have teams that are specially selected for their sympathetic qualities or at least their ability to feign sympathy convincingly, and they become the friends of the stooges. We become indispensable to the ordinary people who wish to compete. Because it is about competition. Who will he choose? Does she love me alone? Nothing is left to chance. It’s now very rare that when the lights go down the contestants’ confidence drains and they find themselves asking, ‘What am I doing here?’ It’s unlikely because they’ve been rehearsed, tutored, scripted, groomed to an inch of their lives. They know how to act if they are humiliated in front of millions (ideally a woman should cry and a man should be violent, but we sometimes turn this expectation on its head to create an extraordinary effect). They know how to act if their partner remains faithful (sweet relief mixed with assured confidence). They practise how to sit, walk, hold their hands, cry, punch and kick. I personally feel the show has lost its bite but Bale is so paranoid about the big bucks which are rolling on Sex with an Ex that he won’t hear of returning to a more impromptu approach. I could argue my case but, unaccountably, I’m not as fired about the show as I have been in the past. I’m more concerned with getting some new shows off the ground.
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