Game Show

“You've got to do it. Give it a go, you never know what might happen”.
And with these words I was forced to enrol in the latest reality game show to clog the TV schedule. Even in my forced cocoon, inhabited since I'd ceased the daily commute, I'd seen the adverts. It was on the billboards on my way to the newsagents and splashed all over the newspapers I bought there.

The premium-rate phone number for contestants was engaged the first few times. More nagging at home made sure I called back again and again, eventually getting through to the robotic voice that offered options. Press one now. I left my details, listened to the line go dead after a cold 'thank you for entering' and went back to doing nothing while making it look like there was still hope in the endless futile search I'd got into the habit of making.

I was watching the kettle boil to make a cup of tea to fight off the chill of cutting back on central heating when I answered the call from the over-enthusiastic researcher. I immediately found her bubbliness grating rather than the intended infectious, but played along through gritted teeth, glad she couldn't see the rictus smile I was wearing. Despite all this it seemed to go well. I was on a very long short list by the end of the call, but the tea was cold. This news was greeted like a minor miracle when I relayed it later in the evening, while watching one of the still heavily rotated adverts still filling the gaps between meaningless programmes.

I didn't even noticed the flashing light on the answer machine when I came back from the supermarket. It was later when all the stuff was put away but still managing to leave the fridge looking empty that I pressed the button that told me I had one new message. With similar over-enthusiasm I was told I'd made it onto the short-list - but still had plenty of hoops to jump through, starting with a role play session the next day on the other side of the city.

When you don't know what to expect your mind goes into overdrive, fearing the unknown. Which is how I spent the journey on the train I once caught daily. What if. Would. Perhaps. The answers to which I didn't know and were making me nervous.
Alright I admit it, and a little bit excited.

I'd forgotten what it was like to get carried along in the rush hour crowds as I changed platforms, finding the crush unfamiliar and intimidating, even glad I'd avoided it for a while. By the time I stood having a final cigarette outside the nondescript address I was eager to get into the swing of things. Just through the door a matching nondescript youth with a clipboard funnelled me to the left. Whoever it was that came in behind me I heard being sent to the right.

Behind the door was a heavy black curtain which I forced my way through to be hit by the bright lights of a TV studio. On the far side of the room were a lolling mixed bunch of people all wearing big name tags who watched intently as I headed towards them. Before I could reach them, I was asked my name, then handed a matching badge which I was ordered to put on immediately. I then joined the wait to see who would be next through the door. Three more came through, making ten badge wearers trapped in the hot overhead lights.

“OK, first of all thanks for coming along today. Let me tell you about what we'll be doing. We've got a range of tasks for you all to take part in, to see how you act as part of a group and show you're compatibility with teamwork. That should take us through the morning, then we'll have a short break and move onto the individual skills session in the other room, where we'll be testing you're suitability for the role. I can't answer questions at this point, but need to tell you that your participation is being filmed throughout”.

So the games, or rather exercises began. Some fell quickly at the first hurdle, in a sad but 'makes for great viewing' way. Those that remained, including me, quickly succumbed to survival of the fittest thinking and cranked up the viciousness of their competing. By lunch there was real hatred flowing between us. Hurried food was grabbed then taken to separate corners, wolf eyes watching the rest of the pack, hoping to see a glint of weakness in between snatched gulps.

On the walk to the next room we crossed paths with the other group, instantly doubling the number of enemies. They must have been following a reverse timetable to us, heading now to the room we had left. The new room had lines of computers below the still harsh lights and an almost identical set of production people to show us to our individual seats in front of the screens displaying the logo familiar from the adverts we'd responded to. These were soon replaced by written instructions about the task we had to complete. Which kept completely changing when new instructions appeared as pop-ups on the screen. It had the desired effect and within the hour two people had noisily left the room. Something I'd only heard, too scared to look up at. I nearly joined them towards the end, when a new message told us to delete the work we had done and resubmit a new solution. To add to the pressure we were told that only 30 minutes remained, bringing a silence that hovered above the frantically tapped keyboards. A shrill bell brought it all to an end for the five who eventually remained.

There was some kind of activity involving large men in shiny suits before the two groups were brought together back in the original room. After running some sort of bleeping prods over all the furniture they took up position in the corners, constantly scanning and talking into their collars. The curtain twitching brought everyone's eyes to focus on it, as two more large men walked through and held the curtain back on either side.

It was the Prime Minister who stepped through, followed by a fawning entourage, some of who I recognised from their carefully pointless statements on recent news bulletins. All stood awaiting the words of the unelected leader, who turned on his TV smile and cleared his throat with a cough that brought a deeper hush.

“As you know we face many challenges today. The economy is suffering and we are attempting to rescue our nation from the grips of this unprecedented crisis. Jobs are in very short supply and we are trying to help those without work back into stable employment. Which is why we created this new social game show, Career Opportunity Knocks, of which you are now all finalists. The prize is the final job available in these straitened times, so there can only be one winner. To help select who that may be I have set a challenge for you all, something you'll all be familiar with from office life, the winner of which will receive this above minimum wage position, guaranteed for one year. Good luck and remember everyone can find fantastic advice at their local job centre plus”.

The last bit brought it home that this was all propaganda being filmed ready for beaming vague hope into docile living rooms later in the evening. A cheap ray of hope for the millions surplus to requirements sat moping and hoping while they sleep-sat through the only leisure activity they could now afford. I realised abruptly that I'd be one of them - but now had the chance to break away into the heady heights of the above minimum wage stratosphere. I wanted to win. I had to win. By getting the prize I'd see I'd never had it so good. Bring it on. I want this. Whatever it involves.

The Prime Minister had slipped away when one of the TV crew outlined the task and my heart sunk at the thought of how much humiliation was involved, even if it was for above minimum wage. Playing Solitaire on the computer was something I could and had done both in my last job and recently while waiting for the replies that didn't come from pointless applications. But playing it naked on TV?

I walked out while the others stripped down, travelled back on the much quieter trains in a daze, remembering nothing of the time sat at home waiting silently for the programme to start. It was weird to see myself on the screen, but already knowing I wasn't the winner nagged at me as the final challenge was shown, straight after the Prime Ministers speech which included a cut away to my face revealing the sinking feeling I now remembered. The eventual winner was crowned and given a Gold P60 and what looked like a hefty contract before uttering an emotional speech. I couldn't even get up to turn over and vacantly watched the credits role tearing myself apart at dropping out.

The first advert was for another competition, this time to win a temporary job guaranteed for six months. I reached for the phone and called the already engaged premium-rate number.