Here is a poem.
Fresh hair cut,
partially ironed suit
and a train ticket to Manchester.
I’m on the pull.
I first meet her in the canteen at ITV studios,
where I’m shouting at a girl in
a wheelchair. I think she’s impressed
stood in her white dress.
She smiles a wide, wide smile,
at me and I return it.
I run my fingers through my hair
and wince as a hang-nail
gets caught in a tangle.
Before I have straightened it out, she’s gone.
Such enigma, but I know I’ll see her soon.
I take my tuna-mayo sandwich to the green room
and await my call to the set. A producer comes in
and tells me I may have to change my pink-and-black
shirt as might strobe on the camera. It’s OK though,
she says, as I can borrow one of Jeremy Kyle’s shirt.
As she goes to check, I complain loudly to my friend
that I would rather be put in a torture box
than wear that smug cunt’s clothes.
Out of the corner of my eye I see a shock of blonde hair
and white pass by, head shaking once more.
My shirt is fine and now it’s time
to do some letters and numbers games.
The first time I ask for a consonant, she welcomes me
with a glint in her eye and I know my plan is working.
The next 45 minutes are a blur and at the end of recording
I stand defeated yet she welcomes me for photos.
I turn on my phone and a message forces through
and I haven’t turned it on silent.
‘Cocksucker’ rings around the studio which is now
deafeningly quiet. She bursting out laughing,
80 pensioners turn white and I radiate crimson.
I turn to walk away as fast as possible.
I feel her hand just fail to grab me as I trip
over the clock in the middle of the stage and
smash through that iconic face.
She laughs again.
Nervous sweat soaks my collar, blood my cuffs
and the wrinkles are all too prominent on my suit trousers.
Producers help me up and take me to first aid.
As I wait to be bandaged up, she knocks on the door
and hands me my name-card.
‘I thought you might like this, silly twat.’