by Elton, Ben
Teacups remained on saucers and nibbles froze in hands as Vicky’s guests watched her weeping in Keely’s arms and indulging in an orgy of sadly deluded self-justification, a delusion finally capped by her mother shouting at the camera in the Bite Back Box that at least Vicky still had the courage to dream the dream.
After this, for a moment Vicky and her mother dared to hope that the nightmare might be over, but then they heard Keely saying, ‘And still to come, the judges fight over Vicky’s spectacular failure.’
Vicky and her mum had of course been entirely unaware that Vicky’s appalling inadequacy was to feature as a running story throughout the whole show, with Beryl and Rodney fighting heatedly over the proper manner in which to reject such a wretchedly untalented child.
‘She was worse than my haemorrhoids,’ Rodney repeated.
‘I know she was worse than your haemorrhoids, Rodney,’ Beryl replied fiercely, ‘but she’s only sixteen.’
These conversations were of course illustrated with endlessly repeated clips of Vicky murdering her song, and at the end of the programme Keely mentioned that if viewers wanted to see more of Vicky’s performance they need only turn to the cable channel round-up show Little Chart Throbber.
‘Or why not click on the website and download the Spotty Vicky screen saver?’
Georgie of Peroxide was fortunate in that she did not see her stunning early rejection from the show for having failed to grow and learn from the lessons of the previous year. She was unfortunate, however, in that the reason she missed it was because she was lying unconscious in a hospital bed, having almost succeeded in starving herself to death. ‘Chelle, the other member of the group, was made of sterner stuff and watched the show in the pub with friends. She got impossibly drunk and was arrested after hurling a bottle of beer at the screen. This incident proved to be a massive blessing in disguise as far as ‘Chelle was concerned, because the papers picked up on it and the following week she was interviewed in several of the cheaper celebrity magazines, making the cover of one with the headline quote, I’m no lesbian but I would definitely snog Madonna to further my musical career.
Of the numerous ‘stories’ that featured in the early broadcasts of the show, Millicent probably suffered the most because she was a ‘runner’, appearing in three different episodes, her first audition, the Pop School edition and All Back to My Place. Each week her humiliation was absolute as she was portrayed as a hopeless, talentless millstone, selfishly dragging down the innocent Graham. The little looks, grimaces and tears that were edited into gaps in the judges’ comments made her seem self-obsessed and spiteful, as if she was abusing Graham’s trust and patience. The clear implication was that she should herself have volunteered to leave rather than taking advantage of the judges’ reluctant kindness.
People began to shout unpleasant things at her in the street.
‘Why don’t you fuck off and let Graham get on with it?’ they would say, not realizing that the episodes had been recorded weeks before and that Millicent had long since left the programme.
‘Don’t worry, I’m gone next week,’ she would reply feebly.
‘And about time!’ they would shout back. ‘You’re ruining that poor blind boy’s big break.’
This humiliation was made all the worse by the fact that by now Millicent had fallen hopelessly in love with the man whose life she was popularly believed to be wrecking, but she was unable to speak to him. Graham, as a finalist, had now been well and truly gathered into the Chart Throb bosom and was living in communal accommodation in London with the rest of the finalists, rehearsing for the first of the live shows.
Man of the People
One person who had cause to take some satisfaction from the early broadcasts was the Prince of Wales. Initially condemned as a hideous embarrassment, he had, in a surprisingly short time, begun to find himself growing in the public esteem. His befriending of the lad Troy and apparent selfless devotion in attempting to teach him to read had definitely played well, a development that surprised nobody more than it did His Royal Highness himself.
‘Do you know, I had no idea that I was teaching that boy to read,’ he said to Calvin in a puzzled tone.
‘Really, sir?’ Calvin replied with a faint air of surprise.
‘Yes. Really. And yet when I watch it on the television it certainly looks as if I’m teaching him to read. In fact a number of prominent educators have written to congratulate me for highlighting the problem of illiteracy among young urban males.’
‘Well, isn’t that nice?’
‘Mmm. Yes. Except, as I say, I had no idea I was teaching the boy to read. In fact, I rather think I wasn’t.’
‘Well, for me your contribution is more in the way of lending a general air of encouragement,’ Calvin replied. ‘Just you being there is a big help for him.’
‘Hmm,’ the Prince replied dubiously. ‘I must say it certainly looks in the edit as if I really am teaching him to read.’
‘Does it?’
‘Yes, it does. All those lingering shots of me and the lad poring over that Harry Potter book of his.’
‘Very sweet, I thought. Touching.’
‘We only did that once, you know.’
‘Really?’
‘But I noticed the same shot appeared in two different programmes.’
‘Not the same shot, sir. Different angle.’
‘And then there’s that young lady, Keely, banging on about it too.’
‘Does she bang on?’
‘Well, last week she actually said that I was helping Troy with his reading.’
‘Well, you did help him, sir. I recall it distinctly.’
‘One word, Mr Simms. Quidditch.’
‘But surely it’s all about example and inspiration, sir? Isn’t that exactly what your Trust is supposed to do? It’s no good spoon-feeding these kids. All you can do is lead by example.’
Despite Calvin’s honeyed words, the Prince did not seem entirely convinced.
‘I say, Mr Simms, you’re not cheating, are you? I mean if I am to progress in this competition I only want to do it on merit. If I can’t win by strutting my funky stuff and shaking my booty down to the ground then I certainly don’t wish to win by manipulation and deceit.’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ Calvin answered firmly, ‘but it is not possible to cheat in Chart Throb because, as you will remember from the form you signed, the producers are entitled to change the rules at any time. We don’t break rules, we rewrite them, which is an entirely different thing and perfectly legitimate.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ the Prince said dubiously. ‘But then there’s also that young mother with the sick child.’
‘Well, you did get your office to write to her NHS Trust about the waiting list for the boy’s operation, didn’t you, sir?’
‘Yes, I did but I certainly didn’t intend it to be broadcast. I had no idea you were even filming it. Or that business with the poor woman who’d been violently abused by her swine of a partner. Those were private conversations.’
‘Please, sir, do read the form you signed. Nothing is private on Chart Throb. Everything you say and do during the process belongs to us to use as we see fit. But really, sir, please think about it. You wanted us to show the real you. In the world of television sometimes the only way to show the truth is by lying. You are the sort of person who cares a great deal about literacy but I can’t have you banging on about it, can I?’
‘Gosh, no! Heaven forbid. I’m sure it would be terribly dull.’
‘Exactly. Therefore, in order to represent you honestly but in succinct televisual terms, I have to edit boldly. I have to tell the story. The fact is that by pure good fortune you happen to have stumbled upon an illiterate kid, a desperate mum with a sick child and a battered wife. It’s just pure chance. As to the editing, I suggest that you leave that to me and concentrate on learning the lyrics to “My Way”.’
The Eve of the Finals
The finals of Chart
Throb consisted of a drawn-out series of shows which were no longer the result of carefully edited pre-recorded material but live broadcasts in which all the finalists would perform. Each week the public would vote for their favourites and then the two contestants who had received the least votes would have to perform their song again. After that the judges would decide which one of them would be rejected. It was an agonizingly slow process which many (including Calvin) knew to be nothing like as entertaining as the earlier stages of the show.
‘It’s an inherent design fault,’ he would regularly moan. ‘The show’s only really good at the start of the series. We kick off with hundreds of dickheads who can’t sing, can’t dance and can’t form a coherent sentence, then we narrow them down to twelve bog-standard pub singers you could hear on any cruise ship or in any hotel lounge, then we finally decide on one complete nobody who everybody will have forgotten about in a fortnight! It’s structurally flawed. What we need to do is to find a way to play the programme backwards! Start with the nobody, then fan out across the country looking for all the dickheads! We could have a fantastic final at Wembley Stadium with thousands of idiots all singing “You Are The Wind Beneath My Wings”.’
On the eve of the first final, Calvin, Trent and Chelsie stood reviewing a chart they had made with photographs and brief descriptions of the twelve finalists:
Tabitha: Dull dungarees lezza but has sexy girlfriend.
Suki: Balloon-boobed, fat-lipped, tragicomic prostitute.
Bloke: Bricklayers with guitars. Semi-pro club act. Dull but worthy.
Graham: Blind. Can’t sing.
Blossom: Fat momma. Big laugh. ‘Just a cleaner’. Can sing.
The Four-Z: Cute. Christian. Good hard luck story. Can sing.
Troy: Can sing a bit. Can’t read a lot.
Iona: Good voice. Rodney used to fuck her.
Stanley: Hero single dad. NOTE: Kids not particularly cute.
Latiffa: Black girl with attitude.
The Quasar: Best Blinger in years. Can’t sing but doesn’t care and nor do we.
The Prince of Wales: Heir to the throne.
‘So, boss,’ Trent enquired, ‘how do you want to play this?’
‘Well, for a start I want to take the focus off HRH for a few weeks. We’ve performed miracles creating a more sympathetic image for him . . . and, by the way, well done, Chelsie, on that battered bird. Top research there. Cute, vulnerable, her and his nibs rehearsing “Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves” together was a watershed moment in TV history.’
‘Thanks, chief,’ Chelsie replied, while Trent tried hard not to scowl.
‘But the public bore easily,’ Calvin continued. ‘A little goes a long way in terms of audience manipulation and I think we need to bury the Prince as deeply as possible in the pack for a few weeks and concentrate on other stories.’
‘You want to keep him for the final, boss?’ said Trent, clumsily stating the obvious in order to re-enter the conversation and instantly regretting it.
‘No, Trent,’ Calvin snapped with angry sarcasm. ‘Why on earth would I want to do that? The heir to the throne in a Chart Throb final? Sounds boring to me, let’s chuck him out. OF COURSE I WANT HIM IN THE FINAL, YOU FUCKING IDIOT!!’
‘Yeah, right, absolutely, boss,’ Trent spluttered. ‘I’m just working it through in my mind here. Yes, of course we want to keep him for the final but I think taking the focus off him is going to be tough. I mean he’s the Prince of Wales, after all, singing and dancing week after week in a series of live studio talent shows, how can we possibly bury that?’
‘How, Trent? How?’ Calvin replied. ‘More to the point, how long have you worked on this show?’
‘I’m just saying that—’
‘We bury it by pointing the cameras at somebody else, of course. We control the cameras, we control the shots and we control the vision mixing. Have you forgotten that the rules of this show were specifically designed in order to leave absolutely nothing to chance? We give him short songs, we play half his performance on the audience and on shots of other contestants, we shoot him from the knees down if we feel like it and, most of all, we big up other stories.’
‘I hope you’re right, boss,’ Trent replied, desperately trying to back out of the corner in which he had placed himself while still appearing to maintain just enough dignity and individuality to justify his role on the show. Calvin might be a fairly ruthless leader but he did not pay his senior researchers for abject servility. ‘The finals are a tricky time, the public does crazy things and I’d hate to lose him early on.’
Trent was speaking without thinking. Unfortunately for him, Calvin was listening while thinking.
‘Trent,’ he said, almost gently, ‘I’m sorry, mate, but you’re going to have to swap jobs with Chelsie.’
‘What!’ Trent stuttered.
‘No, I’m serious,’ Calvin insisted. ‘If you want to stay on Chart Throb you have to accept a more junior position. I can’t have my number two wasting my time talking complete bollocks, like some naïve punter.’
‘But—’
‘Trent. Think about it. It’s one thing having the public believe that because the finalists are subjected to a weekly vote the competition is beyond the manipulation of the judges, but it’s quite another having my senior researcher being that stupid.’
Trent hung his head. ‘Sorry, chief. You’re right.’
Solemnly he vacated the chair closest to Calvin and went to sit beyond Chelsie, placing her between him and his boss.
‘Thanks, Trent,’ said Chelsie, assuming her new authority with consummate ease. ‘I think we’ll build a great working partnership.’
‘It always amazes me,’ Calvin said, speaking as if to cover Trent’s discomfort, ‘that the only thing the public ever suspects is that the vote is rigged, when the vote is the one thing in the entire process which is absolutely genuine. Why would I try and rig the vote? I never try and rig the vote. It’s so obvious that I don’t need to rig the vote in order to control the process.’
This was Calvin’s great secret, although it should never have been a secret since all the evidence was entirely public and no effort was ever made to cover it up. Calvin had been astonished at Dakota’s naïvety in not spotting it when they made their bet. He had been equally surprised but also enchanted by Emma’s failure to understand it when he offered to ensure the Prince’s eventual triumph. Both women had been intimately connected to the Chart Throb system, they surely should have been able to see that there was only one point in the whole process when Calvin could possibly lose control and that was in the very final show. The rules stated that each week the two least popular figures in the poll would be identified and then the judges would decide which of them would leave. This meant that, as long as Calvin controlled the judges, which he most certainly did, then he would always be able to control the final choice and ensure he did not lose anybody he didn’t wish to lose. For this reason, he normally instructed his colleagues to keep in the least popular person because unpopular contestants were far more interesting than popular ones and controversy was always good telly.
‘They sit at home screaming at the TV, saying how could you keep that talentless fuck in the show! Don’t they understand that is exactly why we keep him in? The more frustrated and angry the viewers are, the bigger the show gets.’
His Royal Highness was in fact completely safe up until the very last show. That was the one and only time in the entire process when the public genuinely made the decision, and even then they did so only on the evidence Calvin gave them. Up until that point, the only possibility of upset was if Beryl or Rodney refused to follow the script and this was never going to happen, for they owed Calvin everything.
Calvin’s challenge was not to get the Prince of Wales into the final three, but to do so without losing the trust or loyalty of the Chart Throb audience. When he made his bet with Dakota he had committed himself to maintaining the show’s popularity, which meant that he coul
d never be seen to manipulate the audience. His job therefore was to create a figure each week whom he could credibly dump, to allow HRH to be voted into the final three.
Week One
At the week one production meeting Calvin announced that it would be Tabitha, the lesbian with the glamorous girlfriend, who would leave the show first. He turned to Beryl, who had been designated as Tabitha’s ‘nurturer’.
‘I want you to tell her to sing Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing”.’
Beryl roared with laughter. She could see which way this was going.
‘Oh yes! From a paid-up card-carrying muff-muncher! Brilliant! That is so gross.’
‘It certainly will be by the time we’ve staged it,’ Calvin replied and turned to the director and vision mixer.
‘We’ll put her girlfriend in the front row and we’ll shoot it so Tabitha is singing it directly to her.’
‘Love it!’ the director replied. ‘Lots of close-ups and long, lingering looks.’
‘Exactly,’ Calvin replied, ‘and crotch-grabbing.’
Calvin turned to the choreographer.
‘I want you to stage it all hips and thrusting crotch, I want Tabitha grabbing her muff like she’s got cystitis. OK?’
‘I will if you insist, Calvin,’ the choreographer replied. ‘But I warn you, Tabitha is no dancer. She’s built like a brick shithouse and she’s got the rhythm of a dog on heat.’
‘You think I hadn’t noticed? It’ll look horrible.’
‘It certainly will. Do you want me to get her to wiggle her tongue during the instrumental?’
Calvin thought about this for a moment.
‘OK, but keep it vaguely pre-watershed. Just tell her to lick her lips a bit, I don’t want it protruding and, like I say, make sure she rubs her twat like she was Michael Jackson.’