Fat Girls and Fairy Cakes

by Sue Watson

  “I think it was Good Morning Britain,” I ventured politely. “I was a researcher then and as all good presenters know, today’s researchers are tomorrow’s producers,” I added, pointedly. Then I sipped coffee, waggled my pen and talked through the script authoritatively. She nodded and smiled and fawned. I was civil but cool and made a mental note to keep my eye on the nasty piece of work should any unsuspecting young researcher come into her orbit.

  “It’s lucky you have no work on and are free for this series. We were trying for Nadia Sawahla but she’s far too busy.” I said, smiling sweetly. I’m becoming a twisted TV tart, I thought. Maybe it is time to get out.

  If Debbie was nervous about the live broadcast, she hid it well. I wished her luck and she staggered off through the mud while I climbed into the satellite truck. This is where a live programme is transmitted from for an outside broadcast and where the producer and director and the more vital people like technicians sat during the programme. It’s always small and hot and cramped in those things, but the excitement and nervousness was tangible. It was ‘live’ and anything could happen.

  Our director Sam told the cameras where to be and the vision mixer switched between all the different cameras, showing off the garden and checking everything was working before we set off on our first ‘journey’. I could see from the monitors that Denise was ready for her close-up and Al was also in the garden giving Bernard a pep talk. I noticed Bernard looked a little pale and pressed the ‘talkback’ button in front of me to find out from Al if all was ok.

  “Mmm, he’ll be fine honey. Just a little bit of vomiting. I’m mopping him up now.”

  “Christ Al, we’re coming to him in about three minutes, we’re about to go on air. Make sure he’s clean.” My heart was in my mouth. This first show needed to be brilliant so that people watched again. The thought of our leading clergyman vomiting in his own flowerbed seconds before we went on air made me want to be sick too.

  As the music started my stomach filled with butterflies and the PA began counting down from ten. It felt like I was in the cockpit of a small plane about to take off. The weather could be calm or stormy and I was filled with exhilaration and dry-mouthed fear at the same time. There was nothing quite like this feeling and for those ten seconds it was actually almost worth all the crap and hard work.

  As I watched on the monitors, my heart racing, I could see (with great relief) that Gerard’s violet garden looked a little less lurid on camera. It actually added a bit of colour to a potentially boring backdrop and it was certainly different.

  Surprisingly, everything started well. Debbie did an opening piece to camera introducing the programme and establishing our location. She then introduced Bernard; “What a beautiful setting you have here, Reverend Butterworth. How long have you been vicar of this parish?”

  Bernard looked straight at the camera and opened his mouth then he looked back at Debbie and back to camera. For what seemed like half an hour – but was only a few seconds – Bernard stood in front of the camera opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish. He’d been fine in rehearsals, but like so many people he’d completely clammed up as soon as the camera was whirring.

  I looked at Sam and he looked at me; “Shall we do a tight on Debbie?” I was loathe to cut Bernard’s part so quickly in favour of waffle in close-up from Debbie but it had to be better than dead air and it was becoming horribly clear that nothing was coming out of Bernard’s mouth.

  I could feel heat rising through my body and the blood rushing to my head. Debbie may not have had star quality, but she was a safe pair of hands on air and with my guidance on talkback we could get through it with Bernard still in vision. “Hang on Sam,” I said, calm taking over. I leapt onto the talkback that Debbie could hear in her ear.

  “You’ve been at this parish for twelve years now,” I said in a presenter’s voice over the talkback. Debbie looked calm and repeated the sentence.

  “Get the wife on, quick!” I shouted, hoping that crazy Denise in the role as ‘tainted Angel of Mercy’ would be able to step in and talk lucidly and colourfully (but not too colourfully) about a vicar’s life in a Northern town. She’d been schooled by me on what would be appropriate and warned not to talk about ecclesiastical orgasms or the verger’s weakness for whips.

  “Hello Denise. As the First Lady of this parish, what’s life like in this lovely village?”

  Everyone in the garden and in the OB truck held their breath.

  Denise stepped forward, wobbly on high heels. She was sporting a full-length, tangerine frock which strangely complemented the purple hard-landscaping, albeit in a hallucinogenic-hippie-on-acid kind of way.

  “We love this village and its people, there’s such a sense of community here that you don’t always find these days,” was her opening line, which sounded surprisingly sane for Denise. “We also love the rugged landscape round these parts. We like our garden to reflect this with no pretentions, using local stone and native planting, as God intended. The television company have certainly added something different with the vibrant colours – but it works.”

  She went on to talk about the seasons in the garden and some of the produce from the vegetable patch; I held my breath throughout. To my amazement and relief, it went brilliantly. Debbie guided Denise expertly through about ten minutes of planting, preening and plucking interspersed with charming (and non-sexual) anecdotes about village life. Then the show cut to some previously filmed footage and my air exploded out of my mouth in relief.

  “We roll VT footage for six minutes thirty seconds,” I said to Debbie over the talkback. “So you’re OK for five, then stand by.” On the monitor I could see her relay this to Bernard and Denise and they visibly relaxed. I watched the footage. It was some nice shots of Bernard visiting sick and elderly parishioners, which would hopefully compensate for his stage fright. As the nation watched Bernard dispensing comfort and kindness, Sam and I exchanged a smile. Against all odds, everything was on cue and the end was suddenly in sight. It was all going brilliantly, in fact – right up until the point it went horribly wrong.

  Just as we were about to broadcast live again I suddenly spotted our garden designer making his musical entrance and dancing right up to Debbie, holding out the watering can needed for the next shot and humming Britney to himself. “What the hell is Gerard doing? He’s in the wrong place! Get him off the set now!” I hissed over the talkback.

  But it appeared that Debbie had become busy with Denise who had just ‘adjusted’ her dress and managed to drop the clip-on mic down her cleavage. “Can I have some help here please?” Debbie yelled, as she plunged her hand between Denise’s voluptuous breasts. “I can’t find it!”

  Some of the production crew ran over and Gerard stopped humming long enough to offer some advice. “It’s all right love,” he said to Denise, “just jump up and down and it will fall right out.” Denise began jogging up and down and shaking her breasts left and right to free the mic, with no notable success.

  “Live in ten seconds, Stella,” the PA called urgently.

  “Debbie!” I yelled. “We are on air in ten seconds!” But Debbie clearly couldn’t hear me. She was shouting at Denise to stand still, all the while wrist deep in cleavage and her earpiece must have got dislodged in the scuffle. Gerard’s humming turned into full on singing as three of the crew plus Debbie tried desperately to extract the mic. “Oh dear,” Denise beamed at one of the very red faced male runners, “It does seem rather stuck, doesn’t it?”

  “Five seconds, Stella!” The PA screamed.

  “Debbie!!! Just clear the set!” I yelled. But it was no good – I could see her earpiece dangling uselessly over her shoulder. “Somebody get on set, now!” I shouted, jumping out of my seat.

  “Two seconds!”

  I lurched uselessly towards the door. But it was too late.

  “And we’re live!” said the PA.

  Everything went silent in my head. On screen, everyone carried on, unaware that we w
ere broadcasting live to the nation. I could see Debbie thrusting her hand further down Denise’s top and from his excitable gestures, Gerard appeared to be cranking the singing up a gear. I watched them for what seemed like hours. Then suddenly the sound flooded back to me and the full horror of what we were beaming to the nation sunk in. Far from preaching or even pruning, the live TV audience was being treated to the glorious spectacle of Gerard waving a watering can and singing Oops I did it again at the top of his voice and the presenter and three runners groping the vicar’s wife. Not realising we were back on air, Debbie finally managed to grasp Denise’s wayward mic and she pulled it out with a flourish. “Got it!” she shouted, “And for God’s sake Gerard, SHUT UP! Jesus!”

  At which point my heart stopped. I was probably clinically dead for about six seconds.

  I mutely watched Debbie as she realised her earpiece was dislodged. I saw her find it, adjust it, and stand stock still as she listened to someone out of shot. Then Debbie’s ‘safe hands’ flew up to her face in horror as she finally realised we were broadcasting live to the nation. This time, everything really did stop. Denise stopped talking, Gerard stopped singing and our presenter was mute. Everything seemed to go deathly quiet and I could almost see the tumbleweed rolling over the set.

  “I knew it,” I spat and glanced urgently at Sam, who had his head in his hands.

  “Well this wasn’t in rehearsal, Stella,” he said, looking up.

  “Petunias,” I yelled into the talkback, “we need to talk about the vicar’s PETUNIAS.”

  As I screamed down the talkback and Sam frantically pressed buttons and moved the cameras around, all hell was breaking loose in the garden. We cut to the petunias, which is where Gerard should have been to give tips and advice. Instead, the petunias sat unattended and the viewers could just make out Bernard in the corner of the shot, once more retching over the flowerbed.

  “Debbie!” I yelled. “Leave bloody Denise and get Gerard over to the petunia bed!” Debbie grabbed his arm and sprinted over the lawn, sliding gracelessly into shot and tripping Gerard, who slopped the contents of the watering can all over Debbie and himself. “Argghh! Sam, cut to the next recorded piece whilst we sort this out!” I screamed.

  Then, just when I thought it couldn’t possibly get any worse, I glanced at the monitor to watch our next VT of Denise drawing the raffle at the WI but to my utter, utter horror all I saw was myself grappling in the mud with Bernard. For a few seconds I tried to process the shots of the vicar/producer mess now being beamed across Britain’s airwaves. I could only imagine this little ‘out-take’ had been meant as a joke for me at the after-show party but some idiot had loaded it into the wrong place.

  I wanted to cry. All the planning, all the late nights structuring the programme, all the rehearsals and readings, and then this. It was supposed to be petunias here, tease a bit of Jesus to keep them on the edge of their seats there, then launch into huge sunflowers, ornamental cabbages and end with a starry sprinkling of The Holy Ghost and a word from our vicar. When we cut back to the church for said last words from Bernard it seemed that his nerves were actually some form of food poisoning and his sermon – our grand finale – was being punctuated with various ungodly sounds.

  As I watched the vicar trying to find words of wisdom whilst battling extreme flatulence on one monitor and an overweight, karaoke Britney-wannabe trying to mop up a terrified presenter on the other, I threw my hands up in the air and gave up. The PA began counting down to the end of the show. “Thank God,” I sighed.

  Sam looked at me. “Roll the fucking credits,” he said, “before I die.”

  In the little van we just sat there in shock. Outside all was silent. Then suddenly Al’s voice came on talkback. “Er Stella, the vicar’s been sick again, I think we might have to get a doctor. It’s all over the altar.” I looked at Sam and after a few seconds of mutual horror I just started to laugh, then he started to laugh. As we climbed out of the van the crew were looking at us, waiting for a reaction and when they saw that the director and producer were holding each other up and howling hysterically they started too. It wasn’t long before the whole crew were rolling around in the mud and Denise was pole dancing round the sound mic.

  “I will never work in telly again,” I announced, to anyone who would listen, “but what a send off.”

  7 - Family Fun Day

  The next morning I woke to the sound of a ringing telephone cutting like a knife through my skull. I was so hung over I couldn’t even think of breakfast – which is usually my first thought of the day. Our response to the disastrous show the previous evening had been to fall into the nearest pub and get wasted. As I gently picked up the receiver, snippets of the evening came back to haunt me. Al and Gerard singing karaoke, both fighting to be Lily Allen, and me and Denise drinking weird cocktails until way past last orders. I was wondering what a glass of ‘Rampant Monkey’ actually consisted of as I held the phone gently to my ear.

  “Stella, its Peter here. I insist you come down to the set immediately,” was all I heard. This had the effect of a bucket of cold water and I just knew this was bad news and I was about to be sacked.

  I gathered myself together, dragged on some clothes and staggered to the set. When I arrived the garden was empty, with no sign of Peter, or anyone else for that matter. In the silence I heard the hopeful chink of crockery and my Pavlovian response was to head for the catering tent. At times like this I never saw the point of fight or flight – why do any of that when you could eat? I decided to wait for Peter and console myself with something tasty. Approaching the tent, I swept back the canvas doorway and was greeted with loud crockery rattling and shouts of “Hurrah!” I couldn’t believe it: everyone was there and the catering tent was decorated with balloons and streamers. Through the many faces I could see Peter holding a glass of what looked like champagne. Was I still dreaming?

  “We’re a hit,” came Al’s excited voice from my side. “The ratings are through the roof! We’re already the most watched on BBC iPlayer, and don’t get me started on You Tube.”

  I half smiled, by now convinced this was definitely an alcohol-fuelled dream. Then I was enveloped by Peter; “Stella! My love! Congratulations and thank you. That was pure comedy. Another series will be in the bag by lunchtime!” It slowly dawned on me that I might actually be awake after all and my jaw hit the floor. “Everyone’s talking about it,” he continued. “It was so real, they’re saying. Glad you took my advice, I told you to keep it loose, my love.” He gave me a sleazy wink. I couldn’t remember the Head Gardener ever giving me that bit of ‘advice’.

  Oh well, I thought, now isn’t the time to resent him taking the credit, I should just enjoy the success. I sipped the glass of cold champagne thrust into my hand by Al and tried not to move my aching head. I nodded and smiled at everyone and laughed along politely at the amazing – and frankly, unexpected – positive comments. A disaster live on air had turned into an overnight success and instead of being sacked, I was applauded. That was TV for you.

  I looked round the tent at all the smiling faces and at Al jumping up and down and hugging Gerard. Of course I was delighted the show was a success but I found I couldn’t completely enjoy the moment without worrying about the havoc it would cause at home. I was happy and relieved, but my underlying emotion was panic. If this series was going to be as big as Peter was suggesting then the producer would need to be here 24/7 for the next hundred years!

  Mum called me the next day to congratulate me on the success of the first show. I was just sitting down with Al to plan the filmed footage for the week when my mobile rang. I checked the display and smiled.

  “It’s Mum,” I said to Al. “I’ll be five minutes.”

  “Ok doll, I’ll grab a coffee. Say hi to her for me.” I nodded and picked up her call.

  “Love, it’s Mum” she announced (she’d never quite got the hang of caller ID). “I saw your show last night and tried to send you a message on eBay but it wouldn’t
go through…bloody technology. Anyway it was great dear. That vicar’s wife is hilarious – has she had Botox? I was saying to Beryl, she looks very good for her age.”

  “Thanks for calling Mum, was it really OK?” I said.

  “Oh yes, it was great, love. I was saying to Beryl, we should get some of that,” she started.

  I sensed someone behind me and as Mum wittered on about the advantages of Botox I turned to see Al waving at me. Peter Willis was standing next to him, obviously keen to have a production meeting. “Mum, it’s a bit crazy here, can I call you back?” I said, signalling to Al that I was winding up the call.

  “Well you can, but I won’t be here dear – I’m stripping for the old soldiers.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, I told you about it last week. The over-fifties are redecorating their sheltered homes, don’t you remember? Lovely old boys. I’ll ring you tomorrow then. Bye dear.”

  I hung up and smiled. Ever since Dad died five years ago, Mum had been like a woman possessed. She was desperately trying to claw back some life for herself and, as she put it, ‘taking what’s owed to me’. I knew we were in trouble when at Dad’s funeral she got pissed on Babycham and did a spontaneous rendition of Rod Stewart’s Hot Legs in the vestry. Five years, a 62-year-old toy boy and two cruises later she declared that ‘sisters are now doing it for themselves’. And it seems that now they were doing it for old soldiers, too. I put my phone in my pocket and went over to join Peter and Al. Perhaps our next series should be about life after bereavement featuring Mum as the star turn, I thought with a smile. That would certainly be a ratings winner.

  A busy week followed our first live show and despite my joy at our success I had a sinking feeling it was going to become even more manic. It’s all very well being the producer of a ratings-winning show but as the cliché goes, you need someone to share it with. As I planned and rehearsed and shot footage in the week, all I could think about was Tom and Grace coming up the next Saturday; I was almost beside myself with excitement. But then the Friday before their visit I received a call from our Press Office that changed everything.