Late Night Television

The man looks straight at you; a big overbearing computer generated text panel is to his left and below him comes the phone number and prize money. Rules are given, terms and conditions apply and the riddle makes an appearance in big and bright red lettering:1

FRED'S FAVOURITE
COLOUR IS RED, HE
LIVES IN REDDITCH,
HAS 12 RED SHOES,
4 RED LADDERS AND
ALWAYS CATCHES THE
NUMBER 62 RED BUS.2

The aim of the game is to count the reds. It’s one of those things you think’ll be obvious but isn’t. You’re pretty sure the answer is something like 7, then 23, then 35, then 127 or something. The answer is a phone’s call away, or several, but the 75p x N call charge is enough to put you off. Considering the possibility of a tidy £5,000, £10,000, £20,000 sum, you watch the man get increasingly worked up into a hyperactive frenzy; booming with confidence and coming up with new things to say. 3

The quiz show enters the rapid fire round as the presenter takes calls from fellow late night television viewers. Margerie from Scotland says 84, John from Birmingham says 7 and Laura from Southampton says 21. They’re all wrong. 4

It’s hard to know exactly which way they want you to think, you probably already answered it several times, but the obscure logic of a late night quiz show defeats everyone. It’s a cheaply made program with a cheaply made set, a cheap presenter hosts it and cheap canned laughter laughs at his jokes. 5

The Quiz show draws to a close without an answer. You feel somewhat cheated when the presenter says they’re saving the riddle for another time and are compelled to yell ‘‘bastard!’’6

Channel switching commences, individual channels make up one singular program of bits of speech or music or actions, sort of like a poorly edited clip show but without all the needless repetition of everything you’ve already seen. After leaving behind the glorious memories of the Ftn Network, your finger arrives on another great relic of our modern age; ITV 2: ITV Play. This time there’s a female presenter; particularly attractive, wearing an almost permanent smile on her face and showing more than a little cleavage; for obvious reasons. Seeing her then, you’d think she was the friendliest girl in the world. Even if it was for the job, she still seemed like one of those genuinely nice people you rarely meet. Perhaps she was on Prozac. But Somehow you felt sorry for her; wondered how she’d fallen short of the mark, had to resort to nocturnal TV, answering calls at 10 past 3 in the morning.7

‘‘Blurgh...backslash...colon...aghh...shibu’’ You’re suddenly brought back into the room, pitch black, no light but the television; white by contrast.8

‘‘What the hell are you saying?’’ Your friend asleep on the floor, murmuring away to himself.9

‘‘Blagh...higu...bluggesh...kirghmn...guh...guh’’10

‘‘Don’t worry, I talk in my sleep too’’.11