Kevin's Interview.

"Ah, come in, Kevin. You don't mind all this formality?"

"S'pose not, chief." Kevin slouched in, waved casually at the interview
panel and parked himself in the comfy chair provided. His reputation
had gone before him: media junkie, fashion ikon, mockney rebel and
general face about town. The job was his, he knew it from the
deferential way that he'd been ushered in.

"I'm David, as you know." David shuffled his papers and looked back up.
"This is Daniel, head of programming, and Gudrun. You've met, I
believe?"

"Sure!" Kevin winked at the fey, anorexic figure behind the enormous
spectacles. "We've.. met, all right."

"Mm," Gudrun nodded, shuffling her feet uncomfortably. They'd met in
the canteen, downstairs, but Kevin's leer seemed to imply that
something considerably more intimate had taken place. If it had, Gudrun
was sure that she'd have noticed. She flipped through her files as
David droned on.

"Now, we at the BBC pride ourselves on giving young people every chance
to prove themselves. Your CV's very impressive."

"Yeah, I thought so," Kevin chipped in, causing laughter all round. Got
'em, he thought. Right in the palm of my hand..

"You seem to have attracted plenty of attention," Daniel took up the
baton. "I'm looking through the list you supplied. Two drying-out
clinics, that fight at the Brits, calling Parkinson an old fart,
streaking at Ascot.."

"Royal flash!"

"Indeed!" Everyone except Gudrun tittered. "Now.. you were also
involved in that big animal rights demo last year?"

"Right. What a laugh, eh? When we threw that police horse through
McDonalds' window? Teach the bastards to sell beef."

"It certainly looked spectacular on the six o' clock news. Pity the
cameraman was in the shop at the time."

"So what?" Kevin chuckled. "His camera was insured, wasn't it?"

"Ye..es," Gudrun interrupted. "But he wasn't."

"Tough. Anything that saves animals from institutionalised torture is
justified."

"I'm sure we can all see where you're coming from," David simpered. "I
was in Grosvenor Square myself. The big one."

"Yeah." Kevin attempted, briefly, to appear interested in the ancient
history lesson. "Cool."

"Now, this job involves a degree of versatility," Daniel went on in an
unexpectedly deep tone. "What else can you see yourself
fronting?"

"Anything!" Kevin shrugged. "I can do the lot, me. Well, except
gardening. I'll leave that to the tight T-shirt and fat bum
brigade."

"No problem," Gudrun replied. "We can always find gardeners who work
cheap and who know what they're doing.."

"And a few who don't," David interjected waspishly. "No names, no pack
drill."

"That poncy Changing Rooms stuff?" Kevin cut him short. "I can do that,
no problem. Easiest job on telly, that is, wrecking some geezer's gaff
and getting paid for it! Got a dozen mates down once while the old
folks were away at some boring family funeral. That's what I REALLY
call changing rooms.."

"They were surprised?" Gudrun asked.

"Amazed. Didn't even recognise the place after the fire. That was just
before I decided that I needed more space and went off with some Polish
experimental street theatre company."

"Now.." David leaned forward to broach the difficult subject. "About
drugs.."

"No problem, chief. How much do you want?"

"A couple of.. no, I mean these stories in the papers. 'Drug-crazed
orgies with lottery winner.'"

"Yeah. Good, eh? Front page in all the tabloids!"

"There's just one tiny problem," Gudrun mumbled. "We have a researcher
here, Polly Webster. You know her?"

"Sure!" Kevin laughed nervously, trying to hide his sudden attack of
uncertainty. "I've had her. A bit of a squealer. Why?"

"She noticed your name on the application form. Used to live over the
road from your parents, I believe?"

"Maybe," Kevin shifted uneasily. "I don't see the old farts much. Been
ages since I gave her one, actually."

"I'm glad to hear it," Daniel added icily. "We've been an item for six
months."

"Great!" Kevin smiled broadly. "So what's the problem?"

"Well, correct us if Polly's wrong, but she says that your application
form is.. how shall we put it? A pile of pants?"

"No!" Kevin shouted, half-rising from his seat.

"Polly says," Daniel continued, smiling at Kevin's all-too-obvious
discomfiture. "That you are, in fact, still living in Hounslow and you
clean your dad's Montego every Sunday, rain or shine.."

"Not every week.." Kevin folded his arms sulkily. "And sometimes I
don't chamois it and it dries all streaky. Serves the capitalist
bastard right."

"Polly also says that, far from having had more women that Robbie
Williams, you've not even had a proper girlfriend since that incident
with a balloon at your seventeenth birthday party. She knows for a fact
that that photo of you in bed with the Spice Girls was faked with some
gang of old slappers.."

"So who could tell the difference?"

"Quite, but that incident with Chris Evans!"

"That happened!" Kevin howled pitifully, knowing that his world was
collapsing around his ears. "It did! I called him a geeky little tosser
in that bar!"

"Yes," Daniel continued wearily. "But that hardly counts as news. I
know what he is, you know what he is. He knows it himself, and he
doesn't care! The Bishop of Chipping Sodbury called him worse that that
on last week's 'Songs of Praise.'"

"Yes," David added. "Three thousand people rang in to agree with him,
too. Biggest response ever."

"I've been in all the papers," Kevin grumbled. "Especially after the
Brits."

"You and a thousand others. We're sorry that it's come to this, because
you were exactly what we were looking for to revive our viewing
figures. You realise that once this gets out, you'll be much less
saleable?"

"Yes," Kevin admitted. The fake strident Essex edge to his voice had
gone now, along with the ebullient body language. He rose wearily, his
dreams shattered, and shuffled slowly from the room. At the door, he
turned for one last shot.

"I can cook!" he said hopefully, surveying the grim expressions.
"Surely.."

"Try McDonalds," Gudrun suggested helpfully. The head vanished.

"It's a shame," David sighed. "If only it had all been real, eh?"

"Mm," Gudrun nodded. "On paper, I've never seen anyone better qualified
to front 'Blue Peter'."