Game Over

‘Joe and Joanne public. The people we trust. Policemen, nurses, librarians, teachers, the guys at Carphone Warehouse.’ Fi eyes me sceptically.

Eventually we agree to place the advert on the TV6 web page and the internal electronic noticeboard, to send a researcher to gyms and clubs to do some on-the-spot recruiting, and to place a telephone line after our Don’t Try This Alone programme. It does quite well on the early evening slot.

Any reservations Fi had regarding the number of volunteers we’d find are soon swept away. Within days of placing the adverts we are inundated with responses; they arrive by the sackful. The world, it appears, is full of those who are about to pledge love until death do them part but actually fear a much more secular separation. It was as I’d expected. They are the most depressing reads ever.

My girlfriend, Chrissie, is the sweetest, kindest, most loving woman I have ever known. I’m honoured that she accepted my proposal and agreed to he my wife. We are due to marry in four weeks’ time. We are having a big do, no expense spared. After all, you only do it once. We plan to have a large family and one day live by the sea. I love her and she loves me. She says so all the time.

Do you think she’d ever be unfaithful?

I only ask because my best mate reckons he saw her in a pub with an ex-boyfriend of hers. I’m sure it was innocent but when I asked her about it, she said he must have made a mistake…

I get married in seven weeks’ time. I love my fiance so much and I’m sure that he loves me, pretty sure. But not absolutely certain. There was a girl he went to college with. She ditched him for an American rower. My best friend got very drunk at a dinner party last night and said some really mean things. She said that I caught him on the rebound, that he’s out of my league. I wonder-if he had the choice, would he choose me?

… I found letters, you see. Why would she keep his letters?

… When you marry you give up your past. You have to. I’m ready for it. But is he? He’s always been a bit of a one for the ladies. Nothing serious. He’s just a flirt. He can’t help himself. He doesn’t mean any harm by it. It doesn’t bother me. Too much. It’s just that my mum says that men like him never change. It’s not that there is an individual ex that I’m threatened by. To be frank there are dozens…

There are a number of psychotics. People who said they’d rather see their partner dead than unfaithful. I believe them and pass their letters on to the police.

We employ a team to trawl through the responses, but Fi and I can’t resist an occasional morbid dip into them. Although the letters are in many ways individual there is a commonality. There is a mustard ripeness of those desperate to confirm their own supremacy in their partner’s affections.

‘Do you think they’ll all look hideous?’

‘Why do you suppose that, Fi?’

‘Well, to be so desperate, so insecure?’

I throw over to her a picture of one of the letter writers. The woman in question is thirty-two, slim, blonde, elegant. She has enclosed a CV detailing that she has a first from Cambridge and a Ph.D. from Harvard. Fi looks amazed. To shake her further, I pass a photo of the fiance. He is smart and mediocre. Fi looks bewildered.

‘He is so ordinary.’

‘Yup, to you. But to her he is a god.’

‘I don’t get it.’ She shakes her head wearily.

‘Nor do I, babe. Maybe it’s a London thing.’ I don’t believe this, but I think it might be a comfort. ‘Anyway, get her on the show.’

The team is gathering around the mountain of letters, which appear to have a magnetic force. I take advantage of their presence, ‘OK, status. Have you seen the lawyers, Jaki?’

‘Yes. We have to be extremely careful, but the terms aren’t impossible. For those who know they are being filmed and are part of the set-up we can use any footage we like, as long as the punter is informed that the tape is running. “Informing” them can be as simple as posting a notice saying cameras are in operation, and to be super- safe, we must get the guests to sign this.’ She waves a weighty document, about the thickness of the Yellow Pages. ‘The fine print will bore the proverbials off most guests and they’ll sign. You can use CCTV footage as long as the local council agrees. I’m working on clearance. Those cameras are everywhere – shops, garages, on street lamps in dark alleys’ – I like the fact that she’s been thinking laterally – ‘libraries, public car parks, hotel foyers.’

‘I can’t imagine these public and commercial bodies will agree, though, will they?’ asks Fi.

‘As I say, I’m working on clearance but as long as all the correct legal documents are in place no one seems too squeamish about blowing the whistle. Restaurants and hotels see it as free publicity. However, taping the dupe is much more difficult. If someone doesn’t know they are being taped it’s illegal to show footage of them, unless they are committing a criminal act and it’s to help the course of justice.’

‘Oh,’ I sigh. This isn’t good news. The whole premiss of the show depends on catching these guys and gals red-handed, so to speak.

Jaki continues. ‘The only way round it is to conceal their identity. Do it all through implication. So, for example, show stills of the dupe and current fiance,’ fiancee, which the fiance,’ fiancee will have released. Then show stills of the “tempting party” and then when filming the actual seduction scene we’ll have to be creative with those black banners that obscure identity or body parts. It will be clear whether the dupe has fallen or not, without having to actually say so.’

I think about it. As the film will be shown for the first time in front of a live audience and all the parties, it will be impossible for the dupe to deny if he/she is the person committing infidelity. And even if they do, the guaranteed ensuing row will still make great TV. I can’t lose. ‘Sounds manageable. Anything else?’

‘In addition, you can’t show any actual lewd acts, even after the watershed. We must bleep out the C word, at a minimum, and other expletives if you want to avoid controversy.’

‘Which I don’t.’

Jaki shrugs. ‘It’s your call. In summary Mr and Ms J. Bloggs have very few legal rights over their privacy.’

‘Fantastic. Document everything. Remember the golden rule.’

Jaki nods. ‘Yes, I have it tattooed on my cranium, “Thou shalt cover thy arse.”

‘Precisely. OK, Ricky, what did the scheduler say?’

‘Oh, you know, the usual bollocks that their responsibility is to heighten the built-in tension between random luck and rules in a game structure – between the predictable and inconceivable, the controllable and the frenzy, which creates enjoyment, blah blah. Need I go on?’

‘No. What slot do we have?’

‘They offered us seven thirty on Saturday night, going out against Cilla.’

‘That’s stupid. Blind Date has been running for sixteen years. It still pulls in over seven million viewers. I’d never think of running a head-to-head.’ I pause. ‘Well, at least not until towards the end of the series. What else did they offer? It’s hardly as though we are flush with brilliant programmes.’

‘Monday at ten.’

‘Take it. Gray, how are the sponsorship and advertising deals coming along?’

‘Good. The advertising is all in place. The TV trailers are set up and we’ve optioned press and poster adverts – the exact placement will be confirmed a few weeks before the first show. As for sponsorship, we have a lead. A teenage retail store is interested in sponsoring the show. It would be a cash-and-barter deal. You know the type of thing: the guest would be obliged to wear their gear, etc. The creatives have come up with some suggested break- bumper ideas.’

Gray cautiously puts the ideas on the table. It’s an unsubtle play on the words ‘top shaft’. The creative team annoy me on a number of counts. They are incapable of accepting a creative brief without whining that they are overworked, which is unlikely to be the case in a channel struggling to come up with programmes; they take long lunches; they switch off their mobiles; they never accept advice, use dictionaries or attend meetings. They proudly admit to reading the Sport and comment on the size of the tits of their female colleagues. And finally, worst of all, their ideas are puerile. Gray reads my face.

‘You think they’re puerile, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I confirm. ‘It won’t work. The Independent Television Commission won’t touch it. And even if we could get it through, it says the wrong things about the show. Get Mark and Tom to come up with some more up-market