What could I do to find another successful group of friends, they usually are, to form another choir for my hugely popular TV series The Choir? I have exhausted the ideas, choices and myself in putting this show on the road. Travelling the length and breadth of the UK many times, repeating the journeys several times to meet the groups, rehearse them, appoint a mentor, visit again with them and get to choose the final short list was a struggle, not to mention semi-finals, finals, involved a lot of logistics and finally fond and sad farewells.

Bren, my wife was worried I might conk out even at my young age of 41 because of the stress. Eve and Gregory our kids had no idea of that but missed me as I did them. But, and it’s a big but, we needed the money, so I was determined to try one last episode which would see us safe.

I racked my brains, scouring lists, thinking of obscure groups of people which the big dirty public could be interested in, from a choir point of view. It had to be the singing – for fucks sake I had met some pretty ordinary souls and some exceedingly ugly ones too, but my idea of ugly doesn’t include the male of the species, they are just guys.

The TV kicked my mind at breakfast. That very annoying presenter on the BBC Nora Manchester, her shrill voice was once again rudely interrupting some expert, not letting him get a word in at all – the cow! Bren admonished me for snarling at the screen – I do it often and anyway the nanny had taken the children to school, but that brown, smarmy and – I must add - very attractive woman was one of my pet hates and is a proverbial pain in the arse. I had met her on that show and at a couple of award ceremonies and in person she is just as irritating and shrill as on telly. However she is good looking and feeds my constant demand for watching any coloured women in any circumstances. I have never shagged one but I would shag Nora, and Serena Walliams, Michelle Oboma, Diana Abbet, Opiah Windey, Tyria Barks, Giana Mills et al.

“She wouldn’t get on one of your programmes Gav,” Bren chuckled, loading the dish washer.

“No she effing wouldn’t darling,” I agreed squeezing past her to get to my study. In doing so I placed my hands on her hips and felt her round soft shape through the white cotton tee-shirt she wears for bed. Many men would have reached down below it’s hem and felt her bare arse and pussy, she was always bareback in bed, but I knew she didn’t like that sort of thing – never has been one for impulsive sex, needing a romantic and measured foreplay. On my way to my studio I thought, because my hand had been so close to it, about Bren’s twat. It’s neat, just like her, no large fanny flaps and a trimmed bush, down to a limit which I just about approve of, although I like a shaggy forest really.

I glanced in the hall mirror and vainly examined my hair. It’s really greying and at 41, it’s ridiculous, but my dad’s was the same and Bren reckons the stress of making the choir projects doesn’t help. Bren is attractive, dark auburn hair to her shoulders, with a lovely round face. She’s always been a bit dumpy, OK legs, never a Page 3 stunner, superb mum, lovely manners and attitude and was, I say was a damn good shag. For some reason she’s off sex at the moment, but that’s married life – maybe it was me - can’t recall. I found something on the internet and called her into the study as she passed to go up stairs. She’s very intelligent and educated with an MA for ... I can’t remember. She read the item and said she would look in detail later, after popping to Waitrose for something for dinner.

Off she went about an hour later, looking very yummy mummy like in a floral dress, bare legs, two inch kitten heels, her hair up, all of which made me more randy so I sneaked a look at favourite voyeur videos, can’t resist, being addicted and happened on one titled Indian Aunty takes a shower. Nearly all those videos feature large – So I have never minded the fuller bodied lady, mature, native women, never the refined, wealthy, westernised wives of industrialists that country is becoming renowned for. But anyway I jerked a swift one into a tissue, viewing this plump, very brown, elderly native woman washing her enormous, swinging tits – she had massive nipples - and swiping a cloth through her crotch. Under her saggy belly it was just possible to see a large outcrop of pubes and I cursed the amateurish skills of the voyeur who took the video. I resumed my search. Bren had left the TV on in the kitchen and that fucking Nora screeched again and suddenly and idea bloomed.

If I could muster a crew of British ‘slebs’, controlling it myself with no outside influence, could I sell the idea to the programmers? The fame culture is rife at the moment – for fucks sake I am one apparently and they had been badgering me about another series. The idea met with Bren’s approval. I took it to the management, they took their time as usual and after several months, granted me carte blanch on choice with a rider that I had to include all of the PC issues. Fuck! that means queers and disabled.

Breakfast again and fucking big mouth Manchester nagged at me again. Thinking back to several of the previous programmes there were some times when individuals were in receipt of my personal one to one attention. Nora had been in Strictly Come Dancing and the ‘sleb’ contestants had personal dance tuition, not from me, so she would have had.

Amongst my contacts in the corporation, there’s a chap Jim, I know well, I did his wife Imelda a favour shoehorning, that’s a laugh if you saw Imelda into the first ever Army Wives choir after she failed the auditions. Jim can lay his hands on just about anything, he was so grateful.

Oddly she was as black as the ace of spades, very very ugly and seriously pregnant, but I could have got her into the choir easily if I could have got into her knickers easily, ugly or not, a black ugly cunt would have broken my duck and I’m not proud and fussy, but it didn’t happen and when it comes to singing I am strict, not about fucking. When I had commented on his wife’s bubbly persona, Jim was very gratified, thankful his beautiful, his words wife was still around when he finished his armed forces service and returned from Afghanistan. We got chatting about women in general and my liking for black women’s looks and he tipped me off about some videos, hence her late admission to the choir. He failed on not telling me about Imelda’s body, but that wasn’t part of the general discussion.

He promised to seek out in-house videos of Nora’s practice and tuition sessions, no questions asked, and duly got them to me. Some of these clips were shown on prime time build ups to the main show, both went on for months and some weren’t. I studied them in slo mo, where she showed legs, leotarded crotch, little cleavage etc. Hmm! Worth a try I thought. But why? She was extremely annoying on Breakfast and also the clips I had, but if I could engineer a way of fucking her wow! It would be breaking a duck, shagging a well known and loved??? ‘sleb’ and ridding myself of her infernal annoyance. I could watch and listen to her, smug in the knowledge she’d opened her legs for me. Beat that Charles Stout, but maybe he’d shafted her, who cares, I was on a mission, a very dangerous mission, putting my job at risk.

There was a lot of toing and froing but I ended up with a final list of ‘slebs’ who were conned into appearing in a mega special charity show just before Christmas, when it was on screen, but no details of the conetnt and my choir were released to them. I had whittled it down as bit of private fun to match Nora in terms of ‘slebs’ who I can’t stand. The names I wanted all agreed, it was amazing the pull of this programme and the group I was going to meet in the TV centre in London were Mike Portico, Euan Davies, Zandr Bell, Tassie Darly, Mitt Barker, Marion Margoyes, Jonny Carven, Stella Macgiven and Elspeth Harmison and of course – thankfully Nora Manchester.

I did ask that smug, stuck up bitch Fiona Bruce, who seems to be on TV everywhere, but she refused. The stick insect she is, had no sexual interests for me – I’d just love to get near and humiliate her.

The chosen few were all in one of the green rooms where there was a supply of wines and nibbles. Jim had engineered a secret viewing for me of them all via a so-called smoke alarm which concealed a motion/audio sensitive camera, linked to a monitor in one of the many green rooms and offices in the TV centre, since a lot of executives and engineers had transferred to the new place at Salford Quays, Manchester. Dress code had been casual but with plain tee-shirts.

It was fascinating to watch and hear for a while.

I had made more or less the plans I had for the series and the various ‘roles’ the individuals would appear as. Not fancy dress, just my ideas. Mike would be the token stuffy, ex puffta, ex-politician, Euan the token queer, Marion the token fat lesbian, Stella the good looking dyke, Tassie and Zandra the good looking, typical blondes, Nora the token coloured and the rest, including Portico were TV presenters who had to get their self important selves in by asking the interviewees ‘this looks interesting, can I have a go?’ ... so annoying.

“I thought we were told to wear casual, toned down gear Mike?” asked Nora, as usual blunt, sipping her white wine and thinking the pompous half Spanish railway lover looked the right dork. The token coloured woman, my main target, wore a close fitting black and white striped tee-shirt over a very tight black, leather, thigh length skirt, patent leather black stilettos and sheer black tights, they couldn’t be stockings?

“These yellow pants are toned down, I’ve got brighter,” answered the posh ex-member of Parliament in his usual plummy tones, as if his innermost feelings were damaged, smoothing his trousered thigh, surreptitiously swiping away Euans’ bony hand. He wore a very plain tight white shirt. He looks the right poncy puffta strutting around the country with his railway guide clutched to his chest.

“I’ve got what I fucking dressed in, don’t have any tee-shirts and with my body, you know why,” shrieked Marion, her enormous, wobbling bosoms held high on her crossed arms. Her floral patterned dress hem had risen several inches above her bare, knobbly, fat knees, leaving Carven, in a programme logoed pale blue loose tee-shirt, who was sat on the floor, she took up two seats, gazing blankly round, still trying to work out why he had agreed to this stupid idea with these horrid people. He was also trying to ignore those horridly unsavoury views up the fat dykes obese thighs.

Mitt - dressed very sensibly in jeans and coincidently the same shirt as Carven and lounging behind Elspeth, was thinking how he’d like to get down and dirty with Zandra, who was scanning People magazine. She wore the skimpiest of black mini skirts, with a high neck line, body hugging black tee-shirt, opaque black tights and stupid six inch high stilettos.

Elspeth and Tassie were deep in what could be described as an intimate conversation, perched precariously as girls do on the very edge of a sofa, one buttock on, knees touching, Elspeth gazing at Tassie’s nipples, daringly bra less, thrusting through a very thin, pale pink tee-shirt over a black pencil skirt, while Tassie, obviously thinking she was the queen bee and big attraction, continually held her hand, stroking the small, natural blonde’s forearm. She also had the same shirt as Matt and Carven. Obviously hoping to promote their progs. Elspeth, like her Countryfile colleague Mitt wore jeans.

“Any idea what this is all about?” asked Mitt impatiently.

“No but I saw Gavin Moran in the foyer,” replied Carven, Whoops, was I rumbled?

“I had a chat to Jeremia Poxman in the restaurant,” Elspeth piped up as Tassie lost interest,

“Singing and intelligence? That means I’ll fuck off now,” shrieked Marion, throwing her arms up, massive bingo wings threatening to wash away the whole group.

“We don’t know a thing, let’s just wait and see,” said Mike pompously, hating the uncouth fish wife language the fat old bat used. “The meeting starts in fifteen minutes ... I’m sorry Euan, can I get past, I need the little boys room, excuse me.” He got up, Euan, on a mission, made sure their thighs rubbed as Portico aimed for the door. Euan thought about going to splash his boots in the Gents too, but Mike glowered discouragingly down at him as if to say don’t you even think about it sunshine.

“Why are you holding your arm like that Mike?” asked a grinning Tassie, noticing his right arm folded up towards his chest, full well knowing it was his way of stalking with interest round various places clutching a fucking knackered old book about railways. Mike didn’t reply, tossing his fine head back and sniffingly exited, trying to ignore the hoots of laughter as he stomped down the corridor.

A lot of showbiz banter carried on and I waited for Portico to return, following him in seconds later after asking Jim, to keep the camera running and to email the video when complete.

The green room must have been silenced for the first time in it’s many occupations as the group stared at me, with eyes wide and jaws dropped.

“Shit, it is Gavin Moran,” shrieked Nora. “Oh wow.” She did her Breakfast programme trick of retaining her dignity, in other words, keeping her knees tightly together so nobody can accuse her of flashing on screen and twisting to face me with a big white toothed grin.

“I’m off, sorry...” stated Marion trying to rise from her chair, Carven, standing and giving her a helping hand to grab.

Tassie sat up straight, smiled and thrust her nipples at me. Elspeth rushed to me, grabbing me and gushed her hellos, kissing me saying she loved what I did for people. Carven failed the Margoyes test and she clumped heavily back into the chair, her legs apart, one up in the air and I got a scintillating view of her white cotton gusset. She swore, tried and managed to correct the view as Carven tried to grin, embarrassed at the same unfortunate wardrobe malfunction.

The others just sat saying hello, with puzzled expressions. I explained the concept of the programme, dissuading Marion from leaving, knowing she has quite an outstanding voice, but her self conciousness prevents her from taking on anything in a natural way, she’d rather be acting in character. There was a lively debate; I didn’t lose any of them, but it was easy to spot the ones really keen to have a go. Plans for the near future in terms of one to one auditions, group auditions, practice times, rehearsals and personal targets. They all left seemingly happy except Marion who being poised to leave all the way through the talking, so I asked her to be the first to have a personal chat and little voice test.

Reluctantly she remained, agreeing she had time, the others left and I escorted the hugely fat, diminutive in height, grey fuzzy haired, 75 yr old Jewish lady to a small studio, granted with reserved access to me and the group, by the corporation as it was their show to be kept ultra secret. It was aimed to be one of their major Christmas fundraisers – there are so many now. She waddled alongside me talking non-stop in self deprecating tones.

Her dress had a neckline which did reveal a fair amount of her chest. The was a lot of cleavage, which I could peer down as we approached the designated room. It wobbled deliciously and I mused on the brassiere that was supporting her vast mammaries. Somewhere in the future I might get into her changing room and check out the no doubt clever piece of underwear design – plus girth and cup size of course.

Sitting at the piano I got her to try some scales. Standing next to her I explained the source of our voices, the diaphragm, which proved hilarious to her as she gestured to what would have been somewhere near her midriff.

“It’s in there somewhere Gavin, ‘ she guffawed.

“Here I’ll show you,” I replied and without warning, I placed the flat of my hand where I reckoned hers would be.

Marion didn’t leap back with fright and actually took several deep breaths then said,”You feeling my knickers you naughty boy?”

My hand was removed within seconds, before she queried and while I stammered my apologies it did occur to me that I had actually felt the waist band of her knickers and the bulges of flesh above it. Her pants were pulled up high and must have been as big as parachutes. We got over that with a lot of giggles and the audition was complete.

Through the next few days I completed the private auditions and all went to plan.

Finally I got to Nora, having endured several Breakfast programmes in the background, with and her annoying shrill voice and interruptions. It gave me plenty of views of her knees for fucks sake, but I knew that’s all I would get, she’s nailed the careful knees together routine, therefore no wardrobe malfunctions as they call it. I had negotiated access to a recording studio in London, which was secure and very private, equipped with toilets, piano and furniture together from a lot of wiring and a sound studio with very technical looking desks and stuff. We met there, straight after she had played golf which was her passion, playing off 9 at Batchworth Golf Club, that’s not bad. She had changed and showered at her club, and arrived, highly impressed with the location, in a white polo shirt with a black collar, a loose mini skirt, black semi opaque tights and impossibly high stilettos. She looked hot.

Her voice was bad, way way off good and would need a lot of practice and auditions beyond today and I had to tell her that on this showing I couldn’t include her. Her face was classic pleading, as were her arms, gestures, words and everything in a females armoury she could use, She was obviously fixed on joining the choir as one of her major charities we would be supporting was a lesser known one United Response and she was aiming to be the top dog. At one point I was engulfed in her pleading arms, she being slightly taller than I and with those killer heels, I got a notion of some not inconsiderable boobs, in a brassiere. I enjoyed it and drank in her perfume, while she pleaded.

She was devastated as I warned that she might lose out. I gave her some practice routines and arranged to meet in a week’s time (I knew too short) - same place and time.

We did and Nora had chosen a buttoned up floral blouse, a cardigan in blue grey tones, a check knee length full skirt, tan tights and brown court shoes, looking to me in school marmish garb. In mitigation she explained she had previously attended a school governors meeting and the headmaster preferred the parents to dress in that manner to set an example. Sounded like bullshit to me, but it was a high fee paying, private school and well known for it’s tight policy on uniforms. Maybe the school meeting had given her an air of dominance. She was very strict in adhering to my routines and was still utter crap. On top of the noise, yes that’s it – noise of her singing, she couldn’t hold a tune. Shit she was awful. Calmly – for a change she accepted my negative comments which were delivered in the nicest possible way. I didn’t want to deter her completely as I was aiming at getting some of Jim’s expertise installing cameras in the toilets to capture her in a private domain so I was happy to prolong the schedule for Nora, the others were all doing quite well.