The Generation Game (14 page)

Before either of us wobble, we stride out into the fresh dusk and head for the nearest tube station. I am very excited by this excursion into the subterranean world of our capital city. I love
the long, long wooden escalators and the smell of smoke and hot bodies. I love the posters and the buskers and the maps. I love the static crackle of the tracks in the moments before the train
emerged like a worm from its hole. The whoosh of warm air that hits you in the face. The swish of the doors and the holding on for dear life to the hand straps, still warm from somebody
else’s hand. Somebody you might cross paths with at some other moment in time, and never even know it. (But that’s London for you.)

‘Have you had enough yet, Philippa?’ Linda asks, after several stops. She is sitting next to a rather smelly tramp (possibly another one of Ralph McTell’s) and is relieved when
I suggest we go back to the hotel for some tea.

‘Supper,’ Linda corrects me.

I decide Linda is quite possibly a snob.

The two trendy researchers have gone. The contestants are swapping their life stories in the dining room and hardly notice our arrival, except for Bob who gives me a diluted
smile before turning his attention to Linda, squeezing her hand so tight she gives a little yelp.

‘Nervous?’ she whispers, bending down to kiss the top of his head, right on his (increasingly) bald spot.

‘A little,’ he lies.

Wink, on the other hand, is in her element, her nerves quite gone, a captive audience plus the prospect of meeting Larry the next day. She is telling them all how Larry has remained a man of the
people despite his success. How he still likes to eat fish and chips out of the newspaper – he even keeps salt and vinegar in the glove compartment of his white Rolls. Looking at her, sitting
there on the plush dining chair, far away from her whiffy terrace, you’d never know she was ill, she blends in so well with this new world. She is a chameleon. She could be anyone. She could
be Bob’s mother. She could be my grandmother.

Wink sleeps like a baby that night, not that babies snore quite so loudly to my knowledge – which is limited. You’d think she’d be restless but nothing keeps
her awake. She’d sleep through the storming of the Bastille, most probably. Or a Black Sabbath concert. Bob, on the other hand, looks terrible the next morning at breakfast and rejects the
bounteous buffet on display to feast on black coffee alone.

Bob is infected with a life-threatening fear that he will make an idiot of himself on television. He worries that his customers will come into the shop for ever after and remind him of his
embarrassing moments. That Linda will see him in a new objective light and switch off his life support.

‘Why on earth did you bloody agree to be on the show if you’re so worried?’ Wink asks, a little unsympathetically. ‘It’s not
Panorama
. It’s meant to be
embarrassing. We’re meant to copy the professionals and get it arse-over-wotsit.’ With that she swoops off in admirable fashion to get her hair done in the hotel salon.

Linda offers to give Bob a massage. This suggestion perks him up somewhat and they disappear, quick as you like, into the depths of the lift. I am left alone with a boy called Raymond from
Preston. He is the same age and height as me, which puts him into a whole new category of boys as all my male contemporaries back home only come up to my chin. This spurs me on to a moment of
recklessness.

‘Do you want to come with me on the Underground?’ I ask.

‘Alright,’ Raymond says.

Raymond hasn’t been on the Underground before, though he has seen the Changing of the Guard (and can also confirm that he didn’t so much as change a light
bulb).

Raymond is a boy of few words and those he does mumble are quite different to the ones I’ve grown up with. But we get by.

We only travel a few stops, then we come back again (is this all I am destined to do here?) and surface into the busy morning of Londoners going about their focused business. We go halves on a
Coke from a news stand. Raymond is quite happy to share the bottle and doesn’t even bother wiping the germs off the top – a strangely moving gesture, full of intimacy and awakening
sexual tension.

‘C’mon,’ he says. ‘Let’s get back. Me mam’ll be wondering where I am by now.’

Not only is he tall, he is considerate. Just my luck he lives hundreds of miles away, up north – and me, a West Country girl.

We make our way to the hotel, bumping and dodging the crowds, early Christmas shoppers, secretaries and businessmen, two provincial almost-teenagers holding their own in the big city.

‘Your gran’s alright,’ he says as we turn the corner to the hotel. ‘Your dad looks dead nervous though.’

‘Yeah, he is,’ I agree. ‘What about your mum? Is she looking forward to the show?’

‘‘Course. She loves Larry. Thinks he’s the best thing ever. Wishes he were her dad, or summat.’

‘Doesn’t she have a dad?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Oh.’

And I picture this nameless, faceless dad/granddad and wonder why he isn’t up to the mark. Why he isn’t here. It has been a long time since I’ve wondered about my own dad, now
I’ve commandeered my own Bob-one. But I do get a quick flash of him hacking his way through the Amazon jungle with a white shock of hair and a beard like Methuselah.

‘What about your brother?’

‘Robbie?’

‘Is he worried about tomorrow?’

‘Nah, nowt worries Robbie.’

I can believe this confident assertion. Robbie is much older than Raymond; he must be in his twenties, born when his mam was too young to be worrying about nappies. He swaggers around the hotel,
eyeing up the receptionist and ‘anything in a skirt,’ according to Wink so I imagine being on the telly is the sort of thing he’ll take in his stride (swagger).

‘Robbie loves Isla. He reckons she’s — ’

But I don’t get to hear what Isla is exactly, in Robbie’s expert opinion, because a red double-decker – I don’t even have time to make out the number – zooms past
us at terrifyingly close quarters.

‘Bugger,’ says Raymond, using one of Wink’s favourite words, which goes to show we do share the same language after all. ‘That were close.’

We slip into the hotel before either his ‘mam’ or my ‘dad’ has even noticed we’ve gone. Bob is presumably still having his massage.
Raymond’s mam is propping up the bar along with her firstborn, Robbie, and the father/daughter combo from Littlehampton.

‘Bugger,’ says Raymond again. ‘I don’t think they should be doing that. Them researchers said they had to take it easy on the bevvies.’

Call me selfish, but I feel a certain something when I see the red faces of Raymond’s family and the Littlehampton pair. At least my family will be sober.

This can only stand them in good stead when it comes to the recording later this evening. It is the couple from Inverness I am worried about. They are inscrutable.

The researchers are back in a different set of trendy clothes but with the same gusto. They are called Imogen and Amber, like characters from a Jilly Cooper novel, and both of
them speak the way I remember Helena and Auntie Nina speaking. The way Helena would’ve made me speak if she’d stuck around to enhance my elocution. They encourage the contestants to
overcome their butterflies and eat a ‘good lunch’ from the buffet in the dining room. They don’t practise what they preach, pecking at their sausage rolls like malnourished baby
birds. Captain would have them for breakfast.

Two hours later Linda and I are sat in the studio audience listening to the warm-up act, an extremely tall man with bendy legs and an annoying way of talking. Still, he does
the job and we are now completely ready to be a fantastic audience – though those of us who have a loved one as a contestant are also all of a quiver. My stomach is crying out for a share of
the packet of Rennie in Bob’s pocket, so I have no idea how he and Wink – my family – are feeling right now. They’ve spent this afternoon going through the schedule with
Imogen and Amber and having make-up done (to Bob’s shame). There have been no rehearsals because the show’s success relies on spontaneity (or
humiliation
according to our cynical
Linda).

Are they really ready for this?

There is a sudden change in the air. A wave of something or other, excitement most probably or the dispersing gas in Bob’s dodgy stomach. Anyway, every one of us in the
audience is sitting up, hands clasped to the seat or leaning forward in expectation. We are in the presence of a light entertaining legend: Larry Grayson.

Larry speaks to us in an unassuming way, as if he’s just walked into Bob’s News and asked for a quarter of sherbet pips. He talks about his imaginary friends
Pop-it-in-Pete and Everard. We laugh and laugh because we are near hysteria at being in Larry’s confidence. Even Linda can’t help herself; she is now well and truly entranced by the
world of Saturday Night Television.

Larry goes on to introduce the charming Isla St Clare. Though not in Anthea’s league in the glamour stakes, Isla shines in her own wholesome, intelligent glow. Before they leave to prepare
for the recording, Larry reminds us that we need to be a great audience so the people at home can enjoy the show even more when it is transmitted on Saturday night (maybe he knows there is trouble
brewing here at the BBC and before long they’ll be lucky to get any viewers at all). Not that we need any encouragement. As soon as the music starts, Linda and I go crazy, clapping till our
hands hurt and whooping like wild things, (in a way that will be commonplace on the television of the future).

Then my heart does a double-take. I feel a surge of worry for my Bob-Sugar, out there in the limelight, supporting his mother-in-law, the pressure of performing, the full horror of being watched
by millions – though not half as many as in a year’s time when the Beeb’s trouble will pass to the Dark Side where there’ll be nothing but a blue screen with a white caption
apologising for the lack of programmes.

But still. This is now. No going back. This is it…

…and it all passes in a dream-like, surreal-type, hazy-blur kind of thing. The next fifty-five minutes are condensed into but a fuzzy few moments…

And 3-2-1, action.

Cue opening number:

Shut that door and en-joy The Generation Game

What’s in store? The best of relations

Here’s our aim.

Larry Grayson is here to play so…

Shut that door.

Then… Larry in his cream suit and brown tie, Isla in her dress (nothing flash like Anthea, more girl-next-door). Larry: Let’s meet the eight who are going to
generate. And there they are, paired up and perched on their chairs: the father/daughter combo from Littlehampton, Robbie and his mam from Preston, the Inscrutables from Inverness, Bob and Wink
from Torquay. And soon it’s… Round 1: Littlehampton v. Inscrutables in ‘Ice that Cake’. The four contestants watch the professional at work, smoothing royal icing over a
fruit cake with a perfect knife action and a flawless finish. Cue Robbie and his mam making a complete hash of it, Larry joining in, rolling his sleeves up and lending a helping hand and making
even more of a pig’s ear of it in the process, the audience beside themselves. Meanwhile the Inscrutables from Inverness are almost as good as the professional. Larry (covered in icing): What
are the scores on the doors, Isla? Isla: The names in the frames are Robbie and Beryl 4, Jackie and Donald, 9. And then, Round 2: Name that Dog where the four contestants battle it out again.
Robbie and his mam know almost nothing about dogs, whereas the Inscrutables must have been dog breeders in a former life. They have streaked into the lead, guaranteeing themselves a place in the
final. Robbie and his mam shrug it off light-heartedly, they are on the telly and will live off this night down the pub for some years to come, and Raymond is relieved not to have to sit through
yet more embarrassment. So now it’s the father/daughter combo from Littlehampton v. Bob and Wink. Round 3: Yes, it’s pottery-throwing. Wink is full of confidence, you can see the spark
in her eye, though I suspect her confidence is ill-founded judging by the effort above her gas fire at home. Bob – in his smart new suit – looks like he’s on the verge of fainting
and Larry is doing his best to prop him up. The professional crafts the perfect pot and now the contestants are having a go, Larry joining in, getting covered in sludge-like clay, the audience
shrieking. The father/daughter combo from Littlehampton make the usual lop-sided versions and the professional gives them each a respectable 6 out of 10. Bob’s creation looks like a drunk has
tried to copy the leaning tower of Pisa. As Larry looks at it from all angles the tower suddenly leans dangerously and then keels over in a way that Larry can infuse with maximum innuendo. To
counterbalance this amazing lack of skill, Wink’s creation is almost on a par with Clarice Cliff. It’s as if she’s been invested with special powers (maybe from mystic vibes
generated from Wonder Woman sitting next to me, biting her nails). Wink scores a whopping 9 out of 10 and Bob, who could only realistically hope for a 4, earns an extra point for ‘trying so
hard’. Then, Round 4: Name the Famous Baby. Bob finds his niche. Being a newsagent he has seen virtually all of these photos before and those he hasn’t, he makes accurate guesses at.
They score full marks whilst the Littlehampton duo scores a dismal 5. Wink and her son-in-law are through to the final against the Inscrutables... not a play but a dance; this is going to be tricky
as Wink must surely be tiring by now. Luckily it’s not a quick step but a slow tango, not with a partner but with a dummy. The Inscrutables perform the steps, demonstrated and judged by a
celebrity from Come Dancing, in a perfectly good imitation, in time to the music but it has to be said with precision rather than passion. And it is this passion that carries Bob and Wink, carries
them all the way, because it’s certainly not their timing or their grace or any sense of balance as at one stage Bob falls over on top of his dummy to the delight of Larry and the hilarity of
the audience who have a clear favourite – as does the judge who, spurred on by Larry, gives our Bob and Wink the higher mark. That’s it. They’ve done it. They move, Wink and Bob,
into position, one each side of Larry for the play-off, one question that will put the winner through, and of course the first to answer correctly is Wink, and it doesn’t matter whether Bob
let her win or not, though it seems unlikely as Wink has that killer look in her eyes compared to the terror in Bob’s and so now there is one last hurdle to perform, one last dream to enact.
We can’t believe this is actually happening! We are waiting for the futuristic, sparkly doors to mechanically pull back to reveal our very own Wink sitting behind them like a cashier at the
Co-op. Her chance of a lifetime. The conveyor belt starts up, Larry standing to one side announcing the luxury goods that seem to whizz past at breakneck speed. All too quickly the buzzer goes, the
objects are out of sight and Wink is left, under the spotlight, her face perfectly calm. Larry: You have forty-five seconds starting… now. And Wink reels them off, the pencil sharpener and
the packet of Rizlas replaced by the bigger more expensive items that have been watched over all day by a security guard. Wink (to the accompaniment of the audience): Suitcases! Golf clubs! Radio
Alarm Clock! Dinner service! Coffee percolator! Teasmaid! Electric blanket! Toaster! Canteen of cutlery! Basket of fruit! Champagne! A tiger! She doesn’t even use the opportunity to say
‘cuddly toy!’ on national television. She is above all that. She is Wink, TV star. She is our Wink.