Free Fat Girls and Fairy Cakes by Sue Watson

top and from his excitable gestures, Gerard appeared to be cranking the singing up a gear. I watched them for what seemed like hours. Then suddenly the sound flooded back to me and the full horror of what we were beaming to the nation sunk in. Far from preaching or even pruning, the live TV audience was being treated to the glorious spectacle of Gerard waving a watering can and singing Oops I did it again at the top of his voice and the presenter and three runners groping the vicar’s wife. Not realising we were back on air, Debbie finally managed to grasp Denise’s wayward mic and she pulled it out with a flourish. “Got it!” she shouted, “And for God’s sake Gerard, SHUT UP! Jesus!”
    At which point my heart stopped. I was probably clinically dead for about six seconds.
    I mutely watched Debbie as she realised her earpiece was dislodged. I saw her find it, adjust it, and stand stock still as she listened to someone out of shot. Then Debbie’s ‘safe hands’ flew up to her face in horror as she finally realised we were broadcasting live to the nation. This time, everything really did stop. Denise stopped talking, Gerard stopped singing and our presenter was mute. Everything seemed to go deathly quiet and I could almost see the tumbleweed rolling over the set.
    “I knew it,” I spat and glanced urgently at Sam, who had his head in his hands.
    “Well this wasn’t in rehearsal, Stella,” he said, looking up.
    “Petunias,” I yelled into the talkback, “we need to talk about the vicar’s PETUNIAS.”
    As I screamed down the talkback and Sam frantically pressed buttons and moved the cameras around, all hell was breaking loose in the garden. We cut to the petunias, which is where Gerard should have been to give tips and advice. Instead, the petunias sat unattended and the viewers could just make out Bernard in the corner of the shot, once more retching over the flowerbed.
    “Debbie!” I yelled. “Leave bloody Denise and get Gerard over to the petunia bed!” Debbie grabbed his arm and sprinted over the lawn, sliding gracelessly into shot and tripping Gerard, who slopped the contents of the watering can all over Debbie and himself. “Argghh! Sam, cut to the next recorded piece whilst we sort this out!” I screamed.
    Then, just when I thought it couldn’t possibly get any worse, I glanced at the monitor to watch our next VT of Denise drawing the raffle at the WI but to my utter, utter horror all I saw was myself grappling in the mud with Bernard. For a few seconds I tried to process the shots of the vicar/producer mess now being beamed across Britain’s airwaves. I could only imagine this little ‘out-take’ had been meant as a joke for me at the after-show party but some idiot had loaded it into the wrong place.
    I wanted to cry. All the planning, all the late nights structuring the programme, all the rehearsals and readings, and then this . It was supposed to be petunias here, tease a bit of Jesus to keep them on the edge of their seats there, then launch into huge sunflowers, ornamental cabbages and end with a starry sprinkling of The Holy Ghost and a word from our vicar. When we cut back to the church for said last words from Bernard it seemed that his nerves were actually some form of food poisoning and his sermon – our grand finale – was being punctuated with various ungodly sounds.
    As I watched the vicar trying to find words of wisdom whilst battling extreme flatulence on one monitor and an overweight, karaoke Britney-wannabe trying to mop up a terrified presenter on the other, I threw my hands up in the air and gave up. The PA began counting down to the end of the show. “Thank God,” I sighed.
    Sam looked at me. “Roll the fucking credits,” he said, “before I die.”
    In the little van we just sat there in shock. Outside all was silent. Then suddenly Al’s voice came on talkback. “Er Stella, the vicar’s been sick again, I think we might have to get a doctor. It’s all over the