of the late Seventies which had taken up serious causes like consumerism and treated them with such unremitting facetiousness that they produced a television equivalent of the tabloid press. He was the sort of presenter for whom no word was allowed out unsupported by a picture and no opinion unsupported by a pun. He worked assiduously on his image as a man of the people, and prided himself on the fact that the audience identified with him. In his heart of hearts he felt superior to everyone, but that afternoon, as he neglectfully scanned the script in front of him, he looked disgruntled.
The door to the Conference Room opened. Quentin, the guardian researcher, glanced up protectively, but then relaxed as Jeremy Fowler sidled in with his customary air of apology.
‘Er, good afternoon. I’m the Script Associate on this show. . I’ve worked out a few lines, you know, that some of you might want to use.’
‘What sort of lines?’ asked Joanie Bruton.
‘Well, you know, er, funny lines. . I mean, there may be a moment when you want to make a joke and, er, well, I’ve worked out a few jokes that might be suitable.’
‘Oh, I’m hopeless when I try to do that,’ confessed Fiona Wakeford. ‘Honestly, I can never remember the line, and I get the joke all wrong and it’s worse than if I hadn’t said anything. I’m terribly stupid.’
No one contradicted her. Joanie Bruton and Bob Garston returned to their work, but Nick Jeffries looked interested. He recognised his limitations in the field of repartee. ‘What sort of lines you got?’
‘Well, erm, a lot of hat jokes. I mean, the show being about hats. . you know.’
‘Like. .’
‘Well, erm, there’s this one about the man whose neighbour’s dog eats his hat.’
‘Who — the neighbour’s hat?’
‘No, no, the man’s hat. And the man goes to complain, and the neighbour gets belligerent.’
‘Gets what?’
‘Gets angry. . And the man says, “I don’t like your attitude”, and the neighbour says, “It wasn’t my attitude, it was your attitude!”’
‘Eh?’
‘It’s a pun. Attitude. ‘At. . ’e. . chewed. Hat. You see, the dog had chewed the hat. Get it?’
‘Not really. I mean, this bloke didn’t like the other bloke’s attitude, I get that. But what I don’t see is. .’
The explanation of the joke might have gone on for some time, had the door not opened at that moment to admit John Mantle, still with his two Americans in tow. He was still playing his delaying game and keeping them out of Studio A. The detour up to the Fifth Floor Conference Room, ostensibly just to introduce the copyright-holders to the panellists, was, he reckoned, worth at least ten minutes. But he knew he couldn’t keep them in ignorance much longer.
While introductions were taking place, the telephone rang and was answered by the researcher. ‘All wanted down in studio,’ he announced, ‘to meet the contestants.’
‘Oh Jesus! I didn’t think we’d have to see that lot till the actual recording,’ complained Bob Garston, the man of the people.
‘Sorry. We’ve got to just run through a bit of rehearsal on the bits you do with them.’
‘Shit,’ said Bob Garston, with bad grace.
John Mantle decided that they’d all go down to Studio A together. He knew that he could no longer put off the crisis, but he hoped his American guests’ reactions might be a little inhibited by the presence of the celebrities.
It was a vain hope. The minute the party walked on to the set, Aaron Greenberg looked up at the red wheel with its silver lettering and screamed, ‘Christ Almighty! What the shit is that supposed to be?’
‘John,’ Dirk van Henke hissed in the Executive Producer’s ear, ‘you have just lost the rights in
Chapter Three
John Mantle was no fool. He had been prepared for this reaction, and he had planned how to deal with it. For the time being, he led the two furious Americans up to his office and let the wave of anger wash over him.
‘I mean, for Christ’s sakes!’ Aaron Greenberg was spluttering. ‘What kind of a show do you think this is? We can’t have that kind of talk on a show like this. Diaphragms? No way. I mean, this is meant to be wholesome family entertainment. This show will be going out to Middle America.’
‘Actually, it won’t be. You forget that — ’
‘Okay, Middle Europe. Who’s counting?’
‘Not actually Europe. This is England and — ’
‘England — Europe — what’s the difference? The point is that, wherever it is, there are gonna be little old ladies out there who know what they want and who aren’t gonna to want to turn on a show about diaphragms.’
‘That isn’t the first meaning most people will think of when they hear the title.’
‘No? Well, listen, smartass, I’ve only mentioned it to one person and that’s what she thought.’
‘I’m not sure that actresses are typical of — ’
‘Don’t you try telling me what’s typical or not typical! All I know is that you’re calling this show by the wrong name! And that’s going to lose you your audience and lose you the chance of making a pot. I mean, for Christ’s sakes, we’re talking about the Golden Goose here and you’re trying to wring its neck before it’s laid a single goddamned egg!’
‘What is more,’ Dirk van Henke insinuated, ‘you are in breach of contract.’
John Mantle let them go on. In a little while, he would summon his adviser from the Legal Department. Then maybe the Americans would produce a London-based lawyer to fight their side. All that would take time and, even if eventually they could take out some sort of injunction to stop W.E.T. from proceeding with the show (which, on balance, John Mantle thought was unlikely), there was a strong chance that by then the pilot would be recorded.
So he rode out the storm, confident all the while that downstairs in Studio A rehearsals for
Barrett Doran was no keener to meet the contestants than Bob Garston had been, but Jim Trace-Smith insisted that they must rehearse the basic sequence of the show or the whole thing would be a shambles when they came to record it. Barrett Doran grudgingly agreed to this, though he was not going to put himself out by being polite to anybody.
His first action, on coming into the studio, was to look at the red, blue and silver set in horror. ‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘what the hell’s this? I didn’t know the show was meant to be set in a bloody fast food restaurant. Is it no longer possible to get professional designers? What’s the problem — money? Is that why we have to put up with this crap?’
Sylvian de Beaune, who had been slumped in the front row of the audience seating, rose as if to protest, but thought better of it, turned on his heel and flounced out of the studio. Jim Trace-Smith’s eyes followed him out, then realised that the rehearsal must be moved along to cover this awkwardness.
‘Now, for the First Round,’ he said, with his customary limp elan, ‘each of the contestants has to be paired up with one of the celebrities. This is where they have to change round the hats on the four “professions”, and they’re allowed to consult on this.’
‘Seems to make it unnecessarily complicated.’
‘I’m afraid that’s how the format works, Barrett. Anyway, the viewing audience likes it. We’ve done some research on this and we’ve found out that people at home enjoy seeing the contestants and celebrities being all pals together.’
‘Do they really?’ growled the lovable Barrett Doran. ‘All right, you lot!’ He gestured imperiously to the four contestants. ‘Come over here. Each of you’s got to pair up with one of the panel for the First Round.’ He turned to where the four celebrities sat at their long blue desk, sipping from their red-and-blue-striped glasses and discussing their tax problems. ‘Now we’ll do it so’s we get a man and a woman in each line-up, so you, lady, go with Bob, you
