I’ve worked on shows like Jeremy Kyle – the real cruelty happens off screen
Iended up working on Trisha by accident. The talkshow’s producers contacted my university looking for graduates, and I was offered an interview. It was an amazing opportunity to break into television – I couldn’t believe my luck. My wide-eyed enthusiasm clouded my vision from the awful reality of what was to come. (I worked on the show after it switched from ITV to Channel 5, from 2005 to 2006).
Alarm bells should have rung during “training week”, when I was paired up with a colleague for some role play. I had to imagine she was 23st, and persuade her to wear a bikini on the show. A few months later, I put this training to practical use when I succeeded in convincing a real-life plussized woman to do this. She walked on stage to ridicule. I was told I was great at my job.
My work, essentially, entailed being a master manipulator. It started with finding the people for the show. Very few people actually called in, so we would usually resort to cold calling. We targeted pubs, hairdressers and even cafes, always in the most deprived areas. “Do you know anyone who might need Trisha [Goddard]’s help?” we would ask, in our warmest voices. Occasionally we’d get a lead – the phone number of someone with relationship problems.
The people we were calling didn’t have money for therapy, and they didn’t know how to access services for help. So we pounced on them, with their lives in crisis, and told them this was a chance to make positive change.
With few exceptions, our contributors were not easy to persuade to come on the show. So we often applied pressure tactics, pointing out that it
was an amazing opportunity. We asked the loaded question: “Do you really want your life to stay the same? You’ll get a night in a hotel and a free meal. If you get in the taxi now.”
For compliance, we would do a mental health check asking about medication, diagnosis and suicide attempts. This was covered briefly in training week. Depression and anxiety were OK, as far as we were concerned. This helped, because I can’t remember many who didn’t seem depressed. Psychotic illnesses were usually a no-no. Suicide attempts could be swept under the carpet if they answered yes to the leading question: “Was it just a cry for help?”
At the studio, the persuasion stepped up a gear. The researchers were given a contributor each, to befriend and then “talk up”. Talking up was the code name for winding up. This entailed spending hours with them chatting, handing out free fags and appearing to be completely taking their side. At some point, we would start dropping in personal observations... “I probably shouldn’t say this, but I think X is making a fool of you! If I were you, I’d tell them *insert top line*.”
“Top line” was jargon for whatever we hoped they would say first: usually the most confrontational sentence we could imagine.
I once sat backstage with a man who thought his friend had been sleeping with his wife. The friend was giving Trisha his version first. I can only imagine my “talking up” wasn’t up to par that day because, when the doors opened for the man to go on stage, a producer stepped in. “That man’s cock has been inside your wife,” he said. The man, who had now been wound up for over two hours, ran on and tried to attack his friend.
On that occasion security moved quickly, so no one was physically harmed. But sometimes they were slower off the mark. Once two women clashed, and one managed to pull a handful of hair from the other’s scalp. The footage of this fight was shown in slow-mo at the summer wrap party, a dark tribute to the legacy of our work.
Aftercare was minimal, just a quick chat with a counsellor after the show. Occasionally people would call us after filming and beg us not to broadcast. I don’t remember any show being pulled for this reason, although once I managed to persuade the bosses to pay for three counselling sessions as a “gesture of goodwill”.
The vulnerability of the contributors meant they didn’t know how to raise grievances and they hadn’t heard of Ofcom. But there’s another reason this exploitation is able to happen. Entry-level staff are usually from working-class, or at least ordinary, backgrounds. We couldn’t afford to do free work experience to break into the industry; we didn’t have contacts to give us a leg up. The opportunity to work in television was so alluring that I felt grateful just to be there. I should have spoken up, but I didn’t think it was my place. Eventually, my conscience got the better of me. I handed in my notice.
Many of the staff from my Trisha days moved on to Jeremy Kyle when Trisha ended. I can’t say for sure how they operate there, but I do know it’s a specialist type of programming with vast similarities on screen. My account of these experiences has been put to Channel 5 and Trisha Goddard. Goddard declined to comment; Channel 5 pointed out that my claims relate to a time when they were under different ownership and management, so they were unable to comment.
My experience of factual television and documentaries, on the other hand, is that duty of care is taken very seriously. The production teams work hard to ensure contributors feel fairly represented, and want them to be glad they told their stories. But we need to ensure there is thorough and continuing aftercare for anyone who appears on television.
One day history will judge these programmes, and we will wonder that they were still on air in 2019. I’m glad time’s up for Jeremy Kyle. I’m just so sorry it took a death to have this conversation.
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