developed an independent personality. They are animated. He picks up his coffee cup, puts it down again, he picks up a pen, pencil, ashtray, clipboard, biscuit. Everything, other than the biscuit, is put into his mouth. After he has spent fifteen minutes boring me with his paranoia and insecurity I think that this girl deserves a fling. If we do manage to cause a rift between them we will be providing a public service. I instruct a private detective to track down some of her exes immediately.
My next interview is with a petite brunette, Chloe. Chloe is an advertising executive in a small advertising agency in Bristol. She is more like the type of guest that I crave for the show. She is certainly attractive, with shoulder-length, curly hair, a winning smile and a neat, sharp body, which she is obviously and justifiably proud of. She’s aged twenty-five. She’s bright, funny.
And insecure.
I imagine that generally she hides it quite well. I imagine that her acquaintances and colleagues describe her as confident. But behind her back her friends discuss her ugly neediness. After chatting to her for four and a half minutes it is obvious to anyone who has ever read any popular psychology books (and I’ve read them all) that she is a woman who loves too much. She believes she is half a person unless she has a boyfriend. The men she meets believe she is an entire person, until they become her boyfriends. On sensing her dependency, their cocks go limp and they leave her. However, as I listen to her chat, it seems to me that her fiancé. Rod, breaks the mould. He actually likes her dependency; it makes him feel valued. But her historical, consistent failure has eroded her trust and faith in the concept of fidelity. Instead of being grateful to have found Rod and keeping her head down, Chloe is hitting the self-destruct button by testing him.
On national TV.
As the interview comes to a close and I have all the details I need regarding Rod’s exes, I ask Chloe why she feels compelled to verify his fidelity on TV. She must know that she is risking personal humiliation and universal disdain.
She shrugs and with a bravado which we both know to be fake replies, ‘I think if you are going to be a failure, you should try to be as conspicuous as you can about it. Who wants to be a run-of-the-mill failure?’
I love this wisdom. You’ve got to hand it to the British public. There’s an Aristotle in every one of them.
The queue for the live audience is massive – it stretches the entire length of the car park,’ laughs Fi excitedly. This is a good sign. The PR vehicle must have done its job.
‘What do they look like?’ I ask. The correct live audience is essential. There are lots of things that the majority of us will do in our homes that we wouldn’t do in public. Things like: cheer at other people’s insecurities, rejection and fear, encourage savagery and disloyalty, positively celebrate humiliation and distress. I need people who are either honest or stupid enough to have these reactions on live TV.
‘Generally poor and unhealthy-looking. But they appear oblivious to their aesthetic drawbacks – they’re oozing excitement,’ says Fi.
This is exactly what I want to hear. An anonymous voice cries, ‘Spot checking, ladies and gents.’ Nobody has a clue what that means, if anything at all, but it has the desired effect and the audience squirm with nervous expectancy. I don’t blame them. It is exhilarating. We put on a bit of a show to get them in the mood. The runner’s bleep pings incessantly; she ignores the increasingly desperate calls. The director (long-haired and self-important by necessity), production manager (a grumpy git – it’s a professional qualification) and the stage manager (careworn and exhausted) huddle in a corner debating furiously about some technical point or other. The production executive is running around the set as though her life depends upon it. A plethora of cameramen – dressed entirely in black, baggy combat trousers and Ted Baker shirts, Cats or DKNY trainers – are standing around, trying to look casually indifferent, as though their lives and souls depend upon it. The set, although flimsy, is attractive. The backdrop is a close-up picture of dozens of fat red hearts. At first glance the impression is romantic; a dip in the lights and the effect is satanic, open-heart surgery on stage. There are