The Maths

Ninety-five thousand people.

Three judges.

Twelve finalists.

Just one Chart Throb!!

That was the breathless message with which (accompanied by the urgent, pounding, Chart Throb theme music) the lovely Keely would preface each episode of the show. Reminding the public yet again of the gigantic number of applicants and the three stern, unbending arbiters of poptastic excellence whose arseseach and every wannabe star must attempt to rock in order to reach the finals.

Ninety-five thousand people.

Three judges.

Twelve finalists.

Just one Chart Throb!!

Keely would shout it over footage of impossibly long escalators crowded with gurning hopefuls. She would yell it in front of leisure-centre reception areas packed with a cheering, chanting throng of stars in waiting. She screamed it as the dizzying, whirling crane shots spun over the heads of vast crowds in car parks. She shouted it again as the endless queues snaked their way forward so that the thousands of hopefuls might be numbered, badged and registered at the long trestle tables.

And after the crowds came the moody and dramatic shots of the three judges, dressed in black, arms folded, staring into the cameras with those grim, unsmiling faces. Faces which said ‘We will see you, we will judge you fairly, you will get your chance. But do not fuck with us because we will not be taking any shit and only the best and the toughest will survive our ruthless selection process. ’

Ninety-five thousand people.

Three judges.

That was it, the whole show in a nutshell. The connection made loud and clear to the meanest intelligence.

Ninety-five thousand hopefuls. The mad and the sad. The sublime and the ridiculous. The tragic and the gifted. The beautiful and the damned. The good. The bad. And the very, very ugly. And then the ruthless Politburo of Pop. Calvin, Beryl and the other bloke, who would after an exhaustive audition process choose twelve finalists to be offered up to the nation.

It was all very simple. And it was all complete fiction.

‘Sir, ’ Calvin explained, ‘when most of those ninety-five thousand hopefuls get rejected they won’t even be in the same country as Beryl, Rodney and me, let alone the same room. ’

‘Really? That’s extraordinary! Have I been terribly naï ve? ’

‘Don’t you read the celebrity magazines? ’

‘I sometimes find them in the loo when my lads’ girlfriends have stayed. ’

‘I thought you considered yourself a man of the people, sir? Anyway, if you did read them you’d know that I spend half the year in LA! I am a huge star over there. Chart Throb USA is the biggest show in the world. ’

‘Goodness, well done. ’

‘So how could I possibly find the time to wander around provincial Britain personally considering the star quality of ninety-five thousand nobodies? ’

‘Well, perhaps not you, but. . . ’

‘Maybe the other two, you think? Beryl lives in America full time! It’s public knowledge that she looks after the entertainment ventures of the vast Blenheim family business. Rodney’s around, of course, but even he has a life of some sort. How could you, how could anyonepossibly imagine that the three of us could arrange to meet up and conduct ninety-five thousand auditions? ’

‘Well, I suppose I hadn’t imagined that you actually auditioned them all. ’

‘Maybe you think we open the envelopes? Maybe you think we read ninety-five thousand of these? ’

Calvin handed the Prince a copy of the Chart Throb entrance form. In that carefully worded document the applicant was required to promise to abide by the rules of the competition no matter how often they might be changed and never, on pain of criminal prosecution, to discuss any aspect of their experience with the press.

‘Every single person who fills in one of these, ’ Calvin continued, ‘does so because they want to prove to me, Beryl and Rodney that they have what it takes – that X, that It, that Pow! which will propel them from the humdrum inadequacy of their current existence towards that mythical nirvana called the “celebrity lifestyle”. They all think they have a chance. That once they get themselves in front of those three famous judges they have a genuine chance, no matter how small, of all their dreams coming true. ’

‘Well, I’m sure they do. ’

‘But they’re not going to get in front of us, are they, sir? At least about ninety-four thousand of them won’t. The chances of any of them actually getting to perform for me, Beryl and Rodney are tiny. ’

‘Goodness gracious, ’ the Prince said, genuinely surprised, ‘so it’s all a lie? ’

‘Of course it isn’t a lie, sir! It’s show business. It’s entertainment. We don’t deceive anybody. The information is there for people if they want to see it, they only have to do the maths. Ninety-five thousand contestants, three judges. How could we possibly consider even a fraction of that number? Say we did ten an hour, that’s nine thousand five hundred hours. Assuming we worked a ten-hour day, that would be nine hundred and fifty days! That’s nearly three yearswe would have to be sitting there behind a trestle table saying, “I think you need to find yourself another dream, ” to an endless stream of idiots, and that’s if we worked flat out without a break. ’

‘I suppose it does all seem a bit improbable when you come to think about it, ’ the Prince conceded.

‘Of course it is. People can work it out if they want to. They only have to do the maths. But they don’t want to do the maths and why should they? Any more than they would want to watch a film that reminded them that it was only actors reciting a script. We are an entertainment show. My researchers select the most interesting and entertaining personalities to bring before the judges. I am in no doubt, sir, that you would be selected, with or without my help. Just as I have no doubt that you will make it to the finals. Then it will be between you and the public. Your public. Your people. This is about the soul of the nation, sir. It’s 1940 and the barbarians are at the gate. Britain is holding out for a hero. Will you accept the challenge, sir? Will you be that hero? ’

…

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