Chapter Three: Blue Jumpers

"Three blue jumpers, a guitar and a head full of crazy dreams". Griffin.

I can feel my heart beating in my chest as I try and fake a nonchalant exterior, knowing instinctively that it's fooling no one. Even the combination of the live showing of Richard II from the Globe on BBC3 and the men's US Open Tennis final later this evening has been able to distract me. It's midway through the second series of Fame Academy and, god, I've got it bad.
Speaking from experience reality television is not addictive until one change takes place - the viewer begins to care. That's maybe where my problem lies. I find it difficult to partake in anything which I don't care about. So, if I'm watching reality television which is unashamedly a participatory event with its voting and booing and cheering the chances are I'm caring. As I sit uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa with my evening meal barely digested I'm starting to think that I'm caring too much. That I should maybe give up and do something else. But I can't. When the theme music starts to play I get the expectant thrill. And I'm truly scared.

It would be nice to think that there was some immediate realisation - or at the very least some little indication - of what would later occur when I watched the initial programme a month or so earlier. But there wasn't. I'd watched the parade of hopefuls competing for a place in the Academy where they'd be in the running for a record contract after nine weeks of singing lessons, 24 hour camera scrutiny and viewer voting. The second potential student that evening was dark haired and from Whitby. The relatively local connection made me take note, something that was compounded as he made me laugh with some joke about David Brent dancing behind him on Top of the Pops. Despite the somewhat dubious nature of his blue jumper in the VT I thought he looked rather cute. Cute enough for me to already be pre-disposed to him. Cut back to the studio and he was singing 'Back for Good'. Though I'd abandoned Take That for the short-lived Bad Boys Inc it didn't mean that I'd remained oblivious to the rest of their output. Or even that I'd stopped liking them. That I still know the dance to 'Never Forget' would point to a continuing fascination that was merely masked by those boyband upstarts. Plus if Take That have a classic then it is undoubtedly 'Back For Good'. Not least because of Robbie's knowingly ironic boyband dance moves in the video. Everything seemed to be stacking up in my head for the boy with a blue jumper from Whitby. I thought he was the best on the night, swayed by other factors than his musical talent it must be confessed, and possibly - I can't be entirely sure of this - gave a little 'yes' when he was voted in. It was as simple and as unassuming as that.

Just over a month later and it's no longer simple. I've been dragged into caring about what happens to Griffin. It's been a gradual process; I remember seeing footage of him crying on his first day in the Academy and feeling a pang of sympathy but nothing greater. It was a few weeks later that it occurred to me that I was sufficiently caught up in the goings on of the programme to say that he was my favourite. When I found myself watching him fail to gain the viewers vote with the threat of being sent home with nothing more than a goodbye and a quick interview with a hyperactive Claudia Winkleman for consolation, I knew, with my agitation and desire to vomit, that I'd started to care. I wanted Griffin to stay. He made me laugh and I'd even moved to an appreciation of him that went beyond old Take That songs. It felt like our association had only just begun; I wasn't ready for it to end. I had the horrible feeling that I'd cry if it did. I was spared the tears as the student vote, a quirk of Fame Academy, pulled him through. But that was no guarantee for the following week.

And I'm painfully aware of this. I'm also painfully aware that Griffin is wearing a shirt that looks like someone vomited on it and singing 'This Old Heart of Mine' to a backing track that makes karaoke tracks seem like complex musical compositions. Things are not looking good.
Griffin takes to the stage and I start to quietly pray that he won't forget the words. He does. But the average viewer at home wouldn't know. I'm also chuckling at his dancing and all out assault on unadulterated cheese. I'm proud enough of him, as he's lambasted by the judges, that I still manage to smile.

By the time of the results show, however, I'm definitely not smiling. I'm on the border of unadulterated terror, restlessly moving around unable to focus on anything other than the looming possibility that I'm about to see Griffin make his premature exit from my sphere. After what seems close to eternity, not aided by my nervousness which is causing the rest of my family to view me somewhat suspiciously, the students are gathered in the circle and Paddy and Cat are playing for suspense.

There's a pause. And I know I don't like this. I don't like it at all.

"Carolynne"

Somewhat distracted, I clap as if it were a polite requirement. There's another pause and I contemplate complaining to the BBC about the inordinate amount of time they take to announce results.

"Alistair"

I yell with all thoughts of polite detachment long gone, shrivelled up along with my dignity somewhere on the floor. But Griffin has yelled too, louder than I've ever heard anyone yell on one of these shows. The rest of the show passes in a blur as my curious happiness blots out everything else.

Until next week.