Younger Thinner Blonder

by Sue Watson

  “Tanya is here, baby,” I called to Tim, “and boy is she ready for her close-up.” I was now in full Gloria-Swanson mode and taking his hand I reached the door where he was standing, all gorgeous and muscular and gay. My young white knight lead me safely over wires, and twisted cables, delivering me to my first pit-stop for a ritual hand-washing, then on to my throne on the studio floor. After discreetly handing me a small but thick pack of bacterial wipes, Tim checked my mic. I wiped and tested, then wiped again; “Tanya Travis is now in the building.”

  TWEET: @TanyaTruth We’ve got gr8 show 4 u today. Lots of lovely guests who need my help #TruthWithTanya

  4

  Love, Betrayal and Donner Kebabs

  “So, you attacked your son-in-law with a Samurai sword at the Royal Kebab House?” was my opening gambit with Brenda, the final guest, whose label ‘the mother-in-law from hell’ wasn’t even beginning to cover it.

  “Yes I BEEPING did get him with me Jap sword, but he can BEEP off, he’s nothing but a BEEPING BEEPER!” was the ageing blonde’s considered response.

  I was on the home straight and I was buzzing. I’d warmed up on the tranny, almost strangled the obnoxious Pageant Queen, perfected scorn and derision on the rampant cage-fighter, and now Tanya Travis was ready to tell Brenda just how it was.

  “Brenda, please take us through that particular evening – without swearing – so the audience and our viewers at home can understand exactly what happened.”

  She looked at me as though I’d just addressed her in Mandarin Chinese.

  “So Brenda, you were enjoying a glass of wine with friends when...”

  “That BEEP threw a BEEPING pint of beer over me and called me a BEEPING BEEP!”

  I threw my hands in the air. As I’d feared, Brenda’s vocabulary didn’t go beyond BEEP and I now had to piece together the whole sordid yet complex betrayal/kebab-shop/Samurai-sword story for the viewers myself. How I longed for that Oprah-style Book Club or a whole series dedicated to little children’s courage and middle-class super-mums.

  “So, Brenda,” I said, eyeballing her sternly. “You are telling me that you were in the local pub with your daughter Chantal and your son-in-law, Karl.”

  “Yeah I BEEPING well was, I needed a BEEPING drink after I found out that BEEP...”

  “Indeed Brenda.” I interrupted. “You had just found out you were to become a grandmother, is that right?”

  “Yeh,” she said, slumping back into her seat and scowling at Karl, “and I don’t want our Chantal ruinin’ her life. She’s got to dump him and get rid of it.”

  “Why are you trying to stop your daughter from becoming a mother? I think you should let her decide what to do with her own body, her own baby?” I glared at her.

  The audience started to mutter their approval.

  Brenda waved her bingo wings at the world and continued to describe – in no uncertain terms – her feelings for her BEEPING son-in-law Karl, the BEEP. I let her rant for precisely 10 seconds, before I cut in.

  “Brenda. Is it true to say that you hate Karl so much because you used to have feelings for him? In fact,” I said, pausing to build the drama, “you hate him because he dumped you for your own daughter?” The audience collectively gasped. Chantal leaned forward in disbelief and gaped at Karl. He shifted in his seat and looked at the floor, lips pursed, scowling. This tattooed teenager with no job, no future and – it has to be said – no teeth, was a knight in shining shell-suit to skinny, seventeen-year old Chantal and this had come as a revelation to her. The researchers on the Tanya Travis show were nothing if not thorough.

  “That BEEPING BEEP!” said Brenda, jumping to her feet. “He said he loved me! Then he shagged our Chantal! He’s a BEEPING BEEP and I’ll BEEPING well BEEP...”

  I held up a hand to silence her. “Well, Karl?” I said, looking sternly at him. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

  He shot Brenda a filthy look. “It were a one-night stand, I were BEEPING pissed!”

  Brenda jumped up and lashed out at Karl, but the guys from security were on hand (for drama and safety, in that order) and they stormed the stage, grabbing Brenda and holding her back.

  “Brenda, I think it would be true to say that you’re an alcoholic and a bad mother,” I heard myself cut in over her, positioning myself between her and lover Karl, who was glaring so hard at the floor he could have melted a hole in it. “You need to take responsibility for your actions Brenda, stop blaming the past and start putting your child first. You will never resolve your deep family divisions with ancient Japanese weaponry.”

  The audience cheered. There were now three minutes and 20 seconds to go – and it was time for Tanya to start bringing it home.

  “I don’t care about Karl, because he is poison.” I announced over Brenda’s incoherent BEEPing. The audience fluttered their approval.

  “Chantal, your mother is an alcohol soaked old BEEP who’s wrecked her own life.” I said, turning to face the audience, who cheered in response. I waited a beat, held it there and let it build, like an orchestral conductor. “And if you don’t get out, she will wreck your life and your baby’s life if you decide to go ahead with the pregnancy,” I said, with the certainty that 15 good years in the job brings. The audience were now roaring with outrage, clapping loudly, safe in their seats and lives, delighted I was telling Brenda exactly what they thought too. Brenda was poor, uneducated, ignorant, alcoholic and not surprisingly, pretty aggressive. This audience weren’t asking why or looking for solutions, they were seeking blame and Brenda was in the stocks.

  “What I do care about, Chantal,” I said, turning to the traumatised teenager, “is that you want your baby. And if that is what you want, I personally will make sure you have support. But you need to get your stuff and get out, now.” Whoosh! Thunderous applause and a standing ovation came from the audience. A rush came over me and I knew I was about to say something wholly inappropriate for daytime. “Your mother Chantal is a BEEPING BEEP and I for one will not share a stage with her. BEEP OFF Brenda and take that little BEEP Karl with you!” The audience rocked on their feet, hollering and shouting in approval. I stood looking out at them, jeering and shouting at the unfortunate Karl, passing their combined judgement on the little family group in front of them.

  With minutes to go, Brenda began yelling at Karl over the head of the silently weeping Chantal. Fortunately, the audience were making too much noise to hear the expletives coming out of her mouth and Karl finally rose to the bait and jumped to his feet with an angry snarl. As they squared up to each other, I yelled at them to sit down but we were drowned out by the sheer racket as the bear-baiting reached its climax. Karl took an angry step towards Brenda and she broke free from security and leapt towards him. There were a few seconds of violence, just enough to give the audience what they wanted, then in a flash Chantal’s mother and Karl were escorted off the stage by the big men in black T-shirts. Chantal was left sitting alone on a chair, her head bowed and her thin shoulders heaving. She looked at me through her tears, with dribble on her chin, her mascara in rivulets down her cheeks.

  I strode purposefully across the stage towards Chantal, arms outstretched. She rose from her seat and fell into my embrace, sobbing. Judith was in my ear: “Tan, 45 seconds, no more swearing we’re now live, final sound bite please.”

  I braced myself for the grand finale. I pulled Chantal away from my chest and gripped her by the top of her arms, looking intently into her face so the camera could get a close-up of the dampness and sincerity in my eyes.

  “Chantal, that baby comes first. You must cut your family off. Our aftercare team – all part of The Tanya Travis Show – will take good care of you.”

  “Counting down now...nine, eight, seven, closing titles...”

  I looked straight into Chantal’s eyes, “We’re your family now.”

  She nodded, tears falling silently, and flung her arms around me again.

  The Director’s voice: “Close-up on huggin
g, tight on the tears. Hold it... Going to a wide on camera three – and out. Great stuff! Well done everybody fab show, see you in the pub!”

  I looked down at the woman-child, still clinging to me like a limpet and hugged her back. We stood together, holding each other until the credits ended, but after two whole minutes in that position I wondered when someone would take her away. I had a lunch meeting with Donna – I couldn’t stand there all day, where was the bloody so-called aftercare team? They were all over the show when the cameras were on, but as soon as cameras were off and the credits rolled they were in the pub, having a cheese and onion pasty and a pint of bloody Guinness.

  I looked down at Chantal, still clinging to me like a baby monkey would its mother and as I waited for someone to come and detach her from me, I thought about what a big decision she had just made, live on air. I saw family disputes day in, day out and it was easy to forget that what happened on the show was quite literally life-changing for some of the contributors. Chantal was going to stand up to her mother and have her baby. It would be lonely and hard, but she was going to do it. I felt myself tightening my grip around her shoulders. As her sobs continued, I allowed myself to imagine her situation – for all of about ten seconds. Then I felt a burning desire for a Saniwipe and I didn’t want to hold her anymore.

  I managed to catch Judith’s eye and she rushed over and led the still-sobbing Chantal off the studio floor. I watched her go, my last words to her ringing in my head: ‘We’re your family now.’

  TWEET: @TanyaTruth Gr8 show today. I talked with Chantal 4 hours after. We’ll support her. She’s gonna have baby.J x #GoChantal #TheTruthWithTanyaTravis

  5

  Kerry Katona’s Cast Offs

  “I blame the Bacardi Breezers,” I said to Donna over lunch at Nobu later that afternoon after the show.

  “Bacardi Breezers, my fat ass!” she responded, far too loudly.

  “Forget alcopops, I blame the lubed-up little tart, she clearly couldn’t say no to the first hormonal hoodie that showed her his dick!” Donna was oblivious to the fact that she’d alerted the whole restaurant to the contents of that day’s show. She was like an obscene audio version of The Radio Times.

  I cringed inwardly and there was a faint murmur as diners shifted in their chairs, repositioning for a clear but discreet view. Donna’s decibels always held the promise of impromptu lunchtime entertainment, which was free. In complete contrast to the sushi, which definitely was not. Arthur had driven me from the studios in Manchester to Mayfair straight after the show and we were having a late lunch in Nobu Berkeley Street. It could take up to four hours to get there from Manchester, but that was part of the joy. I could get away from the studio and all the guilt and grime. Besides, I loved the restaurant on Berkeley Street as it was known for being the younger, spirited and more casual sibling to the original Nobu on Park Lane.

  During Donna’s rant, Nathan texted to say that the guy from the Indie label couldn’t meet him until 10pm so he’d be very late that night. I was disappointed – I was looking forward to squeezing in Thai chicken thighs and sex – but this was about Nathan’s future.

  “Anyway, who cares about another pregnant teen... What about that tranny?” Donna screamed into the silence. “Jesus, I never saw a five o’ clock shadow like it... and the hands, the size of his fucking hands!”

  “He... She was troubled,” I added sternly, speaking in a hushed tone, desperately hoping Donna would follow suit and keep her big Brooklyn voice down. But she was shaking her head vehemently, about to make all the other diners aware of her feelings on this matter. “For Chrissakes, Tanya, it’s not natural! Twinset and pearls on a 6 foot 4 truck driver – give me a break!” This was followed by her shrieking laughter as she slammed down the wine menu and ordered a bottle of Chablis.

  “I do feel like I’m running a freak show sometimes, Donna.” I admitted.

  “Yep, that’s because you are, my little primadonna. Freaks...they are what they are... so let’s round em’ up and clean the streets!”

  I grimaced as the food arrived, looking down at the tiny, perfectly cajoled morsels delivered in lines on sparkling white plates. Sitting here restored my faith in beauty, tasteful interiors and cleanliness. Nobu was an expensive-but-necessary antidote to my morning.

  “So, to continue our conversation: I reckon we can squeeze the channel for another few thousand.” She announced into the silence, tearing at her yellowtail sashimi like it was still alive and might just bite back.

  “Really? Is it wise in this financial climate? Even prime-time presenters are taking pay-cuts.”

  “Your stock’s on the rise babe. Tanya Travis is the Daytime Darling again... Do you realise you’ve won the award for ten years running? You’re the heroine to toddler’s mums and the truant-playing, trailer-trash, benefit-scroungers of Britain!” She raised her brows and glugged the rest of her Chablis.

  “No-one’s ever completely safe though, are they?” I said.

  “No honey, it’s the nature of this goddamn awful business. But that’s why you’ve got Donna. I can out-snake a snake babe and I smell danger well before it bites.”

  I was relieved she had it covered. And she was right: while I had Donna for an agent nothing could touch me – but as Judith had inferred earlier, we mustn’t rest on our laurels.

  I sighed and put down my chopsticks. “I’m starting to get a bit fed up, Donna. I don’t mind if they reject my Book of the Month idea but they won’t even let me be ‘Tanya Travis: Saviour of the Great Unwashed’. Lately, things have changed, and now we bring them to the show, push them onto the studio floor, make a spectacle of them and send them home. They take whatever happens back with them; at best it’s the baggage they came with – at worst it’s a whole new set of baggage. No-one does anything for these people, once the cameras are off, and they’re back in their horrible lives.”

  “Look, it’s not your job to wipe up their blood and snot – you’re the fucking star! Where’s the aftercare team?” she yelled, like they were hiding behind the bloody menu. I rolled my eyes.

  “OK fine, Miss Middle-Class-Guilt, here’s a plan,” said Donna with a sigh. “Let me speak to Ray. I’ll work my tits off, negotiate loads more cash off the back of all our hard work... and if it makes you feel better you can give it to a teenage tarts and trannies charity.” She made speech marks with her fingers and shook her head in disbelief.

  I shook my head. “You are missing the point, Donna. They come on to the show to get help, but they don’t actually get any once the show is off-air.”

  “Then give ‘em the number of the Samaritans, hail a taxi and send ‘em packing. Trust me, sweetcakes, they know what they’re doing, they’re manipulative.”

  “Do you really believe that? I disagree. It bothers me that a year after our guests appear on The Truth with Tanya Travis nothing’s changed and we drag them back for a bloody Tanya TV Special.”

  “Which proves my point. They don’t change. They are their own worst enemy and will stay on the same treadmill throughout their loser lives.”

  “It must be easy to be you, Donna and have no conscience,” I smiled, shaking my head.

  “I do have a freaking conscience – I also have a job as your agent. I don’t care what you do with your money, Tanya,” she spat, getting angry now, “but we’ve both worked our asses off for years to get you to this point and I’m bored of you whining on about the poor bastards who star in the show. Trust me, they love every minute of it.”

  “I’m not ‘whining’, I am just saying that...”

  “Stop kidding yourself, Tanya. The night before they come on the show they get a free stay in a chain hotel with full abuse of the mini-bar. They’re in hog heaven, some of them have never even seen an en-suite. JESUS, some of them never even saw a bath! A Travelodge on the M62 is the fucking Ritz to the likes of your ‘guests’!” she yelled.

  She emptied her glass and banged it on the table causing another ripple of Shalimar perfume an
d disapproving whispers.

  “Now, let’s get down to business and talk about the offers on the table, my little People’s Princess,” she said with a twisted smile, clutching a wad of papers from her briefcase.

  “Offers?” I said, my heart leaping a little. “Is this what you phoned me about earlier, the programme for the Beeb? The prime-time slot?”

  “No, sweetcheeks, they are still considering that. They need to decide whether someone of your veteran TV status will last at the helm.”

  “Veteran? What do you mean, Donna?”

  “Listen, honey,” she said, avoiding the question, “the offer I am talking about is just as good. And it’s prime-time too.”

  “Right....” I discreetly took a wipe from my handbag.

  “It’s foreign travel...”

  “Ok?”

  “It’s working with other celebrities...”

  “I’m listening.”

  “And it’s sleeping under the stars.”

  “No. No. No!”

  “You haven’t even heard what I’m going to say, Tanya.”

  “I don’t have to – I refuse to be hurled from a plane into the bug-ridden Aussie jungle with a bunch of Z-list nobodies to eat kangaroo dick.”

  “There was a time when you used to DREAM of kangaroo dick!” she shouted, alerting everyone in the vicinity to my apparent former predilection for marsupial genitals.

  I cringed and took a large mouthful of wine.

  “No, my little nut-job, it’s not I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here. You won’t be partying with Ant and Dec this year. Oh no – this offer is much, much better.”

  “So, what is it?” I was irritated now, Donna was toying with me. It was going to be a long afternoon. I ordered a coffee.