Yet again the public gorges its voyeuristic appetite as another group of unknown and unremarkable people submit themselves to the brutal exposure of the televized real-life soap opera, House Arrest.

Everybody knows the rules: total strangers are forced to live together while the rest of the country watches them do it. Who will crack first? Who will have sex and with whom? Who will the public love and who will they hate? All the usual questions. And then, suddenly, there are some new ones.

Who is the murderer? How did he or she manage to kill under the constant gaze of the thirty television cameras? Why did they do it? And who will be next?

Garry lounged on the green couch. The pause button was down and Garry's image was frozen. Had the tape been running, the picture would have been much the same, for Garry was in his customary position, legs spread wide, muscles flexed, left hand idly fondling his testicles.
A blurred blue eagle hovered above his right ankle. Coleridge hated that eagle. Just what the hell did this pointless lump of arrogance and ignorance think he had in common with an eagle? He pressed play and Garry spoke.

'Your basic English Premier League team consists of ten idiots and one big gorilla hanging about up at the front, usually a black geezer.'
Coleridge struggled to care. Already his mind was drifting. How much rubbish could these people talk? Everybody talked rubbish, of course, but with most people it just disappeared into the ether; with this lot it was there for ever. What was more, it was evidence. He had to listen to it.
'. . . What the ten idiots have to do is keep kicking the ball up to the gorilla in the hope that he'll be unmarked and get a lucky shot in.'
The world had heard these sparkling observations before: they had been chosen for broadcast, the people at Peeping Tom Productions having been thrilled with them. The words 'black' and 'gorilla' in the same sentence would make a terrific reality TV moment.
'"Bold, provocative and controversial",' Coleridge muttered under his breath.
He was quoting from a newspaper article he had found inside the box of the video tape he was watching. All of the House Arrest tapes had arrived with the appropriate press clippings attached. The Peeping Tom media office were nothing if not thorough. When you asked for their archive, you got it.
The article Coleridge had read was a profile of Geraldine Hennessy, the celebrated producer behind House Arrest.
'We're not BBC TV,' Geraldine, known to the press as Geraldine the Gaoler, was quoted as saying. 'We're BPC TV: Bold, Provocative, Controversial, and allowing the world a window into Garry's casual, unconscious racism is just that.'
Coleridge sighed. Provocative? Controversial? What sort of ambitions were those for a grown-up woman? He turned his attention to the man sitting opposite Garry, the one on the orange couch: flashy Jasper, known as Jazz, so cool, so hip, such strutting self-confidence, always grinning, except when he was sneering, which he was doing now.
'That's it, mate,' Garry continued, 'no skill, no finesse, no planning. The entire national game based on the strategy
of the lucky break.' Once more he rearranged his genitals, the shape of which could clearly be made out beneath the lime-green satin of his sports shorts. The camera moved in closer.
Peeping Tom clearly liked genitals; presumably they were BPC.
'Don't get me wrong about saying the big bloke's black, Jazz,' Garry added. 'Fact is, most League strikers are these days.'
Jazz fixed Garry with a gaze he clearly believed was both enigmatic and intimidating...