Wordwatching

by Alex Horne

  English teacher, Mr Wozniak

  29

  I still had one final Verbal Gardening task to carry out; a date with Des(tiny) and Carol and, with a bit of luck, the chance to sow seeds all over the Countdown studio.

  My preparation for the actual recording was far less intense than the hours I’d spent cramming for the auditions. I was definitely going to be on the programme now, and all that really mattered was spreading my own words. If that meant going down in the flames of a humiliating defeat, so be it.

  Even so, before my own appearance I did watch the programme avidly, and four days before my day of reckoning was taken aback by a certain beard; the smirking beard of a man I recognised; the beard of Lloyd, the smug man from my first audition. He won his opening game easily, finishing way ahead of the current champion (and me, on my sofa) but in the next game, surprisingly, was beaten by Notts County midfielder Neil MacKenzie, the first professional footballer to ever appear on the programme, who went on to win no fewer than five of his own games. ‘Never mind,’ Lloyd said magnanimously afterwards, ‘at least I got the teapot for my mum.’ Exactly, I thought. He did what he came to do. As would I.

  Three days before the show I flew to Northern Ireland with my wife for a wedding. I wish I could say it was in County Down but it wasn’t. It was in County Fermanagh. This, I thought, would be a refreshing break before the stampede. I would arrive at the studio recharged and ready.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t think about anything but Countdown. I’m ashamed to say that I spent much of the romantic proceedings in a daze, thinking more about vowels than vows, Carols than hymns, wingdings than weddings. Most of the service I spent involuntarily staring at the lovingly crafted marriage booklet, trying to make a nine-letter word out of ‘let us pray’. ‘Seven,’ I murmured instead of ‘Amen’, ‘Players’. Not bad.

  I was awful company at dinner, keen to chat about Countdown but only Countdown; not quite the life and soul that wedding receptions need. Thankfully I was sitting next to Rachel who’d heard it all before, and a man called Gerald who was also a tad uncommunicative. When I tried to describe my forthcoming appearance on TV I got nothing back. I couldn’t believe he wasn’t fascinated by someone who was just about to be on Countdown. But any mention of my tactics, any attempts to practise with some numbers, any Countdown references at all were greeted with grunts. From the main course onwards we both stared at the tablecloth. My eyes were focused on his place name. Gerald glared.

  Back in England, the day before my turn, I watched the final of Countdown Series 58 in which David, the impressive Ulsterman from Omagh, County Tyrone, beat the softly spoken number six seed, Richard Priest from Newcastle-under-Lyme, with words like ‘apogees’ and ‘epidote’. Richard dug out ‘mirador’ but this wasn’t enough against a man who’d found ‘saponin’ and ‘agoutis’ in the semi-final. David O’Donnell had an average 107 points per game. I was as intimidated as I was impressed.

  On Countdown Eve I met up with Mr Roman and his girlfriend Cassie who would be supporting me from the audience (and drastically reducing its average age). We tried to plan my assault, devising means by which I could make my mark in the memoirs of Countdown. My basic plan had been to create one of our new words out of the letters revealed by Carol so that they’d be spelt out for wordwatchers around the country to see, admire and absorb. But, as Mr and Mrs Roman pointed out, this wasn’t a given. The chances of the right letters being picked and then spotted by me were slim, especially if I only lasted one game; a definite possibility. So, if I wasn’t able to get my own words broadcast I needed to ensure I made my name in some other way.

  Countdown has a rich televisual history. It was the first programme ever broadcast on Channel 4, on 2 November 1982, meaning its tkday will take place soon after the publication of this book, on 20 March 2010. The opening show was won by a man called Michael Goldman who later sued the organisers of a Scrabble tournament for not granting him enough time to go to the toilet. He won ninety pounds plus some costs and crops up in various books like this. Could I do something similar? Should I, for instance, become the first person to be caught cheating on the programme, using a calculator, mobile phone or pocket dictionary? Should I declare a nine-letter word every round and just hope for the best? Should I walk out in mock indignation if a rude word appeared by accident on Carol’s letter board?

  No. In the end, we settled for filling in my Contestant’s Questionnaire in what I hoped would be a memorable way (see opposite.)

  If they didn’t ask me about my love of calypso music they were bound to ask me why I liked Natasha Kaplinsky so much, weren’t they?

  I slept intermittently the night before my day, racked by bewildering dreams whenever I managed to drop off. As the sun began to strain through the fragile Travel Lodge curtains I dreamed I was opening the batting for England; a kaplinsky Australian charged in to bowl and I suddenly realised I’d forgotten my bat. I think I was nervous. I couldn’t go back to sleep after this virtual sporting ordeal so had a bath, a kipper for breakfast (brain food, I was told at Cambridge) and a rigorous walk to the studio.

  After signing in at the reception of Yorkshire Television I sat on a reassuringly kitsch sofa and tried to relax. ‘Do you remember me?’ said the man sitting next to me.

  I turned to see a broad tie, decorated with cheese and rats which I followed all the way up to a man’s face and thought, much to my relief, Yes! I do remember you! ‘Jeremy! How are you? How’s the Latin?’

  I couldn’t believe I’d remembered. This was the man I’d taught Latin at the Limax et Thridax in Edinburgh three years previously.

  ‘Oh, still going!’ Jeremy said excitedly. ‘I took night classes after the GCSE and did my A-level a few weeks ago. Should find out the result during the festival. Are you going up this year?’

  We caught up quickly. I told Jeremy I was getting into birdwatching, he told me that like Mr Matisse, he was a Health and Safety inspector, hence the tie. It was a good few minutes into our animated chat that I realised we were the only ones talking and remembered where we were and what I was about to do. Others had joined us on the orange and green couches and were looking far edgier than the two of us. It was then that it dawned on me: Jeremy was a contestant too. We all were. These were the people I’d be up against in the Countdown studio. This was my fate and, for some reason, Jeremy was part of it.

  In the green room with just minutes before the recording the programme’s producer welcomed us and outlined the day’s running order. Jeremy was up first, against yesterday’s champion Sam. I would play the winner. Next up was Marilyn, a nervous-looking lady a generation or two older than me; then Jonny and Tom, both around their tkdays. The producer explained that while waiting for our contests we could sit and watch in the studio if we wanted. Most of us did, so made our way into the arena.

  If you’ve ever wondered how they make Countdown, wonder no more, for I shall now reveal the secrets of the Countdown process and put to bed any rumours that have been up too late:

  What you see on TV is exactly what goes on in the studio.

  There. That cleared that up.

  There could be no Countdown scandal because it is the most wonderfully straightforward programme in today’s TV schedule. There were no computers helping Susie find her words in Dictionary Corner. Nor did Carol have a calculator helping her calculate. Des was that colour. The audience was that old. There were no tricks. As I’ve said before, this was Countdown, not Family Fortunes.

  The TV programme lasts forty-five minutes and they take about forty-six minutes to record it. The only thing you don’t see at home is the warm-up act, a professional, amiable and above all funny comic called Dudley Doolittle who worked his old school magic on the audience, somehow implying that the ‘Deaf Aid Position’ could be found in the Kama Sutra, gently teasing a coachload of people who’d come from Rotherham, and getting hugely excited about four nit nurses who had unwisely sat in the front row and made themselves known.


  As well as raising the temperature in the room, Dudley’s job was to introduce the protagonists, and he did this with unfussy style. ‘We’ve got Eric and Ernie on cameras,’ he crooned and everyone roared. ‘And these are the contestants, reigning champion Sam and our new challenger, Jeremy!’ More cheering. ‘And that’s a grand tie, Jeremy. A real belter!’

  As Sam and Jeremy settled in, the real stars were brought on. First up, the one and only Susie Dent, ‘looking like a racing snake’, according to Dudley; and alongside her, the evergreen comedian Arthur Smith. ‘Look at Smith,’ chuckled Dudley, ‘rag dealer, price of fish.’ I don’t know exactly what he meant but it was exactly right. Arthur did look a bit ‘rag dealer, price of fish’.

  After announcing Des as if he was a heavyweight boxer, Dud left the stage to his superior who continued the banter with the nit nurses and mentioned his tremendous record sales rather a lot. Again though, he was charming. I was charmed. This was proper entertainment.

  But Des wasn’t in charge, this wasn’t Des’s show; he was merely here to introduce the main event, the legendary First Lady of Channel 4: ‘It’s Carol Vorderman!’ And on she sauntered, resplendent in what Des described as ‘a lovely summer frock’, grinning from ear to ear and, apparently, the same age as when she appeared in the first programme almost my whole lifetime ago. This was her programme. She cracked more jokes than Des and Dud combined, laughed like a slightly sozzled aunt at the wedding I’d been at days before and, when it was finally time to start the first game, everyone felt like they’d known each other for years. Some of us had.

  As the familiar theme tune was piped into the studio I didn’t know who I wanted to win. If Jeremy was victorious I’d get to face him; the teacher versus the pupil. This seemed apt but worrying. He’d got an A star in Latin GCSE all by himself. He’d taken the A-level last month. I hadn’t studied for a decade. Would his mind be quicker?

  Also, I was sitting next to Sam’s boyfriend Andy. It would be very awkward if I cheered when his girlfriend lost.

  So when she did lose I kept calm. It was a tight game but Jeremy was just too good. What’s more, Des spent the whole time talking about his Health-and-Safety-themed tie. He’d made an impression! People would remember Jeremy! Could I do the same?

  There was only a brief break between games. Before I had time to worry further I was wheeled out by Dud, the music started again and Jeremy and I shook hands in preparation for battle. ‘Good luck,’ we both said.

  Forty-five minutes later we shook hands again.

  I’m not quite sure how but I’d won. It was much harder to relax in front of the audience than in it, I was distracted by the carpet laid on our desks to absorb any unwanted noise and by the occasional three-letter words muttered by Des in the chair next to me. It was endearing to hear him play along with every game but when he found and whispered words like ‘set’ and ‘the’ it wasn’t all that helpful. Thankfully, Jeremy wasn’t on his best game, perhaps satisfied with the victory that had guaranteed his teapot. After fluking a couple of early seven-letter words I grew in confidence and even managed to seal the win before deciphering the conundrum, R E T O X T R E V.57

  ‘Alex!’ said Des in the closing minute of the show, ‘this last little bit of info on the bottom of the card about you, it fascinates me. You met people from 189 of the world’s 192 countries. Now did you actually meet all those people? It must have been a massive task.’

  ‘Well,’ I replied, relaxed now, ‘it was really just word of mouth. We made a lot of friends and we spent a lot of honk.’

  No reaction, except for a giggle from Carol.

  ‘What about language difficulties,’ continued Des, unperturbed by my honk, ‘did every one of the people you met speak English?’

  ‘No, but I speak pretty much every language,’ I said, daring to make my first joke of the show. I think it worked. Des sort of laughed (although he did later ask me quite pointedly if comedy was just a hobby). But I didn’t really care. I’d won an episode of Countdown and dropped a honk. I’d done my best, I’d said our key word on the show and won the teapot; could Verbal Gardening life get any better?

  My next opponent was Marilyn. Marilyn was lovely and exuded an air of Miss Marple as she set about systematically destroying me in the opening rounds. When I found six-letter words, she found seven. When I found seven, she found eight. I regained some ground with the numbers but by the halfway mark I was 13 points off the pace – a mighty lead for Marilyn in Countdown terms.

  It was her turn to pick letters.

  Des: ‘So Marilyn, you’re doing pretty good, what are you going to do with these?’

  Marilyn: ‘Consonant please Carol. And another. And another. And a vowel. And another. And another. And a consonant. Another vowel. And a final … consonant please.’

  R N H A O A K I B

  Des: ‘Start the clock’.

  I let the wordy part of my mind take over. Almost independently from the rest of me my cerebrum picked up letters, plonked them down, picked them up again and within seconds had built BRAIN for five. Then, though, it sat down for a rest. It refused to do any more work. I was stuck with my dismal BRAIN until five seconds before the bongs when it jerked into action once more and hastily assembled an even smaller, four-letter word.

  But what a word.

  HONK was there! Against all the odds the Countdown gods had dealt me the right letters to make our leading word.

  But what would I declare? I was thirteen points behind in my second and potentially last ever appearance on the programme I’d loved all my life. Would I throw away five more points with a brief mention of ‘honk’ at five to four on a Tuesday afternoon on Channel 4?

  Of course I would!

  Des: ‘Right, Marilyn’.

  Marilyn: ‘Just a four’.

  I glanced over at Marilyn in disbelief. She’d only found a four-letter word too! This was the stroke of luck I needed. I wouldn’t lose the round with ‘honk’! With confidence restored, I held my head up high and looked straight at Des as he turned to me.

  Des: ‘Alex?’

  Alex: ‘I’m afraid I’ve just got four as well.’

  Des: ‘Right, what’s your four, Alex?’

  Alex: ‘I’ve got “honk”, meaning money.’

  Des: ‘Honk!’

  Yes! I wanted to scream, honk, honk, honk, honk, HONK! But I didn’t. I’d just calmly said my word, and the meaning, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Yes, ‘honk’, meaning money. My word. MY WORD! My word! And did Dictionary Corner have a problem with the word? No, they did not! ‘That’s fine,’ they said.

  I had got my word past the Guardians of the Dictionary. I had broken into the Dictionary Corner.

  Carol even put ‘honk’ up on her board. When the programme was broadcast its legion of loyal viewers would now see and hear our ‘honk’. My mum would see Carol Vorderman and Suzie Dent supporting my word on the telly. And even more importantly, I had irrefutable proof that ‘honk’, meaning money, was indeed a word.

  The miracle was gift-wrapped when Des turned back to Marilyn.

  Des: ‘And what have you got?’

  Marilyn: ‘I’ve got horn.’

  Des: ‘Honk your horn!’

  Honk your horn indeed, Des! She’d said ‘horn’! Unbelievable. My name. My name and my word created out of nine letters picked at random by my heroine Carol Vorderman on my beloved Countdown.

  The Letter Lords were indeed smiling on me; I went on to claw back enough points in the subsequent rounds to reach 78 points by the climax of the game compared to Marilyn’s 84. I was within reach of her total with just the ten-point Countdown Conundrum to come.

  Des: ‘So, the game will be solved and resolved by this Countdown Conundrum – and it’s a crucial one this time. So I’m going to drop the lights; and put your fingers on the buzzers as I reveal today’s Crucial Countdown Conundrum:’

  R E D S R E R U N

  Beat.

  Buzz.

  Des:
‘Alex?’

  Alex: ‘Surrender.’

  Des: ‘Surrender? Let’s have a look …’

  S U R R E N D E R

  Des: ‘Wow!’

  I know, Des. And I’d like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who came along today, in particular Mr and Mrs Roman, Dudley Doolittle and Eric and Ernie on cameras. Thank you Des and of course, Carol and Susie, it’s been a pleasure finally meeting you both. But most of all, I do want to say thank you to my mum. I couldn’t have done it without you …

  In truth, I was self-conscious rather than triumphant having won my second game on the trot. I felt terribly guilty that I’d knocked Marilyn out before she had the chance to win her own teapot. Luckily she did say that she didn’t drink tea anyway and that it was ‘nice to lose to a good ’un’, so that feeling of remorse soon faded. Between games, briefly alone in the dressing room, I punched the air and shouted ‘get in’. I sincerely hope that none of the production team heard me.

  Re-entering the ring, as tall as Jumbo, I felt that nothing could stop me now. There was little Jonny could do as I found the eight-letter words ‘calliper’ and ‘debonair’ on my way to a third win, impressing everyone, including myself. As well as the teapot this secured me the prize of an enormous dictionary, called the Shorter Oxford Dictionary (shorter only, as far as I can tell, than a human), the younger brother of the very book I was trying to impregnate by going on the show. Like all dictionaries, this latest edition would be out of date in a matter of months; as the language marches ever onwards its editors must struggle to keep up, like Tantalus in the underworld or Sisyphus, pushing his boulder up a hill for all eternity, but ever so slightly more fun. One day it would need updating to include my word. Honk, at least, was surely on its way.

  Battle-wearied and weighed down by these trophies, I did come unstuck in the last bout of the day against Tom (the press officer for Hull FC in case you’re wondering which Tom), but by then I was happy to put a full stop at the end of my Countdown chapter. It literally couldn’t have gone better, everyone couldn’t have been nicer and I went out to TGI Friday’s to celebrate wicustJeremyStrongJth my new old friend Jeremy.