Faking Fame

And so it came to pass that there I stood, sweating it out under a spotlight while wheezing through a (bad) rendition of Robbie Williams’ ‘Angels’, having been drilled for over an hour on all manner of seemingly futile topics (“If you were a chocolate bar, what colour would your wrapper be?” “Which of the Coronation Street men do you fantasise about?”) by a
jaded researcher before being asked to deliver a three-minute monologue, unrehearsed and direct to camera, about why I love the Beatles (the point being, I don’t). All this in the name of making a nation-sized fool of myself on car crash TV,
desperately hoping that they’d pick me, me, me to turn into someone else entirely after a training period of just one month. I'm not allowed to name the TV show in question, the production company or my possible ‘temporary career’ (when they saw the word ‘journalist’ on my CV I was made to sign all manner of confidentiality agreements, and I'm not rich enough to risk their wrath) but suffice to say, you know the show I'm talking about.

So what led to this rather strange event: cash, curiosity or a genuine belief in capability? In truth, it was a mixture of all three, coupled with a hint of mid-life crisis and a craving for the short, sharp shock that only a really big challenge can bring. In theory, I was the perfect reality TV star: massively insecure, but with an ego bigger than Meatloaf’s arse (which is apt, really, if you read between the lines).

My rivals included several other Reality TV ‘professionals’ (who reeled off lists of unsuccessful auditions for Big Brother - the ‘big one’ - and Survivor and shared tips such as ‘cry when you’re talking about your family’), a snooty boy who came with his mother in tow and a jolly pensioner who “felt she had a lot to offer the viewing public”. The curious motivation behind the twisted urge to live with a camera up your nose for 24 hours a day became clearer as I got to know my new friends: we all wanted to be something much bigger than we already were without having to try too hard. We weren’t, until the recall (yes, I got a recall!), told what our prospects might be. My options had been narrowed down to either a contestant in the Texan ’Forty and Fab!’ pageant or the rather meatier, closer to home alternative of backing singer for a camp, overblown rock legend. I crossed my fingers for meat, only to be pipped at the post by a woman who, in the opinion of the producers, “would be likely to have a much harder time of it all”. This justification somewhat softened the blow of disappointment but still, it was a strange experience to talk away from rejection thinking, “I wish I’d come across as worse than I am”.

Would fake fame have turned out to be more fulfilling than my own reality? I'll let you know after I get the call from The Big One.