A short story about Graham Stanier, the pyschologist on the British TV programme 'The Jeremy Kyle Show'. Inspiration for the story came from a friend, who was sure he had seen Mr Stanier in a bar in Birmingham, UK.
The meeting hadn't gone well. Again. Graham sighed a little too dramatically, for the fifth time that evening, before dropping his head despondantly to look down into his Rum and Coke. “Silly bastards!” he thought, “I made that show – me, Graham L Stanier! Not that muggy cunt!” The self-loathing and despair was suddenly turning into anger, as it normally did. Whipping his Motorola out of his suit pocket, he selected the contacts list and scrolled down to J in a pique of rage. “It's over Jezza – OVER!” he snarled a little too loudly, causing the attractive young blonde, who had been sitting next to him, to quietly slip away, alarmed. He didn't notice.
The meeting hadn't gone well. Again. Graham sighed a little too dramatically, for the fifth time that evening, before dropping his head despondantly to look down into his Rum and Coke. “Silly bastards!” he thought, “I made that show – me, Graham L Stanier! Not that muggy cunt!” The self-loathing and despair was suddenly turning into anger, as it normally did. Whipping his Motorola out of his suit pocket, he selected the contacts list and scrolled down to J in a pique of rage. “It's over Jezza – OVER!” he snarled a little too loudly, causing the attractive young blonde, who had been sitting next to him, to quietly slip away, alarmed. He didn't notice.
'The Graham Stanier Show' had been the pitch, again. But it had fallen flat, again. Even the comparison to Steve Wilkos hadn't worked. “If that bald cunt can escape his mentor” he began,“why can't I? Jerry fucking Springer? Jeremy fucking Kyle! Two fucking peas in a fucking pod, them two. Showmen. Circus ringleaders. Not proper men, no. Not like me and Wilkos” he rambled quietly, a menacing soliloquy that no-one bothered to listen to.
He glanced across to the TV in the corner of the bar, blaring out Sky News as usual. No-one was watching it, as per usual. All that electricity being pumped out, for nothing. For no-one. Wasted. But he wasn't going to go to waste.
Deep down, he knew he had been bitten by the 'fame' bug. He still had his day job, his regulars. But they weren't famous, they weren't showbiz. No bright lights. No glamour. And so, there was only one option left – the last resort. The only possible hope. He took a deep breath, and scrolled down to T.
“Save me, Trisha” he thought, “save me.”
Patrick Campbell, 2010
