Chart Throb

by Elton, Ben

  Troy Learns to Read

  Chelsie was back in the holding area where her next shoot was scheduled. This was one that Calvin had scripted himself but which he did not wish to attend.

  ‘Uhm, Your Royal Highness?’ Chelsie said.

  The Prince of Wales looked up from the book he had been reading.

  ‘Eh, what? Oh hello. How are you? Just boning up on my crop rotation. Smallholdings are an absolute nightmare to farm, do you agree? At least I always think they are. Perhaps I’m mad, a lot of people seem to think so, but I keep banging on just the same. Not that anybody listens but I do think it’s important, don’t you?’

  ‘This is Troy.’

  The cameras Chelsie had brought with her began to close in as the sixteen-year-old youth stepped forward, still holding his comic.

  ‘Hello. Hello. Troy, is it?’ the Prince said, jumping up. ‘How are you? What’s that? A comic, I see. Well done. Is it good? I know some of them are awfully cleverly done. How are you?’

  ‘I read comics because I can’t read very well,’ Troy replied in a rather wooden manner, as if these were words he had been told to say.

  ‘Goodness! Really? Well, you know, we do positively heaps of work on the literacy issue in my charity. We run homework clubs, you know. I do believe very strongly that we can’t simply leave young people behind. We have to find a way to include them. Of course I bang on about it all the time, but I don’t suppose anybody listens very much, do you?’

  A few feet away Keely edged into the shot and whispered a piece to camera as if she were listening in on a genuinely spontaneous encounter.

  ‘Meanwhile in the holding area,’ she whispered, ‘Troy has got chatting to the Prince of Wales. Like most people here, the penny hasn’t dropped for Troy that he’s speaking to the heir to the throne. Everybody else thinks he’s a lookalike but I don’t even think Troy thinks that. The royal family are simply not on his radar at all.’

  The Prince was still politely chatting with Troy, who had sat down next to him and was showing the Prince his comic.

  ‘Goodness, Batman,’ the Prince was saying. ‘Is it very exciting?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Troy replied. ‘I can’t read it.’

  ‘I see,’ said the Prince. ‘It’s all Greek to Troy, eh?’

  The Prince laughed as if he had made a joke but Troy had clearly not followed it.

  ‘It’s frustrating,’ said Troy, offering the Prince his comic.

  The two serious-looking men sitting nearby stirred for a moment.

  ‘Oh, don’t fuss so!’ the Prince admonished them, taking Troy’s comic. ‘Goodness, Deep in the Bat cave the Dark Knight sits brooding – how thrilling!’

  For a moment the Prince and the youth sat together and pored over Batman.

  At a discreet distance, the cameras rolled.

  Congratulations, You’re Through: Quasar and The Four-Z

  After lunch, which Calvin and Beryl spent on the phone and Rodney spent pretending to be on the phone, the second half of the day began with the drudgery of setting up those characters who it had been decided would proceed through to the Pop School stage of the contest and also in some cases on to the finals.

  The Quasar was up first, doing everything that was expected of him. He walked in wearing a skin-tight string vest and announced that he was already a superstar and it remained only for the three judges to alert the world.

  Calvin pretended to hate him, as planned.

  Beryl asked him if his muscles were real, as planned.

  The Quasar played up to it all beautifully as the selectors had assumed he would. They had expected him to offer Beryl a squeeze test so that she could make up her own mind, and he did. They had not expected him to ask if she’d like to squeeze his love muscle to see if that was real too, but regrettably (since it was that rare thing on Chart Throb, a moment of genuine comedy) it would not make the final cut of a family show.

  The Quasar was voted through as planned. Calvin had long since decided that the Quasar (who, although no singer, was a genuinely amusing and personable Blinger) would make it all the way to the finals.

  Next came The Four-Z, who did a not-bad four-part a cappella harmony of ‘Three Times A Lady’ in which no fewer than three parts were in tune most of the time. They were voted through in a unanimous orgy of dewy-eyed enthusiasm, as if The Commodores themselves had turned up for an audition.

  ‘You know what?’ said Calvin, going all professional and serious. ‘It is rare to encounter such innate musical talent in people so young. You owned that song. You boys are genuine stars and you have huge recording careers ahead of you.’

  ‘You know what?’ said Beryl, half mother, half sex kitten. ‘You guys just blew me away. I’m a rock chick from way back and I know that that is one tough song to nail, but you know what? You guys owned it.’

  ‘You know what?’ said Rodney. ‘I honestly think you sang it better than Lionel Richie did, you took that song and you know what? You owned it.’

  The boys left the room weeping tears of joy.

  ‘You know what?’ said Calvin testily, after they had left. ‘We can’t all say “you know what” so can you please refer to the phrase distribution chart which is included in each morning’s briefing notes?’

  Calvin was referring to the system he had developed in the face of the plethora of judging-panel shows that had emerged since Pop Idol and X Factor. Phrases which had arisen in those early days – ‘you know what?’, ‘you owned that song’, ‘you could sell a lot of records’, ‘you rock big time’, ‘the dream’s over’, ‘the song was just too big for you’, ‘I loved you so much but it’s a no from me’ – had soon become the staple audition language for all panels and it had been necessary to ration them.

  Outside the audition room The Four-Z didn’t care what language had been used to put them through, they were too busy leaping about with Keely and collectively thanking God for taking them one very big step closer to moving out of hell.

  Congratulations, You’re Through: Graham and Millicent

  The next auditionees were Graham and Millicent.

  ‘Hi. I’m Millicent,’ said Millicent, leading Graham in.

  ‘I’m Graham,’ said Graham.

  ‘And together we’re Graham and Millicent.’

  Millicent announced that they would like to sing ‘Bright Eyes’ (which had been suggested to them by Chelsie, although the idea had come from Calvin).

  ‘Good song,’ said Calvin, looking serious. ‘Good choice.’

  Beryl, who had been discreetly pulling at the hairs on the inside of her nose in preparation, wept real tears as they began.

  Millicent sang well and Graham sang badly. Not, however, according to Calvin, who as usual was not inclined to let the facts get in the way of a good story, particularly one that he had written himself.

  ‘You know what?’ Calvin said, once more playing the role of the straight-talking perfectionist. ‘For a double act that was a great solo performance.’

  The two young people stood in silent confusion, waiting for Calvin to explain himself.

  ‘Millicent?’ Calvin enquired. ‘What do you think you bring to this act?’

  ‘Well, I . . .’

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ said Calvin. ‘Currently, nothing. Graham has a voice and you don’t, it’s as simple as that. He’s a singer, you’re a passenger, Millicent, and I think you know it too. He’s carrying you, Millicent. No, he isn’t carrying you, you’re not that good. He’s dragging you, Millicent. Right now Graham is dragging you along. How do you feel about that, Millicent? Is that what you want? To be dragged? You must be aware that you’re holding him back.’

  Millicent did not reply. By the look on her face she would have had more chance of replying if Calvin had punched her in the stomach. She was clearly sick with horror.

  ‘How do you feel, Graham?’ Calvin asked. ‘You’re a singer, you’re singing with someone who can’t sing. It’s screwing up your act. How do you feel?’<
br />
  Graham could not find words either. The two young people, young lovers, simply stood and stared like witnesses to a tragedy. Which, in a way, they were.

  ‘Right!’ snapped Calvin, going all businesslike. ‘I’m going to put you through because of Graham and only because of Graham, it’s as simple as that. Rodney?’

  ‘I agree,’ said Rodney, who knew what was expected of him. ‘Graham has the voice. He’s the talent.’

  ‘Beryl?’ Calvin snapped again.

  ‘Yes,’ croaked Beryl, picking up her cue from Calvin. ‘I’m going to say yes but only because of Graham and his beautiful rock ’n’ roll voice. You are so sexy, Graham, and that voice!’

  ‘All right,’ said Calvin, playing it tough. ‘You’re through. You get another shot and all I can say is this, Millicent: you had better work, young lady. You had better work like you’ve never worked before. You had better work and learn and grow and grow and learn and work because it’s down to you, young lady. You are what is standing in Graham’s way, his career is in your hands and if you don’t get your act together you will bring this boy down.’

  With that Graham and Millicent were escorted, shaking, from the room.

  ‘God, you’re good,’ said Beryl after they had left. ‘That was brilliant.’

  ‘The problem surely,’ said Rodney, ‘is that in fact she’s the singer, not him.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know she’s the better singer, Rodney! For God’s sake, this is our third series together, haven’t you worked it out yet? These people are whatever we say they are, however we edit them to be. If we look at this little blind chap with his phlegmy, throaty, crappy little voice and say that he has the voice of a young James Brown then the voice of a young James Brown is what he’s got. God knows, I’ve lost count of the times Beryl has told some saggy-boobed barmaid who’s covered “My Heart Will Go On” that actually she preferred her version to Céline’s. Sometimes even I cringe. How many times do I have to tell you, the singing doesn’t matter! Please try to remember.’

  Outside the audition room Keely met Graham and Millicent, breathless with anticipation.

  ‘Did you make it? Are you through?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, we’re through,’ Millicent said before bursting into tears.

  ‘Babes, babes, babes,’ said Keely. ‘Babes!’

  Keely hugged Millicent and Millicent told Keely what had happened. ‘I’ll drop out now!’ she protested. ‘I would never stand in Graham’s way. Calvin might as well have said that I don’t want Graham to succeed without me.’

  Watching from behind the camera which was hovering inches from Millicent’s distraught face, Chelsie noted down the time code. That last sentence, if taken out of context, was dynamite. I don’t want Graham to succeed without me. If ever a girl was condemned from her own mouth . . . That sentence played before, after and if possible during the commercial breaks would hang that little goody two-shoes choirgirl high.

  Congratulations, You’re Through to the Next Round: Bloke

  Next came Bloke, a weddings and parties rock ’n’ roll band. Four pleasant-faced lads in their early thirties who humbly explained that they had paid their rockin’ dues up and down the Ml and the M6 (just them and their battered old guitars) and they reckoned that this was their last chance at the big time.

  ‘This is our last best shot, Calvin,’ explained one Bloke.

  ‘We came here to rock,’ another Bloke added. ‘And that’s what we’re going to do.’

  ‘So hey, why don’t we quit talking,’ said the first Bloke, ‘and do this thing!’

  Beryl whooped, Calvin smiled and Bloke sang ‘Stand By Me’ in gut-wrenching, throat-tearing four-part harmony, by the end of which their faces were so contorted with pain and emotion that they might easily have been enduring a hedgehog enema rather than singing a song.

  When it was over, Beryl was the first to speak.

  ‘Guys,’ she said, ‘that was awesome. You know me, I’m just a rock chick from way back and all I can say is you rock! You rock, GUYS! You owned that song. It was awesome.’

  ‘That is a tough song too,’ Rodney added, trying to look intelligent and hard to please. ‘“Stand By Me” is a very tough song to cover. That is not an easy song at all. It’s a tough song, but you owned it.’

  Rodney was sitting in the middle seat, having temporarily assumed the role of team leader. Occasionally he and Beryl were instructed to do so as part of Calvin’s effort to create the illusion of equality between the judges.

  ‘I’m putting you guys through,’ Rodney said. ‘Beryl?’

  ‘Yes!’ Beryl agreed. ‘Yes, yes, yes, the guys rock.’

  ‘Calvin?’ asked Rodney, absolutely loving his moment in the middle.

  ‘I hated it,’ said Calvin.

  Beryl and Rodney howled in protest and then the three of them went through the exhausting motions of playing out their fictional conflict.

  ‘You’ve gone mad, Calvin!’ Beryl protested woodenly. ‘Behave! What are you like? I don’t believe you. Behave!’

  ‘That was a very tough song,’ Rodney added, and if Beryl’s performance had been wooden Rodney’s was hewn from solid mahogany. ‘I think you owe these fellas an apology.’

  ‘Just because you wouldn’t personally have the range to cover a song like that, Rodney, does not make it a tough song,’ Calvin quipped. ‘I thought the guys were boring.’

  In fact Calvin was not in a position to consider Bloke’s performance either boring or otherwise because he had been standing in the corner speaking to America on his mobile while they were performing.

  ‘Sorry, guys,’ said Calvin, ‘but I’ve seen a hundred bands like you paying their dues in every down-and-dirty rock pub in the country.’

  Bloke in fact played mainly hotels and party halls and Calvin would not have entered a down-and-dirty rock pub if Britney Spears had been on stage going down on Madonna, but it sounded good. Tough and professional.

  ‘Yeah, Calvin,’ one of the Blokes replied. ‘Maybe you’re right, maybe there are a lot of guys like us out there paying their rock ’n’ roll dues. And maybe we’re playing for them.’

  ‘Yes!’ shrieked Beryl. ‘YES! Good answer! You go, guys.’

  ‘Well said!’ Rodney nodded.

  Calvin, his face a picture of honest good humour, pretended to be swayed.

  ‘Yes, Beryl’s right, that was a good answer,’ he conceded. ‘I like your attitude. Maybe you guys are as good as you think you are. Damn it, maybe I should take a risk . . .’

  Once more Calvin paused, as if wrestling with every ounce of his instinct and his intellect.

  ‘This is a life-changing moment for you guys,’ he said, stringing it out. ‘If I make a mistake and you can’t cut it, I’m going to look a fool.’

  ‘Hey, we won’t let you down, Calvin,’ said one of the Blokes.

  ‘You’d better not. OK. You’re through.’

  Congratulations, You’re Through to the Next Round: Iona

  Iona had been having an uncomfortable time in the holding area. Unlike the Prince of Wales, she had been recognized by all the other contestants in the room, who had witnessed the humiliation that had been dealt out to her and her bandmates the previous year. They had also all seen Rodney Root publicly declare his affection for Iona and predict that Shetland Mist would become enormous stars. They were also aware that this prediction had been followed by an entire absence of stardom, enormous or otherwise.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re back here having another go,’ one of the girls sitting nearby said.

  ‘So you’ve dumped the band then, Iona?’ another remarked. ‘I think that’s a shame.’

  Iona could not tell them that she had in fact been invited to reapply. This was one of the Chart Throb rules by which she must abide and which, as Chelsie had reminded her when she had called, could change at any time.

  Eventually a researcher arrived with Keely and a camera team.

  ‘Just look who I’ve found lurking in th
e holding area,’ Keely shouted at the camera, feigning surprise. ‘Yay, it’s Iona, out of Shetland Mist from last year!!! How cool is that? Come and say hello, missus.’

  Iona made her way forward.

  ‘Hello!’ said Keely. ‘Fantastic to see you, girlfriend. So you’ve come back for another bash, eh?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, Keely. I’m starting right from the bottom again,’ Iona explained.

  ‘But without the rest of the band?’

  ‘Well, you know, I miss them heaps, Keely, but we all talked about it and we reckoned there was no point just repeating what we did last time, so . . . well, here I am.’

  ‘Yay, babes! Go, girl! How cool is that?’ Keely gushed. ‘Now it’s no secret to anyone that you and our very own pop Svengali, Rodney Root, were an item way back last year. He was a big fan as I recall.’

  ‘That’s right, Keely, he was a very big fan.’

  ‘So you’re looking forward to seeing him again?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Iona, her pale eyes narrowing. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing Rodney Root again.’

  ‘No time like the present, missus! Let’s do this thing!’

  Keely and Iona, accompanied by the camera team, made their way towards the audition room.

  For a moment Rodney had been enjoying himself. He always loved the times when he got to sit in the middle and he had almost forgotten about what Calvin had planned for him. Therefore the look of shock and horror on his face when Iona entered the room was entirely genuine.

  ‘Hi, Iona!’ shrieked Beryl, as if surprised. ‘You came back! Good on you, girl, for having the sheer freakin’ balls to get back into the ring and face us again. That takes guts. I like that. You go, girl!’

  ‘Hello, Iona,’ said Calvin, smiling. Then, turning to Rodney, ‘Just look who’s turned up for another shot at the title, Mr Root.’

  It is never easy to bump into ex-girlfriends, particularly ex-girlfriends whom one has let down in public and been avoiding ever since. It’s even harder when doing so in front of television cameras. Rodney conspicuously failed to rise to the occasion.