Annie stuttering away for only the second time since college, attempted to pull-off the tricky non-verbal coupling of a sympathetic smile combined with a gently dismissive shake of the head; before proposing Hattie had actually discovered a harmless box of lesser-known organic herbs.
“I think it was erm, Natasha Harmon who recommended it to us… about a year ago… it adds flavour when… cooking.”
Even as Annie stumbled to assemble her piecemeal explanation, she knew it wasn’t washing with Hattie who was becoming even more angry.
“Don’t you dare patronise me, I’m not an idiot. Either you tell me the truth or I’ll take the contents of this box and knock on the door of every dull house, down this boring little road and shove it in your precious neighbours’ faces to see if they know why my parents have all this fucking weed stashed inside their house.”
It was clear from this ugly confrontation that our daughter was well aware of what she’d discovered and my dirty secret was exposed. Humiliated and ashamed, I sank further below the subterranean level I was already operating at. Perhaps it was always inevitable this would come about. Every morning the playroom must have stunk of weed, following all of those unventilated smoking sessions. I’d kidded myself I was being careful, on one hand meticulously picking up tiny bits of tobacco off the playroom floor each night to avoid suspicion, while at the same time barricading myself behind the insubstantial playroom door refusing to let the kids inside while I recklessly constructed another funny fag.
The knowledge that Hattie knew about my habit stabbed my conscience and the wound it created exposed a world driven by secrets, one which required me to constantly lie to the people closest to me about where I was going and what I was doing. All those surreptitious crafty smokes and belly laughs from years gone by had long been replaced with subterfuge, deceit and guilt. Looking through my daughter’s eyes I could see that she resented me for turning my back on her in favour of Pennie Fenton. What a bastard she had for a dad, a stranger who continued night after night to shut himself away in the playroom as soon as he returned from work. A man, who demanded his own kids should never dare to disturb him because he was busy ‘on the computer’ while in reality he was secretly rolling yet another miserable joint.
This episode more than any before, brought it home to me that I had failed to keep the promise I had made to myself on the day Hattie was born. I hadn’t served her well and had failed to protect her properly. It was impossible for me to rationalise my actions. The bubble was burst. Half of me felt like a prisoner of war on the cusp of spilling the beans to my captors; the other half wanted to build a gigantic brick wall around the situation: one so tall, no one would ever be able to scale it. What I should have done was come clean. I should have treated my daughter with some respect and sat down and talked to her the way two adults do. Instead, I immediately picked up my bricklaying trowel and turned defensive, angrily questioning my wife as to why she’d told Hattie it was ‘herbal flavouring’, knowing full well our worldly wise daughter would see through this featherweight explanation. I demanded to know why she hadn’t, for example, suggested it was Allan Hewitt’s gear we were looking after as a favour to ensure Stacey didn’t find out he smoked. Such an approach would, after all, have helped tremendously – by allowing me to totally extricate myself from the dilemma.
As always, behind the anger was fear. I was worried about being shown up as the cowardly creature I’d become, terrified of losing the love and respect of our first born child. Most of all I was petrified that my darkest worry may now be realised – that this wider awareness might be the next downwards step, to me ending up like my mother, grandmother and great grandmother before me; an unhappy lonely addict with nothing and no-one to protect me from the self-destructive behaviours I had established. The apple after all, never falls far. Fearful of the fear, I decided never to talk about the incident and instead promised myself that one day I would actually pack it all in for good.
As I lay in bed over the next few nights, some of them I have to confess still trashed out of my brain (just using up the last of the discovered bounty I kidded myself) a new, far more consuming terror began to emerge. One, which no amount of spliffs could drive to the back of my woolly mind. What message had I sent out to my impressionable teenage daughter, who was already displaying a mutinous streak? What if Hattie’s discovery would encourage her to use soft drugs? Was I reinforcing the next step in the long line of family members with an orientation towards dependency? This new concern towered over all my other misgivings. The notion that I could be culpable, contributing to the one thing I so desperately wanted to avoid.
Looking at some of the odious ‘pondlife’ Hattie was hanging about with, I’d guess she may have already had some limited exposure to the attractions of the odd smoke, but this wasn’t the point. It didn’t detract from the shame I now felt and the recognition that the discovery of her own father participating would surely act as some kind of endorsement for her.
With a newly erected invisible wall between us, I found it more difficult than ever to freely communicate with Hattie and was acutely aware her respect for me must be virtually non-existent. I could also see that Annie, who normally bobbed along with life like a cork on the ocean, was finally beginning to tire of my mesmerisation with Pennie. Recently enrolled on a course to train as a nursery teacher, she was less willing and less able to continue carrying the burden which I all too readily passed to her. But in spite of these developments; their collective impact still wasn’t (quite) enough for me to convert my genuine desire to put things right into any sort of plan. Even the shame of letting every single person I cared about down wasn’t the catalyst I badly needed. Perhaps this would never come.
Put off by my own blameworthiness, it probably took all of about a fortnight (!) for me to get round to buying my pre-Christmas bag of weed. Although I still coveted its contents and had once again surrendered to my cravings, something had changed. Although I continued to smoke, all the enjoyment had gone. Tangible proof that the belated emergence of a conscience doesn’t actually stop you doing something, it only prevents you from gaining pleasure from it. Then, another deep wound. Stuart, who was famed for his ability to ‘tell it as it was’, made a deliberately pointed remark, by stating he believed I was hooked for life and would never be able give up smoking spliffs. It really rattled me to think that he regarded me as an inveterate stoner. Particularly because I knew he had a tendency to be right about these things. Just this once, I thought to myself, I would love, absolutely love… to prove him wrong.
Being caught out by my daughter, created a flicker of determination; Stuart’s assessment of my inner resolve, strengthened this with oxygen; but the ignition of what would become an enormous fireball was still to follow. Without this explosion, the emphatic conclusion to my comatose condition, I would probably be promising myself that I’d give up for years to come – perhaps even confirming Stuart’s belief that I’d never pack it in. The incendiary device itself would arrive just a few days later and would come from the most unexpected source…
20. The Magic of Television
With my career in limbo, health undermined and a sense of growing dissatisfaction with my parenting skills; I had very little faith things could possibly improve. Despondent and unable to see a way forwards, I reflected on the Prairie Home Companion debate Joe Morrit and I had been involved with at school and knew with certainty the shores of Lake Wobegon were never further away. I badly needed some kind of break, a smattering of good fortune. Pennie had long convinced me of the importance of luck and I felt it was about time that I received some of it. Given that none of the big prize competitions I was entering or the multitude of lottery tickets I was wasting my money on seemed likely to improve the situation; I started to look for other get rich quick schemes to transform the sorry mess I was in.
Although I’d never been bewitched by fame or celebrity status in the way my new mate Nigel Flitton was, I’d always been intereste
d in the performing arts. While I wasn’t happy taking centre stage, I had in recent years developed a growing level of confidence by presenting training courses. So, totally out of character, I trawled through the internet, in search of cerebral TV quiz shows which offered contestants the potential to win a large cash prize. Pokerface was one such show. This was a new programme where contestants were judged on their ability to keep their cool and bluff others into thinking they were telling the truth. I enjoyed watching the pilot show and really fancied my chances. If I retained my composure, I could win one million pounds, the largest sum available on British TV. Perhaps this would be my Andy Warhol Moment – my fifteen minutes of fame. This could be the perfect vehicle to help me deliver the dormant dream still nestled inside following my boyhood encounter with little Jimmy Clitheroe. Here may be my opportunity to capture a fraction of the admiration and applause which the entertainer had once been given. I failed to appreciate, that ambitions propelled by a dwarf in a caravan who died of an overdose of sleeping pills on the day of his mothers’ funeral, were unlikely to yield the best results.
Casting aside the remains of my final Prozac bottle, I settled down to complete the application form with all the conviction of a man who had less than nothing to lose. Unfortunately, when filling it in, I probably tried a bit too hard to be quirky – when asked ‘Does anything frighten you?’ instead of putting ‘No’, I responded with – ‘Yes – old claustrophobic black and white movies about submarines’. Similarly, in response to a question about unusual talents, I answered ‘I am a proficient ear wiggler and have finely tuned listening skills (nb these are unrelated)’.
Miraculously, one month later I received a call from a production company called Talkback Thames TV,
“Mr Mellor? Charlie Mellor? Good afternoon. I’m calling you from Talkback,” the voice said in a crisp southern accent.
“The makers of Pokerface?” I asked
“That’s right – it’s to do with the application you kindly submitted. Do you have a minute?”
“Of course – however long you need, as you know from my application; I’m ‘all ears’,” I said.
“Ha, yes absolutely. The thing is, we really liked your application Mr Mellor, but when positioned next to other potential candidates for Pokerface; we felt that yours was … well, more suited to another show currently in production.
“If you’re interested in participating in this alternative show, you would need to find a friend or partner who was prepared to appear alongside you. Do you think this is something you’d be able to do Mr Mellor?”
“Yes, yes – definitely. I’m blown away you’ve contacted me. Whatever it is I’ll do it – and don’t worry I know lots of people who’d be interested in taking part in a television show,” I said
Wow, positive feedback. I was pleased I’d captured their imagination with my application, and intrigued about what precisely had catapulted my submission to the top of the pile for this other exciting programme.
“I’m delighted you feel this way. Any potential partner would have to apply in the same way you did, so I can’t guarantee you will be on the show until we have assessed their suitability, however subject to the usual checks, I see no reason why this should be a problem.”
“Thank so much. One quick question before you go, what’s the name of the actual show?” I asked.
“We’re re-launching the much-loved Supermarket Sweep and I’m delighted to say you’ve been recommended to be one of the first contestants to appear on an updated version of this iconic show,” she said with genuine pride, before adding, “So do I take it, you would like me to progress with your application Mr Mellor…”
It turned out I’d been shortlisted to appear as a contestant on one of the UK’s most awful cheesy programmes (dictionary definition: – cheap, unpleasant or blatantly inauthentic). The news was a real let down. This show didn’t have quite the same prestige as a Saturday night slot hosted by Ant and Dec. Originally created in the States, Sweep was about as low brow as you could possibly get – nestled comfortably alongside other daytime lovelies like The Jeremy Kyle Show and Loose Women. The only people interested in it were fans of kitsch TV, students, bored housewives and devotees of its rather affected host Dale Winton. The more I thought about it, the more I realised the game show sounded uncannily like the one we’d all ridiculed that afternoon stuck in a non-smoking hotel room in Sheffield. This wasn’t the twist of fate I had been expecting.
During each edition, three pairs of seemingly mentally challenged contestants attempt to earn as much time on their clocks as possible by answering astonishingly easy questions about food products and general knowledge. Time accrued in the earlier rounds can later be used for the big supermarket sweep, where one member of each team goes ‘wild in the aisles[7]’ trying to ram as many supermarket goodies as they can into their trolleys. The value of the goods in the trolley ultimately decides who wins the show and will later be allowed to play for a ‘big money’ bonus prize. Now I wasn’t sure exactly how much cash this was, but imagined it would be slightly less than the one million pounds up for grabs on Pokerface.
Pressed for a decision about whether I’d like to proceed, I paused for a minute to wonder what had made them think, ...ahh, nice application, but he’s clearly much more suited to outrageously camp, mindless daytime slush aimed at people with too much time on their hands. However, still seduced by the possibility of a ‘big money prize’, I easily justified my potential involvement by telling myself I would present a kind of anarchic parody of a contestant. My intention was to outsmart the producers. If I made it onto the programme I would be the antithesis of their typical game show participant. Notwithstanding, I was approaching my mid-forties, the whole experience would be like being a student again, an exercise drenched in irony and black humour.
This was exciting! There was a strong possibility I was actually going to be on the telly. All I needed was one person to appear with me. I wasn’t at all surprised when my wife said a flat and immovable, “NEVER!” to the whole idea. I should have listened, but manacled to my own madness, I then phoned Nigel in Margate who I knew was enthralled by celebrity culture. Before I’d finished explaining what the show was about, Nigel was fully on board and emailing me his most PR friendly photograph, to submit for approval to the production team. Box ticked.
The week between Christmas and New Year in 2006, we received written notification that we’d been booked to appear on Supermarket Sweep and would be required for one day’s filming during the second week in January. Although we were pleased to have been selected, we were surprised at just how soon they needed us. Conscious of how washed out I looked, I decided to take an enforced break from Pennie, at least until after we’d been on the show. I still hadn’t found a compelling enough reason to give up smoking, but somehow managed to convince myself I needed to resist my strongest temptation in order to maximise my performance on the impending show. For some reason this crummy production seemed important.
The next two spliff-free weeks, anxiously waiting to travel to the studios, were hell. Stressed beyond belief, I saw flaws in everything and was grouchy with the whole family. Ironically, by struggling so hard to manage my own temperament, I hardly had time to think about what we would actually need to do once we’d arrived on set. In fact with only eight days to go it was difficult to consider very much without first addressing the years of accumulated detritus which filled my mind.
To make matters worse, it was impossible to avoid all the media coverage devoted to the programme. While the original show had been axed years ago, old episodes were still being repeated and so it remained something of a cult-hit. ITV had therefore taken a gamble and brought it back, along with its original super-tanned ‘gay icon’ presenter Dale Winton. The new ‘high profile’ version was heavily advertised and had been upgraded from its old daytime wilderness scheduling to a primetime 5:30 p.m. slot. On the week before Nigel and I were due to take part, Chris Moyles, Tony Blackburn
, Bonnie Langford, Vic Reeves and Vanessa Feltz were all booked to launch the new format through a week of celebrity based shows. I should’ve read the warning signs.
Dale Winton, explaining why this new incarnation of his beloved show was back, said to the Metro newspaper “I love doing this show because it’s ever so slightly, almost on the verge, of being conspicuously camp. In fact, come to think of it the only truly butch thing in the show is me!”
On the face of it, what happens next begins like the introduction to a Danny Boyle movie; except that my own date with destiny would have no happy ending, contain no morality tale and definitely wouldn’t feature any romantic sub-plots. Instead of lifting me up, fortifying my soul and providing a platform for long term happiness; this particular production would, by contrast, turn out to be one of the most depressing days I’d ever encounter.
On Monday January 10 2007, Nigel and I arrived at Maidstone Studios in Kent. We were both a little apprehensive about what lay ahead. Following a whirlwind tour of its impressive studios the two of us sat around drinking as many varieties of caffeinated products as we could get our trembling hands on. After what seemed like hours waiting around, we were provided with a brief glimpse of the mock Supermarket set, where an epic contest of gladiatorial proportions would soon be played out. It was at this point I realised I was in big trouble. I knew nothing about supermarkets or about shopping for food. I didn’t know the price of groceries and certainly wouldn’t know where to begin looking for specific products. For over forty years I’d managed to skilfully evade the responsibility of purchasing my own food and instead had relied on the kindness of others to perform this most basic of functions. Now, here I was, about to be judged on my ability to provide insights and observations on a range of everyday grocery items, the very subject I knew nothing whatsoever about.
Drowning in the Shallow End Page 25
