who had encouraged them to re-apply.
Same Time Last Year
Peroxide’s story had begun the year before. They had been a promising prospect plucked from the stands during one of the stadium audition days. Stadium days very rarely bore fruit, it being pretty much impossible to form a useful opinion about anything when twelve thousand people were all trying to grab your attention. The stadium days were little more than stunts, set up partly to get the biggest of the crowd shots for the opening credits and partly to lend a whisper of credibility to the central Chart Throb fiction, that thousands of people were genuinely considered for inclusion. These were entirely open calls, where anyone who felt like it could turn up and wait in the stands while teams of researchers hurried along the lines picking out anybody who caught their eye, seeing as many of them as possible in conveyor-belt manner at twenty- to thirty-second intervals. Of necessity snap decisions were made and the harassed and sweating teams could do little more than go by appearance. Peroxide, two near-naked blonde teenagers, had been selected and had thereafter done a surprisingly good audition before the three judges. It turned out that their embarrassingly inept attempts at sexuality were not their only promising feature. They could actually sing and suddenly everybody had got rather excited about them.
Emma could still remember the production meeting that had taken place the previous year when Calvin had announced his plan for them.
‘We’ll chuck them out after the next round,’ he explained, to everyone’s surprise. ‘You have to play the long game.’
‘I thought you might put them in the final,’ Beryl remarked. ‘Thought they were just your type. They can sing at least as well as half the other finalists, they’re cute and they’re absolutely fucking desperate. What could be better? I mean, did you see the way they cried when we put them through?’
‘Exactly, these are Alpha Clingers, particularly the younger one,’ Calvin agreed. ‘They cry even better than they sing. If they cry like that when they win, imagine what’s going to happen when they lose.’
‘Why not give them a bit of a run then, so they can lose big time?’ Beryl had persisted. ‘They’re lovely-looking girls and quite frankly we’re way over quota on Fatties and Dogs.’
‘The long game, darling, the long game. You have to ask yourself, what’s the story?’
‘And what is it?’
‘Well, we could certainly give these birds a run, as you say, and I’ve no doubt they’d be good TV.’
‘Plus all the cunty ex-boyfriends crawling out of the woodwork to talk about the girls’ insatiable man-hungry needs and eight-times-a-night marathon sex sessions,’ Beryl chipped in.
‘That’s right,’ Calvin replied. ‘It’s all there for the taking and I’m sure you all think we should grab it with both hands. But how about this ? We build them up on the first round, big stuff, give them the whole “You two are the best thing to come through that door all day” and “Thank God for some real talent” bit. Then , shockingly, we dump them almost immediately, straight after round two. Nobody’s expecting it, least of all them. You’re horrified, Beryl, the girls weep, you hug them, shout at me, throw water over Rodney, but I am immovable and of course Rodney votes with me because he does what he’s fucking told. Just kidding, Rodney.’
‘Ha ha.’ Rodney grinned, as if he loved nothing more than this gentle joshing from his great mate and equal.
‘Outside with Keely in the holding area,’ Calvin continued, developing his theme enthusiastically, ‘it all gets even more hysterical. Peroxide’s hearts are broken. Keely can’t believe they’ve been dumped, she wants to walk straight in there and give me a piece of her mind. Beryl is now threatening to quit . . . Lots of shots of Rodney looking grim, knowing Beryl’s right and that he’s made the wrong
Same Time Last Year
Peroxide’s story had begun the year before. They had been a promising prospect plucked from the stands during one of the stadium audition days. Stadium days very rarely bore fruit, it being pretty much impossible to form a useful opinion about anything when twelve thousand people were all trying to grab your attention. The stadium days were little more than stunts, set up partly to get the biggest of the crowd shots for the opening credits and partly to lend a whisper of credibility to the central Chart Throb fiction, that thousands of people were genuinely considered for inclusion. These were entirely open calls, where anyone who felt like it could turn up and wait in the stands while teams of researchers hurried along the lines picking out anybody who caught their eye, seeing as many of them as possible in conveyor-belt manner at twenty- to thirty-second intervals. Of necessity snap decisions were made and the harassed and sweating teams could do little more than go by appearance. Peroxide, two near-naked blonde teenagers, had been selected and had thereafter done a surprisingly good audition before the three judges. It turned out that their embarrassingly inept attempts at sexuality were not their only promising feature. They could actually sing and suddenly everybody had got rather excited about them.
Emma could still remember the production meeting that had taken place the previous year when Calvin had announced his plan for them.
‘We’ll chuck them out after the next round,’ he explained, to everyone’s surprise. ‘You have to play the long game.’
‘I thought you might put them in the final,’ Beryl remarked. ‘Thought they were just your type. They can sing at least as well as half the other finalists, they’re cute and they’re absolutely fucking desperate. What could be better? I mean, did you see the way they cried when we put them through?’
‘Exactly, these are Alpha Clingers, particularly the younger one,’ Calvin agreed. ‘They cry even better than they sing. If they cry like that when they win, imagine what’s going to happen when they lose.’
‘Why not give them a bit of a run then, so they can lose big time?’ Beryl had persisted. ‘They’re lovely-looking girls and quite frankly we’re way over quota on Fatties and Dogs.’
‘The long game, darling, the long game. You have to ask yourself, what’s the story?’
‘And what is it?’
‘Well, we could certainly give these birds a run, as you say, and I’ve no doubt they’d be good TV.’
‘Plus all the cunty ex-boyfriends crawling out of the woodwork to talk about the girls’ insatiable man-hungry needs and eight-times-a-night marathon sex sessions,’ Beryl chipped in.
‘That’s right,’ Calvin replied. ‘It’s all there for the taking and I’m sure you all think we should grab it with both hands. But how about this ? We build them up on the first round, big stuff, give them the whole “You two are the best thing to come through that door all day” and “Thank God for some real talent” bit. Then , shockingly, we dump them almost immediately, straight after round two. Nobody’s expecting it, least of all them. You’re horrified, Beryl, the girls weep, you hug them, shout at me, throw water over Rodney, but I am immovable and of course Rodney votes with me because he does what he’s fucking told. Just kidding, Rodney.’
‘Ha ha.’ Rodney grinned, as if he loved nothing more than this gentle joshing from his great mate and equal.
‘Outside with Keely in the holding area,’ Calvin continued, developing his theme enthusiastically, ‘it all gets even more hysterical. Peroxide’s hearts are broken. Keely can’t believe they’ve been dumped, she wants to walk straight in there and give me a piece of her mind. Beryl is now threatening to quit . . . Lots of shots of Rodney looking grim, knowing Beryl’s right and that he’s made the wrong
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