Unknown - Game Over

I call a meeting to discuss some new ideas. Through the glass partition I watch the team cluster. They no longer look like the anxious relatives of the sick, as they did last August. It’s amazing what six months and over 10 million viewers can do. They look happy and confident, proud and exhilarated. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Darren Smith.

‘Hey, guys, how are you?’

‘Hanging,’ replies Tom. I stare my rebuke. It’s a lie. I’ve seen Tom’s tackle and even the most generous description would not stretch to ‘hanging’.

‘Cool.’

‘Top.’

‘Smart,’ reply Mark, Jaki and Gray respectively. I hope they understand that I am responsible for their feeling of euphoria.

‘Pleased to hear it. Now to business.’ I glare Ricky out of his chair at the top of the table and sit there taking command of the room. Each team member gives a brief update on their department. Gray reports the massive revenue increases in sponsorship and advertising. I was expecting this; the others gasp, happy and astonished. Di gives us more good news, announcing that the exec. committee has increased our team’s marketing budget by 250 per cent. Tom and Mark immediately start debating where we should go for lunch.

‘Quo Vadis?’

‘No, the Ivy.’

‘Grow up,’ instructs Fi. ‘There are more important things to discuss.’ She’s learning.

‘Like what?’ spits Mark.

‘Like what next?’ I reply. ‘We have to stay hot.’ We bandy some ideas around.

‘A follow-up to Sex with an Ex. You know, how are the couple doing? Did they make the right choice?’ suggests Jaki.

‘That’s really obvious,’ snarls Fi.

‘But cheap,’ Jaki defends, knowing it’s me not Fi she has to impress.

‘You’re right, go for it,’ I instruct. ‘Write it up as a proposal. Make it sexy. Get some visuals.’

‘How about a series on serial killers?’ suggests Tom. ‘Compare and contrast the Yorkshire Ripper, the Moors Murderers, that Dr Death guy.’ I concentrate on concealing my disgust.

‘Or something more broad, like tyrants and despots. Stalin, Hitler, Pinochet – we could have an audience participation deciding who was the most vicious,’ adds Mark.

‘Too gruesome,’ comments Gray, and I’m relieved that someone has articulated my killjoy thoughts. ‘Let’s stick to what we do well, humiliating and exposing the normal blokes.’

‘Yeah,’ says Ricky. ‘We could follow guys on their stag weekends. You know, get shots of them licking Guinness off prostitutes’ breasts or being tied naked to a lamppost.’

‘Good idea,’ enthused Fi. ‘We could film the hens puking into their handbags singing “Let Me Entertain You” whilst taking their bras off.’

‘No, no. I think we should go more up-market,’ comments Di.

I want to kiss her.

‘Let’s do some undercover work on politicians and fat cats. Let’s film them standing on bar tops or licking Guinness off prostitutes’ breasts.’

I want to kick her.

‘Or we could do a series of celeb profiles?’ I suggest.

‘Absolutely,’ enthuses Jaki. ‘Dig up all their dirty past, lots of photos they’d rather not see published.’

‘No,’ I shout, marginally more forcefully than I intended. ‘Something more’ – I hesitate, nervous of how my suggestion will be received – ‘profitable.’

‘Well, skeletons in the cupboard are profitable. The advertisers are bound to see the appeal and put loads of money behind it,’ comments Fi.

‘I mean emotionally profitable. Perhaps we could do a show about how celebs are getting along with their millennium promise or, if they didn’t make one, perhaps we can get them to pledge something improving now.’

‘Maybe,’ mumbles Ricky. But he doesn’t sound that enthusiastic. I look at the others but they are all steadfastly concentrating on the cobweb in the right-hand ceiling corner of the room. I’m embarrassed, but push on.

‘OK, maybe that’s not too keen, but I’m just trying to think of something more educational than the current mix.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Quite right.’

‘Definitely agree,’ chorus the cobweb-gazing brigade.

‘Do you?’ I smile enthusiastically.

‘Yeah, like a programme on cross-dressing. Now that’s educational.’

‘Or something on plastic surgery. Perhaps some horror stories of women desperate to keep their husbands and prepared to go to amazing surgical lengths to do so – all the better if the operations have gone wrong.’

‘Don’t be so stereotypical,’ shouts Fi. ‘What about male plastic surgery stories? Penis extensions – now there’s a tale to tell.’ The room erupts into sniggers. I don’t join in. I’m relieved when someone suggests that we need to go to the pub for a ‘break from the intensity’. I’m praying that the salt and Linneker versus cheese and onion debate will overwhelm, and that the original subject of the meeting is forgotten.

15

I have never worked so hard in my life as I have these past few months. Or, more honestly, work has never been so hard. I fail to notice spring; the bit of me that appreciates green buds and blue skies was only ever a small constituent of my make-up, and has now been snuffed out completely as I surround myself with schedules, deadlines, target revenues, TVRs and ARPs. I’m not busy enough. I decide that my social life needs new impetus, so I attend every party, reception, première, dinner and event that I’m invited to. Recently I’ve broadened my life experiences to include visiting Le Cirque du Soleil, participating in a pony-trekking weekend in north Wales and an all-day aerobathon for charity, attending two hen nights (both with essential stripping policeman) and joining Issie’s pottery class. For all this frivolity, I have no fun.

This indiscriminate acceptance of invitations has filled my hours, but there have been two annulling consequences. The first is that I’ve discovered that my previous opinion on mankind (considered by many to be harsh) was in fact generous. People are generally much more tedious than even I estimated. The women I meet are unilaterally obsessed with their waistlines and, as often as not, individually obsessed with some waster. The men I meet are as per my original evaluation. They are insincere commitment phobes or spineless and married. And whilst I personally am still resolutely avoiding commitment, I dislike this characteristic in others. In the past I was able to endure the trite lines and clammy hands at least until the morning after the night before. Now it’s impossible for me to fake interest for as long as it takes most of them to fight their way to the front of the bar queue. Issie is thrilled that I am sticking to my New Year’s resolution.

‘Other than Darren you haven’t had any casual sex this year.’ She blushes. ‘Well, including Darren you haven’t had any casual sex.’

I don’t comment.

The second consequence of my indiscriminate acceptance of invites is that by making myself more available I have made myself less desirable. I worry that I am gaining the reputation of being one of those people who attends the opening of a marmalade jar. For this reason I have resolutely turned down all invitations for this weekend. I refused an offer to fly to New York to ‘shop till I drop’. The guy who made the offer was being euphemistic. He actually wanted me to shop until my knickers dropped. I said no to a reception at the Tate Modern tonight and no to drinks with the team. I refused a dinner and fancy-dress party tomorrow, and a lunch on Sunday with friends. Issie is spending the weekend doing some intensive training with a group of people who are also running the London Marathon and Josh is taking Jane to the country. Not for a romantic weekend, but to bin her. He mistakenly thinks this is the gentleman-like thing to do. Issie and I tried to explain that, almost certainly, Jane would prefer to have her heart broken on her own territory, but Josh pointed out that he’d lose his deposit on the hotel room if he no-showed. As they are both out of town I’ll spend the weekend without human contact.