Monthly column on the arts

If the story were fiction people would call it far-fetched. The saga of Major Charles Ingram, who with his wife Diana and lecturer Tecwen Whittock tried to take 'Who wants to be a millionaire?' for a million, was given a huge amount of TV time. For example, it occupied a tedious 90 minutes on Easter Monday (digital viewers were offered a further hour), and a promised 'update' a few weeks later repeated much of the original footage with a few additional facts. Then, like most such stories, it slipped from the headlines.

For those who have other things to do with their time, here's how 'Who wants to be a millionaire?' works. Contestants answer a series of increasingly difficult general knowledge questions, the amount at stake rising until a million pounds hangs on the last question. For every question four possible answers are given. Contestants also have three 'lifelines', to be used only once each: phone a friend, ask the audience, and have two answers removed.

The Major was making an unpromising start when the programme ran out of time and had to be continued the next day. In the interval the trio appear to have devised a winning cheat. The Major would repeat each of the choices in turn, and his accomplices in the audience would cough when he said the right one. The Major - who seems to have been a bit of a loose cannon as a conspirator - lost the plot as the stakes rose, forcing a barrage of coughs and at one point a badly-concealed anguished 'No!' from the conspirators.

Backstage, the technicians and producers quickly tumbled to what was going on, and the legal process started almost as soon as the show was over. The rest is history. In the way of these things, it will soon be unread history.

It was a drearily instructive little episode. The tabloids achieved a mixture of moral high ground and Robin-Hood-style satisfaction. The first competitor to win a million had been already a lady of means, and this rankled with many viewers. The Major was a different matter, combining the romance of a military title with a not especially privileged background. All sorts of predictable moral debates were involved. Did the Major deserve the money more than his wealthy predecessor had? Was stealing from a wealthy quiz show as reprehensible as mugging an old lady? Would we have liked the Major better if he'd been a cleverer cheat?

The only person who came out of it with credit was Chris Tarrant, the show's affable and likeable presenter, whose judgement seems to have been clouded only by his genuine delight that a contestant had had the good fortune to win a million. Apart from that, chalk it up as another of TV's really bad moments, a grimy smear on a pleasantly mindless quiz show.

Fortunately, there were alternatives. You could progress to watching paint dry on 'I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here!', for example; or maybe, even get a life.

'I'm a millionaire, get me out of here!'

David Porter