The truth was that Rodney had rather relished his sudden notoriety, enjoying the exposure that Iona’s comment had brought him. For once he was the most talked-about judge, and not for being drenched in coffee either but for apparently having bedded a beautiful and talented young girl and then publicly scorned her. Certainly most of the press comment on him (particularly from female columnists) had been negative but there was no denying that Rodney was looking a lot sexier and a lot tougher than he had ever looked on the show before. He much preferred being a brutal love rat to a boring wimp.
‘OK, I’ll take the call,’ said Rodney self-importantly. ‘Put her through on the conference facility, I want to keep practising my putts.’
Rodney was actually delighted that Iona had called him. He had been intending to call her to announce that circumstances might shortly bring him to Scotland, and he had even cancelled an attractive little freebie opening a boat show in Hull to clear his diary. Suddenly Rodney wanted to see Iona, he was attracted to her again, the fact that she was all over the papers being routinely described as ‘ravishing’ was very sexy to him. She was no longer a has-been, last year’s contender, last year’s relationship; now she was ‘news’. His and her names linked together had always got Rodney more coverage than his alone did and he had been teasing himself with the idea of taking Iona back. They would be a hot couple all over again, front page news once more. And of course she
was
ravishing, he remembered that now, now that the papers were saying it.
‘Hello, Iona!’ he shouted happily, striking his golf ball with a flourish. ‘I see that you and I are in the papers together. Can’t be bad, can it? No such thing as bad publicity, as they say.’
‘Shut your face, you smug little weasel, and listen to me,’ the familiar voice replied.
Rodney was momentarily taken aback. He had been feeling so cheerful that he had allowed himself to forget that as far as Iona was concerned he had viciously and inexplicably demeaned her on national television.
‘Now, now, Iona,’ he said. ‘Hold on a minute. I know I said you couldn’t sing but that was just for the drama. A bit of fun. I knew Calvin and Beryl were putting you through so I thought I’d vote against expectations – you know, just to stir things up a bit. And look, it’s worked, hasn’t it? We
are
the news.’
‘I
said
listen to me, you little shit,’ Iona replied.
‘Now look here, Iona, you can’t take that tone with me,’ Rodney said, his own tone hardening. If she was going to be unpleasant then she would soon find out that he could give as good as he got.
‘Can’t I?’ Iona snapped. ‘Well, perhaps I can take it with the papers then. When I tell them my story.’
‘What story? Everybody knows the truth about our affair. We never denied it.’
‘Everyone knows the truth, Rodney,’ Iona replied, ‘but wait till I tell them the fiction.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Mary was under age at the time, you bloody animal.’
Iona was referring to Shetland Mist’s bass player, who had indeed been a schoolgirl at the time of the previous series, a factor that had brought the group some small publicity.
‘What!’ Rodney’s blood ran cold. He actually staggered a little. ‘I never . . .’
‘I know you didn’t, although my guess is you’d have
liked
to.’
‘Rubbish! What do you mean? I sent her one or two presents, that’s all . . .’
‘She was fifteen, Rodney, she had to get a special dispensation to appear on the show. How’s it going to sound when she says you tried to touch her up?’
‘My God! I didn’t! You wouldn’t . . . !’
‘You know where I live, Rodney, although you refused to ever visit my home when we were an item. Not good enough for you, was it? You never even met my family. Well, you’ll meet them now. Come tomorrow, come alone and remember, you’ll be searched so no recording equipment.’
With that the phone rang off, leaving Rodney to instruct his secretary to book him a flight to Glasgow for the following morning. She had already reserved a seat for him in anticipation of his going to Scotland. Rodney had hoped that the trip would be made under happier circumstances.
Iona lived with her family about an hour’s drive from the city in a big old ramshackle farmhouse near the village of Dumgoyne. When Rodney arrived he was horribly uncomfortable to discover that quite a crowd had assembled to discuss whatever Iona had in mind for him, and as he sat down at the big kitchen table opposite his ex-girlfriend he could see behind her all the members of Shetland Mist, plus Iona’s brothers and sisters and her parents. Her father, who had been working on his tractor, still held a heavy spanner in his hand. The last time Rodney had seen Shetland Mist he had been Iona’s boyfriend and manager to the group; since then he had dumped them and cut himself off from their lives altogether. Now he was back and they were staring at him with ill-concealed contempt.
‘So here’s the point, Rodney,’ said Iona. ‘You’ve betrayed me in bed and you’ve betrayed me on TV and now it’s payback time.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to announce on television that you told me you loved me and you promised to marry me while all the time you were trying to molest Mary, and she’ll swear you did it and the others will swear that she told them about it at the time. Everyone will believe us. Let’s face it, you look like a fucking pervert anyway.’
‘Iona!’ her mother snapped. ‘There is no call for language.’
‘You wouldn’t,’ Rodney stammered.
‘We would. Unless . . .’
‘Unless what?’
Iona let him sweat for a moment.
‘You
do
offer to marry me. Live on air.’
‘What!’
‘The moment I get voted off, you say there’s something you want to say and you propose to me. It’s as simple as that. We get married. You keep out of my way for three fucking years and then I divorce you and take half your fortune.’
Rodney sat and sucked his lip. Clearly his mind was racing, trying to work out the parameters.
‘If you want money, why get married at all? Why not just blackmail me now?’
‘Because you’d go to the police and the proof of the plot would be in my bank account. No, Rodney. We’ll be married legitimately and I shall take your money legitimately. It’s either that or I ask Calvin if I can bring my bass player on to the show because she has something to say. Knowing Calvin, I reckon he’d
love
it. He must be sick of you by now anyway and what a brilliant way to get rid of you.’
Royal Coup
‘Way-ll, Calvin,’ Dakota purred over the telephone, ‘Ah do
deeclare
that when Ah saw the papers thiz mohnin’ Ah wuz almos’ sorra for you.’
Dakota had rung up to gloat. She could never have imagined when she first nominated the Prince of Wales as her ringer the level of derision that would fall upon the royal head once the news of his candidacy got out. The morning after his first audition was broadcast (once CALonic TV had issued a statement assuring the world that the man in question was no lookalike but the genuine heir to the throne) the press had indulged in an orgy of withering contempt. From the
Chart Nob!
headline in the
Sun
to the more considered
Ill-judged tilt at populism leaves Prince laughing stock
in the
Telegraph
, the media were unanimous in their assessment that this was the last gasp of a man and an institution that had lost all relevance in the modern world.
‘Yes, well,’ Calvin replied, ‘we shall see, eh?’
‘Yays, Calvin. We shayll.’
‘We’re all over the morning news,’ Calvin said.
‘Ah
know.
Ain it wunnerful? Ah must aidmit Ah nevah eemagined thay-et ma lil’ challenge would make for such pop’lah
viewin’.
Ah guess all of this is
massivla
increasin’ the value of ma property.’
‘It isn’t yours yet, darling,’ Calvin replied. ‘It’s all still to play for.’
‘Huh!’ Dakota snorted. ‘You
weesh.
Even you ain’ clever’nuff ta turn this one aroun’.’
‘Sorry,’ Calvin said, ‘another call. Got to go.’
So saying, Calvin abruptly ended his conversation with his estranged wife because he could see that Emma was on the other line and he never let anything get in the way of a conversation with Emma.
She was as upset as Dakota had been thrilled.
‘It’s backfired on us,’ Emma lamented. ‘I thought you showed him really sympathetically but it hasn’t done any good. They’re out to get him and that’s that. They’d already made their minds up the moment he appeared and it doesn’t matter what he says, they’ll just ignore it and bash him anyway. I never should have let you try and do this for me. I should have made you chuck him out.’
‘It’s early days, Em, early days,’ Calvin comforted her. ‘No need to panic yet.’
‘I think you should re-edit next week’s show and drop him before any more damage is done.’
‘How can we? We’ve put him through all the way to the finals.’
‘Oh, come on, Calvin, this is me you’re talking to. Just show him singing a line of his song then drop in any old shot of the three of you saying no and the job’s done. You’ve reversed your decisions in the edit before.’
‘Yes, but I made you a promise, darling, and I intend to keep it. I’m not going to throw in the towel in the first round. I knew it would be tough at the start so this is no surprise.’
‘You really think you can turn it round?’
‘Well, I’d like to try . . . for you.’
‘I know you’ve done your best, Calvin, I won’t hold you to this.’
‘No, I mean it, Emma. I made a promise. This is for you.’
‘Really, just for me?’
‘Only for you.’
When Emma had rung off Calvin turned on the television and Sky Plussed the news headlines. The Prince of Wales was still top story. A spokeswoman was pictured outside the Prince’s modest town house.
‘His Royal Highness is not at liberty to comment on his
Chart Throb
candidacy as he is governed by the strict rules of the competition, which preclude any auditionee from discussing any aspect of the process whatsoever. He has, however, authorized me to make a brief statement on his behalf to the effect that he is proud of what he has achieved in the competition so far and he is enjoying shaking his booty and strutting his funky stuff enormously.’
Calvin laughed out loud. Good on you, mate, that’s telling them.
Tragedy and Farce
As in previous years, the show proved itself an enormous success from the start. Of course the royal patronage helped but there was no doubt that Calvin would have produced a winner anyway. As before, the nation gloried in the hilarious succession of Mingers, Clingers and Blingers who were paraded before them each week. Everybody loved the show. Everybody, that is, except the Mingers, Clingers and Blingers themselves, who, having been present at their own auditions, no doubt imagined they had some idea as to how they might look on TV. Like many people who have been passed through an edit, they were to find out they were wrong.
It is said that history happens twice, once as tragedy and then again as farce, and in many ways this was true of the numerous rejected
Chart Throb
contestants. Their failure to progress beyond the first stage of the competition and the cruel dashing of their dreams had at the time been a personal and private tragedy. Now it was being repeated as public farce.
They could not believe how stupid they had been made to look. This had been their big moment and, despite their lack of success, they had been proud of their efforts and were secretly looking forward to their appearance on television. Of course they had all watched the show and seen the brutal treatment handed out to all the deluded sad acts who had preceded them, but none had ever imagined that such a thing could happen to them. Now, as their friends and acquaintances howled with laughter at their pathetic posturing, they were getting a brutal lesson in the ‘reality’ of reality television. Mingers who had fond memories of the sympathetic chat they’d had with Keely after their rejection were stunned to see that chat reduced to a ten-second clip of them claiming to be bigger than Elvis and better than John Lennon. Blingers who could recall the moment when they had been complimented on the impressive strength of their vocal delivery were shocked to find but a single grim shriek of that vocal remaining, featuring for two seconds in a montage taking the piss out of shouters and screamers. A Welsh girl who sang in a gravelly manner that she hoped made her sound like Bonnie Tyler had given a lengthy Bite Back Box interview afterwards in her normal voice, but at the very end of it, almost, it seemed, as an afterthought, she had been persuaded to put on her gravelly voice and say, ‘I am one funky rock momma and you suck big time, Calvin Simms.’ Inevitably this moment and this alone had ended up being broadcast.
Of course, according to Chelsie, these people were the lucky ones, the ones that had actually
made it on to television.
And it was certainly true that, for every person screaming at their television that their brilliant song had been cut down to one word and they had been made to look a complete dickhead, there were a hundred others saying, ‘I can’t believe it, they didn’t show me at all! And I hung around all day! The researcher said I was
brilliant
!’