I had to head over to the UK at the beginning of December. My friend Lynne and I were helping my parents fly back to Cayman for Christmas, as travelling on their own just isn’t possible these days.
Naturally, if we were going there anyway, we had to spend a few days in London to take in the festive displays and lights. It had been so long since I’d been there in winter – I’d forgotten how it gets dark so early. There we were, walking around the city under a 5pm night sky, seeing locals huddled outside pubs in their coats, chatting and holding their cold pints. It took me back to my university days … when I was willing to stand when I drank.
With a bit of time available in our schedule, we wanted to make sure we booked some entertainment. Unbeknowst to Lynne, I had applied online for tickets to ‘The Graham Norton Show’. If you haven’t seen it, it’s a late-night chat show like the ones in the US, with the fabulous Irish Graham Norton as the host.
We had barely landed at Heathrow when I got the email to say that we had been assigned tickets. Hurrah! In the same message, it asked if either of us had a Red Chair story we wished to share.
Again, for those unfamiliar with the show, at the end of all the conversations and after the musical act has performed, there is the Red Chair segment playing on the stage screen where members of the public sit and tell a funny tale. If it is deemed worthy, Norton and his celebrity guests allow the person to walk. But if they are unimpressed (or just feel like it), Norton pulls a handle on the stage and the person in the chair goes flying back with their legs in the air.
Yes, I had plenty of stories in my arsenal from my various escapades over the years; I was very happy to say that I would share one. You had to email it in advance, so I sat down to write … and then the conundrums began. For every anecdote I could remember, I could also think of a very good reason why it might not be a bright idea to tell it publicly. I didn’t want to embarrass my parents; I wasn’t sure that guy would ever talk to me again; was that element crossing the boundaries of good taste?
For someone who should have had no problem at all coming up with a dozen thigh-slappers or more, I was really struggling.
After over an hour, I finally chose a memory that would only make me look ridiculous and no one else, so I wrote it out.
Then came the section of the form where you had to give them a few personal details, including where you were from. My immediate response was to write Cayman Islands. But then I paused. Would they make jokes about hiding money here? The last thing I wanted to do was put my home in the line of fire. Maybe I would just write down my parents’ UK address …
Oh, but hang on: If I said I was from England and the segment aired, would Cayman wonder why I hadn’t mentioned them?
It was absolutely ridiculous – what should have been a quick, short, funny story, written out and submitted, was turning into a major international operation with the possibility of widespread implications. I tweaked a bit, then hit the ‘Send’ button and figured maybe they wouldn’t choose me.
I figured wrong.
The emails started coming back, then there was a missed phone call from the production team. Looked like I might get the chair – literally.
On the night of recording, Lynne and I lined up with other ticketholders outside the television centre. The guests on the show were scheduled to be Sigourney Weaver, Nicolas Hoult, Jamie Oliver and Lolly Adefope, with Coldplay as the musical guests. Pretty great!
As we queued, staff were going along the line asking about Red Chair volunteers. Then my name was yelled out. I needed to sign a release basically giving them permission to use any footage of me up to and including the day of my funeral. Luckily, I’d had the foresight to don long pants, as if I did end up being flipped backwards, a skirt would be verboten. Nobody needed to see my mince pie, even if it was the Christmas season.
Once we were inside the studio, I and five other volunteers were taken backstage by the lovely production staff, who patiently dealt with my requests for bottled water for all of us, as we were a bit dry-mouthed. I also asked for Cayman to only be referenced in a positive light if I mentioned it. “Who the hell does this lady in the long, tight pants think she is?” I’m sure they thought, but, in fairness, they were nothing but gracious as, one-by-one, we had our pictures taken in the famous chair.
We were told that once it got close to the end of the show, they would come and get us for the recording of our stories.
I’ve hosted huge events, interviewed celebrities, and sung at concerts in front of thousands, yet I was as nervous as a homemade bungee-jump tester. It was fantastic to see the celebrities we knew being interview by Norton, who was as terrific as ever, but I was only half paying attention. What had I got myself into? Suppose I gulped and tripped over my words. Could that thing handle my weight if it flipped backwards? Visions of Daily Mail headlines danced through my head like sugar-plums:
‘Red Chair horror: Big-bottomed guest BREAKS iconic prop’
‘“Worst story in history of show, Sigourney wept!” – Graham Norton’
‘Caymanian Status revoked in landmark decision, Wheaton brings shame upon islands’
Before I could suss out the location of all the exits, production staff were leading us back to the chair. I was in it now.
One woman went before me, and she got flipped. Then it was my turn. The whole setup is odd, in that you are looking into a camera – you can’t see anyone apart from the person holding up a sign telling you to lean back.
Norton’s disembodied voice came over the speaker, and he started asking me questions. When I babbled that I was there to take my parents back to the Cayman Islands for Christmas, all he said was, “Well, who wouldn’t want to go to Cayman for Christmas?”
Yay!
I was then asked to tell my story. And so I did, about when I dressed up as a baby to perform a singing telegram when I was in my twenties, then got back to my car to find I’d locked my keys in it. I subsequently tried to get to a landline to call a friend for help, hiding behind large plants as I went. My towel nappy got caught on the branches and pulled off, leaving me in my laddered granny pants long enough for someone to see me before I could get the towel extricated and back around me.
I braced for the flip, and … it didn’t happen! I was allowed to walk!
Now that it had gone well, I was relieved and really hoping that it would air the next night.
I won’t drag out the suspense – it didn’t. The interviews went long, and there were no Red Chair stories at all. Man …
So, now you may ask, am I telling the truth if you can’t see the proof? I guess you’ll just have to wait ‘til my funeral.
Merry Christmas!
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