Chapter Three:
In the Grid? More like Down the Grid: The Action Begins

So, what happened In the Grid. How did I have the money in my hands, only to watch it drip away through mindless stupidity? What lessons did I learn? How have I come away with nothing and yet still won? I'm still trying to work this out myself, but perhaps writing this is some kind of confessional, maybe it's a long-winded apology for the past couple of years in which I've been off the rails, but also a promise that at least I have got the wheels back in motion now'�

I was on the crest of a wave, surfing towards my destiny with a smile on my face. Small comments, little signs, all pointed to the undisputable fact that I was going to win. Any bad luck was explained away by the fact that I was simply 'getting it out of the way' before the show. Thus, a nightmare train journey down to Bristol from Leeds was treated with vague acceptance- karma would ensure that I would be rewarded by the end of the week.

I had little idea about the game itself; save that it was not a quiz show but rather a game of chance. But with games of chance, concepts such as destiny, superstition etc come more into play. I was greeted like a star off the train, chauffeur driven to the studio by a 'glamorous assistant'. Bristol Temple Meads itself was like a glorious herald of what was to come.

I've never been to a TV studio before and was under whelmed by its appearance. The production company, Endemol, of Big Brother fame, had clearly simply hired out a couple of abandoned warehouses and plonked a makeshift studio within its confines- it had all the hallmarks of a real 'fly-by-night' organisation.

Even more underwhelmed by the much vaunted 'green-room'. Preconceptions go out of the window. Was like a sixth form common-room. Still, as soon as I entered, I was again made to feel very much like a star by the Endemol Production staff, who constantly plied me with coffees and crisps. Real star food. But I still hadn't spotted Les Dennis'�

I soon realised though, that I was not the only contestant with high hopes. I was informed that at the start of each programme, one of nine potential contestants would be chosen to compete against the champion, in a winner-stays-on format. Therefore there were ten hopefuls in attendance at any one time- with one dropping out and being replaced each time; sometimes of course, going home with nothing. Only by beating another contestant, would you then be able to compete against 'the all powerful Mega-grid' for a chance to make your fortune. I soon learned that the major factor in this was 'the luck of the draw' in being picked from the 'Contestant's Row' to participate in the show. Or was it'�

My suitcase was then commandeered by Wardrobe staff who rooted through it to find suitable clothes for me to wear on the show- out were all tops with logos, stripes, spots. Blacks or whites. Basically, my staple clothing choice- after all, what else is left?

Meanwhile I was whisked away to learn more about how to play the game. I was to learn how to play the game by having practice games against another newcomer, Niamh, who Production staff persisted in referring to as 'Neem'. Talk about first impressions! Lilting softly spoken Irish girl, very smiley, not with it entirely'� I found that the game was pretty simple, involving only a couple of tactical options which involved any level of skill.

The game itself is a variation on Battleships- you have a grid comprising sixteen squares, in four rows of four, labelled from A1 through to D4. The point of the game is to compete against your opponent to uncover the gold 'cash' squares, rather than the red 'penalty' squares. (There were also the odd black bankrupt square, as well as green bonus squares). And as Les persistently reminded us, every grid is different- you have no way of knowing where these squares will be- obviously, otherwise, there wouldn't really be much point in playing if you knew where the red squares were. But, unbeknownst to me, I did know where these red squares were, and the winning lottery ticket was therefore in my hands.

The game was constantly referred to as a psychological battle, but to be honest, I simply saw it as a very easy game. I managed to completely thrash 'Neem' in my practice game, and left the green room feeling completely satisfied that riches were within touching distance.
After the practice game, we were guided through the do's and don'ts of what to say on the show, if we were to go on. Because the show was being filmed a full six weeks in advance of the screening, we were advised that in order to maintain continuity, we were not supposed to allude to any current events, or to the fact that we were filming four shows a day. If we were to say anything about previous shows, we had to say something like 'In last night's show'�, or 'Last week'�'�. We were also told not to refer to any of the behind the scenes mechanics of the making of the show, such as the way in which contestant's were picked to take part in each particular show- a convoluted system of picking a numbered table-tennis ball from a big sack; if your number was then drawn by the Grid, you were then on the show, the other contestants forced to sit out the show in 'Contestant's Row'. To be honest, I reckon that the whole table-tennis ball scenario was just for show- to make the competitors think that we were being drawn out by pure luck. We were not supposed to tell the audience about things like this'�
As the filming of Monday's shows drew to a close, the existing contestants trooped wearily into the Green Room as though exhausted. Hugs were exchanged with the day's big winner, Nick, who was walking away £16,000 richer. And embarrassingly, I must admit that at that stage I was trying hard to hide my feelings that £16,000 was not enough- I had built up the potential winnings so much in my head that I was becoming cocky and arrogant with it.

As the group of us left the studio for the posh Marriott hotel we had been put up in, I felt that my destiny was almost there'� ready to be grasped. So close I could almost grab it. I was practicing what I would say on TV, the jokes and comments I would make'� I arrived at the hotel and raced to put the remainder of my clothes that the wardrobe department had not commandeered in my room. I knew that I needed to socialise with these people who would soon see me crowned with glory on national television. I also knew that Nick had promised that he would cover the entire bar tab for everyone for the whole night with his winnings- and feeling another rush of excitement I ran down.

A pretty diverse group, but it was clear that through the nerves, stress and tension, strong bonds had formed. The concentrated anxiety of the situation acted as an accelerant, and relationships quickly became very personal, with people feeling able to open up and tell almost complete strangers their innermost dreams and thoughts- of course, conversation skirted around the issue of what we would do with the money, and therefore people were enticed to talk about their dreams of travelling, of telling their hated boss where to go. I was as guilty as anybody of this.

As with any group, the dynamic centred around the strongest characters, Nick, the rock, the calm, steady influence, and Adrian, the fun-lover. There's Bryan, the granddaddy of the group, in his seventies, with a twinkle in his eye and a good line in blue jokes. Mair, the jolly, fat Welsh woman who likes a pint with the boys. Young Lou, whose boyfriend has come down with her as he doesn't let her out of his sight. Kate, the brash, boisterous Mancunian, whose wings have been clipped by the fact that she will be going home with nothing having lost that day. But she still overwhelms poor, quiet Nicky, a fellow North-West girl, but not cut from the same cloth. Darren, who has insisted upon everyone calling him Dazzler, who is unaccountably scared of dwarves. I don't dare tell him that he is one- somebody else does this. Dan sits back quietly making scathing remarks about everybody around the table under his breath- I like him immediately.

Everyone else settled into proscribed roles, perhaps trying to alter them from their real life behaviours but never really escaping. But yet again, I was the cynic, the loud one, the one that gives an initial bad impression but steadily grows on people- I was told by one contestant later in the week that I gave off an air of arrogance bordering on complacency. And, thinking back, that was rather a shrewd observation, so convinced was I that the gold squares of destiny were stacked in my favour.

As the night progressed, my mood shifted from the cold blue uncertainty of first meetings to a relaxed red drunkenness. I quickly transferred onto this disparate group, qualities of friends back home, and began acting as I usually did. All caution was thrown out of the window. Eventually, as one by one, the majority of the group retired for the night to be fresh for the next morning's filming, a hard-core group of four of us remained in the hotel lobby where we were seated away from the hotels ' real' guests. A motley crue and no doubting. Amongst us were Nick, £16,000 to the good, Dazzler, going home with £3500 to put towards soft-fixtures for his dream luxury hotel in London. Dazzler one of those people I never get on with in real life, but, in my relaxed red glow, I tolerated and even liked the guy, despite the clash of his over-enthusiastic pinkness with my colour scheme. Also there was Dan, steadily approaching a green sickness through drink. It was Dan that suggested that we should do a mini-bar crawl a 2.30 when the bar eventually shut.

So we rattled our way through the corridors of the hotel; Dazzler's hotel management expertise was put to good use as we tried to con the mini bar, which worked on weight- it was like the scene from Indiana Jones as we tried to simultaneously remove miniature whiskeys, gins and vodkas to replace them with kettles, cups or whatever else we could find in the room. We stumbled from my room, to Dan's room, through Dazzler's room and finally to Nick's room. By this point, our esteemed winner of £16,000 was unable to stand, possibly overcome with emotion, or possibly by the twenty-seven Stella's he had probably consumed by this time. For some reason, as we took the lift up to the ninth floor, Nick had become convinced that he had been moved to an Executive Suite in recognition of his winnings, this despite the fact that nobody had informed him of this, and the fact that he had left his belongings in his original room that morning- surely hotel staff would not have taken it upon themselves to move all his stuff of their own accord- probably against all hotel rules- touching a guest's personal belongings. Nick staggered from room to room across the top, penthouse floor of the hotel, rattling doors, and growing increasingly perplexed by his card-key's refusal to open any of the doors despite his conviction that he had been moved. Eventually, we managed to persuade him to go back to his original room and his card worked first time.

After the next mini-bar gin and tonic, my mood had darkened in shade to a more sinister purple. As we all left Nick's room, we raided his suitcase and hung boxer shorts from the light fittings, socks off the shower head, and ran away. I only know this because I was told this in the morning. I have no recollection of returning to my own room.



Chapter Four:
Tuesday'� Tuesday'� Tuesday: It's CHHRRRRIIIIISSSSSTMAAAAAASSS

Morning wafts in like a bad smell. It is a grey morning reflecting my mood. I am still very drunk. Two showers, one bath, a shaky shave, and still I am staggering. Three hours' passed out have not done me any favours. The coach is due to collect us from the hotel at midday and pour us out at the studio for half past. I am cursing my bruised purple stupidity. My first proper appearance on television, and I am going to be drunk for it.

Arrived at the Endemol studios to the tut-tutting and shaking heads of the make-up staff. They know they have a real job in order to make us look suitable for national television that morning. They have to mask the dark bags under our eyes, powder away shaving cuts, make our faces look radiant. Luckily its not smellivision. The alcohol smell is clouding up the mirror in the make-up room.

But adrenalin carried us through. And we were impressed when we went through to wardrobe to find our old, tired shirts pressed and ironed and hung ready for us to wear on stage- name badge already attached. We are gathered for a talk by the production staff at 1pm, just prior to going onto the show, and informed that the rumours are true. The first show of the day will be the one which will be screened on Christmas Day. A wave of excitement sweeps through the room. Surely this will be the biggest possible audience for a programme such as this, as people mong on their sofas and digest their Christmas Dinners. Adrian tells all and sundry that he wants, more than anything, to be on the Christmas Day show- he's that kind of 'happy go lucky' guy. Secretly, I reckon that he wants to win as much as the rest of us, but it has become an unspoken rule that we all must pronounce that we are more interested in having a laugh, in having 'the experience'. We must recite this mantra to each and every new member that joins the group.

Adrian is now getting a reputation- the Christmas Day edition will be his twenty-third consecutive appearance on 'contestant's row' without being drawn up to play the reigning champion. My first inklings of some kind of a fix began to be realised, when as luck would have it, Adrian was drawn out to play. Naturally, given my mood and superstitions, this led me to believe even more in fate. In the fact that I was bound to get my chance. This was further re-inforced by the fact that Adrian was playing against Nicky, the Scouse contestant that I had met at the very first audition in Manchester about two months previously. Nicky had the rather unenviable surname of Pollard, which gave rise to numerous jokes based on the awful Little Britain series.

In order to get to the studio in which In the Grid was being filmed, we were required to cross between two of the warehouses, past the excited audience. We felt like a football team marching out in front of an expectant crowd. I adopted a shoulders back, bouncing hard-man walk, others were heads-bowed, deep in their own thoughts. Over the course of the next week I was to undertake this walk on eleven occasions, and managed to perfect my walking pace in order that I could finish three quarters of a B & H in the fifty metres. An impressive feat.

On the television, the In the Grid studio appears much larger. In real life, the studio was rather cramped. Just three rows of seating arranged around the stage, and the famous grid. The Contestants were all sitting on small fold-up chairs worth £6 from Asda, or so Heidi tells me, on the left and right hand sides of the stage. The lack of space was masked by the black backdrop, which enhanced what space there already was, and against this backdrop, numerous production staff scurried like moles dressed in black dress.

What followed became a routine which I will probably be able to repeat blind-fold for the rest of my life. The audience would begin to file in and take their seats. Four sessions a day were filmed, and apparently Endemol had been struggling for audiences so far. It followed a familiar theme; the first two sessions of the day, the audience would be stuffed full of refugees from local old folk's homes. Unfortunately most of them had no idea where they were and hence spent most of the time saying as much. Out loud. In the afternoon, the all-important bums on seats were students from the nearby university, mostly in pockets of drunken hilarity.

With the audience finally in place, a warm-up comedian would come on, to encourage the audience to get a bit more lively- it makes for better TV you see. He would then have to explain the rules of the game- hardly a ringing endorsement for the popularity of the show this, the fact that nobody seemed to know what the hell it was all about. Then, after a bit of light-hearted banter with specific audience members- my favourite was an eighty year old woman who claimed she still had two paper rounds seven days a week. The comedian ran off to the next studio and grabbed a Deal or No Deal luminous jacket for her. Again, tensions between Deal or No Deal and In the Grid were apparent- we'd all been warned about the fate of the production worker who had mistakenly called Les Dennis Noel the previous week- In the Grid was almost trying to hang on to the coat-tails of its more illustrious big brother, and references to the 'other' show were frowned upon.

Following the warm-up comedian came the man himself. Les Dennis- the Scouse wonder kid, famed for having a nervous breakdown live on another Endemol show, Big Brother, famed for his one and only impression, which fell flat on its face when Mavis left Corrie, famed for his wife leaving him in the most humiliating manner for the only man more annoying than him in TV-Land, Neil Morrissey. Now, Les could not appear on Whose Line is it Anyway? Over the course of a week, I've realised that even his apparently unrehearsed asides to the audience, his comments, have all been scripted in advance. Eleven times I saw him walk into the studio from his separate trailer, away from the great unwashed audience or contestants and start with:

'Well you might as well get it out of the way then'� go on, say it. I know you're all dying to'�'� and the audience responds with an echo of the uh-uh sound from Family Fortunes as if it was a quote from Pulp Fiction or something. He then launches into a (scripted) anecdote of every time he goes in the supermarket people chase him round repeating that noise over-and-over again. In the bar, later that night, we all came to the conclusion that this scene is actually the other way round, and Les is so desperate for attention, any attention, that he approaches and chases random strangers shouting: 'Go on, say it! I know you want to'�'� to be met by scared, blank expressions on their part. Les's show continues however as he cheekily refers to his naked appearance on Ricky Gervais's Extras, guaranteeing himself a laugh by referring to his bottom. It is that kind of humour. Nobody mentions his live TV breakdown, Amanda Holden or Bob the Builder.

And so to the show. If you've seen the sorry excuse for a game show on Channel 5 by now, you'll know it as a slick half-hour portion of nothing-TV, which fills the pre-soap gap. It's almost a typical ITV show, so tacky it appears. But the filming takes over twice as long. In order to cover for Les's numerous forgotten lines, inane commentary, downright warped remarks and the occasional granny shouting 'I don't like that man!'� the crew have an hour and fifteen minutes to film the show. In order to maximise dramatic moments before squares on the grid are turned over, the cameras wander slowly over all of the faces on Contestant's Row as we all share the agony of the actual players.

Watching that first show being made was a fascinating experience, and I will never really watch TV shows again without thinking about the behind the scenes action which is taking place. Watch any game show, listen out for the applause- there's always one person clapping before everyone else- this is the Floor Manager, who co-ordinates audience response. Throughout the eleven shows I watched, it was mainly Endemol employees who were doing the shouting out of stuff like 'gamble'- manufacturing an atmosphere for the studio which couldn't be provided by the old folks.

Now, as this was my first appearance on the Contestant's Row, and a guaranteed appearance on television on Christmas Day, I decided that the best way to overcome my black hangover was to pull agonised faces at all twists and turns of Adrian's game. After such a long and agonised wait, surely Adrian was going to walk away with some money to his name- after all he had given up his job to be on the show, and Nicky had already banked £15,000 from previous shows. But Adrian was to leave with nothing, and despite his protestations that he was happy 'just to have been on the TV', his face betrayed his disappointment as he slunk off the stage, defeated.
I was in Contestant's Row for two more shows that afternoon, and was not picked to challenge the champion on either occasion. Nicky, Adrian and an old man called Fred all went home that day, to be swiftly replaced by new contestants who were waiting in the wings, all nursing their own burgeoning hopes. Dan also fell by the wayside that Tuesday. After Monday night's shenanigans, I learned pretty quickly that Dan was feeling even worse than me, and during a break in the show, we were both severely warned by Endemol staff that being drunk or hungover on their TV show was not acceptable- this from a production company which aired Jade Goody in various states of undress on Big Brother, that encouraged a mindless airhead from Essex to shout her way through two months of programmes, infuriating watchers- that's Nicki by the way. Dan felt so bad that day that he decided he was simply going to walk away that night, much to the annoyance of production staff. Yes, he had yawned his way through four shows that day, looking entirely disinterested, but he had not yet had his chance to compete against the (as Endemol call it) 'all-powerful' Grid.

So, back at the hotel, filming finally finished at 10pm, and I felt duty bound to greet some of the new contestants in the bar. After all, I was one of the veterans now. So, after a quick bath, and a quick look at the Chelsea highlights on TV, it was back down to the bar to meet Lee, Gareth, another Andy, and Gemma. But nothing could have prepared me for the scene which unfolded before my eyes as I put my pint down in the hotel lobby that evening. One of the new contestants was lying on the floor with a balloon cock tied around his head screaming quotes from Some Mothers Do 'Ave Em. Mair looked over pleadingly. She had already suffered half an hour of this character's shenanigans. Now he was standing on the table telling us a joke about his grandfather dying. Poor bumbling Bryan, sitting next to him has absolutely no clue what is going on, and asks me if this is some kind of Halloween practical joke being played on us by the producers. But no, this guy is a contestant, the other Andy. And he wants us to call him Trigger. Unfortunately he is an example of the worst kind of game-show contestant. One of those that thinks that appearing on TV will be his stepping stone to fame. He thinks that the nation will take one look at his ability to make genitalia out of balloons, and immediately give him a massive contract to appear on every TV show going. Trig turns out to be a good bloke, but I have never been as scared as I was in that first hour watching him. I thought he was going to be captured and straight-jacketed any minute by the looney bin he'd escaped from. Dan asked him whether he needed to win In the Grid to fund his drug addiction.

SO, WHAT COULD HAPPEN NEXT? DO I WIN THE MONEY? AM I RIGHT NOW SITTING ON MY YACHT USING A WIRELESS CONNECTION AND WRITING THIS WHILST SIPPING CHAMPAGNE?

YOU'LL HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL NEXT WEEK TO FIND OUT...

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