No Deal Noel

(By popular demand)

On Wednesday 14th march 2006 I was on route to a massive green shed in Bristol but I was not alone, Michelle was driving. She was driving the car and driving me bonkers with her Deal or No Deal desire. It was a Deal or No Deal day out organised and long fantasised by a love struck Michelle who is an avid fan of the show and its tiny and quirky bearded presenter Mr Noel Edmonds.

The television studio was situated in a run down industrial estate an easy stagger to Bristol Temple Meads train station. One large building stood out as earmarked for demolition, this was it, this was the world famous Deal or No Deal studio, from the outside and to an inquisitive eye it looked a very amateurish set up with an outside mobile toilet facility. It started to go down hill from there (not the mobile toilet no, that would have been ridiculous and extremely funny but the day in general), eventually the clanking tired industrial roller door opened and the queue moved towards the stop and search area and then through to the bar and seating area obviously provided by Cheapo Cheapo & Pound Store Productions. None of this unduly fazed the now quivering and quaking Michelle or my more stoic self, just prior to heading back outside to start a fresh queue for the studio proper, thus condemning the half hearted searching procedure to the dung heap, the eager young star struck staff read off clearly and professionally all the does & don'ts when entering the studio including turning your mobile phone off and absolutely no taking of any photographs.

The most significant things that struck my eagle eyed self was the stature of the celebrity host Noel Edmonds, he was just like a real man in almost every way but only a lot smaller and the altitude of his waistband. Not the cool low slung hipsters or low riders frequenting the fashionable bodies for Noel, it was crystal clear to me that Mr Edmonds is a silent sufferer from a little known male celebrity condition known as TT or Television Trouser to give it its full title. Noel is obviously an advocate of the Simon Cowell School of Trousering where ‘no waist band is too high' or where 'belts don't suffer from altitude sickness'. Again Michelle looked past or indeed down from such waist matters and appeared unabashed by Noel's cold slap in the face for the blossoming British fashion industry.

Once the filming started it was evident that hapless contestant was a complete annoying ****wit but as I saw it even this moronic idiot wanna-be had a right to life and compassion just like a normal person so I stayed in my seat and saved his life and so the filming continued and reached its conclusion but it is at the end that this story really begins.

“Excuse me” the floor manager asked as he approached me while I was still seated “have you been taking photographs?” Although I protested my innocence the floor manager continued that someone had ‘seen' me taking illicit photographs and that they would check their film, I continued to protest my innocence. I was not a happy bunny. The two minute stroll back to the waiting area used between shows was just long enough for me to feel mighty indignant but this only lasted until the moment another and much more attractive crew member pointedly asked me the very same photographic question. I was now set on climbing upon my large metaphysical white horse, this was not cool. Only one thing could now appease my anger and that was one good punch directed at the weedy chinless and bland TV ‘personality' Noel Edmonds. I wanted to give him my own idea of cosmic ordering! I was in angry mode, not a pretty sight.

As the noisy kafuffle continued it became obvious that old yellow back Noel was not appearing for the challenge in person but instead he sent his producer as some form of shock offensive...it did not work, not in the least. Michelle was in tears and I was enraged and the grinning moronic midget was nowhere to be seen.

I cannot be the one who with graphic detail would tell of the dirty deeds of violence and bloodshed that day. No, this is a family site, small children and those of infirm nature can and do often scan and digest is contents like an old M&S biscuit barrel. Needless to say life affirming fluids were spilled and drained away that day with hose and brush and anger rode a mighty white stallion. Words that should never be mouthed by mortals were spat out like crushing molten rocks of righteousness tossed by Gods of great distinction and splendid history as they do battle towering high above the snow drenched mountain peaks and over the long lush cool valleys and broad blue waterways that with potent formidable nature carve the surrendering green banks with their twisting turning cursing path all leading to the deepest water infested nightmare known to utter madness or Channel 4.

The producer turned out to be someone called Steven who was no more than 5ft 7 tall, unusually short and middle class for a war like God. He was no match for me, it was not a pretty sight but a ninja has got to do what a ninja has to do. The pale and shaking and bloodied fingers offered me his private number and his quavering voice promised a resolution but not necessarily the scalp and testicles of his stunted employer.

Even after these shocking and tragic events the love and fascination harboured by Michelle that dare not speaks its name won through and beat my cold heart up to room temperature. She leaped so high as to bang her head on the underside of the dinning table when she heard the magic words ‘VIP Passes' from Steven the silver tongued devil himself who had telephoned back and with the assurance from myself that it was ok for Noel to leave his safe house. Yes, we were heading back but this time as VIP's.

For me it was an unrepentant return to the nasty green shed in Bristol for one last date with the tiny bearded devil of destiny. After the last Deal or No Deal fiasco I was not on the whole looking forward to being forced again to face the face that launched a thousand Mr Blobby shows and the practised smirk and irritating humour that damaged Saturday evenings beyond repair for an entire generation throughout the 80's & 90's. This time the love struck Michelle and I took reinforcements in the form of great friends Colin & Kate Steward but this would be no ordinary return visit for Michelle and me and friends for we were all endowed with the stardust and magic of celebrity VIP status.

On the uneventful journey to Bristol all four of us were wondering aloud and in secret musings what this VIP status would bring. Would there be skimpily clad sex Gods and Goddesses to pander to our every whim, would there be a barrage of Paparazzi waiting for us at the edge of the red carpet struggling for their best shot or would it bring Mr Edmonds himself out to apologise and to meet greet us in grovelling servitude?

Sadly, none of those things transpired but all four of us did get whisked into the bar and seating area to get the drinks in early well ahead of all the plebs and we were thus saved the ignominy of the rather pathetic searching procedures. Steve the silver tongued producer did come over to shake hands with all of us four VIP's just to make final that in his tiny mind that indeed all four were having 'fun'. Unfortunately Steve got a little confused between us getting ever so slightly inebriated and us having ‘fun' but he was middle class Englishman after all.

During the first show (they film three shows a day three days a week) I was squeezed next to Kate, a very satisfying procedure in itself while Michelle all loved up and misty eyed for Noel was on the front row with the extensively tall and voluminously proportioned Colin Steward with the size difference between the two akin to that of Dr Evil & Mini Me in the Austin Powers movies. Both Michelle & Colin were there on the front row because they were the VIP hand picked box openers for the end of the show, Colin would stand in the middle towering over Michelle and the dopey looking skinny guy, in an interesting exercise in the diversity of the human form. This particular show was aired on the evening the 12th June 2006 and it was a special one hour show and I can remember nothing else about that particular show, so much for our celebrity VIP status! That bearded Beelzebub was having the last laugh on Michelle and me and the only thing I can say directed at Mr Edmonds is that I am a patient man…

Anyway, the gang of four watched another show being recorded that day which was shown on the morning of the 13th but there was nothing else interesting to say about the whole VIP thing other than we were stitched up with a simple plan to shut me up and to pacify Michelle and we fell for it. The moral of the story is do not trust a small celebrity or perhaps we should all hate Noel Edmonds and boycott Channel 4. Michelle never even got to kiss the ground Noel walked on.

Although I may not have had the last laugh I did have a final smirk when with my famous rose coloured glasses and thick stylish silvered mane I was mistaken for a seventies rock star. After a hearty interchange with the production crew every one in the studio including the audience was convinced that I was the bass player in the early seventies band Blodwyn Pig. I chose Blodwyn Pig because they were a marginally successful British rock band that most people of a certain age would remember the name of but not the line up or any of their material. It worked like a dream so at the end of another shambolic day at least I ended it as a genuine celebrity!