“You’d think we’d get loads of famous
people through here. To be honest I can’t say I’ve heard of many. We had the
king through here the other the other week.”
“Really” I didn’t really know who she
was talking about but I thought it was only polite, especially to someone
putting makeup on your face, probably best to humour them. After all you didn’t
want to look an idiot on T.V., “Stephen Fry?” I asked, after all who gives off
more of an impression of royalty in the dumb?
“Yeah that’s the guy. Really
charming. I’d really like Danny Dyer just once, but Mr Shakespeare won’t let
him. There is never anybody good on this show. I know who you are you were on
that celebrity Ready Cook weren’t you? I’d heard this before, I’ve got that
sort of face people think they recognise by can’t place.
“Sorry I’ve never been on it. I’ve
been on this show about a dozen times. I always ask for you.” This was yet
another platitude.
“Oh you are silly we’ve never met” I
had been modest and had been a regular on the show for five years and shoe had
done my makeup every time. But no one remembers me. Not that I mind sometimes
you want to walk down the high street without people gawping, asking if you are
the bloke off the telly or just harangued with nothing but abuse that people
pass off as banter.
“I was on Celebrity Mastermind maybe
you saw me on that?” I didn’t expect her to have seen it she was probably
always drunk by seven. It’s like you’ve got to be drunk to be interesting,
maybe it’s why pub quizzes are so popular.
“That’s it! You were the one that got
that question wrong, the one about Peter Andre. My friends thought you were
really stupid. I mean who doesn’t like Peter Andre. He is so lovely and smart.
Such a good dad.” As if she had ever met him. Know the lengths of this show was
going towards dumbing down he she probably had.
No one ever remembers the winners of
these celebrity shows though. Not that I’m though. Those who do know me, know
me for having an opinion. It does mean that people listen though I suppose. Not
that this woman would ever have the faintest idea of what I was talking about
even in I explained it with diagrams. She was now wearing that expression that
she was thinking about something complex on how to improve more or less the
only arts show on television her manifesto would have included Neil Buchanan on
every week as an expert on paintings and stuff.
“That Russell Brand he is smart isn’t
he? The way that he uses all those long words as well. He know politics as
well, and really funny. Such a nice man. We have him on here all the time and
he always remembers my name and takes the time to get to know you. He should be
mayor of London or Prime Minister or something.” So she remembers charmer Brand
but not an intellectual like myself.
“You never know, stranger things have
happened.” I had to cut her off before she said something about Jeremy Clarkson
being just as good a choice. That was all I ever heard in pubs. Some big hairy
geezers saying “don’t get me started on that climate change bollocks.” As if
they have participated in years of research on the subject.
“Yeah I’d vote for him any day of the
week. He is good so looking as well. I like how I get to make sure his chest
hair is looking lush.”
Your job does have its upsides then?
That should change the subject for a bit.
“I guess so.” She said with a
glumness that suggested she was thinking of something deep and meaningful. “They
probably want to ship it out to India.”
“That would be a shame.” Sometimes it’s
just easier to let these comments go by, as correcting it takes too much time,
time that you will never get back, but bugger it. “How would they…”
“Three minutes Matt” A voice
belonging to the studio runner had come to rescue.
“Well it was nice meeting you.” I got
up from my seat taking the tissue out of my shirt collar when the make-up woman
stopped me.
“Missed a bit” she said pulling the
chest hair I had out with what felt with the force of a tornado. It took the
breath out of me and if it was for the impatient runner I would have taken a
minute to gather my thoughts.
“There he is,” said a familiar voice
coming from around the corner, Liz Brydon, she had been the presenter of the
review show we were about to do for years. I don’t have many friends in
television but if I had to choose my closest it would have to be Liz, “we
thought you had got lost.”
“Nah, I was just being physically assaulted
by your make-up person. So what have you got lined up for us tonight Liz?” When
I usually asked this question she would go through the line-up that showed her
real passion for the show, however trivial.
“Yeah she is a bit hands on but if we
sacked her Brand would be on the warpath, and you know how he gets when the
people are being oppressed.”
“That doesn’t sound good.” This didn’t
elicit much of a response and I thought I knew why. You’re going to be talking
about Andy van Gust’s new film aren’t you?”
“Look,” Liz said in a tone that was
eminently defensive “it wasn’t my idea. You know it’s important and we can’t
not cover it. “
“Shit, I was only joking. You know I
can’t promise to be on my best behaviour.”
“THIRTY SECONDS” a voice rang out.
The small whispers of the production team fell silent like soldiers on night
duty.
“Good evening and welcome to Review
Weekly, on tonight’s show we will discuss the new work of Graham Kindrick’s new
provocative painting, we will get reaction to comments by author Janice Mangle
who says all classic literature isn’t worth printing on toilet paper.
“But we start with a review of Andy
van Gust’s new film. The Belgian director is no stranger to controversy.
Joining ne to discuss this Matt Trangle.” I sank in my seat a little.
“Yes it’s a polemic on the way that
we treat child stars in modern society and how they can’t be considered to have
grown to be serious acts until they have sexually matured.”
“But to depict Tintin the buy
reporter having sex with a Dutch hooker is going a bit too far, is it not?”
I knew she would start with this. You
would think a friend would ease you in. I did admire her professionalism, but
this film was pure filth.
“Some think it was tastefully done. I’m
not one. I know Tintin is depicted as being in his late twenties, but the scene
was just inappropriate to even discuss on a programme like this with a
sophisticated audience.” I really wanted to lay into the film and the work of
van Gust, I knew I was being baited. The new producer had wanted to bring a new
audience to the show, this meant more confrontation and I didn’t want to play
his games.
“Was it the fact that Snowy was
involved?” Liz was really going for it. She wanted to tell the audience about
the worst type of bestiality imaginable.
“It was just plainly wrong and how it
got past the censors I have no idea.” I could sense what was coming next. I was
going to accused of double standards.
“You’ve been a long-time advocate of
for less interference from the censors.”
“Yes I have…” What I meant was those
warnings before a film that say things like ‘contains scenes of a sexual nature’
or ‘contains mild peril’ ‘or contains language that may offend.’ I didn’t get a
chance to say this though.
“Don’t you think that’s hypocritical
of you to say that this film needs greater censorship?”
The sensible thing would have been to
counter this with my reasoned argument. There is a point in all of that we all
snap, and reason fails us.
“What do you say about that...” The question
mark hadn’t even metaphorically left her mouth, she didn’t get to finish her sentence
but had every right to finish our friendship when I rose from my chair and
pushed her to the floor. There was no going back. Everyone just seem to pause.
The rush of panic prompted everyone into action. The producer run onto the set
and helped Liz to her feet. The production team scurried about looking busy but
not catching my eye.
I realised myself from my mic and
just wondered out of the studio and into the street. A thin layer of mist
filled the air. The sound of cars ejecting a spray of rain from the roads whizzed
by oblivious to the nature of my gloom. I had effectively ended my career, and
live in front of tens of people.
The shrill shriek of drunks sounded
out like seagulls scavenging for food. The full effect of the street lights
were more prominent against the darkening sky. The sound of a mobile phone
working its way through some obscure symphony began to get louder until I
realised it was my own. I looked at it and it was my agent.
“What the fuck was that Matt?”
“Hello” I said in response. I was
punch drunk and I didn’t need the lecture that was to follow. “I’ll have a pepperoni
pizza with mushrooms and extra pizza.”
“Stop pissing about.” My agent was
getting fed up of my antics, ever since I said the Italians were lazy every
last one of them. Of course it was taken out of context, everything is. That’s
why is makes such good copy in the papers.
“Where the bloody hell are you? Meet
me at Victoria, you know the usual place.” Unfortunately I did, he had a small
place in the country for his clients to get away from things for a few days, to
get their head down and straight. Then when the press had moved on to a new
victim he released you back into the public. It was my turn to go there and
face the music. I just hoped no one recognised me now.
I’d seen him do this to others and
they were never the same after. Some went off the rails even more and he got
rid of them or they bucked their ideas up and made him a lot of money.
