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 fiancé,’ fiancée, which the fiancé,’ fiancée 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 directions.’
I push open the pub door and am hit by the familiar and comforting smell of beer-soaked carpets, cigarette smoke, and salt and vinegar crisps. It’s mid-September and although the sun is weakly trying to battle with the autumnal