I've often thought that I could be a TV personality. I haven't quite worked out what I'd be well known for, exactly, but what I know for sure is that, once induced into the heady halls of C-list fame, I could sit on Jonathan Ross' sofa and opine, banter and crack gags with the best of them. But last night I realised that, in fact, any idiot who isn't crippling shy or interred could actually be a C-list personality. You don't need to be clever, or attractive, or quick-witted. You don't even need to be PC, or interesting, or talented, or open-minded. In fact, you can be ugly, bigoted, stupid and dull and still make a name for yourself as Someone Whose Opinions Count.
I guess, deep down, I already knew this - but I didn't think BBC Radio would endorse such pap. Last night, I went to see a recording of a Radio 2 show called Clive Anderson's Chat Room. I applied for tickets a month ago because they were free. I didn't really intend to use them, but then it seemed like it might be quite fun and so Paul and I went along to The Drill Hall near Goodge Street, slotted ourselves into the heaving pre-bar maelstrom and then took our seats in the auditorium for the show. Clive came on and was quite funny. He then introduced his four guests, one of whom is genuinely famous and talented: Kirsty Wark, presenter of BBC2's Newsnight. I recognised one of one of the other three but the remaining two were unfamiliar and unappealing. Still, the Kirsty and Clive combo seemed to be a positive omen so I didn't lose hope immediately.
About two minutes later, the last shred of optimism departed my soul at Mach 8. The 'comedy' was about as barrel-scrapingly terrible as any I'd ever witnessed: rambling, lowbrow 'jokes' that were so tenuously connected to the week's topical news stories that it was hard to keep track - although the fact that I nodded off repeatedly probably didn't help me. Only the calls of a packet of Riesen chocolate chews in my handbag kept me intermittently awake.
One of the guests, someone Quantum or something, persistently dragged the humour level to a depth somewhere around the Earth's core by discussing prostitutes with a greasy, non-sensical fervour that I found lazy and repellent - and even Clive started to look awkward as the comments became increasingly wince-worthy. A posh young 'comedian' confirmed centuries-old class divides by making weak jokes about not liking football and then the grumpy old 'comedian' took his trousers down to show us his underwear to howls of glee from the audience. This was, in fact, the most excruciating and depressing element of the evening: the screams of seemingly genuine mirth that spewed forth from the audience. It was inexplicable to me that anyone could find any of this enough justification for anything other than immediate self-harm, but after each clunky and embarrassing remark from the four 'entertainers', the assembled crowd roared and cackled convincingly with affectionate pleasure.
Needless to say, I won't be applying for future freebies for this show. Frankly, I was embarrassed to have wasted Paul's time with such drivel - but once he'd bought me a delicious cocktail at the Charlotte Street Hotel I miraculously felt somewhat calmer. One thing's for sure: the life of a TV personality is not for me. No matter how famous I become in the future, no matter how much he begs me to appear, I have been squarely deterred from ever creating buttock-shaped indents on Jonathan Ross' sofa, lest I become even vaguely associated with such paltry non-entities of the sort we saw 'performing' last night. I might make a concession if Madonna, A. A. Gill and both of the Beckhams were on the same line-up as me and promised to remain my close personal friends for eternity, but unless those precise conditions are guaranteed, I remain 100% unpersuadable. For the foreseeable future at least, the only spotlight I want to be in is the one in my incredible bathroom.
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