How to Get Ahead in Television

by Sophie Cousens

  Rhidian glanced over at me and gave me a sly grin. ‘What’s it to you, Poppy? Jealous?’

  ‘Hardly. I’m just amazed people can be so… so… well, obvious.’ I felt my cheeks flush.

  Rhidian chuckled to himself.

  ‘Trust me, you’re not my type,’ I said, turning to look out of the window. ‘Look, do you mind if I listen to a podcast? There’s one on Russian politics JR recommended that I really want to catch up on.’

  ‘Well if JR recommended it… of course, go ahead.’

  I plugged in my headphones and checked my phone for the eight hundredth time that day: still nothing from JR.

  As we left the motorway a few hours later, I volunteered to take over the driving and give Rhidian a break. To my relief, he didn’t make any observations about my driving ability as I pulled out of the service station. As I relaxed behind the wheel, my phone beeped. I’d left it in the passenger door.

  ‘Want me to get that for you?’ Rhidian asked.

  ‘NO!’ I said, a little too urgently. It could be from JR. I did not want Rhidian reading a text message from JR. I glanced over to see Rhidian picking up my phone.

  ‘Rhidian, do not look at my phone, please,’ I said firmly.

  ‘Secret lover?’ Rhidian teased. ‘It’s a picture message.’ He clicked on it before I could stop him. ‘Perhaps Ian sending you illicit photos?’

  ‘I doubt it. Rhidian, I’m serious, put my phone down.’

  ‘It’s from someone called Nat. It’s a picture of you in a wedding dress…’

  BLOODY NATALIE! I could kill that girl.

  ‘Why is there a picture of you in a wedding dress?’ Rhidian asked, a strange tone to his voice. He sounded almost concerned, as though he thought I might have been sold into slavery as a child bride or something. ‘Sorry, it’s none of my business. That was rude of me to look at your phone.’

  ‘Er… It’s for a play.’ I said the first thing that came into my head. ‘And yes, don’t look at other people’s phones!’ I grabbed it from him and thrust it into my door pocket.

  ‘What play?’ Rhidian asked.

  ‘Er… the Bride of… of Frankenstein.’

  ‘The Bride of Frankenstein?’

  ‘Yes. It’s for a local theatre group I’m in.’

  ‘Isn’t the Bride of Frankenstein a scary zombie?’ Rhidian asked.

  ‘Yes, but, it’s a… it’s a revisionist version. This is definitely the right road, right? I feel like we’re driving east for some reason? Don’t you feel like we’re driving east?’ I tried to change the subject.

  ‘Yes, it’s the right road. So when’s this play on?’

  ‘On?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, can we come and see you in it? Perhaps a group of us could come and support you? I’m sure Helen would be up for that.’

  ‘Er, NO! No, it’s a society thing. Only the society can see it. It’s not open to the public.’

  ‘What society?’

  ‘The, er… theatrical society of Greenwich,’ I said.

  ‘So they put on plays, but they aren’t open to the public?’

  ‘Yup,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘They’re not very financially-minded. It’s more about people who appreciate the art of stagecraft…’ I petered out mid-sentence, praying for this inquisition to end.

  ‘Well, that’s a shame.’

  Rhidian was quiet for a minute. I didn’t dare look over to see what expression he had on his face. I couldn’t tell from his tone whether he believed any of this, or was just asking these questions to torment me further.

  ‘Well, I tell you one thing, Poppy, you look amazing in that costume. You’ll make a beautiful Bride of Frankenstein.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, caught off-guard by the compliment.

  When we eventually arrived in Dartmoor, it was dark. I hadn’t dared ask the ‘are we seriously camping?’ question, but as Rhidian pulled into a remote campsite, I had my answer. As we got out of the car and stretched our legs, the show’s producer, Mark, came over to greet us. Mark was in his mid-forties. He was one of those outdoorsy types who bounded everywhere like an over-energetic Labrador. Whenever I saw him in the office he was wearing hiking gear and carrying crampons.

  ‘Hey, it’s the replacement runners,’ he called back to his team, congregated around a campfire. ‘You made good time getting down here.’

  ‘Yeah, roads were pretty clear. Hi, I’m Rhidian,’ Rhidian said.

  ‘Great news you guys were able to fill in for a couple of days. You might have heard, we’ve had a few runner casualties.’

  ‘Happy to help,’ said Rhidian, unloading our bags from the car.

  ‘Hi, I’m Poppy,’ I said, introducing myself to Mark.

  ‘Hi.’ Mark smiled. ‘So I’d set up camp, grab some food from the campfire, then hit your bed – we’ll have an early start tomorrow. Trace has just cooked up a squirrel and nut tagine. Neither of you are veggie, are you?’

  ‘No,’ we said in unison.

  ‘That’s good. Trace likes the production to be ecologically sound, so he insists the crew live off locally sourced produce while we’re here. We try and incorporate as much foraged food into our meals as possible, so it can be tough if you’re veggie.’

  Trace Armstrong was the host of the show and the UK’s top survival expert. He’d famously claimed he could survive in any environment for at least a week with nothing but his wits. I’d watched a Christmas special of his show, Living Without a Trace, where he’d lived in the London Underground for seven days surviving on mice and discarded food scraps. The show had ended up being controversial, as he’d contracted a rare tongue-swelling disease from the experience and been quarantined in a special unit for tropical diseases for a month afterwards. Transport for London hadn’t thought it very good PR for the Underground.

  ‘Oh, and while you’re here, please don’t fall down any crevasses – we can’t afford to lose any more people,’ said Mark.

  Rhidian and I started to unpack the car. I was relieved to see there were already two tents set up for us, so I wasn’t going to have to prove my tent-putting-up prowess.

  ‘Isn’t this great – we’re getting to meet Trace Armstrong!’ said Rhidian. ‘He’s a pretty extraordinary guy. Hey, Poppy, shall we see who can stomach the most squirrel tagine? Winner gets to keep the torch tonight – Production only packed us one.’

  ‘Why does everything have to be a competition with you, Rhidian? I can tell you now, I’m not eating any squirrels. I would have stopped at M&S to get supplies if I’d known we’d be living off roadkill for two days.’

  ‘Hi, I’m Trace,’ came a voice from behind me.

  ‘Oh, er, hi,’ I said, turning around to see Trace in all his tanned, toned, bearded splendour. ‘I’m Poppy.’

  ‘I don’t use roadkill in my cooking. I caught the squirrels earlier, no cars were involved,’ said Trace, no hint of humour in his voice.

  ‘Aha, I was only joking, sorry…’ I said.

  ‘It takes a long time to prepare a squirrel for human consumption, so don’t feel you have to force it down. All the more for those of us who appreciate the process of catching and preparing the food we eat.’

  ‘Oh yes, absolutely, I mean, don’t think I don’t respect the art of, er…’

  But Trace had disappeared back into the darkness.

  ‘I think he likes you,’ said Rhidian, handing me a sleeping bag.

  After a revolting campfire meal (Trace glaring at me for picking at my squirrel tagine), the production team turned in for the night. I was already feeling cross with myself for getting off on the wrong foot with the presenter, but Rhidian only managed to make me feel worse by instantly establishing himself as everybody’s new best friend. He regaled the production team with funny camping stories over dinner, to the point where Trace declared, ‘This kid is a riot, he should be on the show!’

  ‘Poppy, here, you’d better have the torch,’ said Rhidian, as we were about to turn in to our respective tents.
/>   ‘Why would I need the torch more than you?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know, fending off badgers or bears or whatever decides to crash into your tent in the middle of the night.’

  ‘There aren’t any bears on Dartmoor,’ I scoffed.

  ‘Okay, suit yourself if you don’t want it,’ said Rhidian. ‘I’m going to read for a bit anyway. You know, if you do get scared in the night, I’m just a bear’s swipe away.’

  I lay awake in the dark, conscious that I could hear Rhidian turning the pages of his book, just yards from my head. Our tents had been laid out at the far end of the car park as a last-minute addition, so we were slightly removed from the rest of the team. It felt strangely intimate to be sleeping so close together.

  ‘Poppy, are you awake?’ Rhidian whispered.

  ‘No.’ I sighed.

  ‘I just wanted to say goodnight… And I hope the bears don’t bite.’ He chuckled. ‘Or the spiders… or the marauding wild boar… or the…’

  ‘Shut up, Rhidian.’

  Sure enough, in the middle of the night, I woke to a snuffling sound outside my tent. Something large was moving through the long grass right next to my head. Oh god, maybe there were bears on Dartmoor? This was like being on one of those arctic expeditions where a polar bear paws through the canvas and rips somebody’s head off before they can get the tent zips undone. I tried to suppress a squeal and searched around for my phone as a light source. The battery was dead. Typical.

  I quietly crawled out of my tent, careful not to alarm whatever beast was stalking me. I felt in the dark for Rhidian’s tent and slowly unzipped the outer flysheet. This was going to have to be a pride-swallowing moment, since both our lives were in imminent danger from a marauding polar bear (or whatever the Dartmoor equivalent was).

  ‘Rhidian,’ I whispered. I could hear him lightly snoring. I felt around for the torch in the dark, but grabbed an arm by mistake.

  ‘Hey,’ Rhidian said in a sleepy voice, taking my arm and pulling me towards him. ‘Come back to bed, it’s early.’

  Before I knew what had happened, I found myself lying down next to him, enveloped protectively by two strong arms. I was in my colleague’s tent, he was still asleep, topless and, most crucially, clearly thought I was someone else.

  ‘Woah, no, no, I’m… it’s Poppy. Rhidian, wake up!’ I said, pinching him on the arm.

  ‘Ow! Hey…’ Rhidian took a few moments to get his bearings, turn on the torch, and establish the identity of his tent intruder. ‘Poppy, what are you doing?’

  ‘I’m sorry. There is a marauding bear outside and I need the torch,’ I hissed. ‘And also for you to deal with the bear.’

  ‘Poppy, there are no bears. If you’re just inventing ways to get close to me—’

  ‘Hardly. Shhh, listen!’

  Rhidian was quiet. We were still lying close enough together for me to feel the body heat radiating from his skin. He smelled of musky warm cinnamon, which made me think of Christmas. As we lay quietly, sure enough we could hear what sounded like a large animal still moving around outside.

  ‘See!’ I whispered.

  Rhidian crawled lazily towards the tent door, grabbing some tracksuit bottoms as he stumbled out into the cold night air. As he stood outside, pulling on clothes, I glimpsed his half-naked body in the moonlight. His torso was slimmer than I had imagined: lithe but still well-defined. I caught myself staring and quickly averted my gaze, crawling out after him.

  ‘Don’t let it eat you,’ I warned.

  Rhidian shone his torch out into the grass and we soon saw what was making the noise – people. Comedian Graham Gilbert, dressed in full camouflage gear and a bandana, was stalking through the grass, followed by Trace and a camera crew filming with night-vision lenses. Trace started talking to the camera in a whisper, as Graham darted towards the smouldering remains of our campfire.

  ‘Graham is sussing out the production team’s camp, looking for scraps from last night’s dinner. Little does he know, he won’t find a thing. We’re always careful to dispose of any food the contestants might find. Will he still have his sense of humour when he finds that crock pot empty?’

  ‘So not bears then,’ Rhidian whispered to me, turning off his torch so as not to interfere with the filming.

  ‘Well, how was I to know they’d be filming at night?’ I whispered back.

  ‘They film whenever the contestants are awake,’ said Rhidian.

  Over by the campfire, we heard some clanking as Graham discovered the discarded cooking pots. We couldn’t see anything in the dark, but we could tell from his screams that he’d found them empty.

  ‘No, no, no! Bloody bastards! Don’t leave anything for me? Give me something to eat, you bastards, I can hardly stand up, I’m so weak…’

  Then we heard Trace ambush him.

  ‘It looks like Graham might find stand-up difficult if he’s having trouble standing up! Graham, you’re not losing your sense of humour, are you? Tell us a joke.’

  This was basically the aim of the show – to bring the comics to their lowest point in terms of hunger, physical hardship and sleep deprivation, and then ask them to be funny. If they couldn’t, they were off the show.

  ‘Um, what’s the difference between a squirrel and a plate of food,’ Graham said, trying to sound upbeat, but his voice was straining, as though he might cry.

  ‘That’s the spirit, Graham,’ said Trace. ‘I don’t know, what is the difference between a squirrel and a plate of food?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Graham screamed, breaking down into sobs. ‘I don’t, my brain doesn’t work, I can’t think properly, I don’t know any more jokes. This isn’t funny – please just give me something to eat. I don’t want to be here any more.’

  In the embers of the campfire we could see Graham rocking on the floor, hugging his knees to his chest, sucking on a clump of grass.

  ‘That doesn’t sound very funny to me, Graham,’ chimed Trace: ‘Are you saying: “I’m a comedian, but I’m not funny”? That’s all you need to say to be out of the game and go home.’

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s what I’m saying.’ Graham was crying now, ‘I’m just so cold… I… Does anyone have a jumper?’

  ‘You have to say the words, Graham,’ said Trace.

  ‘I’m a comedian and I’m not funny! I’m not funny, okay?’ Graham sobbed.

  ‘Well, that’s one more comedian OUT here at Survival of the Wittiest. Graham Gilbert, the latest contestant to crumble. With four contestants left, who will be strong enough to retain their sense of humour and be crowned King of Wits?’

  The camera crew stopped filming, and Graham was led back wailing to the ‘recovery zone’ at the far end of the campsite.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, guys,’ Trace called over to us as he left. ‘We never know where or when these guys are going to lose it.’

  ‘No problem,’ Rhidian called back.

  We stood in silence next to each other for a minute and then Rhidian suddenly roared in my ear, ‘RRRRRRRRAWWWWW, BEARS!’, making me jump out of my skin and let out a strangled squawking scream.

  ‘You okay back there?’ called a member of the crew.

  ‘Yeah, fine, Poppy thought she saw a bear,’ Rhidian called.

  ‘Oh my god, you’re such a dick!’ I said, pushing Rhidian away and trying to scramble back into my tent. ‘Not funny.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Poppy, it was quite funny,’ said Rhidian, chuckling to himself.

  This was obviously all part of his master plan, to make me look like a scaredy-cat girl in front of the production team. I mean, I knew he was competitive, but that was a low tactic. I was going to have to up my game.

  STEP 28 – BE PREPARED FOR EVERYTHING TO GO TO SHIT

  I WAS WOKEN by the light at some hideous time of the morning. I emerged from my tent, blinking in the daylight, to see half the camp already up and about. Some people were cooking at the campfire, others were brushing their teeth by the water station, and a few were sorting thr
ough camera kit and setting up power cables. At the far end of the camp, Trace Armstrong was performing some kind of yogic tai chi on a rock, wearing just a white bandana and a small pair of neon-green shorts.

  I found my towel and headed over to the Portakabins to have a shower. I was quite conscious of the fact that I hadn’t seen a mirror in a while and must look an absolute wreck. My hair had developed a nest-like quality overnight, and make-up without a mirror was just not worth attempting.

  ‘Hey, Poppy, production meeting at the campfire in ten, okay?’ called Mark, who was sitting on a rock, skinning an animal that looked alarmingly rabbit-like.

  Washed and changed, I headed over to the campfire where I was offered a pile of blueberries and suspicious-looking meat on a stick.

  ‘You know, it’s very healthy eating paleo like this,’ one of the cameramen said. ‘I love doing this show – I always lose so much weight.’

  ‘Me too,’ said a girl sitting next to him. ‘I was sick so many times last series, I lost a stone and a half. It was great.’

  ‘Morning!’ chirped Rhidian, sitting down next to me.

  Having glanced at myself in the car wing mirror on the way back from my tepid shower, I could see that, as suspected, camping had given me the look of a bedraggled Neanderthal cave woman. Rhidian, however, appeared to be effortlessly pulling off the ‘rugged and dishevelled outward-bound look’, which only served to irritate me further.

  ‘Did you sleep bear-ably, Poppy?’ he asked.

  I made a face and offered him my meat lollipop.

  ‘Okay, team.’ Trace had put on some clothes and was striding over to the group. ‘How lucky are we to be alive on this glorious day?’

  People in the group responded that they did indeed feel very lucky.

  ‘And what more do we need than what nature has provided us with? Sunshine, food of the earth and the love in our hearts,’ Trace cried with a stretch. ‘So last night we had a great moment with Graham, really powerful stuff. I was moved. Anyway, he admitted defeat and is now out of the game,’ said Trace. ‘This morning I want A team to head up to the river mouth where two comics are camping out, and B team to climb High Wilhays Tor, where Bev Sillican is probably going to be the next comic to crumble. Ideally we want to encourage the comics to congregate near base camp so we get some conflict and drama. We might even throw in some food for them to fight over. Is everyone feeling good about this?’