Terror Firma. Matthew Thomas

       12. The Jimmy Maxwell Show

      The studio audience had been whipped up into a frenzy of anticipation. For Kate Jennings, standing off in one darkened wing watching the recording on a monitor, the transformation never ceased to be a surreal and slightly scary experience. No matter how many true-life confessionals she worked on it was always a little alarming just how easily a group of otherwise sane human beings could be agitated into a baying mob; each herd-member impatient for the moment they could sink their fangs into the carnival of human misfortune paraded before them. What had, until half an hour before, been nothing more than a studio full of perfectly normal Britons, united admittedly in the fact that they had nothing better to do than attend the recording of a daytime TV show, was no longer a pretty sight. Each individual’s identity and inhibitions was lost in the anonymity of the pack.

      It wasn’t as if the techniques Kate’s show used were particularly sophisticated. The procession of hadn’t-been comedians and enthusiastic young floor-assistants were not what instantly sprung to mind when you thought of subtle weapons of psychological warfare. But they were all that was needed.

      A more informative and depressing insight into the darker reaches of the human psyche you’d be hard pressed to find – and the show hadn’t even begun yet. With the first bars of the terminally cheerful theme tune, Kate knew the unnaturally orange host couldn’t be far behind.

      Kate wasn’t to be disappointed. As the ‘Applause’ lights flashed their strident instruction, Jimmy Maxwell sprung from an alcove and bounded down the audience aisle stairs leaping, slapping hands with the people and whooping with every breath. Britain’s favourite daytime TV celeb might have had the body and face of a middle-aged angel, but put him in front of a tight-lipped guest and he’d rip their tale from them like his career depended on it – which it did. He was undeniably the biggest fish in a small pond, but Maxwell had agents working round the clock to facilitate the move he craved. There was only so far you could take this format in the closeted and provincial TV backwater that was the UK. North America beckoned, like a cut-price whore offering twice as many bangs for the buck. It was rumoured that a major Hollywood producer had flown in today to watch him perform.

      Unlike his hair Jimmy Maxwell’s appeal was harder to pin down. His voice retained just enough of a regional accent to smack of the exotic, setting the pulses of the housebound ladies of the Home Counties aflutter with hints of the mysterious hinterlands beyond the Stockbroker Belt. His strange mixture of Cockney-Scouse-Brooklyn was as distinctive as his cantilevered hair and trademark grey suit. Ever since the groundbreaking ‘I Married My Stalker’ episode last season the British public couldn’t get enough of him. Between two fingers he currently held a radio microphone like a magician’s wand.

      ‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to this our hundredth show, and what a show we have for you today. In a moment we’ll be meeting our first guests, but first a word on our topic today – meaningful relationships within a loving family group and how hard it can be to maintain those traditional values in today’s hectic world.’

      Jimmy cast an indulgent glance over his besotted audience, and ran a manicured hand over his spotless silk tie. He was a self-made man, and worshipped his creation.

      ‘It’s easy for us to judge the lives of others and to form snapshot opinions on their lifestyles, especially if those lifestyles differ from our own. At this point I’d like to ask you all to come to today’s show with an open mind and a forgiving heart, and the awareness that we all follow different lanes down the long and pot-holed motorway of life.’

      It was all Kate could do to fight back the waves of nausea that shuddered through her body. These opening speeches reassured the harried station execs that they were paying for a worthwhile piece of informative public service broadcasting, and not half an hour of bandwagon-jumping emotional warfare that dragged the lowest common denominator down to previously unheard of depths. Jimmy’s monologues served as a convenient counter to the show’s myriad critics, but it was hard not to be cynical when you knew what was to come. You almost had to admire the cheek of the man for his ability to blurt them out with a cheddary grin smeared across his tea-stain coloured face. Amidst his adoring audience Jimmy hardly paused for breath.

      ‘With those thoughts in mind let’s meet our first guest. Come on out, Lucinda!’

      The stage was mocked up to give the appearance of a well-to-do family lounge, though no such room Kate was aware of sported six different cameras, enough lighting to beckon down a jumbo jet and a barely restrained audience seated within easy abuse-hurling range. Five chairs formed a stark line across the sumptuous red carpet, chosen that way so as not to show the blood. Behind the carefully polished potted plants a series of painted-on windows looked out over an idyllic view of rolling downland. Onto this surreal tableau bounced the first victim.

      Lucinda didn’t look the type to get embroiled in the sort of tale this show thrived on, but then that was always half the appeal. She was a little bunny-rabbit of a girl, one who took the word ‘wholesome’ into entirely new territory – where she rode metaphorical ponies through dewy meadows and won blue ribbons in gymkhanas. Her sweater was as tight as her bottom and as rosy as her smile.

      Maxwell barely gave her time to settle in. ‘Welcome, my dear. Why don’t you start by telling us why you’re here today?’

      Lucinda was only too eager to oblige. ‘Hi Jimmy. I’m here to tell you about my wonderful family. We’re so close and loving that I just want all the world to share what we’re doing right.’ At that instant two small boxes appeared in the corners of Kate’s monitor. One showed a head and shoulders close-up of a well-dressed middle-aged couple, beaming in a slightly forced manner from ear to ear; the other, a vacantly handsome young man with an unreadable expression splashed across his pallid features.

      ‘That’s a very worthy sentiment,’ said Jimmy, with the first hint of a smile breaking across his chiselled jaw-line. ‘Let’s just make this clear, you come from a perfectly ordinary, middle-class family from a leafy London suburb. Is that right?’

      ‘That’s right,’ said Lucy a little self-consciously. ‘Though we do have a second home in the Dordogne – helps Daddy with his wine import business.’

      Jimmy’s smile widened. Kate could see he was going to enjoy this more than usual. ‘Why don’t you tell us all about the people who make up this ideal group.’

      Lucinda leaned forward in her chair. ‘Well, there’s Mummy and Daddy, or Edward and Virginia as they’re known to their friends. They’re the best parents a girl could wish for. There’ve always been there for me, but have let me know from an early age I’ve the freedom to discover life’s wonders for myself. That freedom ensured I didn’t once go off the rails like some girls did.’

      Jimmy’s eyes lit up, his voice chokingly eager. ‘What do you mean by ‘‘going off the rails’’ exactly?’

      Lucy dimpled and looked demure. ‘Well, you know, ‘‘boy trouble’’. I knew some girls at finishing-school who got into all sorts of bother. Some of them were even expelled and had to attend the local comprehensive.’