before whispering to the continuity girl that she need only mark the first part of the shot to be digitized. Rodney Root would not know until he watched the broadcast that he had in fact got out of his car and scurried up the carpet alone.

  An Auditions Day: Priming the Massed Clingers

  In a corner of the holding area (a section of a large conference room which had been cordoned off with hessian partitions), Chelsie had gathered together her prospective Clingers for a session of group motivation.

  ‘Now Keely is going to ask you about your DREAM,’ Chelsie shouted, in the tone of a sergeant major briefing a group of raw recruits. ‘The dream you all share but which is special and unique to each and every one of you. The dream to be a star! What’s your dream, people?’

  ‘To be a star!’ they all shouted.

  ‘That’s right. And it’s a good dream. A great dream. A dream to be proud of! Keely’s going to want to hear that it’s your only dream. The only dream you’ve ever had! A dream that you’ve had since childhood and without which you’d be nothing. Nothing, do you hear?’

  The assembled Clingers (who included a tense and brooding Shaiana) were about to reply but they were interrupted by the sound of a loud voice singing ‘Copacabana’ while people clapped along.

  Peering out from between the screens to investigate, Chelsie discovered that Gary and Barry had grabbed the opportunity to get a shot of the Quasar doing a limbo-dancing routine with the help of the Peroxide girls, who were holding a mop for him to dance beneath.

  ‘Gary? Barry?’ Chelsie snapped. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Just grabbing a bit more holding area high jinks, Chelsie,’ Barry said. ‘You know, all the contestants bonding and spontaneously having a laugh together.’

  ‘We got miles of that shit on the crowd day, guys. Calvin will use about ten seconds in the final edit. Today is about auditions and I am trying to psych up the contestants, so will you please keep it down.’

  ‘Sorry, Chelsie,’ said Barry.

  ‘Yeah, sorry,’ said Gary.

  ‘I ain’t sorry, babes!’ grinned Quasar. ‘I is pumped an’ I have to tell you, Chelsie darlin’, you look like you could use a little piece of the Quasar yourself, UH!’ And with this last syllable Quasar grabbed his crotch and thrust it forward.

  ‘Save it for the judges,’ said Chelsie.

  ‘Oh baby, I got plenty of that to spare.’

  Chelsie returned to her Clingers.

  ‘Now another thing Keely is going to want to talk to you about,’ she shouted, once more turning her headlights on to the assembled rabbits, ‘is just how much you want it!’

  An Auditions Day: When Irish Eyes Are Smiling

  In the car park the first coach containing the Irish contestants had arrived from Birmingham International Airport. On arrival in the car park they were all asked to wait on board for the second bus to catch up.

  ‘Won’t be a minute,’ a cheery PA informed them and indeed it wasn’t. It was twenty-five. Eventually a second coach full of Irish auditionees pulled up and Barry, Gary and Keely were summoned to do their bit towards ensuring that the revenue from the Irish phone lines would remain buoyant.

  ‘Right! Top of the morning to you!’ shouted Barry once both coaches had disgorged their occupants and the whole group had been assembled in front of a large Chart Throb banner decked out in emerald green bunting and Irish tricolours. ‘And welcome to our own special Chart Throb St Paddy’s Day.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right!’ shouted Gary, who had donned one of those big comedy Irish hats they give away with the Guinness in London on St Patrick’s night. ‘We are going to pretend it’s St Patrick’s Day and in order to celebrate we are going to lead you all in a special Chart Throb rendition of “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling” but for a laugh we’d like you to say “Calvin’s” instead of “Irish”, OK? It’s like a little Chart Throb St Paddy’s Day joke from the Irish posse, OK?’

  There being no obvious voices of dissent, the cameras were lined up and Barry and Gary counted everyone down and the song began.

  ‘“When Calvin’s eyes are smiling,”’ they sang.

  All went well for the first line as the crowd sang lustily and with an attempt at good humour. After that, unfortunately, it petered out very quickly and it became clear that nobody knew the rest of the words. Some of them vaguely remembered the stuff about the world seeming bright and gay but by the time they got to the bit about hearing the angels sing there was scarcely anyone left singing at all.

  ‘Fuck!’ said Barry. ‘Calvin really wants this. What are we going to do?’

  ‘I just assumed they’d know it,’ wailed Gary.

  At this point Chelsie arrived with Keely.

  ‘Haven’t you recorded the bloody singalong yet?’ she demanded.

  ‘They don’t know the words,’ Gary explained.

  ‘Go back to the edit truck,’ Chelsie commanded one of the runners. ‘They have wireless internet. Ask the production secretary to go online, Google the lyrics and bring them back as soon as possible.’

  The runner scuttled off.

  ‘Right,’ said Chelsie. ‘We’ll do Keely’s bit while we’re waiting.’

  Keely was given a shamrock and instructed to stand in front of the Irish crowd.

  ‘Well, here we are in Dublin’s fair city where the girls are so pretty,’ she shouted. ‘And this mad crazy lot have prepared a little musical surprise for Calvin!’

  ‘OK,’ Chelsie shouted. ‘Then we drop in the song once we’ve recorded it. Now Keely, do your outro.’

  ‘Wow!’ Keely shrieked. ‘That was brilliant. Calvin’s eyes will be smiling when he hears that! Well done, everybody! How good was that?’

  After which she and Chelsie hurried back into the building, leaving the Irish posse to await the lyrics of their spontaneous gift to Calvin.

  An Auditions Day: Mean and Moody

  By this time the three judges had recorded their various arrival shots and it was time for some generic footage of the three of them looking tough and moody. Each had been taken back to Costume and Make-up and dressed head to foot in black. Then they were set against a white background and shot looking as grim and hard as possible. Like killers in a spaghetti western.

  There were two camera crews at work here, which made the situation more complex than it might otherwise have been for the director. One crew was recording the moody stuff which would form part of the credit sequence and the other crew was filming the process of filming the moody stuff. The director of the first crew, who wanted to concentrate on his shots, had complained about the presence of the second crew.

  ‘You’re new to this show, aren’t you, mate?’ Calvin said.

  The director admitted it.

  ‘Well, let me tell you something,’ Calvin continued, speaking through the make-up brush that was fluttering around his face. ‘We waste nothing. Have you any idea just how little usable stuff we might end up getting today? Fuck all, that’s how little, and why? Because people are basically boring. That is our challenge as makers of “people TV”. It is our job to shoot hours of material, days of the stuff, in order to get a few usable seconds of genuine entertainment. My God, Paris Hilton is a star. That’s how low the fucking bar is set! Why do you think that half of each of our shows is just a repeat of the other half? Because usually half a show is all we’ve fucking got! We audition thousands of people and we still end up repeating the same shots of about a dozen of them. Anything we have that’s even remotely good we must repeat over and over again. We’ll show it before the break, after the break, during the fucking break. Chart Throb is the only show on TV that’s repeated three times during its initial run! I’m very proud of that. That is why, if we’re going to have a load of shots of t
he judges looking moody, we should also get a load of shots of us being shot looking moody. Let the audience in on the process because we’ve fuck all else to show them most of the time.’

  After the generic shots had been taken it was time for the three judges to change once more, back into their ‘Birmingham One’ outfits, and begin the real meat of the day, the thing that had made all three so very famous. It was time to record those familiar scenes of the three of them sitting in fresh, unbiased judgement on whoever might happen to put their heads round the door.

  The auditions.

  An Auditions Day: Destroying Vicky

  The three of them took their seats in the ‘audition’ room and submitted themselves to the last-minute attentions of Hair and Make-up. Then, as planned, they shot the three foreign girls with the amusing accents, each of whom was laughed at and then rejected and led weeping from the room.

  Then they made good progress gunning through twenty or so In and Out fillers, alternating yeses and noes in strict order. Around mid-morning they arrived at Vicky, the first major story of the day.

  The girl and her mother were outside with Keely, Chelsie, Trent and the production crew. Trent was just about to begin recording Vicky’s pre-show interview when Chelsie spoke up.

  ‘Trent, I think we have make-up issues here. Are you happy with Vicky?’

  ‘She looks all right to me.’

  Chelsie did not discuss it further. Instead she went into the audition room and asked if Calvin could possibly join them for a moment. Chelsie had spent the morning dealing with other people’s mistakes and Calvin had been a witness to none of it. As far as her own career advancement was concerned, she might as well have been as shit as the rest of the team. But on this occasion she was going to ensure that her light emerged from under the bushel.

  Calvin, who was waiting for Beryl’s copious paint job to be retouched, joined the party assembled around Vicky and her mother.

  ‘Oh my God!’ they said in star-struck unison as the great man emerged. ‘We love you, Calvin!’

  Calvin nodded a greeting and turned to Chelsie.