because they liked the scabrous humour of the host.
The resident band, with its vertically-challenged musical director Billy Sharp struck up the familiar tune, marred somewhat by the fact that the trumpeter coughed during the middle eight, making a sound like some German sound terrorists.
The floor manager counted down and in he walked, down the glass stairs with the fur-lined banisters in a zebra striped suit with pink chunky-heeled winkle-pickers, and did that mince of his that made him a gay icon to rival the Beverley sisters, all three of them. The biddies hooted and yollered, the youngsters bayed in appreciation.
‘Glamorous people, a good night and the warmest of welcomes to the show of shows. And if your name happens to be Graham Norton: go pinch other people’s ideas, you bag of spent fuck.’
The audience went off like a firecracker, fake shock and real shock. For the TV audience the expletives would be bleeped out by a nimble-fingered vision mixer. It was all a part of living on the edge.
A crash of snare drums. Marty appeared in a backlit window to the side of the stairs. He forced a smile through his mask of pinking embarrassment.
‘And tonight we have for you a self made man, a man of means, not a mean man. His name is Marty Sathyre and he’s the King Farouk of fast food, the top cat of takeaway and a genuine burgher of this town. More from him later but we start, where Billy?’ Spinning round to where his MD was just climbing down from his conductor’s wooden box.
‘I don’t fucking know ya knobhead.’ Said for the crowd’s sake. They loved insubordination.
‘So what have you got there. What are you eating on the sly?’
‘Shortbread.’
The audience went off on one. They loved the predictability of the dwarf jokes – the ‘shortarse slot’ as some called it. He dismissed Billy with a hand gesture and looked at Camera 3.
‘Who wants to come up here and try their luck with Johnnie?’
Three quarters of the audience had their hands up, but tonight they weren’t choosing at random. Dirk was a plant, there to add spice to Marty’s night of TV hell.
The steadicam operator tracked him from his seat to his place in front of Johnnie’s throne.
‘And you are?’
‘Dirk.’
‘Not the most charming name but nevertheless you are the chosen one. Now kneel and kiss my winkle-picker.’
Dirk did as he was told. Week on week they all did. After all there was a holiday in Rio hanging on the next few minutes.
‘What do you do when you’re not feeding on the bottom, or maybe it’s some man’s bottom. Ych a fi, what an image. I’ll need electroshock to expunge that image out of my head, you parting a pair of clenchies with your fat little tongue.’
Dirk stood up.
‘So what tiresome little job do you do Dirk?’
‘I’m a-a-a-trading standards officer.’
‘A s-s-s-tammering standard trading officer. Bet you do well at public speaking…’
‘No, it’s trading standards.’
‘I know what it is you smug-brained fucking yokel. Hit that button vision mixer Meg, keep us on air, why don’t you?’
Meg would resign after tonight. It was ridiculous what she had to go through, what with the Head of Programmes saying it would be her fault if any Anglo-Saxon swearwords were accidentally aired.
‘What do you do exactly?’
‘I’m working on a case of food fraud.’
‘Would that be fast food coz if it is you might like to meet my main guest. Stick around for him.’
The light came up behind Marty’s head but this time he looked quizzical, a tremor of nerves animating his lower lip, so that he looked as if he was on the verge of saying something.
‘Anyway let’s see what the viewer’s choice is tonight.’ Viewers were invited to send things in for the contestants to taste, blindfold. They were encouraged to send in either something too vile for words or something nice, Samaritan food.
‘Let’s see, we’ve got a mouth watering selection of Vomitorium Surprise,
The resident band, with its vertically-challenged musical director Billy Sharp struck up the familiar tune, marred somewhat by the fact that the trumpeter coughed during the middle eight, making a sound like some German sound terrorists.
The floor manager counted down and in he walked, down the glass stairs with the fur-lined banisters in a zebra striped suit with pink chunky-heeled winkle-pickers, and did that mince of his that made him a gay icon to rival the Beverley sisters, all three of them. The biddies hooted and yollered, the youngsters bayed in appreciation.
‘Glamorous people, a good night and the warmest of welcomes to the show of shows. And if your name happens to be Graham Norton: go pinch other people’s ideas, you bag of spent fuck.’
The audience went off like a firecracker, fake shock and real shock. For the TV audience the expletives would be bleeped out by a nimble-fingered vision mixer. It was all a part of living on the edge.
A crash of snare drums. Marty appeared in a backlit window to the side of the stairs. He forced a smile through his mask of pinking embarrassment.
‘And tonight we have for you a self made man, a man of means, not a mean man. His name is Marty Sathyre and he’s the King Farouk of fast food, the top cat of takeaway and a genuine burgher of this town. More from him later but we start, where Billy?’ Spinning round to where his MD was just climbing down from his conductor’s wooden box.
‘I don’t fucking know ya knobhead.’ Said for the crowd’s sake. They loved insubordination.
‘So what have you got there. What are you eating on the sly?’
‘Shortbread.’
The audience went off on one. They loved the predictability of the dwarf jokes – the ‘shortarse slot’ as some called it. He dismissed Billy with a hand gesture and looked at Camera 3.
‘Who wants to come up here and try their luck with Johnnie?’
Three quarters of the audience had their hands up, but tonight they weren’t choosing at random. Dirk was a plant, there to add spice to Marty’s night of TV hell.
The steadicam operator tracked him from his seat to his place in front of Johnnie’s throne.
‘And you are?’
‘Dirk.’
‘Not the most charming name but nevertheless you are the chosen one. Now kneel and kiss my winkle-picker.’
Dirk did as he was told. Week on week they all did. After all there was a holiday in Rio hanging on the next few minutes.
‘What do you do when you’re not feeding on the bottom, or maybe it’s some man’s bottom. Ych a fi, what an image. I’ll need electroshock to expunge that image out of my head, you parting a pair of clenchies with your fat little tongue.’
Dirk stood up.
‘So what tiresome little job do you do Dirk?’
‘I’m a-a-a-trading standards officer.’
‘A s-s-s-tammering standard trading officer. Bet you do well at public speaking…’
‘No, it’s trading standards.’
‘I know what it is you smug-brained fucking yokel. Hit that button vision mixer Meg, keep us on air, why don’t you?’
Meg would resign after tonight. It was ridiculous what she had to go through, what with the Head of Programmes saying it would be her fault if any Anglo-Saxon swearwords were accidentally aired.
‘What do you do exactly?’
‘I’m working on a case of food fraud.’
‘Would that be fast food coz if it is you might like to meet my main guest. Stick around for him.’
The light came up behind Marty’s head but this time he looked quizzical, a tremor of nerves animating his lower lip, so that he looked as if he was on the verge of saying something.
‘Anyway let’s see what the viewer’s choice is tonight.’ Viewers were invited to send things in for the contestants to taste, blindfold. They were encouraged to send in either something too vile for words or something nice, Samaritan food.
‘Let’s see, we’ve got a mouth watering selection of Vomitorium Surprise,
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