I've been asked if i could re-post these again, in case there are any newer forum members want to read them.
for the rest of you, sorry for the repetition!
Battersea Life - Episode 1 - Don’t Look Now
Dawn Hanson screwed up here eyes and sucked on the last millimetre of her Silk Cut, threw it sulkily to the ground and twisted out the remains with the scuffed toe of a Zarkon boot . Pulling her pink cardigan further round her against the chill, she cursed the men in suits who forced her to smoke in the car park overlooking Jack Richardson’s “garden”. The garden was, in reality, a couple of thrown-together benches in front of some tatty looking trellis. Without the abundant pots, vases and baskets of flowers which were shipped in from the local garden centre for shows, it looked more like something a tramp would think twice about bedding down in. Dawn tutted under her breath as she turned away, trying to remember when she was next on with Jack. She couldn’t stand the arrogant little gnome and the feeling was mutual. Jack made it very obvious that he considered a woman’s place to be “In The Kitchen” and not in his garden. There was one exception of course, this being “Queenie” as the channel’s most senior presenter was known - Jack was perfectly happy to brown-nose those who could influence the scheduling if he thought it may get him a couple of extra hours.
Dawn brushed cigarette ash off her velour jogging bottoms , licked her index finger and scratched with her nail at the dried Spaghetti Bolognese stain that had been festering in her lap for several weeks. It was slowly fading, a few more cracks at it and there’d be no need to wash them at all. Dawn avoided washing things she’s obtained from work, as they invariably ended up two sizes smaller than they started, something Dawn could ill-afford to happen. And lets face it, if the gusset started to pong a bit, no one was going to notice were they?
Heading back to the studio, she reassured herself with the thought that the average viewer was so dazzled by the “smoke and mirrors” effect of TV home shopping that they didn’t have a clue what they were buying most of the time, let alone notice a few stains round her crotch. The only people who did seem to notice every tiny flaw were that lot on that website, who, as far as Dawn was concerned were a bunch of saddos who needed to get out more. Most of them were harmless, discussing their crafts and their favourite Yippee Candles, but there was a smaller more sinister contingent, a few jealous bitches and a couple of nasty queens who seemed to delight in discussing her on-air bloopers with great delight.
“What’s next then Tarquin?” she called to the production assistant who was leaning on a TV camera poking his belly button with the business end of a ball point pen.
“McCluff.. Studio 4, ten minutes” he replied without looking up.
“That’s McCLOUGH” she replied, pronouncing it “McCloo”. “Why the feck didna someone tell me?”
She didn’t wait to hear Tarquin’s reply, instead detouring sharply towards the dressing room suite and breaking into a trot. Why hadn’t someone said she was doing a McClough show? If she’d known she wouldn’t have eaten that family sized pork pie for breakfast, and with Drew McClough on the premises she’d have made sure she was looking a damned site more foxy than she did right now. She looked at her watch, 9 ½ minutes to air… should be just enough time. She reached her shared dressing room and headed for her own area. Piles of polyester and nylon garments crackled against each other as they lay across her chair and the dressing table heaved with spilt make up, empty coke cans, used cotton buds and dirty tissues. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, the hair was so greasy it would have made seal fur look dry and unmanageable. It was a right mess but there was no time to make any impact on it now. She grabbed her Essential Minerals blusher and swirl/tapped/buffed a few times over the shiniest bits of her face, applied some Gayle Merman lippy and squirted some nuclear-strength breath freshener into her mouth (Drew was a non-smoker). Then she turned her attention to the clothes. Six minutes to go and she was still rifling through the pile, searching for something that didn’t look like a left over from a jumble sale or smell like it had been used for wiping down a chip pan. With an increasing sense of panic she realised there was nothing suitable and checked out her reflection again. There was NO way she was working with Drew looking like this, there was nothing else for it…
Dawn looked both ways behind her down the corridor as she slowly turned the handle on Queenie’s dressing room. It was deserted. “Roberta?” she whispered… “are you in dear?”.
She knew that Queenie wasn’t working today, but you could never be too careful. Dawn had once visited her dressing room to “borrow” a gold popcorn watch. She’d been happily admiring it on herself in the mirror only to realise that Roberta herself was stood behind her with a face like a smacked ar*e. That had taken some explaining, and Queenie had never really trusted her since. She didn’t want to make the same mistake again.
There was no sign of anyone. Dawn tiptoed over to Roberta’s expansive walk-in wardrobe. She was faced with row after row of brightly coloured sequinned tops, hundreds of gypsy skirts, boxes of shoes with Polaroid photos of the contents stuck on the front and a Pilates machine which was stood on its end festooned with tights and belts. For a few moments Dawn just stood there, awestruck, gazing at the selection before her. Then she pulled herself together and began to rifle. Her magpie instincts drew her eye to the glitzy items which had been given their own section of the wardrobe. These were the rare expensive pieces, “thank you gifts” from grateful designers who had sold or were still selling merchandise on the channel. As senior presenter, Roberta had the pick of who she worked with. The fact that she was most often involved in luxury skincare, fine jewellery and the higher end of costume jewellery and fashion was not a coincidence. Dawn couldn’t remember the last time she’s seen Queenie present a technology hour, and she would never be seen on a food show, eating on air was NOT in Roberta’s contract.
There was one good thing about stealing Queenie’s clothes, Dawn thought, at least they’re going to fit. There’s be no chance of stealing anything from that other scrawny arsed witch, even though her stuff was classier. Despite the difference in “personal style” Dawn and Roberta were not far from each other in size. Dawn plumped for a mid-range purple butterfly sequinned top and, breathing in for all she was worth, hastily wriggled into a pair of Roberta’s Power Knicks . A pair of Kath & Co pants which were so ridiculously long that she had to tuck them into her Zarkons completed the look.
She arrived on set with seconds to spare before her intro. The director made a sarcy comment about having “more fags a day than I did when I was on holiday in Mykonos” but Dawn chose to ignore and concentrated instead on her spiel…. And of course Drew.
Drew McClough was the spokesman for McClough Premium Foods, a brand that had sky-rocketed in popularity since being launched the previous year. He was a PR man’s dream, being large, avuncular, verbose and prone to wearing traditional highland dress to promote the meat produced at his abattoir in a grim suburb of Glasgow. The gusto with which he demonstrated his wares was matched only by his over-zealous flirting with the female presenters. He was apparently unaware that most of them found him repugnant. But not Dawn.
Dawn was mesmerized by this pot bellied, kilt wearing butcher. When he described his products in that rich, familiar accent it was like “coming home” and she hung on his every word, his Fillet Steak made her mouth water, his Tongue made her squirm and his Sausage made her weak at the knees…. In his presence she became a 16 year old again, giggling at his jokes and flushing a bright shade of salmon pink from her décolleté to her forehead. He was a dream to work with, she allowed him to run the show, interjecting only when required with prices, item numbers and stock updates. When he said that he hadn’t met a woman yet who “didnae enjoy the taste of ma meat” she almost fainted.
As always was the case with McClough, the show whizzed by in a whirl of innuendo, giggles and hot, wet flushes. At the climax, as she ran through the review, she had a strange feeling that all was not well in the studio. She heard the director take a sharp intake of breath, and the producer exclaim “sheeeee-yat!” in her ear-piece. Dawn hadn’t a clue what was going on, and as she rattled through item numbers and ways to order she was looking forward to popping off to the canteen for a cosy cup of coffee and a cheese sandwich with Drew (The pork pie seemed like hours ago and she apart from a couple of steak and kidney pies she hadn’t eaten much during the show). Yet there was something very VERY wrong….
As the final notes of the McClough theme tune faded away, a chill wind blew across Dawns face. She turned to the sound engineer who was removing her mic pack, and as she looked over his shoulder she realised why the atmosphere in the studio had changed.
Dawn gulped.
Towering in her platform mules, like some evil colossus, in a dark corner of the studio yet bizarrely still wearing a pair of huge sunglasses, a chinese-style designer top which Dawn knew for a fact had been stolen from a show, hair pulled up into a “pineapple” and a slash of bright pink lipstick, stood Roberta Jones - Senior Presenter and the first woman on UK shopping television. She was talking animatedly into her mobile phone but Dawn was sure that behind those sunglasses her eyes were fixed only on her, or rather on what she was wearing.
Roberta finished her phone call, removed her sunglasses and gazed at Dawn through narrowed eyes. Moments passed but it felt like hours. Finally, as Roberta took a step forward, Dawn realised that the entire crew was silent, intently watching events unfold. Four more steps and Roberta was stood inches away from her, Dawn felt her bowels loosen and for a moment was thankful for the Power Knicks. Roberta sneered, then suddenly raised her hand and….
for the rest of you, sorry for the repetition!
Battersea Life - Episode 1 - Don’t Look Now
Dawn Hanson screwed up here eyes and sucked on the last millimetre of her Silk Cut, threw it sulkily to the ground and twisted out the remains with the scuffed toe of a Zarkon boot . Pulling her pink cardigan further round her against the chill, she cursed the men in suits who forced her to smoke in the car park overlooking Jack Richardson’s “garden”. The garden was, in reality, a couple of thrown-together benches in front of some tatty looking trellis. Without the abundant pots, vases and baskets of flowers which were shipped in from the local garden centre for shows, it looked more like something a tramp would think twice about bedding down in. Dawn tutted under her breath as she turned away, trying to remember when she was next on with Jack. She couldn’t stand the arrogant little gnome and the feeling was mutual. Jack made it very obvious that he considered a woman’s place to be “In The Kitchen” and not in his garden. There was one exception of course, this being “Queenie” as the channel’s most senior presenter was known - Jack was perfectly happy to brown-nose those who could influence the scheduling if he thought it may get him a couple of extra hours.
Dawn brushed cigarette ash off her velour jogging bottoms , licked her index finger and scratched with her nail at the dried Spaghetti Bolognese stain that had been festering in her lap for several weeks. It was slowly fading, a few more cracks at it and there’d be no need to wash them at all. Dawn avoided washing things she’s obtained from work, as they invariably ended up two sizes smaller than they started, something Dawn could ill-afford to happen. And lets face it, if the gusset started to pong a bit, no one was going to notice were they?
Heading back to the studio, she reassured herself with the thought that the average viewer was so dazzled by the “smoke and mirrors” effect of TV home shopping that they didn’t have a clue what they were buying most of the time, let alone notice a few stains round her crotch. The only people who did seem to notice every tiny flaw were that lot on that website, who, as far as Dawn was concerned were a bunch of saddos who needed to get out more. Most of them were harmless, discussing their crafts and their favourite Yippee Candles, but there was a smaller more sinister contingent, a few jealous bitches and a couple of nasty queens who seemed to delight in discussing her on-air bloopers with great delight.
“What’s next then Tarquin?” she called to the production assistant who was leaning on a TV camera poking his belly button with the business end of a ball point pen.
“McCluff.. Studio 4, ten minutes” he replied without looking up.
“That’s McCLOUGH” she replied, pronouncing it “McCloo”. “Why the feck didna someone tell me?”
She didn’t wait to hear Tarquin’s reply, instead detouring sharply towards the dressing room suite and breaking into a trot. Why hadn’t someone said she was doing a McClough show? If she’d known she wouldn’t have eaten that family sized pork pie for breakfast, and with Drew McClough on the premises she’d have made sure she was looking a damned site more foxy than she did right now. She looked at her watch, 9 ½ minutes to air… should be just enough time. She reached her shared dressing room and headed for her own area. Piles of polyester and nylon garments crackled against each other as they lay across her chair and the dressing table heaved with spilt make up, empty coke cans, used cotton buds and dirty tissues. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, the hair was so greasy it would have made seal fur look dry and unmanageable. It was a right mess but there was no time to make any impact on it now. She grabbed her Essential Minerals blusher and swirl/tapped/buffed a few times over the shiniest bits of her face, applied some Gayle Merman lippy and squirted some nuclear-strength breath freshener into her mouth (Drew was a non-smoker). Then she turned her attention to the clothes. Six minutes to go and she was still rifling through the pile, searching for something that didn’t look like a left over from a jumble sale or smell like it had been used for wiping down a chip pan. With an increasing sense of panic she realised there was nothing suitable and checked out her reflection again. There was NO way she was working with Drew looking like this, there was nothing else for it…
Dawn looked both ways behind her down the corridor as she slowly turned the handle on Queenie’s dressing room. It was deserted. “Roberta?” she whispered… “are you in dear?”.
She knew that Queenie wasn’t working today, but you could never be too careful. Dawn had once visited her dressing room to “borrow” a gold popcorn watch. She’d been happily admiring it on herself in the mirror only to realise that Roberta herself was stood behind her with a face like a smacked ar*e. That had taken some explaining, and Queenie had never really trusted her since. She didn’t want to make the same mistake again.
There was no sign of anyone. Dawn tiptoed over to Roberta’s expansive walk-in wardrobe. She was faced with row after row of brightly coloured sequinned tops, hundreds of gypsy skirts, boxes of shoes with Polaroid photos of the contents stuck on the front and a Pilates machine which was stood on its end festooned with tights and belts. For a few moments Dawn just stood there, awestruck, gazing at the selection before her. Then she pulled herself together and began to rifle. Her magpie instincts drew her eye to the glitzy items which had been given their own section of the wardrobe. These were the rare expensive pieces, “thank you gifts” from grateful designers who had sold or were still selling merchandise on the channel. As senior presenter, Roberta had the pick of who she worked with. The fact that she was most often involved in luxury skincare, fine jewellery and the higher end of costume jewellery and fashion was not a coincidence. Dawn couldn’t remember the last time she’s seen Queenie present a technology hour, and she would never be seen on a food show, eating on air was NOT in Roberta’s contract.
There was one good thing about stealing Queenie’s clothes, Dawn thought, at least they’re going to fit. There’s be no chance of stealing anything from that other scrawny arsed witch, even though her stuff was classier. Despite the difference in “personal style” Dawn and Roberta were not far from each other in size. Dawn plumped for a mid-range purple butterfly sequinned top and, breathing in for all she was worth, hastily wriggled into a pair of Roberta’s Power Knicks . A pair of Kath & Co pants which were so ridiculously long that she had to tuck them into her Zarkons completed the look.
She arrived on set with seconds to spare before her intro. The director made a sarcy comment about having “more fags a day than I did when I was on holiday in Mykonos” but Dawn chose to ignore and concentrated instead on her spiel…. And of course Drew.
Drew McClough was the spokesman for McClough Premium Foods, a brand that had sky-rocketed in popularity since being launched the previous year. He was a PR man’s dream, being large, avuncular, verbose and prone to wearing traditional highland dress to promote the meat produced at his abattoir in a grim suburb of Glasgow. The gusto with which he demonstrated his wares was matched only by his over-zealous flirting with the female presenters. He was apparently unaware that most of them found him repugnant. But not Dawn.
Dawn was mesmerized by this pot bellied, kilt wearing butcher. When he described his products in that rich, familiar accent it was like “coming home” and she hung on his every word, his Fillet Steak made her mouth water, his Tongue made her squirm and his Sausage made her weak at the knees…. In his presence she became a 16 year old again, giggling at his jokes and flushing a bright shade of salmon pink from her décolleté to her forehead. He was a dream to work with, she allowed him to run the show, interjecting only when required with prices, item numbers and stock updates. When he said that he hadn’t met a woman yet who “didnae enjoy the taste of ma meat” she almost fainted.
As always was the case with McClough, the show whizzed by in a whirl of innuendo, giggles and hot, wet flushes. At the climax, as she ran through the review, she had a strange feeling that all was not well in the studio. She heard the director take a sharp intake of breath, and the producer exclaim “sheeeee-yat!” in her ear-piece. Dawn hadn’t a clue what was going on, and as she rattled through item numbers and ways to order she was looking forward to popping off to the canteen for a cosy cup of coffee and a cheese sandwich with Drew (The pork pie seemed like hours ago and she apart from a couple of steak and kidney pies she hadn’t eaten much during the show). Yet there was something very VERY wrong….
As the final notes of the McClough theme tune faded away, a chill wind blew across Dawns face. She turned to the sound engineer who was removing her mic pack, and as she looked over his shoulder she realised why the atmosphere in the studio had changed.
Dawn gulped.
Towering in her platform mules, like some evil colossus, in a dark corner of the studio yet bizarrely still wearing a pair of huge sunglasses, a chinese-style designer top which Dawn knew for a fact had been stolen from a show, hair pulled up into a “pineapple” and a slash of bright pink lipstick, stood Roberta Jones - Senior Presenter and the first woman on UK shopping television. She was talking animatedly into her mobile phone but Dawn was sure that behind those sunglasses her eyes were fixed only on her, or rather on what she was wearing.
Roberta finished her phone call, removed her sunglasses and gazed at Dawn through narrowed eyes. Moments passed but it felt like hours. Finally, as Roberta took a step forward, Dawn realised that the entire crew was silent, intently watching events unfold. Four more steps and Roberta was stood inches away from her, Dawn felt her bowels loosen and for a moment was thankful for the Power Knicks. Roberta sneered, then suddenly raised her hand and….
