Truckloads Of Goodies
12 July 2001
A set of luxury eye pillows, you're own personalised sundial, this beautiful porcelain butter hutch, and a limited-edition model of Atlantis
God please let me win. I've come this far. Please.
It's like living a dream. Growing up, millions have watched people like me on shows like these. Contestants. we are always other, bland, normal, beige, people. Walking down the road, we would be the invisible ones. Not worth a second glance. Wouldn't fart if we needed a laugh type people. Even in the 'modern' games, for more glamorous, glitzy, intrusive, visceral, sometimes saucy, sometimes shocking, we are still just other people. You say you won't be like that if you got the chance, you all say. you wouldn't giggle at the paper host's jokes, or blush at the stroke of the plastic hostess. Not bloody you, no way. Yeah.
A Space Shuttle pewter letter-opener, copper snow gauge, and for the kids, this wacky Amish Horse Pull Toy
But for seventeen and a minutes each night, not including ad call breaks, seven days a week, we somehow become your heroes, and you our incessant chanting hordes of supporters. We start, as always, having to work in teams, then gradually stab each other in the back until just two remain. By this stage each member of the audience has chosen their personal Jesus and clings to the seat edge watching the now divine battle being fought. You scream at the screen too. You know you do.
And you share in our utter delight when the prizes are announced. Nowadays this takes up the last full five minutes of the show - a long list of wonders, the true and final spoils of victory. Thank goodness that cash prizes are now outlawed. Such a pale and bland excuse for a reward leaving the audience once again sceptical on the recipient's ability to use it correctly. Now the audience is shown clearly and directly what you can expect if you win. Normally, the winner faints out cold at the final prize. The studio audience always laughs. Enviously.
The one-and-only Tiverton Wren House, a set of antique pot-feet, this modern Virtual-Reality Vest, a cute dog ski jacket
I'm a professional Contestant. I'm on for the ultimate prize. You're watching.
Somehow I've made it through to the greatest show, ever. The ratings prove it. Only once a week, mind, but for a full hour, on average a quarter of the population are glued, no ads. Slowly masticating your bland rations, occasionally gulping at the latest 'cool brew', you bloody watch every second.
And you love every second of it. At every stage, I get faced with a slightly harder challenge, and must gamble everything on my success. Have to choose between sticking with what I've got, already not a bad haul, or really going for it. Taking the plunge with a more difficult challenge and choice the next time. I, like every single one before me, choose to go on every time. I like every Contestant before me, is told the next challenge, and then asked, in front of a hushed studio of citizens, 'what do you, Contestant, choose to do?' Glory wins, and has won, every time.
This stylish brass match-holder, a full Vermont Breakfast set, the Peppermint and Whirlygig Pigs, and this fabulous travelling cigar humidor
The writers try to make it more interesting every time by matching the final test to the participant. The arachnaphobic must lie with spiders, the triskaidekaphobic must count to thirteen. Slowly. And so on.
And So I've made it through, stabbed people in the back, known all the answers and fought my way through the assault course to face the final challenge.
I've been vegetarian since the age of seven. Guess what they've got in store for me.
I've caught the puppy and pinned it down in the sand. I chomp down on the side of its neck, and, choking, hold it there, just to make sure.
I've won. You watched.
Big telly, new car, and a three week holiday in the sunny Caribbean! Thanks for playing, you've been great. See you again next week. Stay Happy!!!