Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband (26 page)

Saturday 9 August

Normally I wouldn't be at my desk at 11 o'clock on a
Saturday morning, but I've just been asked to write an
article for the
Sunday Advertiser
. I've never written an
article before, so I'm a bit nervous, especially as the
Advertiser
is the largest-selling mid-market paper. The
article is going to be headlined something like: WHY A
MAN'S PLACE IS IN THE HOME. The commissioning
editor, some bloke called Toby Andrews, said that I
shouldn't worry too much about style etc., as he would
probably rewrite the whole thing anyway. Charming.
Anyway, as he's paying me £1,500, I'm hardly in a
position to complain! They're even going to send a
photographer round to take shots of me in the kitchen
with the children – great publicity.

Sunday 10 August

Lots of calls regarding the article, which was an entire
double page. Friends, family, Dom, Dave, you name it.
They all seem to love it. Dave sent a text which simply
went: U ON A ROLL. DIG! Incidentally, I now know
that the correct word to use for an article is 'piece'. And
you don't say 'double page'. You say 'spread'. I shall
remember this to make myself sound more media savvy
over the coming weeks. From now on, my piece will
cover a spread. Ooer.

Wednesday 13 August

So far – and it's still three and a bit weeks to go until
transmission – this week has been nuts. For some
reason my piece touched a nerve, and I've had no end
of obscure TV and radio programmes ringing me up
for interviews. These are the ones in addition to those
that Emma has already lined up. Emma said they can't
cope with it in-house any more, and they've had to hire
a PR firm, who I must see tomorrow for lunch with
her, Dom and Dave. And guess where we're going? Of
all places, the Clarendon Hotel. The very same place
where I fainted the year before last, having stalked my
own wife in a fit of jealous rage. It will be nice to
associate the place now with something a little more
positive.

Friday 15 August

Fuck I love my job, if you can strictly speaking call it a
job. Yesterday was all about eating well, getting
smashed, and not having to pay for it. I can barely
remember a thing. What I do recall is that somewhat
squarely, I wore a tie. My last visit to the Clarendon
involved the management making me wear some sort of
1980s pink monstrosity round my neck, and I wasn't
going to have that. Of course, when I rocked up into the
dining room this time round, I found that I was the only
person wearing one. I looked like an accountant, so I
subtly whipped it off, although I later realised that it
had been hanging out of my jacket pocket all
afternoon, which must have looked as gauche as hell.

The PR woman was called Laura Raynor, and she
knew her stuff. She also looked the business, which I
guess is why she is in PR. Married man or not, she could
sell me anything. Not only did she look great, she was
also bubbly without being idiotic, and sassy without
being overly knowing. A rare combination, rare enough
for me to look at her left hand to see if she was wearing
a wedding ring. (She was.) I hated myself for doing this,
felt icky and disloyal, and mentally flagellated myself
with a cat-o'nine-tails. (Clearly to have literally done this
would have created a scene in the Clarendon that would
have surpassed my last visit.)

The conversation was then basically all about me,
which was sort of wonderful really. I remember there
being lots of talk about not peaking too early, and how
I had already built up a really good brand that we
needed to utilise and to build on, and all sorts of stuff
like that. To be honest, marketing and PR is totally over
my roof, and so I just nodded away inanely, pathetically
grateful that I was in this position. I was so grateful I
decided that many toasts were in order, and so, every
seven or eight minutes, the party had to endure my
increasingly bibulous expressions of affection for all the
hard work, and 'how great you guys are' etc.

Thankfully, I stopped just short of embarrassing
myself (I think), although there was one awful Freudian
moment when I was toasting Dom.

'I jusht want to shay,' I slurred, 'how NAPPY I am to
have Dom as my producer.'

'Nappy?' went Laura.

'Nappy?' I went. 'What's a nappy got to do with
anything?'

'Nothing, I hope,' said Laura. 'It's just that you said
how "nappy" you were to have Dom as your producer.'

I must have gone white, because I certainly bloody
felt it.

'Did I?'

I struggled not to make eye contact with Dom,
although the farthest corners of my peepers were telling
me that he had gone slightly off colour as well. At that
point, he must have realised that I knew. Maybe he
knew before – could he have really trusted Emily not to
have spilled the beans?

'I must have nappies on the brain,' I continued.
'That's what comes of being a househusband! In fact,
I'm trying to potty-train Daisy at the moment, so I'm
kind of obsessed with getting rid of the things.'

This of course was a lie, as Halet had sorted all that
out months ago. Even though I thought I explaineth
too much, I think I got away with it, as Basil Fawlty
might have said.

The rest of the meal passed in a haze of burgundy
and champagne. I dimly recall leaving, I remember a
taxi at some point, I even remember a train, and then I
woke up this morning at 5 a.m., still in my suit, spread-eagled
on the spare bed. Sally explained just before she
left that Halet had filled her in on my return, which was
disgraceful but not appalling. Had I offended her, I
wondered? Apparently not, despite the fact that she is a
good Muslim. Good old Halet. I owe her.

Now I've just got to get rid of this God-awful
hangover. I don't suppose Halet knows too many
hangover cures.

Sunday 17 August

Today we took the children to one of those country
park places that feature a small steam train and all that
jazz. Being summer, it was heaving with the most
unspeakable people. I try not to be a ferocious snob, but
it's pretty hard not to when one is presented with the socalled
Great British Public.

On an individual level the average Brit is all right, but
when you put us all together, we're a horrid fusion of
excessive flesh and uncouthness. We don't seem to care
that we're badly dressed, that we shout at each other,
that our children behave appallingly, and that we all
insist on getting sunburned. You can see why other
Europeans hate us when we go over there, because,
quite frankly, we lower the tone. And, to rub salt into
the insult, we're proud of it. I don't get it. What's there
to be proud of? What's so great about shouting 'Kylie,
eat yer chips!' the whole time? Why would you want to
wear clothes that exacerbate your rotundity?

I moaned as such as we walked round.

'Stop being such a terrible snob,' Sally hissed. 'After
all, these people will soon be your viewers.'

'I don't know whether that's good or bad.'

'It's good. Who knows, perhaps the Holden
Childcare Programme will help to make their children
behave better?'

'That's right,' I said, utterly unconvinced. 'In ten
years' time, thanks to the great HCP, British society will
be revolutionised. I wish.'

'Well, you never know.'

'Oh, I do.'

'Why?' asked Sally. 'Do you not believe in your
programme any more?'

I told her pretty much what I told Dom.

'The thing is,' I said, 'I'm in so deep, I can't express
my doubts publicly. I mean, if it were properly done,
then I really think it could work, but it hasn't been
properly done. It's been very badly done, and then
fudged to make it look as if it's as effective as a boot
camp.'

'You're right there,' said Sally. 'It looks extremely
convincing from the DVDs.'

'All the wonders of editing.'

'You're telling me.'

We walked along holding hands. The children were
running ahead of us, playing hide-and-seek along a
sandy path that led through some pines. Because we
had walked away from the main area for more than five
minutes, we pretty much had the place to ourselves.

'What do you think?' I asked.

'Think about what? Life in general?'

'I was just thinking about the whole
WonderHubby
thing.'

Sally clutched my hand hard.

'I think it's both great and awful.'

'Tell me the awful bit first.'

'I think it's awful for all the reasons you were talking
about the other day – becoming a public figure, and all
those people having some sort of hold on you, or some
opinion about you. I'm worried that you could get hurt.
And I'm worried that we'll all get dragged into it in
some way. I think you're much more sensitive than you
make out, and I worry how much abuse you can take.'

'I think that's fair,' I said.

'But who knows? All that may not happen.'

'Hmmm. And the great bit?'

'Well, I know I had my doubts, but I think that it's
great fun. Lots of people want to be on TV, and you're
actually doing it, and you're being paid well, bloody
well. And you may even make
more
money. I can't deny
that I like the money very much!'

'Aha! The gold-digger is finally revealed!'

'Oh yes,' she said, hugging me tighter.

We stopped and kissed.

'Eeeeurgh!' shouted Peter. 'Look Daisy! Mummy and
Daddy are kissing! Yuck!'

We broke off.

'It's not yuck,' I said. 'It's what mummies and daddies
do.'

'You are always kissing,' said Peter.

'I wish we were,' I said.

'I could do with another holiday,' said Sally.

'Now that would be nice. What say you we plonk these
two in front of the box when we get back and have a
little siesta?'

'A very fine idea. Sometimes I utterly approve of TV.'

Wednesday 20 August

Dave phoned late afternoon to say that everything was
scheduled for Friday 5 September at 8.30 p.m.

'Dig that mate, prime fucking time.'

'I most certainly am digging it.'

'Ha! I love the way you say digging!'

And with that he was gone, perhaps with another
'dig'.

Friday 22 August

Toby Andrews has commissioned me again. He said that
his editor loved my last piece (note correct use of
journo-lingo) and he wanted something else about men
being good at activities that are normally associated
with women.

'I'm a bit worried I might be seen as a chauvinist,' I
said. 'After my fight with Julia Stocks and that last piece,
I could end up looking like a complete old fart.'

'I don't think that'll happen,' he said smoothly.

'Perhaps I should talk to my PR.'

Andrews kind of harrumphed down the phone.

'I'd really prefer it if a PR didn't get involved.'

'Oh?'

'They just put honey in the gearbox. It all tastes nice
and sweet, but it also clogs everything up. PRs always
want to justify their position, and I hate having to deal
with them.'

'I'm sorry, I didn't realise. I'm a bit new to this.'

I cursed myself for admitting my neophyte status.

'Not at all,' said Andrews. 'Who is your PR anyway?'

'Laura Raynor.'

'Laura Raynor? Bugger me! You've got her?'

'Yes. Why? Is there something wrong with her?'

'Far from it! She's about the foxiest PR in the world.'

'Yes, I'd noticed. But is she any good?'

'Of course she is. She's sensational, but she's still a
PR. Anyway, look, do you want to do another piece or
not? I'll pay you two grand.'

I thought about it. For about two seconds.

'What do you want it on?'

'Why not a piece on how women are crap at cooking,
and in fact it's men who are the true geniuses in the
kitchen.'

'Done,' I said. 'When do you want it?'

'First thing tomorrow morning.'

'Gosh, that's quite soon. Can I have any longer?'

'No.'

And then he put the phone down. Fair enough I
suppose. If you're going to earn £1.33 per word, then
you've got to do it when the man says.

Sunday 24 August

People were divided into two camps about the piece.
There was the camp that liked it, which consisted of me,
and the camp that hated it, which consisted of everybody
else. The person who hated it most was Laura, who
rang up at 8.30 this morning and gave me an earful
while I was still in bed.

'Have you forgotten everything we said about
positioning?'

'No. Not at all.'

(I had forgotten everything we had said about
positioning. In fact, at that point in the morning, I
couldn't even think what positioning meant.)

'Well, in that case, you'll remember that we wanted to
position your brand as the sensitive new man, yet
someone who is strong and knows his own mind. What
we have here is a man who has strong opinions, but they
are very much of the old-man variety.'

'Oh come on, they weren't that bad!'

'Really?'

I heard a rustle of newspaper down the phone.

'Try this,' said Laura. ' "The truth is, women can't
really cook. All they can do is cater, and there's a big
difference. The only people who can actually cook on
this planet are men, even the ones who only cook once
a year when their wife or girlfriend is ill." '

'So?'

'So?! Can't you see how sexist and old-fashioned that
sounds?'

'Well, you know, I kind of exaggerated it for effect.'

'You weren't shy of doing so, were you? How about
this? "Women are useless at following instructions, in
this case recipes." And "Why does my wife always forget
some essential part of the meal?" I could go on, Sam.'

I sat up in bed. Something in me snapped.

'Hang on a minute,' I said. 'I'm entitled to express
my own opinions, no matter how objectionable you find
them. You can't tell me what I can and cannot write!'

'Yes I can.'

'Why?'

'Because this TV programme isn't just about you,
Sam Holden. In fact, you're just one little bit of it. Don't
you see how much time and money has been put into it?
This is about people's jobs, not just about your ego. Lots
of people are counting on this show being a success,
and they don't want it fucked up by you turning yourself
into the most unattractive figure you can create. Do you
understand that?'

'Of course I do, but I really didn't think it was that
bad.'

'It is that bad. It's one thing telling a joke figure like
Julia Stocks to fuck off back to Greenham, but another
to tell all your potential viewers that they're complete
fuckwits in the kitchen. In fact, perhaps Stocks had a
point.'

'OK, OK, you've made your point.'

'I've got another one as well. Why didn't this go
through me? I specifically told you at lunch that
everything you did, every word you said to any media
outlet, every word you wrote for every newspaper, all
had to go through me. Do you remember that?'

'Of course!'

(Of course I didn't. I was too pissed.)

'Then why didn't you let me know you were doing the
piece?'

'Because I just didn't think I had to, all right? Look,
I'm new to all this, so just cut me some slack, would you?
Christ! Without me, this bloody programme wouldn't
have even existed.'

'That's utterly irrelevant. The fact is, you're now
locked in with people who depend on you, and you
need to depend upon them. You can't just be a loose
cannon, do you understand?'

'Yes, yes.'

'Good. Fine. Right. Enjoy the rest of your weekend.'

'I'll try.'

I put the phone down. (Or rather, pressed the red
button, which is a far less satisfyingly emphatic way of
ending a bad-tempered call.)

'Who the hell was that?' Sally demanded from under
the duvet.

'Laura, the PR woman.'

'What was it about?'

I crashed back on to the pillow.

'Me becoming owned.'

The rest of the day felt somewhat sour. I kept trying
to justify my actions to myself, but deep down, I knew
that Laura was right. It wasn't all about me. Nothing
ever is.