Welcome all. Yesterday, after an uproarious night of quaffing fine ales in a bar in Old Street, poor old Edwin discovered that his bag had been stolen along with this blog entry on a memory stick. I've retyped it, consoled only by cheap Merlot. Never mind. It happens to the best of us and I refuse to let it dampen my spirits. Doubtless, the thief is presently enjoying the wonderful, poetic Ben Okri novel if, that is, he or she is capable of reading.
By mutual agreement, I met my mate Roger at this straight bar because neither of us were in the mood for a room full of simpering queens. Aside from the theft, it was a great evening and yours truly staggered safely home to feed the cat and catch the headlines on BBC News. This, in the absence of a nice man to snuggle up to.
This next short story is an extract from Touching Base (a novel in progress) - although I may have to cut it since it diverges from the plot too much. I'm very pleased to submit it for your squeamish delectation. It tells the tale of a talk show host who positively revels in human misery. Don't let that put you off though. I think it's amusing and, hopefully, so will you.
* * * *
Talk Show Tyrant
Norma Walton wandered ponderously downstairs for a daily dose of her favourite talk show and a tranquilliser. After slumping into the sofa, she prodded clumsily at the TV remote. An insipid saxophone melody heralded the start of 'Ask Kittie'.
After much hand clapping and impossibly dizzying panning shots of the audience, the music faded. Kittie Cartwright loomed large and greeted viewers with the usual nuance of condescension. After pausing (for dramatic effect), she adopted her customary faux-journalistic overtones.
'Today on Ask Kittie we're gonna talk about venereal disease, or V.D. for those of you who don't do syllables. So, have you ever been caught in the clap trap? Has your husband been doing more oozing than boozing? Maybe your girlfriend's just itching to tell you something? Or perhaps your love life's become a bit of a sore point...?'
Norma shifted uncomfortably, hauling her weight to the opposite arm of the sofa. A frown furrowed her brow. She gulped down a copious lug of Sherry before gingerly scratching at her groin.
'With us today,' Kittie continued, 'we have Doctor Frank Puss of the 'Rashborne Institute' as well as Annie Jörk, spokesperson for 'Abstinence Now!' We'll also be talking to Richard Chancre of 'Dischargers Anonymous' and Percy Bedfellow; nightclub entrepreneur, playboy and self-styled lounge lizard.'
The camera skipped from one deadpan expression to the next until Percy Bedfellow appeared with a lopsided grin. He winked lasciviously at the camera. It did nothing to ingratiate himself with an unfeasibly self-righteous audience.
As usual, Kittie had exploited her tyrannical stranglehold on the producer to demand panellists with the most diametrically opposed views possible. As a consummate control-freak, she would soon have them doing more bitching than a drag queen convention. There would certainly be fireworks, she speculated excitedly.
Kittie paused again, basking in the limelight as she noticed her surgically-taut, fifty-something face come into view on a nearby monitor. Invariably, she took pains to introduce self-effacing quips into her soliloquies so as to disguise her gargantuan ego. It provided the illusion that she hadn't lost the common touch. During her many years in television, this apparent humility had inspired adoration that bordered on religious zeal among audiences that she secretly despised.
Kittie assumed a severe expression. This was her favourite segment of the show; the unveiling of the 'pariah' (as she jokingly referred to her interviewee). She relished the idea of throwing another hapless victim to the 'lions'. Besides, she was simply providing a scapegoat for her viewers' pathetic little clockwork lives. Yes, this was public service broadcasting at it finest! Afterall, what could possibly be more therapeutic than airing one's dirty laundry in front of millions? And today's dirty laundry promised to be particularly soiled given the subject matter...
It was only Kittie's emasculated producer who eyed her with loathing. Though contemptuous of her vulgar theatrics, he'd resigned himself to silence given Kittie's colossal ratings and legions of volatile fans. Expediency dictated that he pandered to this monstrous diva.
Kittie addressed the camera stridently. 'But first, we'll be speaking to this man who's asked to remain anonymous.'
Briefly, a silhouette appeared large on the monitor.
'Now, I know I can't reveal your real name, so can I call you 'Engleburt' for the benefit of our viewers?'
'Yeah, course you can treacle,' came a ribald reply from behind the screen.
Kittie deeply resented being called 'treacle'. Who in the hell did this piece of sub-human filth think he was talking to anyway? Although she'd already primed him for battle, she hadn't intended to contend with such insolent familiarity. But, as ever, emollient words revealed none of her irritation. 'Now, I'm going to tell the audience a little bit about you if I may?'
'Alright love,' Engleburt said nonchalantly.
'Right, well, six years ago, you caught syphilis from one of the prostitutes you visited. Is this right?'
'Yeah, that's right.'
'And then you infected your wife?'
'S'pose so babes.' There was a nervous chuckle.
Kittie's blood boiled beneath her poised veneer. One of her numerous therapists had advised her to grind her teeth when she experienced these uncontrollable bouts of rage. The audience, however, viewed her frequent champing as an endearing affectation.
Although her interviewee was hidden, Kittie sensed in the audience an escalating tide of moral indignation. It was a tangible hatred that she could control like a thermostat. There were shouts of outrage, but Kittie was well versed in keeping order in her kangaroo court. She allowed a few more vengeful screeches before raising a placatory hand. 'Please, you can have your say later...please. Let's hear more of Engleburt's story okay?'
The audience lapsed into brooding silence.
Kittie turned, once more, to face her prey. 'Now, I'm pleased to say that your wife's now fully recovered, but you're still visiting ladies of the night, yes?'
'Yeah, that's right. But only when the old gal's asleep, mind you. You know what they say - what the eye don't see the heart don't grieve over...'
A scornful frown managed to flit across Kittie's heavily botoxed features. 'I see.' She intoned icily 'So tell me Engleburt, what made you think that sleeping with prostitutes and infecting your wife with a life-threatening illness was a good idea?'
'Err...dunno really. Bit of excitement, I s'pose. I fink it's one 'a' those addiction 'fings,' Engleburt speculated.
Kittie gloated. She'd make mincemeat out of him. Although she'd covered addiction on a previous show (which had attracted considerable sympathy), she knew that her simple-minded audience would have little recollection of those heart-rending anecdotes. Kittie turned to camera, gathering all the gravitas she could muster. 'Addiction? That sounds like an excuse to me Engleburt,' she snorted derisively. 'An excuse from someone who isn't man enough to face up to his own reckless self-gratification. Tell me, don't you feel any shame?'
The audience cheered raucously.
Again, Kittie raised her hand. 'Please, let Engleburt explain himself. Let's hear what he has to say...'
Once more, a hushed disquiet descended.
'I guess I couldn't 'elp it. It's the wife, see? She gets these 'eadaches. Well, I got my needs, y'know? My manly urges and all that...?'
'Oh really?' Kittie cocked her head and raised a quizzical eyebrow. 'So rather than talk about it with your spouse you decided to do a bit of curb-crawling?'
'Nah...nah, it ain't like that Kit. I was feeling a bit randy, like...and her indoors don't speak to me no more. Well, not since her muff infection, anyways. So I...'
The audience erupted into a frenzy of jeering and booing.
Kittie intervened. 'Okay, okay! Let him finish, please. There'll be a chance for some of you to air your views later.'
Sure enough, there was a storm brewing amongst the revolting masses. This was what showbiz was all about, Kittie reflected; those adrenaline-pumping, toe-curling, butt-clenching moments when the audience was but putty in her hands. Engleburt's apparent lack of remorse was provoking belligerent rumblings in the audience that would only be mollified by the spectacle of a verbal public pillorying. Oh, if only the health and safety officer hadn't refused those rotten vegetables that she'd once demanded for the audience. Now that would have been fabulous television. Nonetheless, Engleburt was playing straight into her hands like some naïve lamb to the slaughter.
'So Engleburt, how did this end up?' Kittie inquired.
'Well the 'fing is, I had a bit of a medical emergency, you might say...erm...'
'Go on,' Kittie prompted impatiently.
'Bit difficult to talk about on the telly, like. It's erm...well...a bit...ah, y'know...personal...' Engleburt stuttered.
'Nonsense!' Kittie parried. 'Just tell us about the tragic events that unfolded after your various infidelities.'
'Well, it all 'appened last October. I erm...got another inflammation...y'know...on me knob...'
'On your manhood, you mean. On your manhood right?' Kittie corrected irritably.
There was an outbreak of sniggers from the audience.
'Yeah, erm...that's what I meant, Kit. 'Fing is, I was in denial and...'
Kittie abruptly lost her patience and completed the tale. 'So you had to have your penis amputated!' She exclaimed, glancing at the audience who looked suitably appalled.
'Well, er...I hated having me old feller lopped off like that,' Engleburt complained dejectedly. 'Don't seem right at my age.'
'Well, if you hadn't been so busy sowing your wild oats this would never have happened! We all reap what we sow, Engleburt...and that applies to you too!' Kittie retorted haughtily.
This was fabulous stuff, she reflected. A biblical reference always went down well with the petty bourgeois sensibilities of her viewers. She loved nothing more than assuming the moral high ground, even though it was, of course, merely a pose. Her own man-eating credentials and casting couch reputation had assumed mythical proportions throughout the broadcasting world. Her coquettish charms had ensnared her first husband, a TV producer, more than a decade ago and thus guaranteed a meteoric rise to stardom. Three media mogul husbands later, and she was now the self-crowned queen of daytime talk shows. In her own estimations, she was the voice of the idle masses and a legend in her own lifetime. And now that she'd amassed a considerable fortune in her own right, she avoided marriage altogether. Currently, she was shacked up with her young handyman and his brother who humped like a pair of jackhammers.
Kitty returned to her audience. 'So who has a question for Engleburt?' Inwardly, she felt triumphant as a forest of hands were raised. She made a beeline for a young woman in the front row who appeared to be foaming at the mouth and afflicted with a facial contortion that gave her the appearance of an irascible gargoyle. Kittie held the microphone towards her slavering maw.
As the woman stood, she began making wild gesticulations like a traffic policeman having a seizure. 'You ought to be ashamed of yourself! I 'fink it's disgusting...literally! You ain't even bleedin' sorry for what you done. If I 'ad my way, I'd chop the rest of yer bits off too. Makes me sick!'
The woman turned to the studio audience who cheered and whooped their approval.
'Ere, leave it out gal,' Engleburt countered indignantly. 'I been through a lot, I 'ave.'
'Yeah? You gorra make me are yer?' The woman brayed through a deluge of spittle. 'Come on then...bring it on!'
The audience roared; several of them got to their feet in a show of solidarity. Meanwhile, Kittie was already making her way to the next standard-bearer of virtue. The elderly man got up from his chair and took the microphone.
'I think this is typical, just typical, of the kind of society that we're living in nowadays. It's a disgrace. String 'em up! String 'em up, that's what I say!'
How trite, Kittie thought with irritation. She retrieved the microphone and handed it to a half-crazed woman with the word 'DIVS' adorning a dowdy smock. Immediately, the woman began waving her fist violently at the frosted screen. 'Engleburt, you're pathetic, you're wicked and you're immoral. God will punish you! Do you hear me? God will seek retribution!' she ranted.
'Oh 'fanks a bundle! Christ, me prick's already ended up in a bleedin' pickle jar, what more does the bleeder want from me, eh?' Came the feisty rebuttal.
Kitty recovered the microphone. 'Are you hearing this Engleburt? This is just a small cross section of my audience. Want to hear any more?' She goaded.
'But I 'ad a difficult childhood, Kit. The old man used to beat me up, y'know?' Engleburt wailed.
'Oh dear, is that right?' Kittie countered sarcastically. 'Lots of us have a traumatic childhood, Engleburt.' 'I mean, I had to wear a coal sack to school because my mother couldn't afford the uniform,' she fibbed. 'But I triumphed in the face of adversity, whereas you're not even trying!'
'But you don't know nothing about when I was a nipper...all the problems I 'ad.' Engleburt protested.
'Ah, well what do I know eh? I mean, I'm just a single mum from a broken home with an abusive father!' Kittie snapped. 'However, I may be a single parent family, but at least I still have a sense of decency.' This was another convenient omission. In truth, Kittie's childhood had been a rather privileged one. Her affluent father had funded a private education at one of England's most exclusive girl's schools. When she'd moved on to stage school, he'd even hired a private tutor. But Kittie kept details like that well under wraps. In fact, it was peculiarly paradoxical that Kittie was obsessively secretive about her own personal life.
'But I 'fought if I confessed to everyone they'd understand my inner conflicts,' Engleburt wailed disconsolately.
'Erm, 'inner conflicts'? Excuse me? Sounds like excuses again, Engleburt. Excuses from someone who should've learned to keep his dangly bits in his trousers!' Kittie hurled back.
This was her coup-de-grace.
The spectators broke out into discordant laughter and mocking catcalls. Meanwhile, Engleburt's outline visibly crumpled behind the semi-translucent screen. He tried to shout over the withering onslaught. 'But...I...I just wanted to get things out in the open like...give things an airing, y'know?'
'But that's been half the problem if you ask me Engleburt!' Kittie quipped, looking his outline up and down. 'Perhaps it's high time that you stopped coming out with these limp, half-cocked excuses!'
The audience roared with laughter. When the hilarity died down a little, Engleburt resumed his rather lame defence. 'What I meant was, I wanted to clear the air and that,' he pleaded pitifully, 'I mean, 'er indoors has a fancy man now so I thought...'
'Stop right there!' Kittie interrupted. The last thing she needed was Engleburt to muddy the waters of outrage with mitigating evidence of his wife's infidelity.
'But I was going to say...'
Kittie promptly let fly with the rallying cry of the dim-witted 'What-evvooooor!'
'But if you'd only listen I...'
Kittie raised a palm, 'talk to the hand Engleburt,' she cut in. She felt an overwhelming sense of smugness that she'd stirred up so much vitriol after such a cursory interrogation. Her brief stint in tabloid journalism had taught her just how wonderfully easy it was to vilify someone and make money out of misery. Her audience was really baying for blood this time. She courted more audience opinion before approaching Doctor Frank Puss.
* * * *
Norma watched transfixed. It was only when she'd drained the dregs of her sherry that she managed to haul herself upright. She waddled to the drinks cabinet and unstoppered a bottle. Despite the Valium, her nerves had become set on edge. She began to rake at her pubes vigorously. What if her husband had a mistress? She could have caught something nasty? And what about that public loo that she'd sat on recently? Maybe the germs might have crawled up inside somehow? She resolved to call Doctor Flanders for an appointment at the earliest opportunity. 'Hmm...you can never be too careful nowadays,' she speculated. She settled back on the sofa with her replenished glass and a Valium chaser to resume her beloved programme.
* * * *
Meanwhile, Doctor Frank Puss was extolling the virtues of condoms. He appeared to be wearing a variety of them on his fingers and wiggled them suggestively like bizarre finger puppets. 'You see? This is what we need to keep those nasty pathogens off our gonads...'
'Why not abstain?' Annie Jörk exclaimed. 'I mean, what's wrong with staying chaste until marriage?'
'Coor dear! What you need is a good servicing darlin'' Percy Bedfellow cackled. 'Blimey, talk about frigid!'
'Why don't you get a grip you old letch?' Annie retorted.
'Love to sweetheart. Your place or mine?' He chortled.
Kittie moved to reign in her panellists. 'Okay, enough of that!' She snapped. 'Doctor Puss, will you continue?'
'Yes, well, Engleburt's behaviour is very typical of a great many people. They think they can go at it like rabbits without facing the consequences. This, of course, is a fallacy - if you'll excuse the pun. And you know, statistically, at least one entire row of this audience presently has a dose of something.'
Those assembled shot suspicious glances in all directions, quietly calculating which was the offending row. The thought of an enemy within generated an edgy silence.
* * * *
Norma lapsed dreamily into a heavily sedated state as Kittie continued to wax lyrical. Her eyes managed to refocus when the strobe-effect advert for 'Ambulance-chasers Solicitors' appeared, jarring her from a rather ethereal reverie. Next, a semi-coherent cartoon dog told her about car insurance. The poor thing looked nearly as stoned as she was. Hot on its heels, there were offers of second mortgages for bankrupt pensioners who'd squandered their life's savings on frivolous things such as food. Shortly, another dose of inane saxophone music began. The camera swooped in for a close-up of Kittie who grinned triumphantly against a milieu of browbeaten panellists.
* * * *
'Welcome back. Now, we've been talking today on the subject of venereal diseases. And I've been talking to Engleburt about his recent clap calamity. Well now, I'm pleased to say that we have 'Clarence', our generic relationship counsellor, who'll help you with your painful issues,' Kitty said, laughing inwardly at her unintended pun.
'Okay...thanks Kit,' Engleburt whimpered from behind the screen between grief-stricken sobs.
Kittie mustered a benevolent smile. Help indeed...ha! She thought sneeringly. 'Help' was the least of her concerns. It was simply a convenient footnote to mollify the woolly liberals at the Broadcasting Standards Board. Altruism had never been part of her vocabulary. No, this was all about her. It was her Victorian freak show and she was the ringmaster, revelling in social dysfunction and human misery. Afterall, this was showbiz, darling. Today's show would also provide hilarious conversation fodder for her parvenu circle of friends.
Engleburt was escorted off stage sporting a blanket over his head accompanied by Clarence. After yet another round of applause, it was now time for Kittie's formulaic summing-up routine. She began to peddle out the usual hackneyed sermon about the merits of fidelity, underpinned by quasi-religious moral overtones. As ever, the audience lapped up the glib generalisations and amateurish psychobabble. Kittie felt more than qualified to dispense such advice after her six month stint as an agony aunt in her ex-husband's tabloid newspaper. This, despite the rather unpleasant litigation that followed in its wake.
'Well, that's all we've got time for in today's show. I'd just like to thank my panellists. I'd also like to thank the audience for 'keeping it real'. Go on, give yourselves a round of applause.' Kittie said through gnashing teeth. After the hysteria died down, Kittie gave the camera her trademark syrupy grin that never failed to strike terror into the hearts of producers.
'But most of all,' she went on, 'I'd like to thank you at home, the viewer. I mean, where would this humble Essex girl be without you?'
'Probably soliciting on street corners,' Piers, the producer, murmured to himself.
'Yes, without you, none of this would have been possible,' Kittie continued mawkishly. 'Thank you and God bless.' In fact, Kittie was a confirmed atheist (since she hated competition) but the remark always went down well with American viewers. The credits rolled and the theme tune wailed over a discordant round of cheering.
Backstage, Kittie wasted no time in lambasting her hair stylist. The panellists, meanwhile, scurried away to the free bar. Engleburt beat a hasty retreat from the squealing histrionics towards the exit. Piers grasped his arm and led him to a quiet corner.
'A sterling performance, Jerry. I must try and get you a walk-on part in the new Prison Slappers mini-series.
'Thanks Piers. I have to say I do prefer real theatre to this...this...travesty.'
'Well, at least you'll have plenty of experience under your belt for the next farce,' Piers quipped.
'God, don't I know it. Do you know, there was a moment when I thought those brutes would actually lynch me?'
'Yes, quite. Think we'll have to beef up security after today's performance. Maybe an electric fence might be a prudent investment?'
'Try antipersonnel mines.' Jerry said resolutely.
'Ah yes, very funny old boy. That's the spirit.' Piers chuckled.
Jerry, however, didn't appear to be laughing. Piers placed a reassuring arm on his friend's shoulder. They exchanged a meaningful glance. It seemed like an eternity since their days together in Footlights.
'Quite a ruse today though, don't you think?' Jerry offered. 'I'm just glad they didn't recognise my voice. Mind you, work's been pretty thin on the ground lately. Seems the world's only interested in reality TV - whatever the hell that means.'
'Know what you mean,' piers consoled.
'Drama production's taken one hell of a nosedive.' Jerry complained miserably. 'Airwaves clogged by lifestyle gurus and celebrity sycophants. Ghastly! I can't even remember the last time I got my teeth into something meaty. Damn Philistines! Christ, I'd even sell my artistic soul for a commercial voiceover. Unfortunately, I don't even get a look in since I'm not part of that eighties 'fringe comedy' set...'
'Never mind, things'll look up.' Piers gave his old university chum a pat on the shoulder. It was such a rare pleasure to pull the wool over the eyes of the dictatorial trollop. Even now he could hear her disgruntled screeches from her palatial dressing room as she barked orders at her minions. He gripped his friends hand eyeing him tearfully. 'You will let me know if you hear of any openings for producers won't you? I mean, I'll do anything - even the shopping channel...'
'Of course,' Jerry assured him. 'I just wish we could have met under better circumstances...'
'Anyway, your fee's in the post, old boy. Good luck and all that,' Piers said through a half-hearted smile.
* * * *
On the tube home, Jerry perplexed about why Kittie had asked him to 'talk to the hand'. What does one discuss with a hand anyway? The price of gloves? The merits of a manicurist? Maybe he should have suggested that it stuck itself up its owner's arse. At least that might have stopped her talking for a moment.
(c) Edwin Black
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