I was a producer on CBB Trisha Goddard’s chat show… we’d rile guests and I was forced to do humiliating check on them
FOR me, seeing Trisha Goddard on Celebrity Big Brother has been a stark reminder of a very different era of TV.
It’s been 18 years since I worked as a producer on the star’s iconic Trisha Goddard Channel 5 chat show.
Viewers tuned in to watch families sort out their differences, but behind the scenes appeared to be a world built on manipulation, trickery, and exploitation – one I’ve come to deeply regret being part of.
Vulnerable guests were coaxed into starting conflicts in front of our studio audience, enticed by the promise of a free hotel stay and dinner.
Bosses appeared to rub their hands with glee when guests lost their temper, seeing vicious flare ups as ratings gold.
On the surface, the show helped people deal with their problems, but behind closed doors the truth of what really went on was much murkier.
Fiery US talk shows like The Jerry Springer Show and Ricki Lake had already made their mark in the 1990s, and the appetite for British equivalents was rife in the early Noughties.
The Jeremy Kyle Show and Trisha Goddard were firm fixtures on viewers’ daytime TV schedules.
People were hooked on watching salacious stories explode on their living room TV screens while calmly sipping a cuppa.
Throw in a cheating partner with a lie detector test and that was the morning’s entertainment sorted. And if a chair was chucked across the stage – even better.
I’d been happily working as a newspaper reporter for two years at the end of 2006, but it paid badly and I kept thinking about getting into television.
I spotted a vacancy on a journalists’ website for a Researcher role on Trisha. The ITV morning chat show had moved over to Channel 5 in 2005, and was made by Trisha’ Goddard’s own production company; Norwich-based Town House TV Productions.
The job was based at their Norwich office for four days of the week, with one day in their Maidstone studio. I was ambitious and carefree, so my London base was no obstacle.
I soon found myself in a Norwich business park, being interviewed for the role. The first red flag should have been Town House TV’s soulless HQ, which screamed anything but ‘television’.
I was offered a Producer job; one level up from Researcher. This far exceeded my credentials, but of course I accepted.
My £14,000 annual salary was about to soar by a whopping £8,000. And I had a job in TV!
‘Brutal entertainment machine’
Heading to the bright lights of Norwich, I secured ‘digs’ for my office days.
I was under qualified, over excited and completely unaware that I was walking into a brutal entertainment machine.
I wasn’t daft. I knew my integrity would take a sidestep at times. But I didn’t know that I’d be encouraged to rile up volatile guests to ensure anger levels were high and explosive scenes guaranteed.
I also didn’t sign up to forming trusting relationships with risky characters – one of whom was a convicted, rehabilitated rapist who was determined to get my phone number for a date.
I politely declined. But there was jeopardy on every corner, as we could never risk losing the guests.
On my first day, I was assigned to a small team with a Senior Producer. I was immediately handed a pile of ‘trail’, which was hundreds of phone numbers of would-be guests that I was tasked with getting on the show.
It all felt very shameful, very quickly
These were people who’d called or texted the Trisha telephone number that flashed on the screen during the programme, inviting them to get help from the lady herself. They’d leave messages with their woes.
I was ploughing through my ‘trail’, most of which was ‘old trail’ – these people had been called three times already.
Some would say they’d phoned the Trisha number in a moment of madness.
I had to respond with: “Are you sure you don’t need Trisha to make him see sense?” Or: “Trisha says she can find out the truth for you.”
It all felt very shameful, very quickly.
One of my Senior Producer’s demands was that I always check over the phone that potential guests had teeth.
They point-blank refused to recruit anyone with rotting or missing teeth, no matter how good their story.
Approaching that question was always incredibly awkward, I found. Other producers weren’t so fussy.
Another lesson in guest-booking was to hard-sell the complimentary hotel stay and free meal vouchers the lucky guests would be treated to.
They’d be transported to Maidstone on the night before their studio appearance. This was hard to resist, for some.
‘Talking up’ method
Trisha’s team would be bussed down to Maidstone each week also. We’d all be on tenterhooks as the guests would inevitably get drunk and call us at all hours.
We’d have to calm them down and coax them to bed, with our fingers firmly crossed for them showing up the next day.
The most shocking part of my time on Trisha was the ‘talking up’ method used to antagonise guests by, for example, saying they’d heard their ex partner backstage slagging them off, or similar.
Or telling them this was their big chance to storm on stage to confront their enemy, and that Trisha would back them up.
Some of the guests were clearly vulnerable, and I was playing no part in winding them up when their lives seemed woeful enough
‘Talking up’ was deemed a fine skill that we must hone and the best talker-uppers were praised.
During my six months on the show, I somehow successfully swerved all ‘talking up’. I would’ve been useless at it.
Some of the guests were clearly vulnerable, and I was playing no part in winding them up when their lives seemed woeful enough.
My boss would collar me for it occasionally but I always brought the stories to the stage without it.
A big fear was the conflicting guests would run into each other ahead of the show, despite being in separate hotels. Arguments were to be saved for the stage, at all costs.
I was working on a ‘cheating’ story, where a woman wanted to confront her boyfriend over suspected infidelity, which he was denying.
We’d secretly brought in the man’s mistress and my ‘one big job’ of that morning was to keep her hidden in her dressing room – ahead of a stage reveal.
I went to the bathroom and lo and behold the mistress had escaped and was spotted by the cheating man. I was in big trouble!
The lie-detector test was now ruined. The man threatened to walk – clearly terrified of the reveal.
But a researcher convinced him that it was best to come clean and that his girlfriend had said she might forgive him anyway. She had not said that.
Each week felt like going to war, and we’d be mentally and physically ravaged after the jeopardy-packed studio days
A huge row erupted on the show, with the mistress flying into a rage and launching at the girlfriend.
Security was on hand. Trisha advised the girlfriend to leave him. She agreed. I have no idea what happened in their lives post Trisha.
There was a counsellor on the team but I was never sure if the after-care they promised ever happened.
As a viewer, Trisha seemed kind.
But on her show, she had very little to do with her guests. You can’t blame her, when you cast your mind back to some of her clientele.
But still, I thought she might display some tough love – of sorts – off camera.
She’d always do a ‘walk-around’ of the guests’ dressing rooms ahead of filming. They idolised her and some would come bearing flowers.
I once heard that Trisha hated this part – particularly the flowers.
‘Dark appetite for drama’
We very rarely saw Trisha at the studios. She’d stay in her dressing room and the senior producers would meet with her ahead of filming, to run through her guests’ briefs.
One of my biggest shows was an episode with a woman accusing her own mother of stealing a watch worth thousands of pounds.
The mum, an unassuming lady in her late 50s, was taking a lie detector test. She failed the test and all hell broke loose with a shouting match.
I was watching a family fall apart on stage and it was awful. But the bosses seemed delighted.
I left Trisha in the summer of 2007 for a much lighter TV job, which I loved. In many ways I was thankful for the Trisha experience. It springboarded my career.
And I admired the sheer tenacity of the team, most of whom were good people. Each week felt like going to war and we’d be mentally and physically ravaged after the jeopardy-packed studio days.
It was well-known that bosses were fearful that an undercover reporter would be in the audience. The show’s methods could never be revealed.
In hindsight, I believe that the Trisha show was less about helping people and more about feeding a dark appetite for drama at any cost.
The scars left on the guests and the toll on those of us behind the scenes are still felt.
But I’m grateful for the lessons learned and for leaving behind a world that traded in people’s pain for ratings.
A spokesman for Trisha said: “I cannot speak for what Producers may or may not have done behind the scenes.
“What I can say though is Trisha is a lady totally above repute and has always been exemplary in her treatment of others. Throughout her thirty years plus career, Trisha has always been deeply thoughtful and caring to those around her.”
A 5 spokesperson said: “Trisha Goddard ran on Channel 5 from 2004 – 2010 and was produced by Town House TV.
“This is a historical complaint, which we are unaware of, from a period when Channel 5 was under different management and ownership.
“The wellbeing and welfare of everyone who works on and appears on our programmes is incredibly important to us and we have in place comprehensive policies and processes to ensure that the experience of those working on and contributing to our shows is a positive one.”