Given Bruce had never actually watched Millionaire Hot Seat quite why he agreed to be part of the audience is unclear. Perhaps it was the slim chance of being pulled from the crowd for the opportunity to win $1,000 / shame himself, although one lesson from today is that his lack of Australianism meant he would have been screwed over by the quizmasters’ obsession with Aussie colloquialisms in the early rounds: “A shag on a rock”; “You’ve got tickets on yourself” – you what? “Get fucked” he understands, but beyond that…
Anyway, having genned up on the format over a parma at the Fox on Sunday night, he rocked up at The Bridge for a pre-Channel 9 lunch and the warning: “The memo said no checked shirts”.
“There was a memo?” said a bemused Bruce.
“Something to do with the cameras not liking them,” said his fellow audience member, a veteran of Sale of the Century and Deal or No Deal and clearly someone who knew what he was talking about.
Saddened at seeing the prospects of returning to Collingwood a millionaire recede yet further, he plodded to join the line outside 9’s crumbling Richmond HQ: a collection of pimply media students, Pies fans desperate to bask in the presence of Chief Pie and the unemployed / unwashed (NB – the aforementioned categories did overlap) awaited. The sadness was soon multiplied when the forms were handed out regarding confidentiality.
“Are you connected to any of today’s contestants?” they read.
It meant only one thing: the contestants were already chosen; Bruce and friends had been dragged along under false pretenses. Rather than sit through five shows like obedient Pavlovian mutts with the prospect of one of them getting on the show they faced sitting through five shows like obedient Pavlovian mutts without any prospects whatsoever.
Once waved into the studio, things took a further turn for the worse. The warm up guy appeared, a former children’s television performer (apparently) now plumbing the depths of comedy with repetitive digs at the Kiwis in the crowd, references to his wife and slightly seedy chat up attempts with a ditzy blonde media student. And boy did he go on, encouraging us to practice the various forms of clapping, cheery and commiserating that would be required during filming while displaying a Greyfriar’s Bobby-like devotion to King Eddie.
Finally the pain ended (or at least took on a different form, somewhat like the effect of morphine on a burst appendix). The Clown moved off stage, the lights dropped and the audience erupted. Eddie appeared, started his spiel, stumbled over his words and the teleprompter stopped working. Genial Eddie wasn’t happy, indicating he might not be the sort of person you want to mess with, then disappeared. Take two went more smoothly, the contestants proved mostly useless and a guy walked away with $1,000.
The Clown’s promise of major prizes for audience members – which were later revealed to be $50 notes by a mountainous walking tragedy who has attended every Millionaire screening since day one (and received our raffle tickets out of thanks / pity) – weren’t enough to prevent plans to escape before the second show. They were foiled nonetheless as, barring time for a suit change for Eddie, there was no break. In the end, however, it was worth staying.
Between shoots, Eddie likes to take the mic from The Clown and banter with the audience. Here are three examples of what ensued:
“What’s going with you then, Snowy?” to an albino schoolkid.
“You can give it to him tonight” to the partner of a failed contestant from Sydney.
“An ammeter measures electric cunt. Er, current” to a female publican in a dazzling, sparkly – some might say electric – red blouse.
The first one set two of Bruce’s companions into fits of giggles while the second spread the fit to Bruce and his other companion, leaving all four doubled over trying to suppress snorts while a young woman attempted to win several thousand dollars like naughty schoolkids trying not to get caught in assembly. As for the third, well, it’ll be interesting to see if the producers manage to edit out the time Eddie said “cunt” on telly.
G'day, G'day 