Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband (11 page)

After another fifteen minutes, I finally lost them.
Little Ted and Epernay were playing with their mobiles,
Debbie was reading a magazine called
Flick!
(once
again, not my exclamation mark) and Big Ted was
snoring.

'Shall I keep going?' I asked Dom.

'Of course!'

Arsehole, I thought. I didn't know who the
programme was designed to humiliate more – the
family or me.

We disappeared to the pub for a late lunch, and by the
time we got back the family had disappeared. They
returned about an hour later, armed with bags of
shopping from the local supermarket, which we filmed
them unpacking. I couldn't quite believe their contents,
and neither could Dom. Out came beer, fags, crisps,
frozen chips, ice cream, biscuits, frozen sausages, more
frozen sausages and frozen sausage rolls. There was not
one vegetable, piece of fruit, or anything that hadn't
been processed in some way. No wonder they all looked
so pallid.

Detecting our middle-class gasps, Debbie turned to
me and said, 'Is there something the matter?'

Dom's eyes lit up at the potential confrontation.

'No,' I lied.

'Well what's the bloomin' face for then?'

'Well, don't you ever eat vegetables?'

'Nah. None of us like them.'

'Fruit?'

'Too much hassle.'

'Hassle?'

'Yeah, you know, having to deal with the skins and the
pips and that.'

I have to confess I was speechless, and I resolved, in a
nanny-state kind of way, that if
WonderHubby
did one
thing with this lot this week, it would be to get them to
eat something nutritious.

It was at this point, just as I was radiating the benevolent
thoughts of a Victorian missionary, that Big Ted
piped up.

'Listen pal, I'm not sure I like that look on your face.'

His eyes locked on to mine like some missile system
in an Apache helicopter.

'I'm sorry,' I replied, all the time aware of the
camera.

Big Ted allowed a finger to extend out of his perma-fists.
He then pointed it at me as though it were a
dagger.

'You come in here, all posh and southern and lah-dee-dah
and you film us doing our normal things and
then you take the piss. Am I right?'

'Er . . . no . . . not, not um, not at all.'

'Well, why are you here then? I mean, if you thought
we was all OK, then you wouldn't bother, would
yer?'

Big Ted's point was unassailable. I took a deep
breath.

'Look, Ted, clearly there are some things that you
might want to do better as a family. All I'm here to do –
at Debbie's request – is to offer you some advice which
you can take or leave.'

'I don't want your fucking advice!'

I'd had enough of this.

'So why did you agree to be on this programme
then?'

'I didn't agree to be on this programme!'

'Oh?'

'No! She did!'

Big Ted stabbed his finger towards his wife.

'She didn't tell you?'

'No! Why? You gonna say I was lying next?'

By now Big Ted was standing very very close indeed,
and I could smell his breath (boozy-cum-ciggy) and
could see the blackheads that thickly peppered his red
nose.

'Of course you're not lying.'

Ted's eyes narrowed as they continued in their
relentless Apache-missile-lock mode.

'You know what I think?' he asked.

'What?'

'I think you're a tosser.'

'Well, I think you're a bit of a tosser as well.'

Oh dear. Why did I say that? What a stupid beta-male
thing to have said. What did I possibly think I had to
gain by standing up for myself? All I had to do was to
turn away, ignore him, anything, but no, I called him a
tosser.

Obviously I did not have time to reflect in this way,
because within half a second Big Ted's fist had connected
with my stomach, knocking the wind out of me.
The next thing I did was to sort of crumple to the floor,
attempting to catch my breath. It took me a few seconds
to realise that I had actually been punched, something
that hadn't happened in about thirty years, not since
primary school. I thought I was going to pass out, and
all I could remember was laughter, the word 'Ted!'
being shouted, and repeated queries of 'Are you OK?'

After a minute or so, I stood up, holding on to Dom.
I must have cut a pathetic sight, pathetic enough for the
two Teds still to be laughing. Even Epernay was
grinning, and Debbie merely looked embarrassed.

'I'm so sorry,' she said. 'I wish he wouldn't keep
doing that to TV people. I think you're all right myself.'

'Thanks,' I croaked.

I tried looking steelily at Ted, but he just continued
his low soft smoky cackle.

'So you think I'm a tosser do you?'

'No,' I replied, grinning sarcastically. 'I think you're
a top bloke.'

'That's got that settled then! So then, now we know
what's what, do you wanna continue?'

'Perhaps tomorrow,' Dom said.

Within five minutes we had gone. Dom was frantically
apologetic and kept asking if I was OK, which I am. The
only thing really wounded is my pride, and I'm not sure
how quickly I can recover from that. Still, perhaps it's
good to be punched. Perhaps I needed it to show me
that what we are doing is insulting and condescending.
Perhaps Sally is right, perhaps the whole thing is an
absurd idea, and I'd be better off doing something
sensible.

But something inside urges me not to give up. At least
not yet.

Tuesday 11 March

8 a.m.

I didn't sleep well last night. I'm wondering whether to
continue with all this. At around 4 in the morning I got
up and just sat on the edge of the bed, considering what
to do. I thought of Sally and the children, who would all
be fast asleep, and it felt wrong to be so far away from
them. Who am I doing all this for? Them or me? I'd like
to think both, but I'm not sure if I'm being honest with
myself. And although I like to think not, that punch
took more out of me than wind. Hot air as well.

Knock on the door – that'll be Dom. I wish I could
share his enthusiasm – last night he said that this was
going to be commissioned, no sweat. Two days ago, I
would have rejoiced. Today it depresses me. Knock,
knock. All right, all right, I'm coming.

11 hours later

I've just spoken to Sally and the children, and they all
sound very happy, which is more than can be said for
me.

Peter was on extremely good form.

'Daddy,' he said. 'I love Halet.'

A pang of jealousy shot down my spine.

'Why's that?'

'Because we do lots and lots of things with her! Today
we made some cakes
and
a spaceship! And Daisy made
a magic crown!'

Guilt now. That's more than I've ever done with them.

'Wow!' I went. 'That sounds really cool! I'm glad you
like her.'

'My spaceship goes all the way to Mars!'

'Wow!'

'And tomorrow Halet said we could make another
spaceship after school and then we will be able to have
a fight between the spaceships and mine will be the
goodie spaceship and Daisy's will be the baddie
spaceship and my spaceship will win because it is really
fast and it has lots of guns and will be the winner.'

'Wow!'

'And then Halet said that if we are really good we can
watch a little bit of TV but I don't want to watch TV
because Halet is very good at telling stories and she does
not have a book and they just come out of her head.'

'Wow!'

This was both brilliant and awful. What was Halet?
Some kind of childcare genius? I thought I was
supposed to be the genius, not her. Maybe she was
right, maybe she should have her own TV programme.

After I said goodnight to Peter, Daisy came on the
phone.

'Hello Daddy.'

'Hello little lady. How are you?'

'I did pee on the potty.'

'Wow!'

And I meant it. This was unbelievable. Could it be
that Halet was already potty-training her? I had been
kind of brushing this one under the carpet and hoping
she'd just eventually copy Peter, after a fashion.

'Did you really?' I asked.

'Bye bye,' said Daisy, and with that she disappeared.
She's a girl of very few words, my daughter. She would
make a good soldier – only gives out need to know
information and nothing more. If she had access to
email, I'm sure today's would have been little more than:

Dear Daddy
Did a pee.

Love,
Daisy

Sally came to the phone. She was laughing.

'Did you get all that?' she asked.

'I did indeed, it's incredible. Halet seems to be a
miracle worker. Not only has she weaned Peter off
the box, but she also appears to be potty-training
Daisy.'

'I know,' said Sally. 'Although I dimly recall you
saying only last week that you were already pottytraining
Daisy.'

'Ah, yes. Well, we gave it a go and it didn't really work
out for us.'

Sally didn't seem too worked up about it, and I heard
a welcome warmth of tone in her voice.

'They seem very well,' I said.

'They are,' she replied.

It went unspoken that they sounded a bit too well.

'And how are you?' I asked.

'Not bad. Work is still pretty dire, but the situation
seems to have calmed down a bit.'

'Good,' I said. 'Is that why you're back early?'

'It is, and to be honest, Mark told me that I looked
shattered and thought I was burning the candle at both
ends.'

'Sounds like the boss is right.'

'He is, it's just that . . .'

Sally's voice trailed off.

'What?' I asked.

'It's just that whenever he thinks people are looking
tired, that's normally a prelude to moving them to
Personnel or some other backwater.'

'I doubt that very much, and besides, is Personnel
really such a backwater?'

'Comparatively. Anyway, how are you?'

I sighed.

'Not bad,' I said.

'That bad, huh?'

Sally knows full well that my 'not bad' is everybody
else's 'fucking awful'. That's the funny thing about
marriage (or at least one of them). No matter how well
your partner knows you, you still persist with those little
obfuscations that you would normally use with
strangers. Why do I keep saying 'not bad' to Sally, when
I should just be saying 'fucking awful'? What's the point
in lying to someone who knows when you're lying?

'What's the matter?' she asked. 'Things not going
well?'

'They could be better,' I started. 'Actually, they're
shit.'

'Oh?'

'Well, yesterday I got punched, and today all that
happened was that I got laughed at.'

'Punched? By who?'

I told her, and said that it was water under the bridge
etc., and she wasn't to worry.

'But who was laughing at you?'

'The family, Dom, Emma, the cameraman, the rest of
the crew, you name it. It seems that every time I open
my mouth to try to suggest something constructive, they
just find it all very funny.'

'But isn't it meant to be funny?'

'Well, I didn't think it was, but that's how it's turning
out.'

'And what does Dom think?'

'So far, he seems delighted.'

'Well, that's OK then isn't it?'

'I suppose so.'

'You didn't really think that these people were going
to sit there like clients and just take your advice and
then play happy families happily ever after?'

I paused.

'A little bit I guess.'

Sally laughed.

'You're even more of a tyrant than some of the
people we're dealing with in Ktyteklhdfistan.'

'Perhaps I should take the show over there.'

'Hmm . . . I'd strongly advise against it!'

After that, we said some night-nights. Dinner with
Dom and Emma in a sec. I must get my head sorted.

Wednesday 12 March

6.30 a.m.

Another shit night's sleep. Nevertheless, last night's
dinner was very productive. I expressed concerns to
Dom and he reassured me that he'd got it all under
control. He said that we needed this sort of footage to
establish what monsters these people were, and that by
the end of the week, we'd be able to show how I had
transformed them into the perfect English family.

'But that's impossible,' I said.

I caught Dom and Emma smirking over our overcooked
plasticky steaks. Something told me that they
were shagging. I'm normally pretty good at working out
when people are doing so. It's usually assumed that it's
about telltale intimacies, whereas in fact it's the very
opposite. When you're at the pre-shag stage, you're full
of little flirty remarks and touches and double
entendres etc. But as soon as the secret shagging begins,
all that ends. Not only is the tension between you
broken, but you're also mindful that you don't want to
look as though you're shagging, and so you drop all the
flirting. In fact, you drop it to such an extent that you
almost appear offhand with each other. This is an error,
and if you want to appear undetected, then the thing to
do is to keep up the flirtation.

In this instance, Dom and Emma exchanged the type
of smirk that wasn't flirtatious, but intimate. It's the
husband-and-wife dinner-party smile that tells each
other that they're both thinking the same thing, that
someone is being a prat and that they can't wait to talk
about it later. I always find such smirks somewhat
irksome, because usually I'm the prat who's being
smirked about.

'Nothing's impossible,' said Dom.

'You're just going to pay them, aren't you?'

Dom reached into his pocket and brought out a thick
wedge of notes.

'We call these "Reality Facilitator Tokens",' he said.

I couldn't help but laugh.

'How many Reality Facilitator Tokens is that?' I asked.

'Two thousand,' he said. 'A fucking fortune for these
people.'

There was something very sneering about the way he
went 'these people'. I would have been the same a few
days ago, but I think my punch from Big Ted has given
me a mixture of fear and respect for 'these people'.

10 p.m.

Money talks. It always does. I feel guilty that we are
attempting to fool the Great British Public, but Dom
keeps reassuring me that we are doing nothing wrong,
and besides, everybody knows that programmes like this
are made up. It's always been news to me, but then
perhaps I'm naïve.

You should have seen Big Ted's eyes when Dom
produced the cash. He didn't do so until we'd been
there for a couple of hours, during which time Little
Ted and Big Ted had had a (one-sided) fight, Epernay
was caught stealing money out of Debbie's purse ('What
do you want the money for anyway?' Answer: 'Fags.'
'I've told you, you've got to wait until you're ten!'), and
Debbie had told me to fuck off after I had suggested
that she might like to get Little Ted and Epernay
involved in the cooking.

'Listen,' said Dom, as he took the envelope out of his
pocket. 'I think we need to come to some arrangement.'

'Carry on,' said Big Ted, who was just about to go
down to the pub.

'It's clear that our being here is proving to be a bit of
a strain,' Dom continued. 'And I think that it's only fair
that we recompense you for all the hassle.'

'How much?' asked Big Ted, reaching out his right
hand, which I hitherto had thought was permanently
set as a fist.

Dom held up the envelope teasingly, which was pretty
risky considering Big Ted's hand could easily transform
back into its usual configuration.

'Two grand,' he said. 'But on one condition.'

'What?'

'That you follow the script.'

'Script? What script? I ain't learning no lines.'

'You don't need to learn any lines. All you need to do
is to make it look as though Sam's techniques are
working.'

'What so like we behave all hoity-toity?'

'Exactly.'

'For how long?'

'Just until end of play on Friday. Then we'll be out of
your hair. OK?'

'Sooner the better mate.'

Dom prepared to hand over the cash, and just before
he released it, he said, 'And we'll need to buy you some
different clothes.'

'Whatever,' said Big Ted, his hand greedily shaking at
its imminent reception of the cash.

'You promise to do as we say?' asked Dom.

'Of course I fucking do! I'm a man of me word. A
promise is a fucking promise.'

Dom released the cash, and Big Ted snatched it away,
ripped open the envelope, counted out the one
hundred crisp twenties, folded them, and then shoved
them in his back pocket.

'Nice,' he smiled.

'What are you going to do with all that?' Debbie
asked. 'Can we get a new kitchen? Come on Ted, I really
want one.'

'Maybe,' he said. 'But I've got to go out now.'

'Where you going?'

'Out for a little shopping my love.'

'Where?'

'None of your business.'

'But Ted!'

'Shut it!'

And within thirty seconds he and Little Ted had
gone, the screech of their departing tyres only matched
in volume by Debbie shouting after them.

'TED!!!!'

'Will he come back?' asked a concerned-looking
Dom.

'Oh yeah,' said Debbie, philosophically. 'He always
does.'

'He's a softie at heart, is he?' I asked. 'Loves you more
than he lets on?'

'Nah,' said Debbie. 'All his fags are here, that's why
he comes back. He smuggled a vanload of Regals
through Calais a few months back. He'll never leave 'em
for the world.'

The Teds returned within half an hour, carrying an
enormous cardboard box with the name of an
electronics manufacturer up the side.

'What the fuck have you got there?' asked Debbie.

'A new TV,' said Big Ted triumphantly, panting with
its weight. 'Widescreen plasma – a real beauty.'

'But we've got a new fucking TV in the lounge.
What's wrong with that one? I thought that was
widescreeen plasma and all!'

'This one is bigger, and it's got a faster frame rate.'

Debbie shrugged her shoulders.

'So fucking what? Where are we going to put it?'

'Next to the old one.'

Ten minutes later the Teds had set up the new TV.
The lounge was now utterly dominated by the two
screens. It felt like an electrical retailer.

'Cushty,' said Big Ted. 'Now we can watch the
snooker and the football at the same time.'

'And may I ask how much it cost?' said Debbie, her
arms folded.

Big Ted reached into his back pocket and took out
notes.

'Here you go love, a down payment for the new
kitchen.'

Debbie counted out the notes and threw them to the
floor.

'Fifty quid! Go fuck yourself Ted!'

'Language,' went Ted, and then he and little Ted sat
down on the sofa, lit a fag each and proceeded to zone
out to some daytime TV. Debbie stormed out the room
in disgust.

'Nice TV,' said Dom, studying it. 'We've got the
slightly older model in my office.'

And then he turned to me.

'At least we used to.'

After lunch, or rather, after chips, we took the Lamperts
shopping for clothes. This was the first bit of fun we
had, and we genuinely had a good time. We went to one
of those God-awful malls where teenagers sit around
smoking all day (indeed, Little Ted seemed to be quite
the King of the Mall), and we kitted out the family in
ridiculously preppy middle-class clothes.

Even Big Ted looked nice in a pair of chinos and a
blue Oxford shirt. Sure, there was a touch of 'dressing
for the magistrate', but there was no doubt that to a TV
audience he would look as though he was being
changed by me. We got Little Ted into the same rig,
and, amazingly, he almost looked like a public schoolboy.
Alongside Epernay and Debbie in floral print
dresses, the family's transformation was astonishing.

'I'm liking this a LOT,' said Dom, 'this is a mega-makeover!'

The fact that it was a load of invented crap didn't
seem to bother him. And it didn't seem to bother our
subjects as well, who went back home thinking that
they'd just had the best day ever – which was fair
enough considering they'd got a two-grand TV and a
load of schmutter for doing sod all (i.e., their day jobs).
And because I was the only person who seemed to be
bothered, I did my best not to let it show.

When we got back, we decided to act out a scene in
which Little Ted and Epernay actually ate with their
parents, and what was more they actually had to eat
something that looked as if it might put some colour in
their cheeks. (Baaah! When I write things like that, I
feel they should be said in an old-colonel-style voice.)
The day before we had filmed what passed for a meal,
which was more a case of the family wafting in and out
of the kitchen to ping things in the microwave and eat
them while smoking.

Today was different. We cooked them a shepherd's
pie with peas and carrots on the side, and we served it
on some brand-new crockery. (Naturally, all the shots
showed Debbie taking the pie out the oven and doling
it out, etc.) While they were eating, I was talking to the
camera about how eating meals together was a way of
enhancing 'intradependent family synergies'.
Employees that ate together, I explained, worked well
together. Companies in which everybody sits at their
desks eating sandwiches and playing Minesweeper are
companies that have low productive rates because their
employees are not discovering methods of
communication.

And then the fight broke out, just as I was saying:
'. . . and the family that eats together, synergises
together . . .'

Thwack!

'For fuck's sake!'

'Ted! Stop it!'

'Fuck you!'

'Language!'

I turned round to see dollops of shepherd's pie filling
the air like soft shrapnel.

'Now then,' I said in schoolmasterly tones. 'Stop this
at once!'

My commanding presence was not quite as
commanding as I would have liked, and I soon found
myself under a barrage of more dinner. Dom was
cackling away, at least until the camera lens took a
direct hit. We retreated to the lounge, where we knew
we would be safe from assault because the TVs were the
only things they wouldn't want damaged. (Although
I'm sure Debbie cherishes her delightful ornaments.)

'What the fuck started that?' I asked.

'I have no idea. One minute they were eating
peacefully, and the next minute – wham!'

After a few minutes we returned to find that the Teds
had vanished, Epernay was up in her room, and Debbie
was stubbing out a fag in the shepherd's pie. We looked
at her quizzically.

'Ted was trying to shove his vegebatles on to Little
Ted's plate, and Little Ted weren't having none of it
and so they started throwing the stuff at each other and
then me and little Epie and then – well you saw what
happened.'

'So they had a fight because they didn't want to eat
their greens?' I asked.

Debbie looked at me blankly.

'Greens?'

Later, in the hotel, we agreed that today had been a vast
improvement, and Dom said that he had at least two
minutes of footage which showed the family behaving in
a nice genteel way. A huge result, apparently.