In the spotlight

Do you want to participate in a TV programme? I was asked one day. As an audience member, of course. Sure, why not, it might be an interesting experience, I thought. When I learned it’s a Jerry-Springer-type show, I winced, but curiosity won. After all, I had never visited a TV station before nor had taken part in any programme. This one was going to be recorded and I silently hoped they would make me sit somewhere where I would be invisible. Not that anyone would recognise me on this hemisphere, but just as a precaution. My boyfriend went with me (it was his idea!), but since the show’s host prefers female audiences, he was sent to the very corner of the bench and told not to stand up. I was granted no such privilege. Just the opposite. I don’t watch TV much and somehow I didn’t realise that the audience in the studio is expected to express loud joy/disapproval at crucial moments. Two production ladies made sure you knew when that was and encouraged you to give  your best. That meant having to clap (ok, I can do that much), wave your arms in the air (erm...),  stand up, sit down, stand up again, cheer when you, or the producers, liked what the guests said and boo when you/they didn’t. Pretty tiring, especially when you have a massive studio light shining right on your head, making you painfully aware of the power of television. Literally. The other females around me (the males were really well hidden) didn’t mind and, judging by the fancy dresses and heavy make-up, most of them seemed to think they were the stars of the night. In my jeans and Garfield top I stood out like a sore thumb.

By now you must be dying to hear what happened in the show. Nothing much. A well-endowed lady in her mid-twenties, and a very short evening dress, was accusing her ex-boyfriend/husband (sorry, I evidently wasn’t paying attention) of having betrayed her with two men at the same time and not paying child support, while he claimed not to be the father of her child. There was some pushing and shoving, with four bodyguards making sure it didn’t get out of hand, as well your regular, I suppose, cursing and blame-shifting. No tears, surprisingly, but instead, wait for it, wait for it! – some singing (the man), booty-shaking  to the rhythms of Brazilian funk (the woman) , shirt-ripping and chest-bearing (the man again)! If it’s your only chance to appear on television, you might as well make the most of it, right?

Spoiler alert. The production had had a DNA test made whose result was revealed towards the end. The man, having fiercely denied betrayal, was proved to be the father, to which the woman reacted: “Now you’re f***.” Steam rose from above the audience. I wanted to hide.

The photo was taken after the show was over.

In case you want to form your own opinion about the show, it's Programa do Ratinho @ SBT. Don't say I didn't warn you.