Don’t get me wrong, I love living in London, but London in January is a sure-fire way to work out the optimists from the pessimists.
I think it’s probably because, even though December is cold and dark, all the bright lights and sparkle of Christmas take the edge off. The decorations, the beautiful shopfronts and markets, the Winter Wonderland – come January, all gone, just the empty spaces and bad weather. The sky looks extra gloomy today, although it could be how I’m feeling. It’s one of those days where I wish I could have stayed in bed but instead I’m trekking across the city, weaving in and out of crowds of people who probably also wished they didn’t have to get up today. It’s cold and it’s wet. Not even my emotional support latte is doing much to take the edge off.
I toyed with the idea of a New Year’s resolution, and the best thing I could come up with (other than continuing to swear off men) was to stop spending £10 on a coffee and a croissant on my walk to work. You might think I’ve failed, because I have a coffee, but I got a cookie instead of a croissant, taking the price from £10 to £8.50. Saving £1.50 a day for – what? – 260 working days a year, that’s an annual saving of £390. I’ll be on the property ladder before I know it!
Sarcasm aside, I don’t really buy into that ‘new year, new me’ crap. There’s just no way that singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and counting down with Big Ben can suddenly usher you into being a better person. Plus, why wait for the end of the year to be better? You can do it any day. Or you can stay who you are, unashamedly, because really, is the world going to change if I drink less coffee? Probably not for the better, I can be a grumpy cow without caffeine (yes, this is me on caffeine – I know, I’m a delight).
There’s a reason I am the way I am. Last year was… well, it’s not worth talking about, let’s just say I’ve no desire to look back at it too closely anytime soon. It’s in a mental box marked 2025 that I have no intentions of opening for a while.
The only thing that is new this year is that someone is on my mind – Lockie. I know, I only interacted with him for like ten minutes, and it was for work, but he made quite the impression. I think it’s a work thing though. I just think he would be so much better than the usual kind of bloke we cast. I’m professionally thinking about him, I swear. I’m not attracted to him… well, no, okay, I’ll admit he’s gorgeous, anyone into guys would think he was gorgeous, but it starts and stops there. I think Lockie is a catch – but for work.
I work in casting, onWelcome to Singledom, a reality TV survival dating show. Think something likeSurvivor, orNaked and Afraid, combined with something young and sexy likeLove Island. We plonk single men and women on an island where they have to couple up to survive. It’s survival of the fittest – you want to find yourself a partner who can help you not only survive until the end but, for the big finale, there’s a public vote to win too. If a couple simply survive together then their prize is nothing more than bragging rights. But if the public vote says viewers think it’s true love, then the winning couple get £100k to share. Of course, most of the contestants these days are on there to find fame and fortune, not love, so the prize money is by the by compared to the sponsorship deals they can bag themselves after the show. This is why I think someone like Lockie would be great. These days it’s always influencers and wannabe Z-listers who think the show will raise their profile, and if it wasn’t this show, it would be a different one. It’s always the same gym bros, the same girls – who often quite literally have the same face, because they tend to go to the same celebrity surgeon for their TV-ready faces.
It’s no secret that ratings have been dipping over the years. We’ve gone from must-watch, everyone’s-talking-about-it TV to almost like a parody of ourselves. A rite of passage for fame-hungry, veneer-clad, beautiful people who go to secure their collabs with clothing retailers like ABO, or to get a free hair transplant, or whatever. It’s not churning out household names and nation’s sweethearts like it used to. The post-show deals are drying up, reserved only for those who make themselves the main characters, and it just all feels so contrived and soulless. This is why I think we need to switch it up, to go back to people who are more real, people like Lockie. People with more than just drive and a ring light. People with substance, with intelligence. People you want to watch, on a show where anything could happen, where anyone could win.
All of the above is why we’re trying something new with the casting this year – my idea, of course. Going out and about, meeting real people, asking them if they want to take part. I’m sick of scanning Instagram for who is popular, or being approached by agents with ‘the next big reality star’. I’m not sure how much luck I had at the speed dating – Lockie felt like a great catch, but Julie passed on my details to everyone I requested, and I haven’t heard from him yet. We’ll just have to wait and see.
Transitioning from the cold street to the lobby of The Cactus building, where OutOfTheBox (theWelcome to Singledomproduction company) is based, the warm air wraps me up like a big hug – not that the vibe here is at all cosy. It’s all chrome and glass, with security guards eyeballing you suspiciously as you pass through the barrier, and then obviously everyone is coming here for work, so the place is just a blur of stressed-out people clutching coffee cups (or smoothies – I always notice an influx of smoothies in January).
I’m lucky enough to catch the lift solo, which means I can check out my make-up in the mirror, make sure my hair hasn’t frizzed in the winter air. It’s a brief pause, the only bit of calm I get during my workdays, before the doors open and it’s more chaotic than ever. People are always running around with clipboards. I work here, and I’m never really sure why, but we always feel right on the edge of an emergency. There are live TV shows recorded here – everything from quiz shows to rolling news channels – so I always imagine it’s something wild, like a major story breaking, rather than a particularly difficult quiz show host insisting his decaf coffee has caffeine in it and he wants someone fired.
I suppose one of the best things about working with people who want to be famous, instead of people who already are, is it means they’re so eager to please – they want to make you happy, not get you fired because you watched them eat.
We’re kicking the day off with a meeting so I head straight for the meeting room. Inside, I find Tara and Jamila scrolling TikToks together while they wait to get started. They’re both a bit younger than me, in their mid-twenties, but for some reason they feel a lot younger than me – or, more specifically, I feel a lot older than them. Sometimes the Millennial vs Gen Z divide feels too real. Every now and then I’ll have no idea what they’re talking about, or they’ll give me a look that makes me feel like I’m a thousand. It’s not that I’m especially uncool, or out of touch, but sometimes I’ll reference something from the nineties and they’ll remind me that they weren’t born.
‘Cleo!’ Tara says with an adorable squeak when she sees me. ‘How did it go last night? Did you meet anyone fit? Anyone perfect for the new season?’
Jamila looks up from her phone, raising an eyebrow in anticipation. Tara is the friendly one, Jamila is the cool (verging on cold) one.
‘I’m thinking from the smug look on her face that she did,’ Jamila says dryly.
I’m not in love with being told I have a smug face, but it’s nice to have something good to report back. Something to get excited about.
I hang up my coat and sink into a chair.
‘I don’t know if he’s on board yet but I think I’ve found someone kind of perfect,’ I tell them.
‘Perfect?’ Tara repeats back to me. ‘My gosh, Cleo, tell us everything. Come on, spill. Name, age, location, job, hobbies, follower count, the size of his?—’
‘Morning,’ Simon, the showrunner, says as he joins us. He throws his breakfast, a bagel with tuna and cheese (I could never, not first thing in the morning), down on the table like he’s mad at it. Luckily it’s well wrapped, because no one wants to have this meeting over a fishy table. ‘I’m only hearing good news today. If you have anything bad to tell me, I highly suggest you resign.’
He’s joking but he isn’t. Simon isn’t a man you want to get on the wrong side of. Of course, when you’re pleasing him, if you can somehow worm your way into the position of his favourite (he always has one – and only one – favourite) then your working life is a dream. For everyone else it’s kind of a nightmare, especially when the show is on the ropes, and the viewing figures just seem to keep going down and down. Do you know what, I think he’s fired someone (not necessarily anyone who has done anything wrong though) each time the show has taken a hit in ratings. This year that person can’t be me.
Simon is in his forties, but he almost defies age, he’s demographic-less, he’s too into his job to be anything but a vehicle for TV. It used to be that anything he touched turned to gold, but withWelcome to Singledomon the rocks, his reputation is getting away from him and he’s not happy about it. Of course, it’s not his fault, it’s the incompetent staff, the dull contestants, the idiot viewers who don’t know what’s good for them. It’s anyone’s fault but his.
In my opinion the show isn’t failing because of the fault of any one person or any particular thing, it’s just that as we’ve moved from season to season it’s become a bit samey, a bit predictable, and I think people just need to see something new, something to get them interested in the show again.
‘Cleo has found us someone perfect,’ Tara tells him.
‘He’s different to our usual type,’ I’m quick to add, before Simon gets his hopes up.
‘Different?’ he says, narrowing his eyes at me. ‘We don’t want different, and we definitely don’t want perfect – we need a villain.’
Simon is of the opinion that it’s easier to get viewers to hate a contestant than it is to get them to love them.
‘I mean he’s perfect for the show, for mixing things up,’ I clarify. ‘But to have a villain, you need a hero…’
‘Okay, go on, tell us about your perfect hero,’ he says as he unwraps his bagel. The sarcasm in his voice is unmistakable but it’s not worth me correcting him again.
