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Authors: Ben Elton

BOOK: Chart Throb
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Then there were those contestants like Vicky and her mother or Peroxide or Millicent of Graham and Millicent to whom a disproportionate amount of screen time had been devoted. Invariably, in these cases the people involved ended up wishing they had been overlooked altogether, for they were forced to learn that fame is
not
always good.
Vicky and her mum had been looking forward to the broadcast. Despite the brutality of their rejection, in the weeks since then they had persuaded themselves that they would come out of it all right. After all, Vicky had sung her song in full and, according to Keely, she had sung it very well. Also both Vicky and her mum had been given ample opportunity to argue their case afterwards, explaining fully why they thought that the judges had been not only wrong but rude.
‘We fought our corner,’ Mum announced proudly as she handed round the nibbles to the large gathering of friends, fellow pupils and parents from Vicky’s stage school who had assembled at the family home for the broadcast. All these people knew that Vicky had been rejected in the first round but they were completely unprepared for the brutal manner in which the
Chart Throb
team had edited her self-delusions.
They all cheered as Vicky appeared on the television, sitting in the holding area with her mum, but the cheers quickly died as through braced teeth set in her cruelly exposed, brightly lit, spotty face she began boasting about her dream. There were even one or two tuts when Vicky’s mum was heard loudly asserting that Vicky was undoubtedly the best in her school.
‘I never said
that
,’ Vicky’s mum protested, although in this case the camera hadn’t lied.
Then suddenly Vicky was in the audition room, murdering ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time’ in front of the judges, who gurned and groaned and sniggered and placed their heads in their hands throughout the song, which was played in its entirety. Vicky’s friends watched, stunned, as the judges then ridiculed the panic-stricken creature who stood before them, wet-eyed and shaking. Even Beryl’s pitying sympathy seemed to be saying nothing more than ‘Yes, she’s utter shit, but she’s only sixteen.’
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.’

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