6) The Reality TV Show
July 14, 2006
My dad’s friend spots this advert in an old copy of The Brighton Argus newspaper. Finding Mr Right? Are you between 25 and 35 single, extrovert and looking for love? Reality Documentary Show will help you find your Mr Right. For some reason she thinks of me and immediately telephones my father. They think it’s an acting role I’d be perfect for. They are both of the pre-historic pre-reality TV period. A sweet bygone era remembered in sepia. A time even before Jade Goody. To them production companies in the UK make intelligent scripted dramas and charming comedies. My father calls me excitedly. He tells me to email them my CV. I could be, “the next Felicity Kendall, well maybe Thora Hird.” I explain that it is a Reality TV Show, the birthplace of evil, created to ridicule the individual for the pleasure of the early evening viewing public. He listens to my tirade. He waits until I am safely ensconced in a shift of waitressing hell. Then, the sneaky toad emails the producer. Dear Amanda, I think my daughter is what you’re looking for. She is 29, single, loud often to her mother’s embarrassment, has dreadful taste in men and could use all the help you could offer. She’s currently writing a blog about her search for Mr Right. Here is the link; it might give you an idea of her personality. Please get in touch with her, Here are all her telephone numbers, her email address, home address, vital statistics, blood and urine samples, bank details and home alarm codes. Should you need any further information here are all my personal contact details. Lucy’s Dad PS Don’t call between 5 and 6pm, she’ll be watching Richard and Judy. Before I even hang up my apron the producer, Fern, knows all about me. She has spoken to my mum and Live-In-Ex-Boyfriend. (Live-In-Ex-Boyfriend came to stay for a couple of weeks, 11 months ago). Mum calls me; “I spoke to Fern, lovely girl, she talks to her mum every morning like we do. I told her all about you.” Live In Ex Boyfriend phones. “I spoke to Fran. She’s wicked. She loved your mum. I told her your mum’s your best friend. She says hers is too. I said, “What Lucy’s mum’s your best friend!??” They speak every morning. I said to her “Fran you have to meet Lucy, you’re the same.” “Her name’s Fern” “Oh”. Everyone thinks everyone else is lovely and the three of us go through to the next round. We are invited to meet them at the television studios. Beautiful Sister (as she likes to be known) telephones “How exciting, the family on TV! I might get discovered. I see myself presenting. I’d like my own daytime chat show, or maybe something with Philip Schofield.” Beautiful Sister has a vivid imagination. Once, I told her I had an audition for Family Affairs. Two minutes later she knew what she was wearing to The Soap Awards. By the end of the year she wants to get married. She has told her children. They are very excited. They are desperate to be bridesmaids. Beautiful Sister wants a winter wedding with festive colours. The only vague problem that I perceive is that we’re half way through the year and she doesn’t have a boyfriend yet. “What are you going to wear”? “No idea” “Do you want me to come up and do your make up”? “ Live In Ex Boyfriend thinks I look fine without make-up.” “Ah that’s sweet. But you don’t. He’s lying” “Oh” “You’ll be fine it’s not as though you’ve never been on telly.” “The last time I was on screen I looked like an over-emoting, over-weight person with special needs.” “Hmmm…well brush your hair!” Mum calls. Again. “What are you going to wear? You will brush your hair!” I stand for hours on the one square inch of free floor space in my bedroom wondering what to wear. Where are bloody Trinny and Susannah when you need them? I try to decide which Reality TV icon I want to model myself on. Kate Lawler is a bit trashy. The Conway Sisters are about as appealing as The Atkins Diet. Michelle from The Apprentice is done to death. I could do Super Nanny meets a white Brenda from Pop Idol but I’m just not feeling it. I imagine being a Reality TV icon in my own right. My look would be chic. Cagney and Lacey meets Marilyn Monroe in a charity shop. I would tell magazines, which cost less than a pound, that I keep my figure by a strict diet of tea and toast. I would be hailed as The Antithesis to Atkins. People would wonder how I could cultivate cellulite on my arms. I would tell them it takes a lot of Pinot Grigio. Bollocks I have to leave in ten minutes. I opt for ‘school-teacher-chic’ by George at Asda, as it’s the only thing that doesn’t need ironing and do my make-up on the bus. The production offices are right up Chiswick’s bum hole. The Asda clogs are agony and I hobble along brushing my hair every two seconds. We spend hours there, wired up to mikes, in front of a big camera and two producers. There is a gale force onslaught of questions. “Why do you think you’re single?” “Oh God, I don’t really know, um, humph, oh no, I probably just repulse men. Maybe I’m too old, or it could be the fact that I have the biggest bottom in the World and cellulite on my arms. Or any one of the physical or mental defects which daily manifest themselves upon me. I’m not sure which in particular.” “I think you’ve got a fantastic figure!” (I reflect that I have been a little hard on the Reality TV genre) “Why do you need to find a man?” “I don’t need to find a man. I’d like to find a man. I’m not desperate…. I hope. God, am I??” “Why would you like to find a man?” “I suppose I’d like to share my life with a special person. Share all the fun things and the sad things, someone to be proud of who might be proud of me too.” “What three things do you look for in man?” “I’d like a man with a job, who enjoyed what they did, and was ambitious, but not cut throat, someone kind and funny.” “What three things don’t you want?” “ I’m not fussy.” “Go on you can be as brutal as you like..” ………(long silence) “I don’t like beards…” “Why don’t you get back together with your Live-In-Ex-Boyfriend?” “No! He’s like my brother. Besides he works out everyday. If I went to bed I’d be thinking, ‘Shit I need to go to the gym’. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate.” “Do you think men might find it hard that you have a Live-In-Ex-Boyfriend?” “He does make sure he’s lifting weights in a vest in the living room when potential suitors come round. He’s quite protective. He says it’s because he knows how men think. “Your lovely mum mentioned on the phone that she thought there was one man you liked. Is that true?” However clever you think you are, your mum knows better. I know exactly whom they’re referring to. Thankfully they probe no more on this matter. But I’m distracted now. Basically I want someone. But he doesn’t want me. I realize that when I was describing what I wanted in a man, I was actually describing one man. Every Valentines Day I spend hours in Paperchase trying to find the perfect witty and meaningful card to describe to him how I feel. Then I think I’ll record the perfect song, I’ve been very close to sending him ‘You’re the One That I Want Ooh, Ooh, Ooh’ many times. I think about writing the perfect letter, saying, “Sod it. Let’s have a go. I’d love to make you happy. I’m not that bad.” I imagine having the confidence to sit outside his house and just tell him how I feel. I never do any of these things. The thought of the rejection makes me choke. I believe it’s better not to know why I fail. I’ll just have a thousand suspicions instead. I am just waiting until I hear on the grapevine that he’s engaged or become a father. I’ll say; “How wonderful, do send my love.” I am a knob. Love feels like a big boil on a fat smelly arse sometimes. The interview persists. I find the questions difficult. I’m thoroughly inarticulate. I have to think so hard on two occasions that I forget what the question was in the first place. I see them mentally log my dodgy short-term memory. They release me. I feel buffeted and battered. Alone and a little bit weepy. I tell Live-In-Ex-Boyfriend that all the deep thinking has left me feeling sad. He says “ Love, loneliness, pain, rejection, hate, and fear are all just states of mind. Our reality is created by our thoughts, where you project your thoughts is where you project yourself in your reality.” “ Wow! You are a prophet and my spiritual leader” I hear him on the phone later. “Don’t know what’s the matter with her, she’s either pre-menstrual or she needs a shag.” However the Reality TV people love us. They plan to come to my flat on Friday. Then it moves to Monday. Then Tuesday. There is a tornado of manic phone calling. I am reminded of phone calls I have with my friends who work in production. They generally go along these lines. “Darling, lovely to hear from you, I’m madly busy, I’ve been working 23 hour days. Will you just hold on for a second? (Vicious shouting) WHERE’S THE ARSING COURIER? Yes we must go for dinner soon. I’m just rushing into a meeting. I’ll call you back. Bye” I generally hang up needing valium. Tuesday morning. I shatter my personal best snoozing record. I’d set the previous best three years ago, after a frankly regrettable incident involving two bottles of Tia Maria, a dart board and two friends who I haven’t spoken to for three years. This time it’s not a hangover. I just don’t want to get up. There is a staggering amount of tidying to be done. I must show them that I am wife material. I must meet hygiene standards. I don’t know where to start. I become fascinated by dust and hair clusters. They look like insects and appear behind everything. I vacuum, polish, remove wine bottles and back issues of the Independent. Where are those two women who come round your house and clean up the fungi when you need them? Time is running out. I hide most things in my hallway storage cupboard. I think about what to wear. Suddenly I can’t find anything. I feel my eyes welling up and my bottom lip quivering. Bloody hell! Reality TV makes me emotional. The Reality TV cyclone arrives and suddenly I see my life from the outside in. I’m nearly 30, I have a single bed, an ex boyfriend on the sofa and a homeless friend on the floor. I have spent 5 hours tidying in the vain hope that a reality TV show will find me a man. When I was 12 and used to daydream in maths lessons, is this where I thought I’d be? They interrogate me again for hours. There is a near miss when one of them thinks the storage cupboard is the loo and is almost buried alive in girl rubble. Then they disappear in a puff when they spy a traffic warden. They give me a string of dates to keep free. I know they will all change. I sit in my phenomenally tidy flat and feel another blub coming on. If they pick me I will have to stop this random crying. I think about The One. If they pick me will they contact him? What would he say? Would he explain to everyone why he doesn’t want me or would he say “Oh bloody hell, alright, I’ll have a go” I speak to my Beautiful Sister “ Don’t be ridiculous. Lucy. He’s just not interested” The next day the producer calls, she sounds really sad. “We’re not going to take it any further with you, we’re really sorry, we were really rooting for you.” “Don’t worry I’m an actress I’m used to rejection” “It’s just we can only take one girl from London into our final 3 and the other London girl has a sister who’s getting married in December and we think that would make great telly’ There is a lull in the conversation. I think about saying “My sister would love to get married for you in December, she’s just having a bit of trouble finding the groom’ but I don’t. I put the phone down. I’ve been evicted. I’m not even a bloody celebrity and they got me out of there. Where are Ant and Dec with a nice glass of champagne when you need them? For the first time in days I don’t feel like crying. I think the storm has cleared. I feel like dancing around my beautifully tidy flat.
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25) Guardian Soulmates Online