Timothy Lea - Confessions of a Film Extra

‘Yes, it’s Jason,’ I say. ‘Rosie Noggett is my sister.’

‘Yes. Very pretty blonde girl. She wasn’t one of the ones I was referring to, of course.’

‘Funny. It sounded just like her,’ I say.

‘Oh, you naughty boy,’ Miss M. waggles a finger at me. ‘You mustn’t try to make me feel any worse than I do. Ah, here they come.’

Rosie and the rest of the Mums and brats crowd into the control room and Miss M. starts behaving like Miss Mealie. She is a very good-looking brunette with a few more lines than you see on the telly. I read her as being about twenty-eight, five foot six and a half and 36c cup.

‘Miss Mealie and panel into the studio please,’ says Dominic. ‘ Please don’t play with those switches, boys. And, Imogen dear, that’s not a very good place to put your chewing gum, is it? Give it to Mummy, there’s a good girl. And Mummies, could we have absolute quiet during this show, please? We’re always interested in your comments but we’d like them when we’re off the air.’

‘Look into the camera and don’t stutter, Benedict,’ hisses one mother. ‘Remember there’s that series coming up.’

‘Don’t kiss me, Rupert,’ says another, ‘you’ll smudge your make-up.’

When you see the expression of grim determination on these women’s mugs you can understand what Miss Mealie is getting at. They look like Olympic swimming coaches.

‘Good luck, Jason,’ I say. ‘Don’t forget your sweets.’

‘Shut up, you!’ snaps the little monster, snatching them from my hand. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

Little do you know, I think. A couple of weeks and you could be one of the youngest has-beens in the business. I can see myself telling him the bad news: ‘Sorry about this, Jason, but you’ll have to make way for a younger child. The public wants youth, you know.’

‘But Uncle Timmy!’

‘No buts, Jason. You’re finished. Pack your dolly mixtures and get out!’

I watch the little basket gobble down another handful of sweets as he takes his place on the set, and try to shut out the canvas chair with his name on the back of it. A couple of hours in this place and you can feel all washed up at the age of twenty-two.

‘On set everybody, please,’ repeats Dominic. ‘We’re on the air in two minutes.’

‘Can I have his autograph when he learns to write?’ I say as I sit down next to Rosie.

‘Shut up, jealous!’ she barks.

Dominic starts speaking soothing words into a microphone that connects with the set and a shapely bint by his side starts giving a countdown. In front of us are a row of tellyvision screens and a bloke on Dominic’s right commands a bank of switches which control the pictures on each screen. I can see Jason’s self-satisfied little mug staring at me in horrible close-up. At least he seems to be able to leave his hooter alone this week.

‘You blocked up his nostrils, did you?’ I say to Rosie.

‘Shut up!’

‘Have you got my pills, darling?’ Miss Mealie’s voice comes through to the control box. ‘I left them on the desk.’

‘Don’t seem to be here, darling.’ A slight edge creeps into Dominic’s voice. ‘Twenty-five seconds to go. Let’s have a good show now everybody. Good luck.’

‘Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen–’ The Production Assistant’s voice drones on, sounding professionally bored.

I look back to the monitor with Jason’s mug on it and watch the little swine slotting another peppermint into his cakehole. Hey, wait a minute! Those are not sweets! With a sense of impending horror I recognise Miss Mealie’s pills. The ones she said tasted so horrible. They could probably kill Jason. And in front of millions of viewers too!

‘Those pills!’ I shout.

‘Ssh!’

‘Jason is eating Miss Mealie’s pills!’

‘Good afternoon, boys and girls. And Mummies and Daddies too –’ Miss Mealie’s honeyed tones fill the silent control room.

‘Are they dangerous?’

We all peer at the monitor screen with Jason in it.

‘He’s looking a bit green.’

‘– sick.’

‘– blinking.’

‘– awful.’

‘– stomach pump.’

‘We’ll have to take him off when the song comes up.’

‘But every moment is precious. You can’t leave him there!’

‘It’s a matter of seconds –’

‘No!’

‘There’s the other kiddies to be considered too. If you take him off, just like that, it’s going to disturb them,’ sniffs one of the other Mums.

‘You’d rather he dropped dead, I suppose!’ Rosie is moving towards the door.

‘Ladies, please!’

‘You leave that door alone!’

‘He doesn’t look so bad now.’

‘Get out of my way, you slagheap!!’

‘Ooh, that’s nice, isn’t it? I can see where your little boy gets his manners from.’

‘– and now children, here’s a lovely song that you all know very well.’

‘– fingers up his nose.’

‘Ladies please!!’

‘– perming a little kiddy’s hair.’

‘– looks more natural than yours!’

‘Baggage!’

‘Slut!!’

And, so help me, all the Mums start bashing the living daylights out of each other. Dominic and his assistants are spreadeagled protectively over their switches while Rose is trying to get into the studio with the rest of the mothers holding her back. Rising above this unseemly din can be heard the strains of ‘Dance to your Daddy, My Little Laddie’ sung by a very fat gentleman with a paunch so large that it looks as if he would have great difficulty getting into a position from which to achieve parenthood.

As always in situations like this I do not know what to do. To break into the studio seems like running stark naked into the audience chamber of the Vatican shouting ‘The Pope’s a Jew!’ and the sight of birds indulging in a punch-up freezes me to the marrow. The shenanigans in the control room are not going unnoticed by our studio panel and I am reassured about the state of Jason’s health when I see his face split into a wide grin at the sight of Rosie swiping another Mum around the kisser with her handbag. Only Miss Mealie is looking disturbed and I can see that Ralph must be able to contact her because she suddenly leaps up and tries to snatch the pills from Jason’s hands. Jason is not the kind of lad to take this treatment lying down and from what I can see on the central monitor screen, part two of the programme opens with the interesting sight of Miss Mealie and one of her little charges wrestling across the desk.

‘Dey my sweeties! My sweeties!’ screeches the treacherous little Jason. ‘My Uncle Timmy gave them to me.’

‘You swine!’ Rosie rounds on me immediately. ‘You’d stop at nothing to get on that programme, wouldn’t you?’

‘Now, Rosie, don’t be ridiculous –’

‘Poison your own nephew!’

‘Rosie. It was an accident. I thought they were the kid’s sweets. They haven’t done him any harm. Look!’

Miss Mealie has succeeded in wresting the pills from Jason and is quick to shove a couple past her own sensuous lips. No doubt she needs them. ‘Um, delicious!’ she pipes. ‘Would you like one of mine?’

Before Jason can think about it she pushes a packet of gob-stoppers along the desk and little Greedy Guts is on them like a flash. He is obviously the same stickler for principle as his Dad.

‘There, that’s all right then, isn’t it?’ I say, relieved. Miss Mealie clearly thinks so too.

‘Right, now here’s a question from Pauline Rogers of Twenty-four Crowmart Lane, Dagenham. She wants to know what the panel’s Daddies do when they come home in the evening. Who would like to answer that one? Jason?’

But Jason is not expressing a willingness to answer any questions. He now is looking very thoughtful and Miss Mealie has to probe. ‘I expect you’re glad to see Daddy when he comes home in the evenings. What do you do?’ She leans forward expectantly and Jason clears his throat and vomits all over the desk.