How I was saved from Mongolian torture
Henry Sands doesn't like reality television, but that didn't stop him auditioning for it. The show sounded macho and adventurous — ideal, apart from the risk of ritual mutilation My 12-year-old sister shouted, 'Come and watch this TV programme, you'll love it. It is all about naked men trying to prove how tough they are.' She was right, I did like it, so much so that at the end, when applicants were invited to apply for the second series, I filled in the online form immediately.
The programme was Last Man Standing and involved six contestants travelling the world to live with tribes for two weeks. At the end of each show they fought members of the tribe using the tribes' traditional form of combat. They had stick fighting with Zulu warriors in South Africa and wrestling with nomads in Mongolia. I told my girlfriend that the appeal was not so much the physical conflict as the overall cultural and aesthetic experience. What really interested me was the fighting. I sent off my application form, drawing attention to my best school subjects — rugby, Duke of Edinburgh, climbing, cycling — plus boxing, the Cresta run, rodeo riding and a stint with the British army.
A week later the BBC rang to say my application looked 'very good' and would I please come in to meet them. To me this was confirmation that I was to travel the world on a fabulous adventure before becoming the next Ben Fogle. I flicked through adventure catalogues choosing rugged outdoor tools and wondered whether I might get some sponsorship from Blacks.
The show comprises three English and three American contestants. The result is a diverse mix. The current series includes one of America's top power-lifters as well as a slim-built Oxford graduate. While I liked to imagine I would be portrayed as the tough, muscle-bound outdoor sort, I was actually pretty clear about my own type. I once played school rugby against a foam-flecked New Zealand side. As I took my position in the line I saw my opposite man pointing at me and shrieking, 'I am going to skull-f*** that pretty pommy poor On the morning of the audition I made my excuses from my summer job, secretly confident that I would not be returning, and headed off to White City. The night before I had watched an episode of Bear Grylls's Born Survivor and I carried an image of him in my mind as I entered the studios. The rather tired-looking lady behind the desk took my name and told me to take a seat and wait. I waited, and waited and waited. Perhaps this delay was all planned and there were producers watching me through hidden cameras.
With this in mind I started grimacing and flexing my biceps while furtively seeking out the cameras. About 15 minutes later a man in his early twenties arrived with a clipboard. 'Please follow me,' he said. To pass the time, I asked how long he had worked at the BBC and what other shows he had been involved with. By my third question he turned to me and said, 'I am really sorry, mate, but I cannot do you any favours with the show, I am just helping out for the day.' With that he turned to face the floor and ushered me into a room. He must have been very fed up with contestants on the make.
As I walked in, another young man walked out. He was considerably larger than me and had very little hair. In fact he looked terrifying. I sat down on the vacated chair, and waited and smiled. I had meant to bring a book, but I couldn't find Andy McNab, only my sister's Harry Potter, so I hadn't bothered. After another ten minutes I was called through. Sitting at the table were the producer and director of the show. I sat down and smiled even more. It had become a nervous tic. One thing I was not going to mention was my father's profession, because I wanted to come across as a Mowgli figure rather than the son of an actor who might sound like a stage-school brat. 'Are you Julian's son?' So that was the end of my disguise. I was no longer an outdoor adventurer, but just another privileged spoilt child. I thought it best to carry on smiling.
'Why do you want to come on this show?' I began to talk about cultural opportunity and Western values being juxtaposed with the simplicity of tribal living. They looked puzzled at my answer, and I looked puzzled at their reaction. Then they asked how I would feel about being away for a long period of time.
Resisting the temptation to mention that I had gone to boarding school at seven, I said it would be fine. I was aware that I was still smiling. It was about this time that I realised something was not quite right. What sort of adventure show worries about you being away from home? But it was the next question that really brought home the reality of reality TV: 'How would you feel about a Mongolian tribesman piercing your foreskin with a stick?' Right, I see, this is not really an adventure show at all, is it? It's a TV show where they need to go a little further to attract new viewers, an exotic version of the moronic Jackass — one of my favourite shows, of course, but we will let that pass.
At last, my smile began to wane. Perhaps it was the thought of my foreskin being sliced on national television. Naturally, I agreed that would be fine and left the room in a state of bewilderment. What had I just agreed to? Why? Having been thoroughly down on reality TV shows, I had just tried to sign up for one myself.
My girlfriend was horrified when I told her what had happened. 'I hope you told them where to stick their show.' I assured her that I would not only turn the offer down, but complain to the BBC. A couple of days later a letter arrived: 'Unfortunately you have not been selected to appear on Last Man Standing . . . ' There is only one thing worse than being asked to appear on a cheap sensationalist reality TV show, and that is being an unsuccessful reality TV show applicant. But at least I have still got my foreskin.
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