[Listen to this entry]

Friday

The computer roused the Hungarian from his slumber as the Windows jingle blared through five speakers simultaneously. My final surfing session to induce calm and kill the remaining wilfully dragging hours before congregating at KC’s flat for a final practice (using the video tape of Monday’s show, which none of us had seen due to being exiled in S) prior to driving to the airport: Theravada, the lesser vehicle, Mahayana, the greater vehicle and Vajrayana, the diamond vehicle, the Four Noble Truths, the date when the Stone of Destiny was stolen from Westminster Abbey, Gemeinschaft und Gesellschaft just to refresh my memory, Elizabeth Cady-Stanton and how the Inspector General of Military Hospitals, James Barry, was found to be a woman on death following a distinguished career during which he performed one of the first successful Caesarean sections. Facts accumulated over decades clamouring for attention in my head as I soaked in the bath. My confidence-boosting song (Sun Hits the Sky by Supergrass) on repeat in the car’s CD player at the kind of teenage chassis-throb volume I normally cannot tolerate.

An overwhelming workload meant that RC could not join us until the last minute, so we sipped tea before attempting the questions in real time, KC totting up our score. It was less than our average of around 250 with fewer starters that suited us (we counted every bonus we knew in order to have a realistic appraisal of the true extent of our knowledge). KC is an expert on Milton and English literature in general, TM has a doctorate in physics and is a brilliant mathematician (“I always knew I was a misfit in our profession,” he joked as he failed for the umpteenth time to explain some elementary calculus to my polite but vacant smile), with my doctorate in sociology and my range of interests in mythology, art, feminism and sci-fi I always considered myself as the gap-filler, whilst RC, the consummate photographer and owner of a large-format Hasselblad, a Mamiya and several Nikons, possesses a breadth of knowledge with which none of the rest of us can compete. We arranged to meet in the lobby (although there was some confusion about which one), TM finally picking RC up and accelerating along the miraculously uncongested ring road.

As we stood in the queue at the check-in desk, TM turned to us with a broad grin and declared: “I think that when they hear they are against EP interpreters they will shit their pants”. Not prone to swaggering or triumphalism, this quiet vote of confidence lifted our spirits. Allocated seats in the back row by the toilets, RC and TM could not chat to us during the flight and KC filled in the cryptic crossword with his customary skill and speed. One of our supporters, the Scouser, who had acted as quizmaster during our warm-ups against the Great Unwashed travelled on the same plane. A grey sky weeping with drizzle greeted us on landing. “Red carpet this way!” TM announced as we made our way to the exit where the chauffeur of the courtesy car waited patiently with his sign (we were the last passengers to collect our luggage).

The Scouser praised the air quality as a jeep pulled into the car park: “This vehicle is fuelled by recycled cooking oil”. RC mused on whether the exhaust fumes smelled of chips as we hurtled along the motorway.

I suspect I was not alone in my adrenalin high and we immediately set off for town having deposited our bags in the rooms and sized up any group of four idly standing around in the reception area. KC suggested the bookshop as a destination, knowing that my craving for a decent cup of coffee could be satisfied there. TM wandered off with his Nikon to make the most of the fading afternoon light whilst I browsed the Gender Studies section. A table had been booked for eight at the only venue recommended by Jonathan Meades (KC and I are huge admirers of his sharp literacy, such a rare commodity in the scheduling wasteland) who describes it thus: “The most appealing Cantonese cooking in Britain, in a most appealing restaurant. The place has a real buzz. It is very large, very crowded, very noisy. (…) Much of the excellent food is characterised by austere simplicity: veal chops seasoned with nothing but salt, straightforward roast pigeon, chicken wings steeped in garlic. Shellfish is very fine indeed” (The Times Restaurant Guide 2002, p131). Dinner was a slightly more subdued affair than it had been on “the magnificent Friday” as KC had dubbed it. We were fairly abstemious on the alcohol front, TM blowing his nose in paper handkerchiefs, stricken with a bad dose of the cold and doped up on Sudafeds was reluctant to drink more than a glass of the red I asked him to choose (although not averse to the occasional tipple when in company, my binge days are long since over, a small amount usually suffices to conk me out, which was precisely why I insisted on imbibing a modest quantity). A card extolled the virtues of: “Soup of Temptation. A tasty broth of shredded Snake, Chicken, Mushroom, Wood Fugus [!], Bamboo Shoots and Dry Tangerine Peel (Accompanied with Black Sesames Crisps and Chrysanthemum petals)” which did not whet our appetites enough to order it. TM graciously allowed me to sip his hot and sour soup starter before tasting it himself, worried that he might pass on the infection otherwise. Like my dim sum, it was delicious. “To glorious victory!” TM toasted once the waiter had poured our wine, a warm (if perhaps slightly ironic) sentiment we all endorsed. As they manipulated their chopsticks with enviable aptitude, I stuck to my fork (having forgotten the lessons in their use kindly given to me by a group of radiant lesbians over a bowl of steaming noodles at Madame Mars’ Bar in Tokyo where my feeble efforts to stop the food slithering off constituted the pre-karaoke entertainment). The main course was equally worthy of Meades’ approval. I have never tasted ginger so fresh. Failing to pay heed to KC’s warnings about how desserts never live up to expectations, I indulged simply because the menu photograph of the fluffy white marshmallow bunnies complete with albino eyes was so surreal, capturing my mood to perfection. Served with a sprig of wilted parsley they stared morosely in a huddle, so I bit their heads off one by one. As KC enquired whether they were edible, I spluttered “No, they’re absolutely vile and I wish they would hop off the plate straight back to their warren!” in an uncontrollable spasm of mirth.

We meandered back to the hotel buffeted by gusts of freezing wind (the air conditioning blowing a gale in my room had re-acclimatised me to the chill), parting in the corridor before a relatively early night. Anticipation poked me cruelly in the ribs every time I began drifting off. The questionnaire form’s “How do you think you will cope with Paxman’s imposing question technique?” making my heart thump in my ears. TM’s irreverent “A little cocaine should help” emptying my mind.

Saturday

I gave up trying to make myself comfortable on the mattress at seven with the light streaming in from behind the curtains, taking a shower, applying moisturiser (the closest I ever come to trowelling on foundations or any other expensive smears of camouflage) and dressing in the outfit I had worn whilst filming the introductory segment. Having filled the intervening hours with a last minute cram I met them for breakfast at quarter to ten. The lifts were teeming with pilots and air hostesses in uniform (obviously not our rivals as they had their wheeled suitcases in tow). KC had purchased a copy of The Zimbabwean from a newsstand to read over his Coco Pops. He, TM and I asked each other question after question for reassurance, each more arcane than the next. RC was more relaxed: “After such a display of erudition all I can say is I’m glad I’m not against you”, gently reminding us that we were not about to take part in a film trivia extravaganza. “I’m impressed by your eating prowess,” KC quipped as RC ferried a couple of rashers of bacon and a modest spoonful of scrambled eggs back to the table: “If we get a round on that we should be alright”. The nozzle of the orange juice dispenser clogged up with pulp, so it was treacly coffee only for me. The Scouser bounced in, beaming and wishing us luck (later as we walked across the road to the studio he issued a final word of encouragement to the effect that he had eavesdropped on one of the enemy teams frantically limbering up with a quiz book over toast and that they had been hopeless). “We will prevail,” TM soothed before retiring to his room to pore over a physics tome (to “check some definitions” and swallow a couple more Sudafed, enough to relieve the headache without leaving him woozy) whilst the rest of us burned off a little of our excess energy by hitting the high street.

Inevitably the appointed hour came. Clutching Piglet our mascot for comfort, I followed them to the security booth at the entrance. TM was wearing a suit and tie, abandoning his trusty jeans for the first time, a dead giveaway that the situation was about to turn serious. We were met by a pleasant young woman who escorted us through the austere white corridors (which reminded me of my student days, even down to the enigmatic numbering on every door) to our dressing room where we could leave our bits and pieces during lunch. It was at this stage that we discovered who we would be up against, a fact that even KC’s most cunning attempts had not succeeded in prising out of the film crew: the RWR (Right-Wing Rag). I refused to succumb to despair. In our profession the RWR is the equivalent of the Bible, the acid test of whether an individual appreciates the subtleties of the English language. Although I find it irredeemably superficial (and cancelled my subscription to it as soon as it had outlived its usefulness when I passed my open competition, enraged by its cheap jibes against single mothers, as its hacks jumped on the bandwagon by scapegoating them for all the woes of society and dismissing them as a faceless mass of ruthless, manipulative, uneducated spongers) and its supercilious in-house style irritating, its texts have proven useful in testing candidates’ mettle. I have always loathed its aggressive marketing policy (how on earth did its sales department get its hands on my new address after I moved house?) and now almost look forward to the next occasion when a red and white envelope drops to the floor through my letterbox, as I can ritually burn its foul promotional matter.

In the pale glow of the Make-Up Department KC’s self-deprecating comments about how our team would exhaust the entire supply of anti-shine cream kept our spirits up. The assistant responsible for our transformation was both charming and efficient (“Don’t worry, it’s just some corrective skin tone”). Having exchanged a few words with the opposition, we were ushered to the canteen where we were presented with five pounds’ worth of meal vouchers. To his delight, KC spotted Marmite flavour crisps, his favourites, virtually unobtainable in Waffleland, grabbing five packets to pile on his tray. We did not feel like eating much and despondency mixed with a desire to release the unbearable build up of tension with a well-placed head butt welled up inside. I breathed deeply instead, putting on a show of bravado for the sake of the boys. TM sampled my Tunnocks snowball, a small token of home in a hostile environment. There are certain cues designed to trigger a visceral reaction in the true Scot. One of these is upper class English accents. Nothing is guaranteed to raise our hackles more effectively. KC’s clipped Solihull timbre suits him perfectly, as does RC’s lush pasture smooth Somerset melody, neither of which are offensive to my ear and TM’s mellifluous, sun-drenched tones would calm the most savage beast (nobody appreciates the erotic potential of the human voice better than an interpreter). The arrogant plumminess spread a sense of their unflinching self-belief like some invisible pheromone genetically engineered to intimidate. As the deluge of pompous syllables assailed me I was thankfully able to fall back on another of the essential prerequisites of my job: the ability to screen out extraneous noise.

In the Green Room we stared at the TV screen transfixed by the match prior to ours: the Pink Paper versus The Idler. My mouth was dry in spite of several plastic cups of water. Dazed, my heart sank as I realised how few of the questions I could actually answer (I heard afterwards that the RWR had been frightened by our silence, attributing it to a tactic devised to fool them whereas in reality it was dawning on us afresh exactly to what extent the questions were a lottery, a sobering reminder). The RWR took a more gung-ho approach shouting out their guesses at lightning speed. I leaned across to whisper in KC’s ear, quoting from the parody again: “We’re going to smash the oiks!” “I rather fear that in this context [Chameleon] we are the oiks”. During the match, the RWR spat venom at the “dismal performance” of the Pink Paper, but when their journalist colleagues entered they gushed effusively with hypocritical commiserations, confirming my worst prejudices about the degree of sincerity behind English manners. The production staff stroked the mighty Piglet to bring us luck – KD was particularly kind with her generous smile – and then it was over. We nipped out to the loos, giving each other five before the start of the ordeal. As we were instructed to take up the agreed positions before filing in, the captain of the RWR boasted loudly about how he could recite the dates of all the crusades. I consoled myself that we had at least already beaten them in the smartness stakes, as TM had muttered disapprovingly: “How can they dress casually? They have no respect”.

In the darkness of the wings hidden from sight by a black curtain we heard how the audience was invited to give a round of applause for the RWR (who had brought a grand total of three guests), which was diffident to say the least. “Now let’s welcome the European Interpreters!” I will never forget the rousing cheer from our party as long as I live. Once we had taken our seats and checked the buzzers a devastating blow was delivered: we were banned from using Piglet on the grounds that he advertised a certain mega-corporation purveying candy-floss fantasies. KC had gone to great pains to avoid purchasing a soft toy that bore even the slightest resemblance to the caricature of E.H. Shepherd’s endearing creation with its stripy jumper. KC’s verdict that the cartoon (impostor) version is “hideous – it looks like a deformed insect” one I can agree with completely. Having unceremoniously plonked him face down behind RC’s nameplate, a member of the floor crew draped a substitute over KC’s. Staring at the arsehole of a Dachshund pencil case for the half hour that followed did nothing to boost our morale. Paxman schmoozed with the RWR with whom he was on first name terms, consulting them as to the best biography of Byron. The warm-up lasted a miserable three minutes, barely enough to permit us to gather our thoughts. It was a peculiar feeling to be there in the lights. I was aware of nothing but Paxman, my right hand poised on the buzzer. The signature tune played over the speakers and we dutifully introduced ourselves. My vision narrowed together with my focus on the words. I was like a rabbit on the asphalt scratching behind the ears oblivious to the headlights of the articulated lorry bearing down on it, a state of complete calm, of dazed detachment, an out of body experience of paralysis (I swear the nerve connecting my neuron impulses to my hand had been temporarily severed): even when I knew the answer it was already too late. That the RWR managed to land the only science-fiction question (my specialist subject par excellence and so pitifully simple – Logan’s Run depicts a paradise, but there is a catch, what is it? – that it would have overcome even my reticence) barely impinged on my consciousness. Similarly, their incorrect interruption on the only (tenuously) feminist starter did not stir me from my stupor: by that stage I was not willing to pander to gender stereotypes by uttering “mathematics” even although on some level I intuitively knew it was correct. KC’s brave stab “anatomy” seemed infinitely more logical. Paxman knew it was my field and peered at me to elicit a response. To no avail. A prize turnip would have been more useful to the team than I was. As the tide turned against us (we begun well, with a lead of 80 to minus 5) I was dimly aware that RC, TM and KC were hitting the buzzer again and again yet the enemy was somehow faster. Magnetic poles, Berwick-upon-Tweed all rushing through my head. At the sound of the gong they had scored exactly twice as many points as us, though we rallied again towards the end. What the viewer does not realise is that retakes underpin Paxman’s smoothness (although I have to admit he is extremely good at what he does). We had to endure several retakes of TM’s conversion of a number to binary code (he was so keen to take the initiative away from the RWR that he pressed before completing the mental calculation). He turned to me in anguish: “[Chameleon] this sucks” and it was all I could do not to weep. During this torment, Paxman uttered the immortal: “Mr. [RC], would you try to look a little more active, please?” to which RC replied: “Sorry, Jeremy, this is about as active as I ever get”, which sent a ripple of amusement through the audience.

As my undaunted colleagues chatted to our contingent I retreated to the Green Room where the RWR were gloating over us loudly. I felt completely alone and abandoned without the boys to hold me together, accepting a Coke (alcohol would have been deadly at that stage) and shovelling a handful of barbecue chicken flavoured crisps down my throat. Sipping beer KC, RC and TM sent messages (I do not own a mobile, but my family and best friends had witnessed events from the stand anyway), the cock crows indicating replies a veritable farmyard dawn chorus. Half of Waffle Central has promised to cancel their RWR subscriptions (at dinner the normally unflappable TM vowed “I will never use an article from it at a freelance test again”). We lounged about a while longer before gathering the pathetic wreckage of our dream: the team banner, our surnames and the despondent Piglet, humbled in defeat. As TM carried the crisps for him, KC released a bitter sigh: “If only I had known we would lose, I would have picked up more packets”.

We have nothing to reproach ourselves for and none of us have any regrets. My faith in my team-mates remains undented and I feel truly honoured to have shared the experience with them. Our supporters did not let us down afterwards either, treating us like celebrities even though we had not emerged victorious (though in my case the pint and a half of cider and several glasses of wine – one of which was corked, not that I really noticed or cared – also did much to ease the pain). TM philosophised that somewhere deep down we did not believe that we could win, that the RWR had demonstrated the difference between active and passive knowledge. I barely slept, every single question rattling round my brain.
“A one and seven zeroes, a one and seven zeroes”.

Sunday

At breakfast I sat opposite Mark, a fellow contestant from the V and A (his team won their game, but sadly did not score high enough to make it through to the semis), whose pleasant and intelligent conversation allowed us to wind down. Having been through it himself, he knew exactly what we were talking about. We noted how the series had been dominated by journalists (Mark informed us that Loaded had failed to qualify and we were told later that The New Statesman and the NME had suffered the same fate). RC summed matters up eloquently: “We had rehearsed the most obscure reaches of Finnish art house cinema and what did we get? Carry on Cleo”.

Whilst RC and TM (accompanied by his two sons both of whom study in England) set off in search of culture, KC and I engaged in some emergency retail therapy. Back at the airport we were handed a hot meal voucher with the news that the flight was delayed until 21.30 (and eventually left five hours behind schedule). Dejected, we ambled aimlessly through the food court when it occurred to us that we were actually peckish. Harry Ramsden’s seemed the obvious choice, the price of a large haddock and chips the exact amount allocated to us. It took a while to prepare, TM’s “Overfishing” and my “It will have become extinct in the meantime if they don’t hurry up” spoken virtually in unison. RC and TM had their first taste of mushy peas. Not renowned for effusiveness, the latter’s appreciative remark that the quality of the meal was better than it would have been in a similar establishment in Greece was praise indeed. KC guarded the hand-luggage laden trolley, placing a deterrent newspaper on the comfortable chair (of which there were very few in the building) when I could not bear to sit still any longer and sloped off to explore the shops alone (just as the shutters were being pulled down). Mental and emotional exhaustion left me unable to concentrate long enough to scan even a single page (even the cultural history of the penis I had bought out of sheer mischief). You know you are desperate when the best form of entertainment you can think of is turning round the racks of postcards at the newsagent’s. When we finally boarded the plane back courtesy of Titan Air with an obscenely cheerful crew we were at least in the same row (two on either side of the aisle with an empty seat between). I couldn’t face the sandwich, but TM offered me his slice of chocolate cake, which I gratefully accepted. He buried himself in his book, spectacles perched on the end of his nose, occasionally teasing me about its contents (the Taliban takeover and the subsequent lot of the female population). KC passed over the main section of The Independent on Sunday, my horoscope circled twice. “I never used to believe in them until now,” he laughed.
Leo: “The dignity you were standing on has been flattened. Your observers keep a straight face; you catch them at it but they keep laughing at you. Stop being so generous, they think it’s because you need more friends (your friends hate that). Re-establish old contacts”.