THE wife has got some crazy notion in her head we should go on a TV gameshow. How very 1970s.
I grew up on Play Your Cards Right, Mr & Mrs and 3-2-1.
The latter was my favourite. I can still vividly remember sitting there on a Saturday night on my mother’s settee (not couch) with my glass of milk and bowl of Malteasers.
Being young and naive I always thought the acts perma-tanned host Ted Rogers introduced really were big, big Broadway stars and not washed up casualties of seaside variety tours, oh and Rula Lenska.
Acts aside it was the games I loved. The bonkers rhymes which left shoulder-padded housewives and their moustachioed spouses – always called Keith or Graham – walking away with a week in Malta or the dreaded Dusty Bin.
With the help of YouTube I found this Rogers 3-2-1 lateral thinking classic: “An heirloom, but not in the attic. Fast moving, but not automatic.”
Now Ted, that’s a new Vauxhall Viva automatic, err, or a double-tub washer? Wrong – it was Dusty Bin. Sadly I heard sometime after I had grown a brain cell the couples were not allowed to take home the remote control version of Dusty they had in the studio.
So that’s the scene set, now here lies the problem. The Put Upon Wife is under the misconception I am in someway bright.
When I do make it home from Gazette Towers the wife and kids are glued to Pointless. Now, given the title, you would think this gameshow was made for me.
It is a collection of couples, mates or work colleagues pitting their wits by coming up with the most unpopular answer to questions in order to win cash.
The Wife, well she’s a whizz, me, I’m all right, but get annoyed by the endless enforced banter between stage-frightened contestants and smooth-talking host Alexander Armstrong.
The joke of “I’ve put our application in” has now reached such proportions I reckon one day, very soon, I will be picked up by the daytime TV bus – together with the sports casual Jeremy Kyle posse – and driven to a studio somewhere on the outskirts of Leeds.
Of course the real fear is if that did happen I would be pants. Give me Bargain Hunt any day of the week – touring village fetes buying ashtrays in a bid to make a profit.
Saying that my profit-radar is clearly as good as my Pointless patter given I reckoned, in a bet with a mate, Hitler’s bedsheets (currently being sold by an auction house in Bristol) would be worth more on the global market than a frock once worn by Amy Winehouse. One sold for £43,000, the other is expected to fetch no more than £3,000 when it goes on sale next week. I suspect the market for mass murderer’s well-pressed linens has taken a hit like everything else in the recession.
To avoid any unpleasantness just give me a Bendy Bully and a bin – there’s no need for ritual humiliation on national TV.