Chart Throb by Ben Elton Read Free Book Online

out to those people, sir! Reach out to them and save their treasured national institutions from the ridicule they have allowed them to descend into!’
    ‘By appearing on a nationwide talent show?’
    ‘Yes! By appearing on the single most influential, ubiquitous and powerful cultural institution in the country. You, sir, with the help of your passionate commitment to organic farming, high-fibre diets and full youth employment, and your pleasant light baritone, can save the monarchy as surely as Queen Bess did at Tilbury. This, sir, is your duty!’
    ‘My duty?’
    ‘Yes! Your duty!’
    ‘To appear on Chart Throb ?’
    ‘Yes, sir! Your country needs you.’
    His Royal Highness did not reply. For a time he sipped his tea in silence, seemingly trying to come to terms with the enormity of what was being suggested.
    ‘Sir,’ Calvin said with heavy significance, ‘we are living in a post-modern world.’ This was a phrase which Calvin used regularly and with great effect, despite having no idea what it meant.
    Still the Prince remained silent.
    ‘ Plus ,’ Calvin urged, laying his trump card down on the table, ‘people will love you again.’
    His Royal Highness looked up.
    ‘Do you . . . Do you really think so?’
    It seemed to Calvin that there was a wealth of weariness in his sad eyes.
    ‘Of course,’ Calvin said quietly. ‘Everyone loves the winner of Chart Throb.’
    ‘Winner?’
    Calvin had almost revealed too much of his hand.
    ‘Well, perhaps not winner , sir, that of course will be up to the public to decide, but as the country’s foremost judge of talent and personality I am convinced that you could go a very long way. At least far enough for people to have the opportunity to see the real you.’
    Once more the Prince fell silent for the time it took to nibble a biscuit. When he spoke again Calvin knew he had his man.
    ‘I’ve never seen Chart Throb ,’ he said, ‘but I remember my boys watching X Factor.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘I believe they received upwards of seventy-five thousand entrants.’
    ‘We got ninety-five last series.’
    ‘Well, forgive my stupidity, Mr Simms. How do you propose to convince people that having auditioned all those ninety-five thousand the best potential pop star you could come up with was yours truly ?’
    Calvin was actually surprised. He had imagined that, having been a part of the cultural establishment all his life, the Prince of Wales might be a little more astute than the average punter. He might have just a modicum of media savvy. Some simple common sense even. But it turned out that he was wrong. The heir to the throne clearly still believed in the tooth fairy.
    ‘Ninety-five thousand people?’ Calvin said.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And you think we audition them all?’
    ‘I was under the impression that that was the whole point . Don’t you?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘You don’t audition them?’
    ‘No, we don’t.’
    ‘Oh . . . I’m not sure I follow.’
    ‘Sir. Please. Just do the maths.’

The Maths
    Ninety-five thousand people.
    Three judges.
    Twelve finalists.
    Just one Chart Throb!!
    That was the breathless message with which (accompanied by the urgent, pounding, Chart Throb theme music) the lovely Keely would preface each episode of the show. Reminding the public yet again of the gigantic number of applicants and the three stern, unbending arbiters of poptastic excellence whose arses each and every wannabe star must attempt to rock in order to reach the finals.
    Ninety-five thousand people.
    Three judges.
    Twelve finalists.
    Just one Chart Throb!!
    Keely would shout it over footage of impossibly long escalators crowded with gurning hopefuls. She would yell it in front of leisure-centre reception areas packed with a cheering, chanting throng of stars in waiting. She screamed it as the dizzying, whirling crane shots spun over the heads of vast crowds in car parks. She shouted it again as the endless queues snaked their way forward so that the thousands of