On Golden Balls

I’ve developed a fondness for the seedier side of British television. There is a natural filter when shows are sent overseas and we end up getting only the best the UK has to offer...but there is another side to British television that we never see...unless we are well ensconced in the Brit TV Black Market.

Quiz shows are all the rage here, from the tragically normal to the utter ludicrous. We’ve seen a taste of their shows in the form of (what I like to call) “Rehash and Glitter-Up.” We have an American version of “The Weakest Link” and “Deal or No Deal”...but nothing compares to seeing these shows in their original form. They are low-budget crowd-pleasers, and they are deliciously painful to watch. The focus is more on psychologically ruining people on national television and doing everything that is legal to make the contestants break down and cry. I’m telling you, Brits are closet masochists...the whole “uptight” thing is just a front so that other countries won’t be threatened by them.

The best Quiz show I’ve seen so far is a seemingly boring little number called “Goldenballs.” The premise is simple...four contestants pick four balls each from a pile. Obviously, these balls are painted gold. Thus, the name. They open up two of the balls to reveal a monetary amount and show it to the other contestants. Then, they open the remaining two balls, but keep the amounts to themselves. The trick is that the contestants can either lie or tell the truth regarding the amount of money hidden in their last two balls. Based on what everyone says, the contestants vote on who will be ousted from the group. Whoever is ousted from the group has to throw their monetary amounts away, and the remaining “Goldenball” amounts are carried over to the next round.

Seems boring, doesn’t it? Yes, it probably would be...if it wasn’t for the fact that the contestants spend 10 minutes each round accusing each other of lying. I’ve seen a sweet little old man scream death threats at a Primary School teacher and mother of two. That same sweet teacher screamed “You’re a filthy, rotten liar and you’re going to regret it if you shove me off, you prick!” at a bookish man in his forties who looked like he’s still saving himself for marriage. That was just the first round.

And you would think that everyone would just say they had outlandish amounts to stay in the game, right? Not so, because there is a final round that is based on the two remaining contestants trusting each other. This is where the simple game gets complicated. For the final round, the remaining contestants have two options to choose from...they can either decide to split the money or share the money. If both choose “Split,” the money they gained from the previous rounds is split down the middle and they both go home with half the money each. However, if one chooses “Steal” then that person, in essence, fucks over the other contestant and takes all the money. If they are both complete assholes and both choose “Steal” then no one gets anything...there is no reward for brute force. The reward is in psyching out your opponent. The rush comes from swearing on your life that you’ll share and then screwing that person over.

To recap, this is how the show goes - four contestants choose sixteen balls and either lie about the amount to stay in the game or tell the truth to build up trust. Two people are ousted after two rounds of shouting like six-year-olds and voting each other out of the game. Two people are left at the end and must then size up and/or pull the wool over the eyes of the other. The end result is invariably some nice, trusting soul who is happy to share a few thousand quid with a fellow human who is just trying to get out from under their pile of bills, only to be shafted at the end and sent home empty-handed and disillusioned.

It’s great fun to watch.

On another note, my life here has settled into a comfortably familiar pattern. I’ve found the best places to shop for pita bread and bottled water, and the best places to get take away that doesn’t turn my stomach into a battleground. I’m still searching for a good coffee, but I’m sure I’ll find one before the month is out.

I’ve reached the stage where I feel less like a foreigner and more like a local...which was the point of coming here for such a long time. I could have spent a glorious two weeks shopping on the High Street and taking tours of all the touristy things, but my time here would have been over in the blink of an eye - because it’s only now that I’m starting to really settle in and enjoy the experience. Some people travel for the Grand Sights, and even though I can’t fault them for that I can say that I would not have had as much fun as I have had traveling for the Small Sights. I’m inspired by the daily life here. The mixture of cultures and accents coupled with the smells of restaurants cooking Sunday Roast in 300-year-old buildings gives me a sense of perspective I’ve never had. People stand on the sidewalks to take in the crisp June air and nod polite greetings to the people passing by. Shoppers carry their bags from stores to home, from home to work, from work to pubs.... The way they walk, the way they greet each other, the music they listen to, the clothes they wear...it is all humbling in its newness. And I, for a short time, am a part of it.

I’m more than half-way through my visit, and I’m reminded of when I was sent to camp as a child. For the first few weeks there is a sense of loss and home-sickness, but as the weeks trudge on, the feelings of sadness and heartache are replaced with feelings of wonder and power. I have survived in a new environment. I have shed my fears. I have left my footprint in the concrete before walking away, and anyone who passes it will look down and know I have been there. They won’t know who, they won’t know what, and they won’t know why...but my footprint is here all the same - a Future connection to my Past...and as I look down and see the footprint of some Past Traveler, I am connected to him. I am part of the journey.

For the next two weeks, I am a part of the Small Sights, and there is no memory I’d rather look back on than that.

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Random fact - Never start a Londoner talking about Football...unless you have 3 hours to spare.

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