Murder Most Famous: the liveblog

This is an experiment. Not just for me, but for television. It’s the premiere of the BBC reality miniseries “Murder Most Famous,” which, the TV guide tells me, is “an ambitious writing competition in which six famous faces compete to have their first work of fiction published under the watchful eye of author, Minette Walters.”

I’ve been looking forward to this show for weeks. And early this morning I saw one of the contestants, tabloid columnist Kelvin MacKenzie, on the BBC’s breakfast news. MacKenzie was so breathtakingly snide — about the show, the other contestants, and Minette Walters — that I’m now giddy with anticipation. Maybe his rivals, or Madame Judge, will kill him live on network TV. Let’s watch!

1:30 pm. Bad start. The show is on, but I’m at my son’s school. Fortunately, I’m recording it. This post should now be called “the delayed-blog.” But I’m lying for a living, so we’ll stick with “live.” Here we go.

2:30 pm. The contestants are going to be pushed to the edge “physically, mentally and emotionally.” We see a woman in tears. At the end of each episode the celebrity with the least potential will “be silenced for good” – eliminated. Angela Griffin, Matt Allwright, Brendan Cole, Kelvin MacKenzie, Sherrie Hewson, Diarmuid Gavin. I’ve already had to stop and rewind nineteen times to get all six names. Who are these people? “Six aspiring authors” who are going to spend 15 days immersed in the world of murder mystery. On a fabulous English country estate, followed by a camera crew. Oh, so it’s just like my life, then.

2:35 pm. They’re about to meet Minette Walters, who will be their “mentor and their judge.” She’s waiting in the Library, with a candlestick. No, not really. It’s a fountain pen. She’ll be looking for “great writing, ingenious plotting, and strong characterization.” Please channel Simon Cowell, Ms. Walters. Please, please, please.

2:45 pm. This liveblogging is harder than it looks. The dog doesn’t understand that I’m trying to do this in real time. He wants out.

Back. Aha – the aspiring writers are “celebrities.” That’s why I couldn’t place them! A garden designer, an actress, the snide tabloid columnist, a ballroom dancer, a television journalist, and another actress who says straight off, “I don’t have the writing skills…”

And next week, I join the cast of “Suitcase Nuke: disarm it!” I don’t have the skills, so I figure I’d be perfect.

2:50 pm. Voiceover: “The world of crime fiction writing is notoriously cutthroat. Which of our hopefuls will have what it takes to write the others out of the competition?” I’d laugh, but I’m busy wiring up the argon laser that I’m going to use to wipe out my rivals at the next Crime Writers’ Association meeting.

2:55 pm. Rule 1: Devise a credible murder. But first, a research task. Investigate a murder scene! A gruesome scene, re-enacted by experts in the field. The contestants are variously excited and nervous. They go out with scenes of crime officers to investigate – to look for clues. The actresses are having a hard time keeping their beautiful hair fully tucked under the forensic caps. It just wants to break free and blow gloriously and attractively in the wind, all over the crime scene.

3:05 pm. The celebrities sit in a darkened room with ominous music playing, coming up with theories as to how the crime scene victims died. When do we get to the writing?

3:06 pm. One of the women shouts, “Drug deal gone wrong!” Is that a theory, or some kind of personal confession? Now they have two days to write a 500 word description of a murder.

3:10 pm. The celebrities talk about writing. Diarmuid Gavin says he’s a garden designer, and the world of garden design is just like the world of murder. Ballroom dancer Brendan Cole says he doesn’t read books. He doesn’t enjoy it. He reads five pages and his brain switches off.

Did I mention that the winner of this competition gets a publishing contract? The episode is half over and we haven’t heard one word that anybody has written.

3:15 pm. Minette sends the contestants to a hospital. Sherrie Hewson figures it’s to see bandages. Angela Griffin figures they’re either going to see “the corpses and the morgue” or “they might even open someone up and we’ll see their insides.” And yes, they’re going to a morgue. Because Minette’s second rule of crime writing is “Do your research.” Everybody looks very, very pale. They’re gowned and gloved, but Sherrie Hewson might want to stop sucking on her thumb once they start the autopsy.

3:20 pm. Hahaha – the corpse is only a dummy! All six celebrities stop vomiting, grab bone saws, and hack the forensic pathologist to death.

Sadly, no. And they don’t even get to do a real autopsy, which they were so, so hoping to do, as were the police, I’m sure.

3:21 pm. My husband walks through the room. Sees the celebs examining the “corpse.” Shouts, “My God, he’s got three testicles!”

I think he’s talking about the rubber dead man. But I don’t know for sure.

3:28 pm. Writing! Finally, the point of the competition! We’re going to hear the opening scenes all the contestants have written. Or not. We get snippets, a sentence or two. A severed head in a soccer goal. Yobs. Smart-ass jokes. Minette does not look threatened by what she’s seen so far. Sherrie: “I know it’s not well-written. I know I’m not a writer.” Excuse me a moment. THEN WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? “But I have passion.” She gets applause when she reads. Minette notes that she has “trouble with punctuation, and with tenses.” Sherrie sucks her finger.

3:38 pm. Minette picks Angela as her strongest pupil. And as for who must go home…

She hasn’t decided. She sends them outside. Cheater!

3:41 pm. “Little do the contestants realize that one of them will be silenced forever.” Truly? Didn’t anybody tell them the rules of this gig?

Snide Kelvin is safe. Sweet “maybe we’ll see their insides” Angela is safe. So is Sherrie, who has passion but no punctuation. Matt is safe. Brendan and Diarmuid are the only ones left. And Brendan is out! Or maybe dead. We never see him again. Just a body bag being slid into a cold storage locker with a bright cheerful toe-tag that says “Brendan Cole.”

Maybe poor Brendan tried to read it, and his brain switched off. For good.

And that’s it. Until tomorrow. And now back to work.