by Elton, Ben
There was a brief silence in the studio before it erupted into cheers and applause.
‘Is there anything you would like to say to Rodney, Iona?’ Keely asked.
Iona appeared to have tears in her eyes.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you for that, Rodney.’
Next there was an advertising break, during which Rodney seized the opportunity to apologize to Calvin. He was so scared he could scarcely look him in the eye.
‘I’m sorry, mate,’ he said. ‘I just couldn’t stick to the script today, not with what I have to say later.’
‘Well, you know that normally I would consider going off script a sacking offence, Rodney,’ Calvin said sternly.
‘I know, I know.’
‘But I must say it was a surprisingly clever effort. I didn’t think you had it in you and as it happens I’m happy for you to start supporting Iona now because I don’t want her to win and the quickest way to alienate a performer is usually to have you support them.’
‘Thanks, Calvin. You’re a mate.’
After the break it was the turn of the Prince of Wales. The show was going out on the Saturday night before Remembrance Sunday and in a fit of inspiration Calvin had decreed that HRH should sing ‘Where Have All The Flowers Gone’, dedicating it to ‘our brave soldiers, the ordinary lads and lasses who pay the price for the vainglorious folly of old men like me’. It was a master-stroke, and the studio erupted.
‘Your Royal Highness,’ gushed Beryl, ‘you owned that song so big time it wasn’t funny and that’s coming from a mum.’
‘Your Royal Highness,’ Rodney raved, his eyes wet with tears, ‘you are a true star and you have a big recording career ahead of you.’
‘Your Royal Highness,’ said Calvin, putting on his sensible and honest face, ‘when you came into this competition quite frankly I didn’t rate your chances. I was wrong. You’ve worked hard. You’ve listened to the judges’ comments, you’ve learned and you’ve grown and you know what? I think you could go all the way.’
‘Your Royal Highness,’ said Keely, ‘great comments from all three judges there. Is there anything you would like to say in reply?’
‘Well, they are kind, Keely, aren’t they?’ the Prince replied. ‘I’m sure I don’t deserve a word of it but thank you!’
During the next advertising break, Emma managed to grab hold of Calvin when he was briefly able to leave the judging platform.
‘Oh Calvin,’ she said and there were tears in her eyes, ‘that was brilliant. Just perfect. I really do think you’re doing something wonderful and empowering here. Something amazing. I mean isn’t it incredible that the only programme in Britain that is actually attempting to show the next head of state in a positive and thoughtful light is Chart Throb. It’s actually quite noble. You should be very proud.’
‘Oh, I am.’
‘And I’m proud too because I’m the one who made you do it.’
‘Yes, you are, darling.’
With that, he put his arms round her and kissed her in full view of the audience, which of course earned a huge cheer.
‘Easy, tiger. You haven’t won yet,’ said Emma, but she was clearly thrilled.
There being so few contestants remaining, each one of them was expected to sing twice. Calvin had ensured that the Quasar’s second effort did him no favours. The ex-stripper’s whole appeal was based on his exuberance and an amiably oafish lack of talent, so Calvin’s suggestion that he cover Sondheim’s sensitive torch song of sadness and regret, ‘Send In The Clowns’, was certainly a mistake. The Quasar had of course recognized this himself.
‘That song is boring, geeza,’ he had complained to Trent when given his instructions. But, like everybody else, he was bound by the watertight contract he had signed and must do as he was told.
Iona fared better, despite Calvin’s efforts at sabotage. She had won the nation’s heart as the sweet-voiced country girl and so Calvin had decreed that she be given The Sex Pistols’ ‘Anarchy In The UK’ to perform in her last appearance in the hope that this would alienate her mumsy fan base. In fact she played it kookily and with a sense of humour, proving that she could rock, and the song was well received. Calvin was not overly concerned, however, for he knew he had an ace up his sleeve.
When Keely brought on the Prince of Wales for his second performance, Calvin announced that before the Prince sang he felt it was his duty to pay tribute to the courage that the heir to the throne had shown by facing his critics and coming on the show at all.
‘And more than that, Your Highness,’ he said, ‘I want to thank you for the way you have nurtured and cared for all the contestants throughout this whole process.’
‘Oh pish,’ the Prince mumbled, clearly rather embarrassed.
‘No, it’s true. You have been like a father figure to us all and, although so much that you have done must remain unreported as I know you would wish it, I do want to say that little Sam has now got a date for his bone marrow transplant and I believe that to have been as a result of the advice his mother received from your office, which incidentally strikes me as the way community leaders ought to behave in this country but rarely do . . .’
Calvin was forced to stop briefly for applause that for once Gary and Barry did not have to grind out of the audience.
‘I should also like to say,’ Calvin continued, ‘that Bree, the victim of domestic violence whom viewers may have seen His Royal Highness counselling in an earlier show, is now in secure accommodation and has found, let us hope, some modicum of peace.’
In the control booth Chelsie was stunned and thrilled at Calvin’s audacity.
‘He means she’s back in the refuge that I found her in,’ she gasped.
Meanwhile, in the studio, in a last, brilliant piece of theatre Calvin summoned Troy up on to the stage.
‘And finally,’ Calvin said, ‘I think somebody wants to wish you luck.’
Troy, who had been well rehearsed and knew which side his bread was buttered, threw his arms round the Prince before announcing to the audience that he now had a reading age of eight! The crowd cheered and cheered, imagining that this was a mighty leap forward for the lad and the result of royal reading lessons. Emma too shouted and clapped until her voice hurt, as unaware as everyone except Calvin and Chelsie that Troy had had a reading age of eight when he had first entered the competition.
After that the Prince scarcely needed to sing at all, but his performance of ‘The Greatest Love Of All’, delivered in his pleasant light baritone, was rapturously received. Keely could scarcely calm the audience down enough to ask for the judges’ comments. Beryl spoke first and she had clearly managed to overcome any moral objections she might previously have harboured regarding blood sports.
‘You know what, Your Royal Highness?’ said Beryl. ‘You are so sexy, sensitive and gorgeous it isn’t funny. I love older men. I’d like to . . . I want to . . . I wish I could ooooohhh.’ Beryl was momentarily lost for words so instead she stuck her tongue out and wiggled it about. ‘If I wasn’t a faithful wife and working mum,’ she said, recovering herself somewhat, ‘then watch out, mister! In fact if you fancy a threesome with me and Serenity then get yourself over to our place big time because you were utterly fantastic. You owned that stage. You owned that song. You know what? You went out there and you rocked my world.’
Rodney was equally effusive.
‘You know what?’ he said. ‘You went out there and you owned it tonight. The audience love you, you’re a natural entertainer. I think you have a big recording career ahead of you.’
Calvin, realizing that his job was done and not wishing to gild the lily, confined himself to a few words of simple praise and Keely announced that the voting lines were now open.
There now followed a half-hour’s pause in the programme while the news was broadcast and the phone voting was conducted. Calvin and Emma retired to Hospitality, leaving Gary and Barry to maintain the audience at a fever pitch of anticipation. Emma looke
d hard for Shaiana as she and Calvin left the main auditorium but she was lost in the crowd.
‘Forget her,’ said Calvin. ‘I’ve told you, worrying about these people is a sickness. You simply cannot let it get to you.’
The hospitality room, although large, was crowded and unpleasant. Every reality TV star and member of the wrong end of a boy band seemed to have pitched up and the noise was horrible. On top of that, Beryl and Priscilla Blenheim had finally found each other and neither of them seemed very pleased about it.
‘I am not selling my accessories through you,’ Priscilla was shouting. ‘They are my dildos, I designed them . . .’
‘Ha!’ Beryl snapped back.
‘Well, I was fucking there when they were designed, which shows I fucking care about what I put my fucking name to. Unlike you, Mom, fucking whoring yourself to every fucking supermarket chain in Britain.’
Serenity tried to intervene but as she’d had a drink she found it impossible to manoeuvre her lips with sufficient dexterity to make herself understood.
‘Shut up, Serenity, you’re pissed, which is not a good look for a recovering alcoholic!’ Beryl shouted. ‘Now have you got all the arrangements made for tomorrow, Priscilla?’
‘Yes, Mom! How many times!’
‘And you’re sure this guy’s good? We start The Blenheims in one week and I do not want to be on TV with two black eyes and a throbbing twat.’
‘Mom, a few jabs of Botox, a coupla stitches round the eyes, a fold or two of new labium – what’s to heal?’
The Final, Part Two
‘In third place,’ said Keely, relishing the enormous pause that had become something of a trademark for her, ‘it’s the Quasar!!’
The Quasar took the microphone and screeched, thrust forward his pelvis and performed his trademark drop split, then he thanked God, Jesus Christ, his mum and dad, his fans, Baby Jesus and all the children of the world, and committed his life to the ideal of happiness and the spreading of it, particularly, he hoped, to children.
‘I will now announce the performer that the public have voted as this year’s runner-up,’ Keely proclaimed in her most portentous tone, and then after a long pause, she added, ‘after the break.’
This was an old Chart Throb trick to keep the audience in suspense a little longer, but by now the judges at least knew who the runner-up was and Rodney in particular could not wait for her name to be announced. As the minutes ticked by, he fidgeted like a nervous schoolboy. It was a very long break, and as this was the peak moment of the most popular show on television, advertising space was at a premium. In the studio Gary and Barry were screaming themselves hoarse in their efforts to keep the crowd in a frenzy of excitement.
Eventually the broadcast began again and after another outrageous series of pauses finally the moment arrived.
‘The runner-up is . . . Iona!’
There were cheers and tears. Iona’s family were pictured in the front row jumping up and down and screaming and crying. Iona was crying too as she also thanked God before going on to pay tribute to old bandmates without whom nothing would have been possible and expressed the hope that this result might draw a line under the difficult experience that she and the other members of Shetland Mist had had the previous year.
When Iona had finished speaking, Keely stepped forward once more.
‘Which means that this year’s Chart Throb is—’
‘One moment, Keely,’ Rodney shouted from the judges’ table. ‘I have something to say.’
‘I’m sorry, Rodney,’ Keely replied, ‘but—’
‘I must speak!’ Rodney insisted. ‘Calvin, can I speak?’
Glancing at his fellow judge, Calvin was content to nod benignly.
‘Keep it brief, mate,’ he said.
‘Thank you. Iona,’ said Rodney, turning towards her and Keely.
‘Yes, Rodney,’ she answered with a radiant smile.
‘Iona, first of all, congratulations on a stunning achievement. You’ve performed brilliantly, you’ve come second, you deserve it, you are a big star and are going to sell a lot of records.’
‘That’s kind, Rodney,’ Iona said.
‘But life is not only pop music and I have something personal to say. You and I have had our ups and downs in the past but the truth is in my heart I have always loved you. You’re beautiful, you’re talented, you have a lovely family and you’re a lovely Scottish girl. I would like you to do me the honour of agreeing to be my wife. What do you say, darling? How about you and me try and make a go of it?’
This shock development produced a stunned silence in the room. Calvin broke it.
‘Rodney!’ he exclaimed. ‘You sly dog. Good work, my son.’
There was nervous laughter. All eyes were fixed on Iona, waiting for her reply.
Keely, always the professional, said, ‘Iona, I’m going to have to hurry you. I must have an answer.’
Iona smiled and blew Rodney a little kiss.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she said, ‘Rodney Root is asking me to marry him because I have blackmailed him into it.’
There was a huge gasp. Rodney’s jaw dropped open.
‘You all know that last year he and I had an affair, something I have always regretted because he’s a repulsive little man and he didn’t deserve me . . .’
Another gasp and a roar of cruel laughter from Beryl. Rodney turned to Calvin, desperation written across his every feature.
‘Calvin!’ he appealed. ‘Move on. Please move on!’
‘No way!’ Beryl shrieked.
‘Sorry, Rodney,’ Calvin agreed, declining to conclude one of the TV coups of the decade. ‘You’ve had your say, now let Iona have hers.’
‘You all just heard this man say he loves me,’ Iona continued. ‘He told me he loved me then too and he promised my band a recording contract. He never got us that contract and when the novelty of bedding me wore off he dropped me and from that day onwards refused to answer my calls . . .’
‘Calvin, please!’ Rodney pleaded but Calvin merely shrugged as if to indicate that matters had passed beyond his control. Clearly he was still not minded to intervene on what was going to be one of the most talked-about TV events ever.
‘Anyway, as you know, I came back on Chart Throb without my band and Rodney’s been a pig to me from that day to this. Recently, however, I turned the tables on him: I told him that our teenage bass player was ready to swear he’d molested her unless he proposed to me on air. I said I wanted to take him for half his money. It was a bit of a sad trick to play but then he’s a bit of a sad bloke, isn’t he? So here we are and here’s my answer, Rodney: no, nay and never. Not in a billion years. What, link myself publicly with a spineless swine like you? As if! I don’t want your money, never did. I set you up simply so that I could humiliate you on Chart Throb the way you humiliated me. I’m done now, Keely. Thanks for waiting, Your Royal Highness, I do appreciate it.’
The Prince of Wales had of course been hovering on the periphery awaiting his victory announcement.
‘That’s quite all right,’ he said. ‘Don’t mind me.’
The entire arena had been eerily silent throughout Iona’s extraordinary speech. It now erupted into a crescendo of cheering and shouting. Rodney, who if nothing else had some survival instincts, resisted the urge to turn and run and instead assumed a wry grin, as if to say that the joke was on him and that he could take it. When the shouting finally died down he said, ‘Full marks for honesty, Iona. I still think you’re a great talent, a true star and you’re going to sell a lot of records.’
It wasn’t a bad effort but Iona was having none of it.
‘Fuck off, Rodney,’ she said.
‘Oh, I say!’ the Prince protested, ‘No, really please. There are children watching.’
The studio erupted once more into cheers and a chant was fast developing as more and more people began shouting, ‘Fuck off, Rodney!’
Keely rose to the occasion.
‘And with
the Quasar and Iona out of the race,’ she said, showing the kind of steely professionalism that had made her a dead cert to host the following year’s Brit Awards, ‘this year’s Chart Throb is His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales!’
After the cheering had once more subsided Keely enquired whether the Prince would like to say anything.
‘Oh, I don’t suppose anybody wants to hear muggins here banging on,’ he replied.
All the nine other finalists then joined the Prince, Iona and the Quasar on stage and together they sang ‘We Are The World’.
Emma ran forward from the celebrity enclosure and threw her arms round Calvin. ‘You know what?’ she said. ‘I love you. Big time.’
She Wanted It So Much
Consciousness returned slowly to Beryl and it was a moment or two before she recalled who or where she was.
‘That you, Mom?’ a half-familiar voice asked. Familiar but muffled, very muffled. ‘I can see your hand twitching. Are you coming round?’
The voice was that of Priscilla, her daughter. And Beryl was in bed.
‘Five minutes, that guy took. Ten tops. Can you believe it?’ the muffled voice continued. ‘And he charged eight thousand. That’s sterling, Mom, not dollars. Eight thousand pounds. Lisa Marie said a sack over your head would have been a lot cheaper.’
Beryl remembered now. She’d had a bit of work done, that was it. They had done the final of the show, the Prince of Wales had won and then she’d gone straight to the Porchester Clinic to have a bit of work done.
‘Oh my God,’ she said.
‘What?’ she heard Priscilla reply.
‘Rodney proposing to Iona! I just remembered. Oh – my – fucking – God!’
‘Wasn’t that incredible? The best. I mean it was just fantastic. The papers have gone crazy, some of them have put it ahead of that Prince of Wales guy.’