Dear ______,
At last! Some good news! A few days ago I heard of an audition being held at the Questors Theatre, Ealing, to select contestants for a TV quiz show called "100%". I went along to offer my help.
There were some forty of us. FIrst, we had to complete a form which contained impertinent questions about our backgrounds and demanded the release of our civil rights.
Then, the show was described. There are 100 general knowledge questions. Three contestants each select an answer from three offered. The person with the most correct answers out of 100 wins £100. The others get nothing. They can record seven shows in one day, so that it is possible to earn £700. (The record is held by someone who, over a period, one £3,100.)
The organisers wanted some prediction of performance. So we practiced with fifty questions. I got thirty-four right, and was among the top four contestants.
Nevertheless, I felt I had no yet had an opportunity to display my talents fully. So I was pleased when it was announced that we were have our photographs taken, in pairs, using a Polaroid camera. I chose a languorous West Indian beauty and I posed with a lovelorn expression, fluttering my eyelids at her. Imagine my annoyance when they cut the photograph in two and stapled the two halves to our individual application forms. My image looked ridiculous!
However, my chance finally came. They wanted each of us to give a brief account of our lives and interests. While I flushed with impatient anticipation, the others rose and gave dreary descriptions of their pathetic lives.
"Since my retirement from the council/bank/business, I have been fully engaged in a variety of hobbies, including reading [sic], drama, travel, etc., etc." Sometimes they would attempt a quip, and this was really embarrassing: ". . . so I am really busy. If you see my wife, please tell her where I am. Thank you."
I was very nearly last in line and seized my opportunity. I moved swiftly and decisively to the front of the room. I paused for three seconds before speaking.
"Some years ago, I gave up on the sort of mundane lifestyle you have just heard described. I decided I could make my best contribution to society by becoming a Role Model to vitalise young and old alike. For example, my senior citizens lecture on 'Your Wasted Years' strikes a timely note of reality into their daydreams. I show . . ."
"Thank you," said the chief organiser, "and now . . ."
"I've hardly started," I said, "but your untimely interruption does illustrate one aspect of Role Model Behaviour: assertiveness! The young must learn to stand up fearlessly for what they believe. They must make their own statements. Nowhere is this so clearly seen as in the world of fashion. They must learn to create their own symbols – their own messages. I help by representing to them a distinct example of individual dress sense. Take the other day. I decided to be beautiful and pastoral for my trip to the supermarket. I wove a nest of robins into my hair and avoided ejection until they found my leaning over the meat counter."
I heard a voice whining: "Can't I go home now?"
"No, you can't!" I snapped. "I had the decency to listen to you without protest. I know that what I have to say is not everyone's cup of tea (and I'll deal with that when I come on to beverages). But for now, let's examine posture. Posture is displayed in the way we dress. My dress indicates, my relaxed, confident approach to life. People are always keen to know what I will be wearing next."
To demonstrate, I then executed an elegant sashay up and down the room. As I did so, I pursed my lips to indicate dignified, reflection. Unfortunately, this came out as a girlish moue.
My embarrassment was stilled when a voice called: "Don't listen to that man! He's sartorially challenged anyway! I'm leaving!" It was a big black man in a Highland kilt. Before he could get to his feet, I was standing over him. "D'you think you can come here and destroy the work of years with a casual insult? Is that the way to get on '100%'? Do you want to wreck your chances?" He sank back, defeated.
At that moment, the organiser intervened. "Thank you, thank you," he called. "I think you've had sufficient opportunity to let us all know what sort of person you are." I flew at him. "You know nothing about me yet!" I asserted. "That's because I am one of those who serves his country in a quiet way without ostentation."
I went on to explain that when a model was offered for National Service in the Armed Forces, I at first refused the honour. It was quite an attractive little decoration, featuring the motto "Semper Insidiari" surmounting a pansy sitting on its laurels. I felt it would be pretentious to clank about with it accepting salutes from all and sundry. I decided just to wear the ribbon – a tasteful mustard yellow. I attended the Awards Parade at Hanwell Barracks. There were five of us. The others were receiving first aid certificates. I was the only person to be receiving an military decoration. I was marched up to the ceremony stand by a sergeant. There, I received my National Service medal from Brigadier Chutney. He was visibly moved by the occasion, wiping a tear from his bloodshot eye. "We are all proud of you," he said. "There are few chaps with the brass to accept this award." He patted my cheek affectionately. This might have been more acceptable had he not been fifteen years my junior. As I left, the sergeant shouted "Get that hair cut!"
I was just explaining my habit of "Saluting the Flag" while wearing my medal ribbon, when I became conscious that I was alone in the Questors Theatre, apart from an impatient cleaner. "Are you going to be long?" she asked. "The others have all gone round to the pub. I'll be going myself as soon as I've locked up."
I tried to display my dignity, but the effort evaporated. After all, I didn't know what pub they had gone to. "I'll give you a hand," I said, "then perhaps I could come with you."
Conrad
PS Watch the "100%" programme. I expect you will see me soon!
