Experience: "I won £32,500 on a game show"

It all started as a joke. I always fancied myself as a quiz show connoisseur, but the most I’d won for my general knowledge was a Fortnum & Mason hamper at the local school fête. I routinely rang up the ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire’ contestant hotline in the late nineties, but Chris Tarrant never got back to me.

One bitterly cold winter’s day in 2003, an email dropped into my work inbox. There was a new BBC quiz show called ‘In It To Win It’ and they needed contestants. On a whim, I filled out an application with my colleagues huddled around my swivel chair. I cackhandedly bragged about my in-depth knowledge of Princess Di and Eastenders on the form and, to my surprise, I was invited to audition a week later.

The audition was held at a bleak Salvation Army hall near Covent Garden. I rushed through the City in a black power suit and stilettos on my lunch break, only to be greeted by my fellow-auditionees. They seemed to be professional quizzers (think the chasers on ‘The Chase’) and I felt judgmental eyes ogling my red lipstick. As producers fired questions at us though, I smugly proved myself as more than capable.

A month had gone by when I got a call on my Nokia 6310. “Shelley?!”, a chirpy man squawked. I wondered what scammer had got my number this time. “You’ve been cast for ‘In It To Win It’! We’d love to see you in two weeks for filming.” “Ok great! I better bone up on my sports knowledge then”, I jested. I pretended to be as cool as a cucumber but I felt more like a fried courgette.

At 7AM on Monday 14 April, a limousine whisked me off to the BBC Television Centre in Shepherd’s Bush. My mind was racing with Arsenal’s dietary regime, the Indian Cricket Team’s latest triumphs, and what in the bloody hell the wardrobe department were going to dress me in. I considered asking the driver to turn around.

At the BBC, I was seated in a cavernous Art Deco reception. With the eyes of Terry Wogan and the Daleks gazing down on me from the hallowed walls, Dr Showbiz started to work his magic and my nerves melted. Runners and researchers fussed around me like whirling dervishes and I was escorted to my ‘dressing room’. To my disappointment, it was a windowless shoe cupboard. I only hoped that the show’s host Dale Winton was enjoying something plusher.

How wrong I was. Dale got his makeup done next to me. Liberally sprinkling every other sentence with ‘darling’, we chatted fake tan and bronzer while being plastered with the stuff. After I was dressed in a lacklustre M&S top and my hair was sufficiently zhuzhed, it was show time. A runner led us through a rabbit warren of grey corridors. Studios brandished with the red words “On Air” really did exist, and Jools Holland could be heard tinkering away on the ivories.

It was not until I stood in the wings waiting for the show to start that things became real. My heart pounded in my ears as the audience’s chatter was hushed and the theme music played. The producer uttered the immortal words: “This is prime time Saturday night TV. You’ll be going out to 7 million people. Be entertaining!” I eyed up the fire exit.

The start of the show is a blur. I sat amongst five contestants, waiting for my yellow ball to be drawn from the lottery-style machine. When Paul’s blue ball came out first I felt relieved. I hoped my ball would not appear in the Perspex sphere as I couldn’t remember my own name, let alone answer which city the River Clyde runs through.

After sitting in a daze under the searing white lights for the first half of the show, my ball was third to be drawn and I was called to join Dale on ‘Winners’ Row’. My showbiz doppelgänger kicked in and I flashed my widest smile, fluttered my lashes and strutted across the set.

With four of us tag-teaming answers, the prize fund crept up. I answered all four of my questions correctly so contributed my fair share. When the claxon blew at £65,000, each contestant had to answer one more question and, if right, we would win a portion of the prize fund. Abby and the Reverend answered incorrectly and were sent home with nothing, then Paul got his answer right.

“Is Kiev in the Ukraine, Latvia or Belarus?”, Dale asked me finally. My gut instinct said the Ukraine and that is what left my mouth. The studio was flooded with green lights and the jingle of success. Everything became background noise as Dale kissed me on the cheek and Paul and I hugged and jumped, limbs flailing around. Nerves evaporated into elation as I realised I was going home with £32,5000.

Coming up to three years since his tragic passing, Dale Winton will always hold a special place in my heart. Besides the money (which has been long since spent), it was his charisma and kindness that made this experience one I will never forget.

Shelley Green's experience as told by Sophie Ward.