Sick and Tired: A Cardigan State of Mind
I am ill. I went to Glastonbury and put my fingers in places where they didn't belong (hey, I'm talking about food and mud and my mouth here, not that ewww thing you're instantly thinking of).
A Times article was written to commemorate the choke-a-thon of the previous Saturday. Here it is, entitled Your Starter for £200,000. The headline in itself makes me want to cry. But maybe that is also down to the brutal and emotionalised state I have fallen into since the end of the sludge mudfest that was Glastonbury 2007. You could see exactly, with pics an' all, how the greatest musical festival on earth panned out on me Facebook page, if you can find it.
Below I have posted the two unedited versions of TPQ final article I filed which illustrate the brilliant artistry of subeditry. Spot the differences. And don't win a prize. But see how the real professionals deal with the bloated junk their writers give them. A swish, a cut and an axe-chop and everything looks and reads so much better. For that I thank them.
And yes, the Behemoth is ready to almost go, having been tested on Pat Gibson, Ken Jennings, Chris Jones and Steven DeCeuster. I only have to write a witty intro before I start promoting it in all manner of places. But I have to warn you: IT IS THE GREATEST QUIZ WRITTEN IN THE HISTORY OF MANKIND. That could be an exaggeration, but why deprive yourself of finding out whether it is true or not.
1066 version
It started with a passing remark. A quiz league team-mate mentioned a new TV quiz called The People's Quiz. "So are you going to do it?" he asked. Truth be told I ignored most contestant calls because I, like many other "professionals" of similar standing, are routinely not selected for shows because we would make the programme a one-sided slaughter. Apparently.
But The People's Quiz seemed like a different beast. A kind of "X-Factor for quizzers", it purported to be a search for Britain's
brightest brain, whom it would reward with a cash prize of £200,700. Everything seemed above board, meaning if I played the game right there was no reason why I would be weeded out of the selection process.
It began in late January with nation-wide open auditions while the grand final would take place in June. In-between we would have a telephone round of 20-questions, a weekend "quiz boot camp" at Pinewood Studios and eight studio shows to decide the finalists. Add to this the numerous interviews, which would provide the colour and emotional ballast, and it was an epic journey designed to test your patience, if not completely destroy it.
My first face-to-face encounter with the show's figureheads came at Pinewood. Jamie Theakston, in his roaming presenter's role, was friendly and laddish and tall enough to make me feel like a hobbit. Meanwhile, there was no time for pleasantries with the anointed "Quiz Gods" - Myleene Klass, William G Stewart and Kate Garraway - who immediately started chucking questions at me for the two-minute marathon, the best scorers in this particular section making it to the BBC studios.
GMTV's Kate Garraway took the Simon Cowell role and it was all too clear that she was not RADA-trained. Her attempt to act, first saying how we hadn't done as well as expected with the face of a bulldog sucking on nettles, pausing silently for one minute and then exploding with joy on saying we had performed "much better!", was something to behold. It was worthy of Acorn Antiques.
Myleene was the optimistic one dishing out nuggets of consolatory hope. The Paula Abdul of the panel. We soon saw her increasingly newsworthy bump swell over time. Eating enough snacks to sate a boy scout troop, she claimed her three dietary staples were "chocolate, cheese and chips."
As I expected, William G Stewart acted as a kind of quizzing granddad to me. I was slightly perturbed by his calling me "that boy" and "son", but what did I expect? Years before I had shone for a short time on his baby Fifteen-to-One, and still in my twenties I had now emerged as his stated favourite to win. No pressure then.
I was feeling the weight of expectation despite all the focus on my arch-rival Mark Labbett. The whole nation was united in outrage at what were actually statements of quiz realpolitik not unbelievably arrogant declarations about how rubbish everyone else was.
Mark was not above making brilliantly outlandish claims about our own TV relationship. For instance, I was "Luke Skywalker" and he was "Darth Vader". But it was no worse than the descriptions the panel produced with regards to myself. I was the postman "because I always delivered", "Olav the Terrible", and, ugh, "cute and cuddly". This was the last remnant of the X-Factor element, which had gradually withered away to nothing over the course of the run, but it was still the most mortifying part of the show.
After Pinewood, 24 contestants got their chance in the studio. The first such programme was the undiscovered country. No one knew what to expect. We had eight chances to make it through to the grand final; the winner progressing and their final round opponent departing the competition forever, with two new contestants coming in to replace them every show.
But, to my great surprise, I found myself steaming through. Sometimes it is better when you have no time to think. Having made it through the "Only the Strong Will Survive" round, I built up the biggest "Brain Chain" of 11 (the most saved consecutive answers) and, before I knew it, was in the Do or Die round.
Now I was required to choose an opponent. And maybe I wouldn't have selected Amanda if I knew the experience was going to be so traumatic. She started breaking down in tears before the first question was even asked. She did so twice more. I interrupted incorrectly on the first question "Christiano Ronaldo plays for ..." by saying Manchester United when it went on to ask for his nationality, knowing it was a 50/50 chance.
Amanda plumped for England. Everyone gasped in horror. Everyone knew it was Portugal. It was then that I knew it wasn't going to be Amanda's night. The feeling of overwhelming discomfort was further intensified by my noticing her wheelchair bound mother in the audience.
Winning the round 6-0 utterly skipped my mind as I went over to Amanda and said something into her ear. Little did I know that I had createda moment of intrigue as mysterious as the climax of Lost in Translation when Bill Murray whispers words to Scarlett Johansson that the viewer never hears. To this day, and despite dozens of requests, I have refused to reveal what I said. But let's just say it was not along the lines of "In your face!" or "How do you like them apples?"
At the end, having destroyed Amanda's dream of helping out her dear mum, I said I felt slightly sick. This feeling was soon replaced, however, by the terrifying knowledge that this would be a cakewalk compared to the tension-filled final when the prospect of prize money would make people behave in very silly ways.
Tonight sees that endgame. Each show winner, along with the BBC2 Wild Card Show series champion, returns to the trenches. I have done some revision, as all quiz show veterans do (even if they will not admit it). Preparation has mostly consisted of perusing the 50,000 questions from the official website. And, of course, Sod's Law dictates that not one of them will come up.
I will either receive the £200,700 cheque with a smile as big as BBC TV Centre or be a choked-up nervous wreck ruing what could have been. But whatever happens, I can guarantee one thing: it's going to be emotional.
1446 version
It started with a passing remark. Things like this always do. A quiz league team-mate mentioned a new TV quiz called The People's Quiz. "So are you going to do it?" he asked. I simply didn't know. Truth be told I ignored most contestant calls on account of not being selected for dozens of shows. Why? Because I, like many other "professionals" of similar standing, would make other contestants look silly and the programme a one-sided slaughter.
But The People's Quiz looked like a different beast. It purported to be a search for Britain's brightest brain, whom it would reward with a big fat cash prize of £200,700. Everything seemed above board, meaning if I played the game right there was no reason why I would be weeded out of the selection process. And it was only too apparent what kind of angle they were going for when I arrived at the open London audition. This was going to be "X-Factor for quizzers."
The aim at this juncture was to answer ten questions in a row correctly on camera. Unfortunately, I hit an immediate road bump. At question eight my knowledge of dodgy 80s TV sagas let me down - I couldn't identify The Thorn Birds from a plot synopsis. Perhaps, I was already disturbed by the question master who had said: "Oh, I remember you Olav. You were much younger then", but unlike hundreds of others, I decided to stay and give it another go and got the ten answers. Fourteen hours after I had rocked up at the Islington venue I departed thoroughly bemused, exhausted and relieved at getting through.
Just how much of an epic, arduous journey this would be became clear soon enough. We began in late January and the grand final would take place in June. In-between we would have a telephone round of 20-questions, a weekend "quiz boot camp" at Pinewood Studios and a series of eight studio shows, before the finale. Add to this the numerous interviews, which would provide the colour and emotional ballast, and the schedule was a marathon designed to test your patience, if not push it beyond all reasonable limits.
My first face-to-face encounter with the show's figureheads came at Pinewood. Jamie Theakston, in his roaming presenter's role, was friendly and laddish and tall enough to make me feel like a hobbit. Meanwhile there was no time for pleasantries with the anointed "Quiz Gods" - Myleene Klass, William G Stewart and Kate Garraway - who immediately started chucking questions at me for the two-minute marathon, which would decide who would make it to the studio.
Kate Garraway played the Simon Cowell role and it was all too apparent that she had not trained at RADA. Her attempt to act, first saying how we hadn't done as well as expected with the face of a bulldog sucking on nettles, pausing silently for one minute and then exploding with joy on saying we had performed "much better!", was something to behold. It was Acorn Antiques worthy thespianism.
As for Myleene? She was the bright, optimistic one dishing out nuggets of consolatory hope to the contestants. The Paula Abdul of the panel. We soon saw her increasingly newsworthy bump swell over time and her eat enough snacks to sate a boy scout troop. She claimed her three dietary staples were "chocolate, cheese and chips."
Call it a blessing or a curse, but William G Stewart was a kind of quizzing granddad. I was slightly perturbed by his constantly calling me "that boy" and "son", but what did I expect? Many years before I had shone for a short time on Fifteen-to-One, and still in my twenties I had now emerged as his favourite to win. I know this because apparently someone's babysitter had mentioned that he had been on the National Lottery draw one Saturday and was asked to name his winner. He said my name without hesitation. Gulp. No pressure then.
I was feeling the pressure despite all the focus on my arch-rival Mark Labbett. While the worst thing written about me anywhere was an web forum poster claiming I was "that asian guy who ... obviously has no friends or social life and lives in the library", the whole nation seemed to be united in outrage at what were actually statements of quiz realpolitik not unbelievably arrogant declarations.
Mark was not above making other brilliantly outlandish claims about the show's make-up. I was "Luke Skywalker" and he was "Darth Vader". He was the "gunslinger" (he was faster on the buzzer) and I was the "sniper" (I got everything in the end). I could listen to him spout this wonderful rubbish all day.
After Pinewood, 24 contestants made it through to the studio shows. The first such programme was the undiscovered country. No one knew what to expect. We had eight chances to make it through to the grand final - the winner progressing and their final round opponent departing the competition forever, with two new contestants coming in to replace them every show.
Yet, to my great surprise, I found myself steaming through. Sometimes it is better when you have no time to think. Having made it through the "Only the Strong Will Survive" round, I built up the biggest "Brain Chain" of 11 (the most saved consecutive answers) and, before I knew it, was in the Do or Die round.
And now I was required to choose an opponent. We could pick any of the other contestants and I selected Amanda because, put quite brutally, I thought she would be the easiest to beat.
But maybe I wouldn't have if I knew it was going to be so traumatic. Amanda started breaking down in tears before the first question was even asked. She did so twice more. Going for a 50/50 chance, I then interrupted incorrectly on the first question "Christiano Ronaldo plays for ..." by saying Manchester United, when it asked for his nationality.
Given a chance to steal a march on me, Amanda plumped for England. Everyone gasped in horror. Everyone knew it was Portugal. It was then that I knew it wasn't going to be Amanda's night. The feeling of overwhelming discomfort was further intensified by my noticing her wheelchair bound mother in the audience. Winning the round 6-0 utterly skipped my mind as I went over to Amanda and whispered in her ear. Little did I know that I had created a moment of intrigue as mysterious as whatever Bill Murray said to Scarlett Johansson at the climax of Lost in Translation. To this day, and despite dozens of requests, I have refused to reveal what I said. Let's just say it was not along the lines of "In your face!" or "How do you like them apples?"
And when I was interviewed at the end, having apparently smashed Amanda's dream of helping out her dear mum, I said I felt "sick as a dog". This emotion was soon replaced, however, by the terrifying knowledge that this would be a cakewalk compared to the tension-filled grand final when the prospect of prize money would make people behave in very silly ways.
Tonight sees that very endgame. Each show winner, along with the BBC2 Wild Card Show series champion, will return to the trenches. I have done some revision, as all quiz show veterans do (even if they will not admit it). Preparation has mostly consisted of browsing the questions put on the official website. The programme makers claim 200,700 questions were written for the show, although barely a quarter was ever released to the public. However, 54,000 is quite enough to occupy anyone's time and liable to drive anyone who reads them for more than an hour little bit mad, if not make their eyes pop out through sheer monotony. And, of course, the likelihood is that not one of them will come up. Sod's Law is a given in such situation.
After all that has been said and done, I will miss the spirit of contestant camaraderie and the runners and researchers who made the experience all the more bearable; I will not miss the green room junk food (great if you love pasties and Haribo), the tedious filming schedule or production staff telling me to say things like "My reputation is at stake. I must win!" for their VT interviews (I refused point blank to say many of their pre-written soundbites).
I will either receive the £200,700 cheque with a smile as big as BBC TV Centre or be a choked-up nervous wreck ruing what could have been. Whatever happens, I can safely say, it's going to be emotional.
A Times article was written to commemorate the choke-a-thon of the previous Saturday. Here it is, entitled Your Starter for £200,000. The headline in itself makes me want to cry. But maybe that is also down to the brutal and emotionalised state I have fallen into since the end of the sludge mudfest that was Glastonbury 2007. You could see exactly, with pics an' all, how the greatest musical festival on earth panned out on me Facebook page, if you can find it.
Below I have posted the two unedited versions of TPQ final article I filed which illustrate the brilliant artistry of subeditry. Spot the differences. And don't win a prize. But see how the real professionals deal with the bloated junk their writers give them. A swish, a cut and an axe-chop and everything looks and reads so much better. For that I thank them.
And yes, the Behemoth is ready to almost go, having been tested on Pat Gibson, Ken Jennings, Chris Jones and Steven DeCeuster. I only have to write a witty intro before I start promoting it in all manner of places. But I have to warn you: IT IS THE GREATEST QUIZ WRITTEN IN THE HISTORY OF MANKIND. That could be an exaggeration, but why deprive yourself of finding out whether it is true or not.
1066 version
It started with a passing remark. A quiz league team-mate mentioned a new TV quiz called The People's Quiz. "So are you going to do it?" he asked. Truth be told I ignored most contestant calls because I, like many other "professionals" of similar standing, are routinely not selected for shows because we would make the programme a one-sided slaughter. Apparently.
But The People's Quiz seemed like a different beast. A kind of "X-Factor for quizzers", it purported to be a search for Britain's
brightest brain, whom it would reward with a cash prize of £200,700. Everything seemed above board, meaning if I played the game right there was no reason why I would be weeded out of the selection process.
It began in late January with nation-wide open auditions while the grand final would take place in June. In-between we would have a telephone round of 20-questions, a weekend "quiz boot camp" at Pinewood Studios and eight studio shows to decide the finalists. Add to this the numerous interviews, which would provide the colour and emotional ballast, and it was an epic journey designed to test your patience, if not completely destroy it.
My first face-to-face encounter with the show's figureheads came at Pinewood. Jamie Theakston, in his roaming presenter's role, was friendly and laddish and tall enough to make me feel like a hobbit. Meanwhile, there was no time for pleasantries with the anointed "Quiz Gods" - Myleene Klass, William G Stewart and Kate Garraway - who immediately started chucking questions at me for the two-minute marathon, the best scorers in this particular section making it to the BBC studios.
GMTV's Kate Garraway took the Simon Cowell role and it was all too clear that she was not RADA-trained. Her attempt to act, first saying how we hadn't done as well as expected with the face of a bulldog sucking on nettles, pausing silently for one minute and then exploding with joy on saying we had performed "much better!", was something to behold. It was worthy of Acorn Antiques.
Myleene was the optimistic one dishing out nuggets of consolatory hope. The Paula Abdul of the panel. We soon saw her increasingly newsworthy bump swell over time. Eating enough snacks to sate a boy scout troop, she claimed her three dietary staples were "chocolate, cheese and chips."
As I expected, William G Stewart acted as a kind of quizzing granddad to me. I was slightly perturbed by his calling me "that boy" and "son", but what did I expect? Years before I had shone for a short time on his baby Fifteen-to-One, and still in my twenties I had now emerged as his stated favourite to win. No pressure then.
I was feeling the weight of expectation despite all the focus on my arch-rival Mark Labbett. The whole nation was united in outrage at what were actually statements of quiz realpolitik not unbelievably arrogant declarations about how rubbish everyone else was.
Mark was not above making brilliantly outlandish claims about our own TV relationship. For instance, I was "Luke Skywalker" and he was "Darth Vader". But it was no worse than the descriptions the panel produced with regards to myself. I was the postman "because I always delivered", "Olav the Terrible", and, ugh, "cute and cuddly". This was the last remnant of the X-Factor element, which had gradually withered away to nothing over the course of the run, but it was still the most mortifying part of the show.
After Pinewood, 24 contestants got their chance in the studio. The first such programme was the undiscovered country. No one knew what to expect. We had eight chances to make it through to the grand final; the winner progressing and their final round opponent departing the competition forever, with two new contestants coming in to replace them every show.
But, to my great surprise, I found myself steaming through. Sometimes it is better when you have no time to think. Having made it through the "Only the Strong Will Survive" round, I built up the biggest "Brain Chain" of 11 (the most saved consecutive answers) and, before I knew it, was in the Do or Die round.
Now I was required to choose an opponent. And maybe I wouldn't have selected Amanda if I knew the experience was going to be so traumatic. She started breaking down in tears before the first question was even asked. She did so twice more. I interrupted incorrectly on the first question "Christiano Ronaldo plays for ..." by saying Manchester United when it went on to ask for his nationality, knowing it was a 50/50 chance.
Amanda plumped for England. Everyone gasped in horror. Everyone knew it was Portugal. It was then that I knew it wasn't going to be Amanda's night. The feeling of overwhelming discomfort was further intensified by my noticing her wheelchair bound mother in the audience.
Winning the round 6-0 utterly skipped my mind as I went over to Amanda and said something into her ear. Little did I know that I had createda moment of intrigue as mysterious as the climax of Lost in Translation when Bill Murray whispers words to Scarlett Johansson that the viewer never hears. To this day, and despite dozens of requests, I have refused to reveal what I said. But let's just say it was not along the lines of "In your face!" or "How do you like them apples?"
At the end, having destroyed Amanda's dream of helping out her dear mum, I said I felt slightly sick. This feeling was soon replaced, however, by the terrifying knowledge that this would be a cakewalk compared to the tension-filled final when the prospect of prize money would make people behave in very silly ways.
Tonight sees that endgame. Each show winner, along with the BBC2 Wild Card Show series champion, returns to the trenches. I have done some revision, as all quiz show veterans do (even if they will not admit it). Preparation has mostly consisted of perusing the 50,000 questions from the official website. And, of course, Sod's Law dictates that not one of them will come up.
I will either receive the £200,700 cheque with a smile as big as BBC TV Centre or be a choked-up nervous wreck ruing what could have been. But whatever happens, I can guarantee one thing: it's going to be emotional.
1446 version
It started with a passing remark. Things like this always do. A quiz league team-mate mentioned a new TV quiz called The People's Quiz. "So are you going to do it?" he asked. I simply didn't know. Truth be told I ignored most contestant calls on account of not being selected for dozens of shows. Why? Because I, like many other "professionals" of similar standing, would make other contestants look silly and the programme a one-sided slaughter.
But The People's Quiz looked like a different beast. It purported to be a search for Britain's brightest brain, whom it would reward with a big fat cash prize of £200,700. Everything seemed above board, meaning if I played the game right there was no reason why I would be weeded out of the selection process. And it was only too apparent what kind of angle they were going for when I arrived at the open London audition. This was going to be "X-Factor for quizzers."
The aim at this juncture was to answer ten questions in a row correctly on camera. Unfortunately, I hit an immediate road bump. At question eight my knowledge of dodgy 80s TV sagas let me down - I couldn't identify The Thorn Birds from a plot synopsis. Perhaps, I was already disturbed by the question master who had said: "Oh, I remember you Olav. You were much younger then", but unlike hundreds of others, I decided to stay and give it another go and got the ten answers. Fourteen hours after I had rocked up at the Islington venue I departed thoroughly bemused, exhausted and relieved at getting through.
Just how much of an epic, arduous journey this would be became clear soon enough. We began in late January and the grand final would take place in June. In-between we would have a telephone round of 20-questions, a weekend "quiz boot camp" at Pinewood Studios and a series of eight studio shows, before the finale. Add to this the numerous interviews, which would provide the colour and emotional ballast, and the schedule was a marathon designed to test your patience, if not push it beyond all reasonable limits.
My first face-to-face encounter with the show's figureheads came at Pinewood. Jamie Theakston, in his roaming presenter's role, was friendly and laddish and tall enough to make me feel like a hobbit. Meanwhile there was no time for pleasantries with the anointed "Quiz Gods" - Myleene Klass, William G Stewart and Kate Garraway - who immediately started chucking questions at me for the two-minute marathon, which would decide who would make it to the studio.
Kate Garraway played the Simon Cowell role and it was all too apparent that she had not trained at RADA. Her attempt to act, first saying how we hadn't done as well as expected with the face of a bulldog sucking on nettles, pausing silently for one minute and then exploding with joy on saying we had performed "much better!", was something to behold. It was Acorn Antiques worthy thespianism.
As for Myleene? She was the bright, optimistic one dishing out nuggets of consolatory hope to the contestants. The Paula Abdul of the panel. We soon saw her increasingly newsworthy bump swell over time and her eat enough snacks to sate a boy scout troop. She claimed her three dietary staples were "chocolate, cheese and chips."
Call it a blessing or a curse, but William G Stewart was a kind of quizzing granddad. I was slightly perturbed by his constantly calling me "that boy" and "son", but what did I expect? Many years before I had shone for a short time on Fifteen-to-One, and still in my twenties I had now emerged as his favourite to win. I know this because apparently someone's babysitter had mentioned that he had been on the National Lottery draw one Saturday and was asked to name his winner. He said my name without hesitation. Gulp. No pressure then.
I was feeling the pressure despite all the focus on my arch-rival Mark Labbett. While the worst thing written about me anywhere was an web forum poster claiming I was "that asian guy who ... obviously has no friends or social life and lives in the library", the whole nation seemed to be united in outrage at what were actually statements of quiz realpolitik not unbelievably arrogant declarations.
Mark was not above making other brilliantly outlandish claims about the show's make-up. I was "Luke Skywalker" and he was "Darth Vader". He was the "gunslinger" (he was faster on the buzzer) and I was the "sniper" (I got everything in the end). I could listen to him spout this wonderful rubbish all day.
After Pinewood, 24 contestants made it through to the studio shows. The first such programme was the undiscovered country. No one knew what to expect. We had eight chances to make it through to the grand final - the winner progressing and their final round opponent departing the competition forever, with two new contestants coming in to replace them every show.
Yet, to my great surprise, I found myself steaming through. Sometimes it is better when you have no time to think. Having made it through the "Only the Strong Will Survive" round, I built up the biggest "Brain Chain" of 11 (the most saved consecutive answers) and, before I knew it, was in the Do or Die round.
And now I was required to choose an opponent. We could pick any of the other contestants and I selected Amanda because, put quite brutally, I thought she would be the easiest to beat.
But maybe I wouldn't have if I knew it was going to be so traumatic. Amanda started breaking down in tears before the first question was even asked. She did so twice more. Going for a 50/50 chance, I then interrupted incorrectly on the first question "Christiano Ronaldo plays for ..." by saying Manchester United, when it asked for his nationality.
Given a chance to steal a march on me, Amanda plumped for England. Everyone gasped in horror. Everyone knew it was Portugal. It was then that I knew it wasn't going to be Amanda's night. The feeling of overwhelming discomfort was further intensified by my noticing her wheelchair bound mother in the audience. Winning the round 6-0 utterly skipped my mind as I went over to Amanda and whispered in her ear. Little did I know that I had created a moment of intrigue as mysterious as whatever Bill Murray said to Scarlett Johansson at the climax of Lost in Translation. To this day, and despite dozens of requests, I have refused to reveal what I said. Let's just say it was not along the lines of "In your face!" or "How do you like them apples?"
And when I was interviewed at the end, having apparently smashed Amanda's dream of helping out her dear mum, I said I felt "sick as a dog". This emotion was soon replaced, however, by the terrifying knowledge that this would be a cakewalk compared to the tension-filled grand final when the prospect of prize money would make people behave in very silly ways.
Tonight sees that very endgame. Each show winner, along with the BBC2 Wild Card Show series champion, will return to the trenches. I have done some revision, as all quiz show veterans do (even if they will not admit it). Preparation has mostly consisted of browsing the questions put on the official website. The programme makers claim 200,700 questions were written for the show, although barely a quarter was ever released to the public. However, 54,000 is quite enough to occupy anyone's time and liable to drive anyone who reads them for more than an hour little bit mad, if not make their eyes pop out through sheer monotony. And, of course, the likelihood is that not one of them will come up. Sod's Law is a given in such situation.
After all that has been said and done, I will miss the spirit of contestant camaraderie and the runners and researchers who made the experience all the more bearable; I will not miss the green room junk food (great if you love pasties and Haribo), the tedious filming schedule or production staff telling me to say things like "My reputation is at stake. I must win!" for their VT interviews (I refused point blank to say many of their pre-written soundbites).
I will either receive the £200,700 cheque with a smile as big as BBC TV Centre or be a choked-up nervous wreck ruing what could have been. Whatever happens, I can safely say, it's going to be emotional.
posted by That Quiz Guy at 4:15 AM
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