My Weakest Link audition | Grapeswriting2

I am the weakest link, goodbye.

Remembering my unsuccessful audition to joust with Anne Robinson.

Have you ever wondered how television quiz show contestants get the gig? The best explanation I can offer is that the process is not entirely dissimilar to that when applying for a job. It starts with a written application, and then, if the programme researchers like the look of that, it is normally followed up with some kind of face-to-face suitability test (very much like a practical job interview).

I have appeared on television as a contestant just once, in 2001 in a show called ‘1,000-1’ - a one off quiz series hosted by Dale Winton in aid of Comic Relief. Because of the number of people involved, I was selected on the basis of the application and then a telephone call rather than a face-to-face encounter.

The short series featured 1,000 contestants, all of whom had been Comic Relief fundraisers, with five short and brutal half-hour shows reducing 200 entrants at a time to a single winner, who was rewarded with a place in the grand final and a chance to play for a rather impressive 1,000 prizes!

And before you ask – no, of course I didn’t win. In fact I crashed and burned as early as it was possible to do so. Despite personally answering all three of the first questions correctly, I was in the first group to be eliminated, leaving me sat in darkness watching the remaining contestants battle it out for the rest of the show!

Bringing back memories

However, I recently stumbled upon the reboot of The Weakest Link, now in its third series hosted by Romesh Ranganathan, and it made me think about the programme and in particular my audition to appear as a contestant. The Weakest Link was a popular quiz show, dominating our screens as daily early-evening entertainment for 12 years from 2000.

Hosted by the acid-tongued Anne Robinson, it followed a similar knockout format as 1,000-1, but each show started with (a far more manageable) nine people taking part. Seven rounds of questions answered by the contestants in turn would build a pot of winnings, with the ‘weakest link’ being eliminated following a vote after each round. The final (eighth) round was a one vs. one, five-question ‘penalty shootout’ type affair with the victor taking home the accumulated winnings. I often wondered how I would fare and, in 2002, an application to appear made it through the initial sift and I was somewhat chuffed and excited to receive an invitation to audition.

Audition time

The auditions were held during an afternoon at a fairly shabby and unassuming Southampton hotel. I took some time off work and arrived with a mixture of excitement and trepidation, not quite knowing what to expect. Would I meet Anne? Would I get nervous? Would I do myself justice? (Spoiler alert – no, of course not, yes – very, and no, not even slightly!)

There were about 30 or 40 of us there, and we were split into four or five smaller groups. The groups were each taken to a function room where we were introduced to a production assistant who would be looking after us and putting us through our paces (I can’t remember the name of ours, so we will call her Doris). To kick things off we did the ‘slow death by introduction’ thing, where everyone took turns to say hello and talk a little about their background.

If you are expecting me to provide a detailed analysis of all the runners and riders you are going to be a tad disappointed. Let’s not forget that this was over twenty years ago and the reality is that I can’t remember anything about most of them. I do recall one guy called Greg however. He stood out, as he had a somewhat smug air about him and was wearing a vicar’s collar. He was also wearing white socks with black shoes, a pretty unforgivable fashion faux pas, even back in 2002. He claimed to have been on many quiz shows before and I took an instant dislike to him. We will return to him later.

Time to be a penguin

Then it was time to all take part in a group exercise whereby we had to walk around the room pretending to be an animal (yes really!). Once Doris had identified and called out your animal you could stop and were allowed to wait at the side for the exercise to end.

Nursing a broken leg and being in plaster from the knee down at the time, I used the stiff and wobbly nature of my movement to do an apparently passable impression of a penguin which, thankfully, was guessed quite quickly. Now, I didn’t recall animal impersonations playing a particularly significant part in the programme, so I had to presume that this was simply an icebreaker, designed to break down some barriers and put us a little more at our ease.

Put your game face on

Once all the animals had been guessed, we moved onto the real reason for why we were there, and got to have a go at actually playing the game. We took part in a series of rounds with Doris taking on Anne’s role (although she didn’t insult the Welsh nearly enough to be a believable stand in). However, I didn’t have the time to worry about this at the time because it was at about this point that nerves were really kicking in and my brain was turning to complete jelly. I managed to get my initial question wrong, and this sent me into a state of utter panic and paranoia. In life, our internal monologue sometimes doesn’t reflect our external demeanour and for me this had never been more the case.

While externally I was trying to appear calm and composed, internally my brain was having a full-on meltdown: (Oh my God, they will think I am thick. I HAVE to get the next question right. Suppose I get that wrong too? I’ll be voted straight off. Come on, concentrate, you will be fine. If you get it right you are back in the game. Three people to go. Two. One…) and then it was time for my next question, which, thankfully, I did manage to answer correctly. (Right, come on – that’s better. You can do this. Get the next one right and the first will look like a one off. Mess it up though and they will still think you are thick. Suppose it’s on history? Or geography? Oh no I hope not, I’m rubbish at those. Ask me a sport question? Or music? Please? Give me a chance? Oh God – it’s me next…). And then I was asked another question, and yes – I somehow managed to get that one right too.

Listening skills

This went on for a couple more rounds of questions and then, thankfully, the time ran out. (Wow. That was – well, not awful, but certainly not great. I recovered the dodgy start. I think I answered two out of four correctly. I might survive! C’mon Al - think positive - you’ve got this, just concentrate on the next round…). And then I had to shut myself up and re-focus rather rapidly as I became aware that Doris had been talking; “…so it’s time to vote off, the weakest link…”

(What?)

(OOOOH SHIT!)

I suddenly became acutely aware that my nerves had me so wrapped up in my own performance that I had not the slightest clue how anyone else had done. How many questions had they answered correctly? Who was good? Who was weak? Who banked the money? Did anyone bank too soon? I had absolutely no idea. Not a Scooby. If I am honest I wasn’t even completely sure how many questions I had answered correctly and incorrectly – and now I was supposed to evaluate everyone else’s game skills too? It is laughably easy to keep track when you are watching on the telly, but in real life it is as easy as being asked to build a life-sized Taj Mahal in just half an hour out of nothing but matches and glue.

Without any matches.

Or glue.

In pure desperation I wrote the only person’s name I could remember on my card; we were stood more or less in a line and I couldn’t read anyone’s name badge without making it obvious anyway. I then took up an exaggerated nonchalant pose, trying to appear both calm and confident while simultaneously praying to the God of shite footballers that I wouldn’t be picked on and asked to explain my voting choice. Unfortunately that particular God had his hands full dealing with England's World Cup squad that afternoon, and clearly had no time to spare to worry about my trifling problems…

“Al?”

(Shit...)

“Yes?”

“You voted for Greg?”

“Yes.”

(Confident Al, nicely done, stay positive...)

“But he got all his questions right.”

(Did he? Bollocks.)

“Yes Doris.”

“Why was that then Al?”

“Well Doris…”

(Come on you fool, think godammit, you have to say something…)

“…well, um,”

(Everyone is looking at you, you buffoon, if you don’t say something soon you might as well strip naked and do a little dance…)

“Um, well, I thought he should have banked more money.”

(Ha! Suck on that! Back at you, Doris!)

“Really? He was in fact the strongest player.”

(Shiiiiit. He would be wouldn’t he? Look at him. Smug. With those socks too. What a wanker...)

By now I was already developing a pathological hatred for Greg. In fact my concentration was being threatened further by visions of my being fast tracked to hell after violently garrotting him with his stupid collar…

Luckily my grilling had ended and Doris had moved on to interrogate the next unfortunate victim.

You are the weakest link…

This continued in a similar vein until I was voted off a round or two later. And I absolutely deserved it; frankly I had done astonishingly well to survive that long. Greg on the other hand had gone from strength to strength, answering numerous tough questions with ease. Git.

But now, I had one final chance to save myself. The last part of the audition saw a simulation of your final exit interview, and this was filmed, presumably as a mini screen-test to enable Doris’ boss to make judgements on how people look on camera.

“So Al, how do you think you did?”

(I was fucking rubbish Doris, weren’t you watching…?)

“I thought I did okay all things considered. I may have been a bit unlucky with some of the questions.”

“Who would you like to win?”

(Ha – you ask that like you think I give a shit…)

“Oh I thought Amanda did rather well, she answered quite quickly and seemed to have a good general knowledge.”

“And who do you think should be voted off next?”

(Right, this is it. This is my chance. This is the question that I have been patiently waiting for since my round one debacle. This is my one last opportunity to make my mark. I already know that I am not going to be selected on my quizzing skills, nor my ability to remain focussed on the game while my own performance was imploding and my brain was morphing into silly putty. Maybe, just maybe, I can be the one who’s ‘a character’ and sneak a wildcard for standing out and being a bit memorable.)

“Oh, Greg, definitely” I confidently reply.

(Ha. Look at Doris’ face! She wasn’t expecting that…)

“Oh! Why Greg?” asks Doris, making virtually no effort to disguise her surprise at my choice.

“Didn’t you notice? He was wearing white socks with black shoes…”

Tick, tick, tick, tick, boom. And there it is. I am all in. I have played my joker.

(Please take me, I might be a bit thick but I will make good television - I’m a bit of a maverick you see. I can play a bit randomly. I can wind up the other contestants. I can joust with Anne. I’m crazy and zany I am...)

To my credit, Doris broke out in genuine laughter. They had probably asked that question to several thousand contestants in shows and auditions and I would wager that she had never before been given that answer. Perhaps it would be enough for her to remember me? Who knows. I left the experience with a glimmer of hope that maybe; just maybe, I’d made enough of an impression to sneak though under the ‘a bit thick but potentially entertaining’ banner.

Except of course I hadn’t and I didn’t. They were not looking for ‘zany’. They didn’t want a ‘maverick’. It was not a talent show. And it goes without saying that they certainly weren’t looking for anyone with any hint of personality whatsoever, because that would only serve to highlight that Anne didn’t have any.

What they were actually seeking was a contestant who could remain vaguely composed, could demonstrate a passable level of general knowledge and didn’t collapse into a complete gibbering mess when asked some fairly simple questions about how their competitors had performed.

So I never got a call back, and in all honesty this was not a surprise. In fact, looking back now it was almost certainly for the best. If my brain turned to complete mush in front of a few strangers in a function room of a fairly downbeat Southampton hotel (and it did – let’s make no bones about it), I think that being filmed under lights in a studio for a prime time show that would ultimately be watched by millions of people may well have resulted in me being lobotomised.

The postscript

Over the following year I kept my eyes open to see whether any of my fellow auditionees (is that a word? Hang it – it is now…) had made it onto the show, and none of them appeared.

Except just one.

Yep - smug bastard Greg turned up a few months later. And he only went and bloody won.

Not only that, but he was still wearing black shoes and white socks, and absolutely no bugger pointed it out.

There is no justice in this world.

AG - November 2023