Truckloads Of Goodies

12 July 2001
James is up for the really big one.

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!!!

Current clown:

18 December 2003. George writes: This List

Most recent ten:

15 December 2003. Jamie writes: Seven Songs
11 December 2003. Dan writes: Spinning Jenny
8 December 2003. Victor writes: Rock Opera
4 December 2003. Matt writes: The Mirrored Spheres of Patagonia
1 December 2003. George writes: Charm
27 November 2003. James writes: On Boxing
24 November 2003. Jamie writes: El Matador del Amor; Or, the Man who Killed Love
20 November 2003. Dan writes: Rights Management
17 November 2003. Victor writes: Walking on Yellow
13 November 2003. Matt writes: Disintermediation
(And alas we lost Neil, who last wrote Cockfosters)

Also by this clown:

27 November 2003. James writes: On Boxing
16 October 2003. James writes: Jakesy's School of Urban Driving
24 September 2003. James writes: Chapter One
4 September 2003. James writes: The Silicon Soul
14 August 2003. James writes: A Room With 100 Seats
24 July 2003. James writes: English For Beginners
3 July 2003. James writes: Coldplay are crap. Discuss.
9 June 2003. James writes: It Takes All Sorts
22 May 2003. James writes: Lesson 2: Buying his Gran for a tenner
1 May 2003. James writes: Rosencrantz and Leytonstone
10 April 2003. James writes: Character Building
20 March 2003. James writes: So This Is It. What Are We Going To Do About It?
27 February 2003. James writes: Street Level Zero
6 February 2003. James writes: Reference: James Noteworthy
16 January 2003. James writes: Kissing George Clooney for just £99!
26 December 2002. James writes: Hongkong In Four Tableaux
5 December 2002. James writes: We Are Your Idea
14 November 2002. James writes: The Knight Of Spring Fervent
24 October 2002. James writes: Go On, Be Honest
7 October 2002. James writes: Cold Comfort
12 September 2002. James writes: Peas In A Pod
22 August 2002. James writes: Seed Investment
1 August 2002. James writes: We Are QPR
11 July 2002. James writes: The Road to Ossuna
20 June 2002. James writes: Pret A Teleporter
27 May 2002. James writes: A Play On Words
2 May 2002. James writes: Labour Saving Device
8 April 2002. James writes: Beggaring Belief
14 March 2002. James writes: Small Things
18 February 2002. James writes: Drop Dead Letters
24 January 2002. James writes: High-Rise Rhapsody
27 December 2001. James writes: My drift's too hip to resist.
6 December 2001. James writes: My Lord Has No Nose
12 November 2001. James writes: A Job For Life
18 October 2001. James writes: Which is the cleverest animal?
24 September 2001. James writes: Interview With An Automatum
30 August 2001. James writes: Each To Their Own
6 August 2001. James writes: An Escape, In Sonata Form
12 July 2001. James writes: Truckloads Of Goodies
18 June 2001. James writes: There's No Such Thing As A Coincidence
24 May 2001. James writes: It's All True - The Paper Says So
30 April 2001. James writes: A Letter From Prisyn
16 April 2001. James writes: I Quit
15 March 2001. James writes: An Essay In Procrastination
15 February 2001. James writes: Confessions Of An English Sand-Eater
22 January 2001. James writes: The Future And The Pasta
28 December 2000. James writes: Never drink with men in red
4 December 2000. James writes: The Underground
9 November 2000. James writes: Right answer. Wrong answer
16 October 2000. James writes: The March of Proudfoot: Part I
21 September 2000. James writes: You haven't got a chance
28 August 2000. James writes: Bad, man. Wicked
24 July 2000. James writes: I play games with street lamps

We are all Upsideclown: Dan, George, James, Jamie, Matt, Neil, Victor.

Material is (c) respective authors. For everything else, there's it@upsideclown.com.

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