Dead Famous

DAY THIRTY-FOUR. 8.00 p.m.

Trisha returned to the station without eating. Having watched Fogarty sucking chocolate for an hour, she had lost her appetite, which she regretted now because it looked like it was going to be another long night.

“Let’s get through Woggle this evening, shall we?” Coleridge suggested. “I don’t think I could face coming back to him tomorrow. What happened after the flea powder attack?”

“The public weren’t happy, sir,” said Hooper. “Within hours of show eleven going out there was a crowd outside the Peeping Tom compound calling for Garry, Hamish, David and Jazz to be arrested for assault. Geraldine Hennessy had to play music into the house to drown out the chants.”

Trisha put the tape Fogarty had given her into the VCR. “People weren’t happy inside the house either. Look at Woggle. He’s devastated.”

“The rest of them don’t look too good either.”

“They feel guilty about it.”

It was clear from the subdued conversation and unhappy faces that everybody was feeling very uncomfortable.

They took refuge in cleaning, frenzied cleaning. With Woggle, the carrier and principal breeding ground, de-flead, it was possible to begin cleansing the rest of the house, which the nine of them did with a vengeance. Every mattress and sheet was taken outside, washed, dried, powdered, then washed again. Every garment of clothing, every cushion and cloth. Everybody showered and applied more powder. They got through ten containers of it, all of which had had to come out of their weekly shopping budget. Not only had Woggle’s fleas half eaten them alive, but they had also cost them the equivalent of eight precious bottles of wine or thirty cans of lager.

Throughout the whole of this day-long cleaning process Woggle remained beneath his blanket in his corner, swaying slowly and singing to himself. A traumatized troll, as one newspaper was to put it.

At the end of the day came the first eviction.

“They broadcast two episodes on eviction nights,” Hooper explained to Coleridge, “which is very thoughtful, because it gives the nation just enough time to pop out for a beer and curry between the shows.”

“Don’t talk about food,” said Trisha. “I haven’t eaten all day.”

“You can have half of my evening Mars Bar if you wish,” Coleridge suggested, but without enthusiasm.

“No, thank you, sir,” said Trisha. “I’m a bit off chocolate at the moment.”

Coleridge struggled hard not to show his mighty relief.

“Anyway,” said Hooper, doggedly persevering with the matter at hand. “The first broadcast on a Sunday is a live broadcast of the announcement of the person who’s going to be evicted, and the second is live coverage of the departure.”

“Marvellous,” said Coleridge. “An opportunity to spend an entire evening watching someone you don’t know being asked to leave a house you’ve never been to by a group of people you’ve never met and whom you will never hear of again. It’s difficult to imagine a more riveting scenario.”

“You have to be into it, sir, that’s all. If you get into it it’s brilliant.”

“Of course it is, Hooper. I wonder if when the ancient Greeks laid the foundation stones of western civilization they ever dreamt such brilliance possible?”

“Like I say, if you’re not into it you won’t get it.”

“From Homer to House Arrest in only twenty-five hundred years, a record to be proud of, don’t you think?”

“Sir!” said Hooper. “We’re doing fourteen-hour days minimum to get through this! You have absolutely no right to extend them by constantly going off on one!”

There was an embarrassed silence, which lasted for the time it took for Coleridge to unwrap his Mars Bar. Hooper’s face was red. He was tired, angry and annoyed. Coleridge, who had had no idea he was being so irritating, was slightly sad.

“Well,” he said finally. “Let’s get on.”