Well, well, well.
“At least you’ve got something to write your blog about today,” said The Drum at one of my excursions to my old section today. Let me not get bogged down in the implication that it is generally about nothing (interesting), it’s a given. He was right in a way: today provided me with a brief insight into what it’s like near a controversy. Only it wasn’t a big controversy: I mean it was bigger than when someone cheats in a pub quiz, but it wasn’t Watergate. The three people I spoke to later that night (visiting drunk friend & two, and sorry to be sexist here, two women) didn’t know anything about the whole issue.
But I can’t talk about it. All the interesting bits are confidential and I have a social media policy to obey. Just to show all the interested people what the blog might have looked like I wrote the first two paragraphs before and then redacted anything that might be deemed unacceptable by my employers. This is what it looks like:
The worst thing about it is the last sentence was a really good jo..oh wait I already put that as the caption right above this sentence. I’ve stitched myself up there like a fucking kipper. If you come back to this blog in 2062 the information in the above paragraphs will no longer be considered in conflict of a social media contract and will be free for everyone to read. So…you might want to put a reminder in the electronic calendar of your smart phone. As that will definitely still be in working order in fifty years. (Redacting something is harder than you’d think: I can’t do it on here, I had to do a word document and make the font and the background the same colour. Interesting.)
In lieu of me being able to recount, with hilarious asides, the comings and goings of a slightly interesting day at work I will remember about that episode of Blind Date where there was an undercover journalist:
Do you remember that episode of Blind Date where there was an undercover journalist on it and Cilla revealed her as a liar (undercover journalists get so much more credit when they are infiltrating an organised crime syndicate compared to when they pretend to be single in order to write a story about what it’s like to be a contestant on a light-entertainment show where men and women chose a partner for a date based on how risqué they could be when answering a question about something seemingly mundane – rather than just let a real person do it and ask them about it afterwards, which apparently wouldn’t have been good enough)? Because I don’t remember it.
Ha! I do (remember it). It was brilliant. Sadly, and you won’t believe this, there isn’t a clip of it on YouTube (that you can find if you don’t try very hard and only look for 45 seconds, anyway). There really isn’ t much I can find now I have had a look in the infinite reference resource that is the internet – though one heavily weighted with opinionated twats writing blogs which rather drown out all the skilled writers and academics trying to educate the world.
The thing was revealed in the papers on the day the show was to be broadcast: this was what counted as hype back in the mid-to-late nineties. I can’t find much evidence but I suppose the show had a bigger audience than usual, but by this stage the show was past its best and relied somewhat on the odd gimmick episode. Rather than rely one gimmick ‘personalities’ which were the backbone of the show.
By the time of the broadcast I imagine I was quite giddy: I mean this was fucking huge. You have to remember that no one had ever really liked me and females find me uniformly grotesque so event television and football are all I have really had. The woman was a returning picker – for people who never saw Blind Date (I pity you) this meant that the previous week she had chosen one of three men and since they had been on an intimate holiday with a Blind Date film crew to see if they got (it) on¹.
Cilla let them go through the motions and then asked the woman something about her supposed job as a secretary (or something) and then let fly when she started answering with “you’re not though are you? You fucking dick, you’re a fucking journalist doing a fucking expose on being a guest on a fucking TV dating show…Woodward and Bernstein must be fucking shitting it.” Or words to that effect. Cilla then revealed not only was she lying about her job and motive² for being on the show but she was also engaged to someone (though I found this that suggested she did have an affair with the Blind Date guy for 3 months, in a hall of mirrors kind of way there is something lovely about that).
The audience properly boo-ed the woman, Nicola Gill was her name. Unless it wasn’t. I’m not googling it again. I think she didn’t defend herself very well and just took whatever Cilla threw at her. In fact, cynical as I might seem looking back at it, I’m not convinced she didn’t know she was going to be unmasked and had agreed to be unrecalcitrant as long as she got to be on the show to make her article more interesting. Yeah, that’s right – fuck I’m cynical.
And you know why? Stuff like this episode of Blind Date crushed my wide-eyed hope and optimism that the world was a good place.
¹They rarely did, the average over the years was that that had got on well as friends and would stay in touch – marginally pushing mutual loathing into second place.
²Because everyone else who went on the show had only one vision: that they would meet ‘the one’. Certainly no one ever went on it because they were an attention seeking egotist. It was kind of the Big Brother of it’s day, or at least a precursor, in terms of giving unfunny-but-loud-people, who thought they were funny, a micro-moment of fame.