15 minutes
I've always loved TV quiz- and gameshows. I was reminded of the subject this week thanks to Dave Gorman's Absolute Radio podcast. Dave spent some time lamenting the state of gameshows today, which arguably reached its nadir with Simon Cowell's overblown and utterly vacuous Red or Black. The decline of TV gameshows is one of my pet subjects and I could quite easily have made this blog entry a lengthy exploration of why exactly they have all but ceased to be a viable prime time proposition. But then I thought I should record my own experience, if only for posterity's sake. And besides, Game Show Death can basically be boiled down to (a) the rise of reality TV and the subsequent proliferation of micro-celebs into every nook and cranny of the schedules, and (b) the success of Who Wants to be a Millionaire? since everybody else tried to copy it, and failed miserably.
Yes, for a few brief minutes back in 2000 I was a TV star. The show was the sadly-defunct Channel 4 teatime staple Fifteen to One. For younger readers (as if), this was a deceptively simple show: every weekday, 15 contestants would take part, but over the course of half an hour they would be whittled down as they failed to answer questions and by the end only one was left standing. The Grand Final of each season saw the 15 contestants with the best endgame scores from that series facing off, with the winner of that receiving some piece of antique tat. This, apart from achieving the best endgame score of the series, was the only way to win a prize. In other words, this was a proper quiz show - all about the glory, not the cash.
Of course, the standard was pretty high and when I applied I had zero illusions of winning, or even getting as far as the final three on the day. But I always played along at home, at least for the first round, by picking a number at random and seeing if I could answer at least one or ideally both their questions, as the genial Mr William G Stewart always encouraged viewers to do. I seldom got both questions wrong, and was therefore fairly confident that, were I to successfully navigate my way through the audition process, I would not suffer the humiliation of a first-round exit.
Readers with a well-developed sense of irony may have guessed the outcome of this story already at this point.
The audition process did not strike me as being especially rigorous, although I doubt this was ever the intention. Indeed, with the show running for half the year (and eventually all year round, once TV companies forgot the old adage about having too much of a good thing and began to milk their hits dry) and with 14 new people needed for each show (show winners from the previous series were always invited back), the producers couldn't afford to be too picky.
So I trekked across Manchester one afternoon to a university building in Didsbury and participated in a mock-first round game hosted by Philip Lowrie, aka the gentleman who shared voiceover duties with the more familiar Laura Calland (who coincidentally was also Mr Stewart's wife). Instead of lights to represent our "lives", we had pieces of paper with 3, 2 and 1 written on them, but the instructions were sufficiently vague (eg don't worry if you get a couple of questions wrong, you can choose to keep 1 or 2 lives up if you like) that one would have had to try very hard to get eliminated. I suspect that ultimately the whole process was designed to weed out the real numbskulls and allow anybody with a modicum of intelligence to progress. After all, they weren't looking for "characters" who could banter with Bill - Fifteen to One was all business.
Lo and behold, I received my invitation to travel down to Capital Studios in Wandsworth that October and become a genuine quiz show contestant. Better still, because my show would be the first one taped that morning, they would let me and one guest (my brother) come and stay in a plush South London hotel and treat us to an all-expenses-paid dinner the night before. Well, it seemed plush to a wet-behind-the-ears student who still regarded London as some distant magical paradise, at any rate.
But it was at dinner when it finally dawned on me what exactly I was getting myself into. For across the room stood the instantly-recognisable 6'7" figure of Mark Labbett - a quiz regular whose formidable knowledge I'd witnessed on several different shows. As noted above, I never seriously expected to win, but it would be a lie to say I hadn't idly daydreamed of the possibility. Now though, the sheer naivety of such fantasies had been brutally exposed. I was probably the youngest person there and clearly wasn't going to be in the same league as most, if not all of, my opponents. Oh dear.
Still, I tried to ensure that my experience would at least be fun. The atmosphere on the minibus to the studios the next morning and in the green room was fairly relaxed, although some contestants were a lot more focused and less sociable than others. Picking my podium number out of the bag (#12) was inexplicably fun, although like everyone I was hoping for number 1 - not for any boastful reason, but because the first question of every show was invariably a piece of piss (this one would turn out to be: "Name two of the lifelines on Who Wants to be a Millionaire?. Sigh.). My favourite memory is of the make-up chair, where the lady chatted and joked with me and made me feel somewhat more at ease. She also expertly concealed a particularly virulent facial spot, which was a bonus.
Sadly any nice feelings had well and truly dissipated by the time we were lined up behind our podiums in the studio. Reader, I was shitting myself. Any lingering doubts I had about my poker face were also comprehensively smashed as the camera panned across each of us for the opening credits shots. Look up and open your eyes please, I was told. "Are you okay Ben?" asked the friendly guy next to me (I forget his name). Yes, yes, I wanted to say, I'm fine - I'm not about to faint, I'm just a chronically-shy, socially-inept 20 year-old who never makes eye contact and thus always looks this fucking dopey. Now can we get on with it, please? Sigh.
Bill did have a quick chat to each of us in turn before the start of filming proper, and I managed to string a sentence or two together in response. He seemed genial enough, although the professional mask did slip a little when he paused to admonish a couple of crewmen who were chatting, not that loudly, behind the cameras ("Lads! Quiet back there!"). And then, the game was on. As contestants 1-11 tackled their opening questions, I played along and felt that I was comfortably getting the majority right. This was looking promising.
I've recounted my two questions so many times over the years to the point where I'm now thoroughly sick of them, but I guess once more won't hurt. Question one went roughly as follows:
Bill: Ben - the Saint, aka Simon Templar, famously played on TV by Roger Moore. Who wrote the original novels?
Me: ....................... [*buzzer* *One life extinguished*]
Bill: Leslie Charteris.
Me: [Fuck's sake, I'd've got that if only you'd given me a couple of minutes.]
On the second go-round, a couple of people had already been eliminated after failing on both questions and I definitely knew at least one of the answers in some of those cases, so all I needed was a bit of luck. Surely this wasn't much to ask. Then Bill addressed me once more:
Bill: What is the cost of a single-item NHS prescription?
Me: [pause]........ Five pounds? [*Fail noise* *Both remaining lives extinguished* *Sits down despondently as his light dims*]
Bill: [To be honest I can't remember the exact answer. I think it might have been £6.25, but considering at that point I'd never gotten ill in my short adult life and therefore NEVER HAD TO GET A PRESCRIPTION, how the fuck was I supposed to know? Bollocks.]
And just like that, my TV career was over. At the risk of this sounding like sour grapes, I firmly believe if I'd have picked maybe all but three of those 15 numbers out of that bag, then I'd have gone through to the next round. For example, the girl at #15 (who I think was also a student) got buzzed out of round one because she didn't know it was Christian Baarnard who performed the first heart transplant - which to me is a pretty basic quiz fact.
I'm not using nerves as an excuse. My recall was fine for the answers I knew. The sad truth is that, great show though it was, luck still played its part in Fifteen to One. Nobody knows everything. If you don't believe me, ask Mark Labbett - he went out in the first round too, and that man is a quizzing legend who has since appeared on many more shows and been very successful. I'm not claiming to be as good as him - just similarly unlucky on this occasion. So there.
I don't remember much about the rest of the recording. Having to sit in the dark while the second round goes on around you isn't the most edifying experience. Come the final, we all moved behind the cameras and I got to moan at my brother and listen to Laura nattering to someone (she seemed like great fun, to be fair. And Bill didn't tell her off) before the winner was eventually decided. Then after a few brief goodbyes, it was time to go home. I'd love to say I swapped numbers with my fellowvictims contestants and still keep in touch with some of them to this day but, y'know, social retardation and all that. Sorry.
Disappointingly (or not, depending on how you look at it), there appears to be no archive of episodes on the internet, and although I know of at least two other people who taped My Episode as well as myself, the chances of these tapes still existing are minuscule, either because it got taped over (I did this accidentally, honest) or because, well, who the heck owns a video recorder anymore? So you'll just have to take my word for it that I didn't make all this up. (If I had, you can bet I'd have made myself sound a bit more successful.)
It is also my only TV appearance so far. I did half-heartedly apply for The Weakest Link afterwards, trying to fill in my application form as quirkily as possible, but I doubt I'd have got through the auditions for a show which placed more of a premium on personality. I also expressed an interest in representing Salford in University Challenge one year, which went nowhere fast as they apparently couldn't even find four people who wanted to apply. A real shame because a couple of years earlier a Salford team had done really well, including one guy I was acquainted with who was a really sound bloke as well as being frighteningly intelligent (the bastard).
The only other comparable programme left which doesn't select contestants based on personality is Mastermind (well, if it does then I dread to think what the rejects are like). However, the potential for embarrassment therein is magnified a thousandfold. The really crap contestants get mocked in the press and everything. Maybe I'll try it one day, so watch this space. I don't think they've ever had a WWE wrestling-based specialist round before, at any rate...
Yes, for a few brief minutes back in 2000 I was a TV star. The show was the sadly-defunct Channel 4 teatime staple Fifteen to One. For younger readers (as if), this was a deceptively simple show: every weekday, 15 contestants would take part, but over the course of half an hour they would be whittled down as they failed to answer questions and by the end only one was left standing. The Grand Final of each season saw the 15 contestants with the best endgame scores from that series facing off, with the winner of that receiving some piece of antique tat. This, apart from achieving the best endgame score of the series, was the only way to win a prize. In other words, this was a proper quiz show - all about the glory, not the cash.
Of course, the standard was pretty high and when I applied I had zero illusions of winning, or even getting as far as the final three on the day. But I always played along at home, at least for the first round, by picking a number at random and seeing if I could answer at least one or ideally both their questions, as the genial Mr William G Stewart always encouraged viewers to do. I seldom got both questions wrong, and was therefore fairly confident that, were I to successfully navigate my way through the audition process, I would not suffer the humiliation of a first-round exit.
Readers with a well-developed sense of irony may have guessed the outcome of this story already at this point.
The audition process did not strike me as being especially rigorous, although I doubt this was ever the intention. Indeed, with the show running for half the year (and eventually all year round, once TV companies forgot the old adage about having too much of a good thing and began to milk their hits dry) and with 14 new people needed for each show (show winners from the previous series were always invited back), the producers couldn't afford to be too picky.
So I trekked across Manchester one afternoon to a university building in Didsbury and participated in a mock-first round game hosted by Philip Lowrie, aka the gentleman who shared voiceover duties with the more familiar Laura Calland (who coincidentally was also Mr Stewart's wife). Instead of lights to represent our "lives", we had pieces of paper with 3, 2 and 1 written on them, but the instructions were sufficiently vague (eg don't worry if you get a couple of questions wrong, you can choose to keep 1 or 2 lives up if you like) that one would have had to try very hard to get eliminated. I suspect that ultimately the whole process was designed to weed out the real numbskulls and allow anybody with a modicum of intelligence to progress. After all, they weren't looking for "characters" who could banter with Bill - Fifteen to One was all business.
Lo and behold, I received my invitation to travel down to Capital Studios in Wandsworth that October and become a genuine quiz show contestant. Better still, because my show would be the first one taped that morning, they would let me and one guest (my brother) come and stay in a plush South London hotel and treat us to an all-expenses-paid dinner the night before. Well, it seemed plush to a wet-behind-the-ears student who still regarded London as some distant magical paradise, at any rate.
But it was at dinner when it finally dawned on me what exactly I was getting myself into. For across the room stood the instantly-recognisable 6'7" figure of Mark Labbett - a quiz regular whose formidable knowledge I'd witnessed on several different shows. As noted above, I never seriously expected to win, but it would be a lie to say I hadn't idly daydreamed of the possibility. Now though, the sheer naivety of such fantasies had been brutally exposed. I was probably the youngest person there and clearly wasn't going to be in the same league as most, if not all of, my opponents. Oh dear.
Still, I tried to ensure that my experience would at least be fun. The atmosphere on the minibus to the studios the next morning and in the green room was fairly relaxed, although some contestants were a lot more focused and less sociable than others. Picking my podium number out of the bag (#12) was inexplicably fun, although like everyone I was hoping for number 1 - not for any boastful reason, but because the first question of every show was invariably a piece of piss (this one would turn out to be: "Name two of the lifelines on Who Wants to be a Millionaire?. Sigh.). My favourite memory is of the make-up chair, where the lady chatted and joked with me and made me feel somewhat more at ease. She also expertly concealed a particularly virulent facial spot, which was a bonus.
Sadly any nice feelings had well and truly dissipated by the time we were lined up behind our podiums in the studio. Reader, I was shitting myself. Any lingering doubts I had about my poker face were also comprehensively smashed as the camera panned across each of us for the opening credits shots. Look up and open your eyes please, I was told. "Are you okay Ben?" asked the friendly guy next to me (I forget his name). Yes, yes, I wanted to say, I'm fine - I'm not about to faint, I'm just a chronically-shy, socially-inept 20 year-old who never makes eye contact and thus always looks this fucking dopey. Now can we get on with it, please? Sigh.
Bill did have a quick chat to each of us in turn before the start of filming proper, and I managed to string a sentence or two together in response. He seemed genial enough, although the professional mask did slip a little when he paused to admonish a couple of crewmen who were chatting, not that loudly, behind the cameras ("Lads! Quiet back there!"). And then, the game was on. As contestants 1-11 tackled their opening questions, I played along and felt that I was comfortably getting the majority right. This was looking promising.
I've recounted my two questions so many times over the years to the point where I'm now thoroughly sick of them, but I guess once more won't hurt. Question one went roughly as follows:
Bill: Ben - the Saint, aka Simon Templar, famously played on TV by Roger Moore. Who wrote the original novels?
Me: ....................... [*buzzer* *One life extinguished*]
Bill: Leslie Charteris.
Me: [Fuck's sake, I'd've got that if only you'd given me a couple of minutes.]
On the second go-round, a couple of people had already been eliminated after failing on both questions and I definitely knew at least one of the answers in some of those cases, so all I needed was a bit of luck. Surely this wasn't much to ask. Then Bill addressed me once more:
Bill: What is the cost of a single-item NHS prescription?
Me: [pause]........ Five pounds? [*Fail noise* *Both remaining lives extinguished* *Sits down despondently as his light dims*]
Bill: [To be honest I can't remember the exact answer. I think it might have been £6.25, but considering at that point I'd never gotten ill in my short adult life and therefore NEVER HAD TO GET A PRESCRIPTION, how the fuck was I supposed to know? Bollocks.]
And just like that, my TV career was over. At the risk of this sounding like sour grapes, I firmly believe if I'd have picked maybe all but three of those 15 numbers out of that bag, then I'd have gone through to the next round. For example, the girl at #15 (who I think was also a student) got buzzed out of round one because she didn't know it was Christian Baarnard who performed the first heart transplant - which to me is a pretty basic quiz fact.
I'm not using nerves as an excuse. My recall was fine for the answers I knew. The sad truth is that, great show though it was, luck still played its part in Fifteen to One. Nobody knows everything. If you don't believe me, ask Mark Labbett - he went out in the first round too, and that man is a quizzing legend who has since appeared on many more shows and been very successful. I'm not claiming to be as good as him - just similarly unlucky on this occasion. So there.
I don't remember much about the rest of the recording. Having to sit in the dark while the second round goes on around you isn't the most edifying experience. Come the final, we all moved behind the cameras and I got to moan at my brother and listen to Laura nattering to someone (she seemed like great fun, to be fair. And Bill didn't tell her off) before the winner was eventually decided. Then after a few brief goodbyes, it was time to go home. I'd love to say I swapped numbers with my fellow
Disappointingly (or not, depending on how you look at it), there appears to be no archive of episodes on the internet, and although I know of at least two other people who taped My Episode as well as myself, the chances of these tapes still existing are minuscule, either because it got taped over (I did this accidentally, honest) or because, well, who the heck owns a video recorder anymore? So you'll just have to take my word for it that I didn't make all this up. (If I had, you can bet I'd have made myself sound a bit more successful.)
It is also my only TV appearance so far. I did half-heartedly apply for The Weakest Link afterwards, trying to fill in my application form as quirkily as possible, but I doubt I'd have got through the auditions for a show which placed more of a premium on personality. I also expressed an interest in representing Salford in University Challenge one year, which went nowhere fast as they apparently couldn't even find four people who wanted to apply. A real shame because a couple of years earlier a Salford team had done really well, including one guy I was acquainted with who was a really sound bloke as well as being frighteningly intelligent (the bastard).
The only other comparable programme left which doesn't select contestants based on personality is Mastermind (well, if it does then I dread to think what the rejects are like). However, the potential for embarrassment therein is magnified a thousandfold. The really crap contestants get mocked in the press and everything. Maybe I'll try it one day, so watch this space. I don't think they've ever had a WWE wrestling-based specialist round before, at any rate...
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