The glare of the spotlight picks out the only person not going crazy in the TV studio audience. This man remains unfazed because he is an unsung hero, a man forgotten, uncredited, the man who took the flak and saved the British government from one of the most embarrassing fiascos of all time.

 

Which one? This one:

Abracadabra. Pooft!! Gone.

 

The banks lost all the money. They insisted it was no one's fault: it was just one of those things. Where did it all go? Nobody knew. It was magic.

 

'Who's got all our money?' everyone wanted to know.

The banks pretended not to hear.

 

The politicians too, they shrugged their shoulders and shook their heads – they had no idea either, but with the mounting pressure the government felt obliged to say something, and so the Prime Minister announced: “We will get to the bottom of this...” on live TV.

Which was a big mistake.

 

'That's MY catchphrase!' screamed Vince Maelstrom, kicking the screen and speed-dialling his lawyers. 'Sue the government for breach of copyright. My catchphrase, my copyright.'

 

Vince was the host of Pass the Buck, the TV blame-game that had captured the nation, some say held it to ransom. With his trademark smile and winning catchphrases, Vince was more popular than the government who wanted a return to proper entertainment values. So, when Pass the Buck was pulled from its popular Saturday Night slot it came as no surprise. Except to Vince. The network's official line was that the financial crisis had wiped out all the show's prize money, and without the cash no one could Pass the Buck.

 

'But the show only needs one buck to pass,' insisted Vince.

 

'Sorry Vince, no can do.' The producers stood firm. And then jumped. The office closed and no one was answering calls.

Vince was livid.

 

The show's cancellation left an entertainment vacuum. The Pass the Buck audience, who were avid phone voters, were desperate to vote for something and with a general election imminent the government thought it would be them. However, polls suggested that no one was interested in that sort of pencil and paper voting any more. The twenty-first-century was all about tablets, smartphones and doing things online. And Politicians had no TV charisma. Vince was full of charisma. The public wanted Vince back on their screens. This was a worry for the government.

 

Late into the night at Westminster, the narrow corridors of power buzzed with the sound of think tanks driving to find a solution that didn't involve U-turns. Something relatively cheap. And vaguely effective. Something that got Vince Maelstrom off their back. At the eleventh hour, they came up with:

'We'll hold an enquiry.'

 

The public groaned. Enquiries were boring.

 

However, this enquiry's unique selling point was that Vince Maelstrom was going to host it. The next day, Vince let slip in an interview that 'Firey Enquiry' was going to be a brilliant blend of politics and entertainment. Suddenly the public were interested. Some began phone voting straight away, obviously these votes didn't count but it gave the government good indication they were on to a winner.

Almost.

 

Five minutes before going live, Vince Maelstrom overturned the catering table outside the enquiry chambers.

' “Corruption of institutions”!? What sort of stupid title is that? No one wants to watch a show called... called... see, I've forgotten it already. Whose idea was it to change the name of the show?'

'It's an enquiry.'

'I know, a Firey Enquiry: politics like you've never seen before is how I've sold it to my public. I want the name changed back immediately, also, I haven't seen a script yet. Where is it? What's my opening catchphrase?'

Everyone on set avoided eye-contact with Vince until Selwyn Fallguy, the young producer, stepped in: 'Cue music, live in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1!'

 

'Let's play Firey Enquiry!' Vince ad-libbed to camera in razzamatazz style. The 'Corruption of institutions' enquiry had officially been launched. From then on it bombed. Unfortunately Vince worked best from auto-cue - he wasn't a natural improvisor. No one had thought to employ a professional writer for the job. There were periods of silence, gags fell flat: the next fifteen minutes made for painful viewing. During the ad break, Vince cornered a frightened Fallguy who explained:

 

'I'm not really a producer, I work for the civil service and ultimately the government.'

'Take this show off air!' demanded Maelstrom.

'But it's live!!'

'It's dead! Pull a stunt. I'm not going back.' Vince walked off set.

 

The rest of the enquiry show's airtime was filled with commercials getting it into the Guinness Book of Records for the world's longest TV ad-break. Fallguy was fired, Vince still hired. However, for this enquiry to be a success the government needed a specialised subject expert; an academic who could also write catchphrases. But who? Without the luxury of time, throwing money at the problem seemed to be the best way to find a quick solution.

A draft outline of the enquiry project landed on the desk of a cash-strapped University undertaking vaguely similar research into the corruption of institutions. The outline paper was read with great... Well, let's just say the outline paper was read.

 

'Another boring enquiry that would lead to nowhere,' was Isaac Newman, the head of department's, initial reaction. He put his feet up on the desk. 'If clients want particular results and statistics, our team can manipulate any fudged data to fit any hypothesis you could imagine.' he said, chucking the printed outline towards a nearby bin and missing.

 

The University was tired of doing this sort of research work and was looking for a chance to break the boring academic image it had acquired. But, as always, the big stumbling block was money. Celia Horner PhD, one of the professors who doubled as a cleaner at the Uni to boost her income, picked up the discarded paper and was about to put it properly in the bin when the document flopped open at the budget section.

 

'How much?' she said. 'Look at this figure!'

'I read it as a telephone number!' said Newman pulling on his specs.

'I rang it. It's out of order,' pipped in his assistant.

Newman snatched back the paper and scrutinised the money column.

'No, it's completely in order. A proposed budget of... This, ladies and gentlemen, is our unique opportunity. Instead of presenting some boring thousand page document...'

 

The department was all ears.

'We're going to produce a film.'

'A film?' was the incredulous response at Downing St.

'A film!?' Vince Maelstrom jumped at the chance. And nearly dropped the phone.

His agent (on the other end of the line) was more cautious. 'Hold on, Vince, these eggheads have never made a film before.'

 

True enough. Civil servant, Selwyn Fallguy, who'd enjoyed a brief spell in TV had been rehired, found himself attending a crisis meeting at the university. As non-creative empiricists, the university department had found it difficult to adapt their academic ideas to the media of film, writing a script was proving nigh on impossible, even after applying the Hollywood formula. Yet they persisted, in the pursuit of truth. They had a snappy title: Institute of Corruption but, after initial brainstorming sessions, it became apparent that the film wasn't entirely about corruption. However, it would be based loosely on that theme, set in an institution, perhaps... the team hadn't quite worked out any of the plot details yet, nor indeed how they were going to physically produce the film as none of them knew how to operate a camera. It was down to Fallguy to find someone who could. With time running out fast he employed the jab-the-finger-at-a-random-page-in-the-phone-book-method.

 

Swansong Productions, the media company hired to shoot the film didn't have any tape in their cameras. Video was so passé, everything was digital these days. However, digital cameras were also expensive. Swansong chose the cheaper upgrade path for their old video equipment by sticking on labels with the word 'digital' printed on it. When Vince Maelstrom, the movie's lead, found out he threw a diva-like strop, he was an old-school purist at heart and demanded film, not digital. Swansong didn't have stickers that said film. There was no money in the budget for such stickers. Infuriated, Vince walked away from the project. Again.