Look, I’ll admit it. I have a thing for British game shows. Their concepts are clever, their contestants are kind, and—unlike American versions—there is never a big cash prize. All anyone is ever hoping for is bragging rights, or an engraved cake plate, or, as in my new obsession with the game show “Taskmaster,” a golden replica of the host’s head.
This is because British game shows, especially “Taskmaster,” understand that the act is the prize. The process is the product. It’s the friends we made along the way, and all that.
For those who don’t know, “Taskmaster” is a British game show, entering its 19th season, created by a man named Alex Horne. Alex is very bright. He went to Cambridge, has loads of degrees, has written tons of books, is obsessed with bird watching and data analytics, and—though it’s always maddening when God gives with both hands—he’s also extremely funny.
He created this show in which he plays second fiddle to the Taskmaster, played by the quick-witted (and nearly 7-foot-tall) Greg Davies, a highly decorated comedian with a presence that’s palpable.
In this show, five comedians (though not always the stand-up kind, typically just known British personalities with a good sense of humor) are given a series of tasks that are created by Alex and judged by Greg. The comedians are presented these tasks in isolation and only get to see how the others did when they gather to watch the footage in the studio. Their efforts are then judged by the Taskmaster. In fact, I’d argue the most amazing aspect of this show is the editing—the order in which they show each comedian’s attempt at the task is genius. Often, they build up to the best one, or build up to the worst one, or sometimes show that the one who did the best accidently disqualified themselves when they see the instant replay slowed down and zoomed in.
It’s a damn delight.
Sure, sure, but what kind of tasks are we talking about here? Laundry? Grocery shopping? Returning something bought online that doesn’t fit? No. Nothing as banal as that.
One task, for example, was opening the garage to see it almost entirely filled by a large (foam) boulder. The task was to get the boulder as far away from the garage as possible in 15 minutes; furthest distance wins. You watch each constant wrestle with how to approach the task. One trying to lift and carry it, one attempting to break it into pieces, another calling a moving service.
Another task was to fill an egg cup with their own tears. Watching someone try to evoke tears (onions, hair plucking, watching something sad) is harrowing. Another was to get three yoga balls up a steep hill and get them to all stay on a round mat without rolling back down the hill—but the trick was, you could only take one ball up at a time.
There are weird experiments they do in the “lab” (a room in the “Taskmaster” house covered in plastic sheeting), like trying to determine the flavor of certain things or eating as much watermelon as they can in two minutes.
There are team tasks in which they are paired with another contestant and given escape room style puzzles or must play charades standing across a river from each other.
A task has never, and will never, be repeated on the show (check out the top 100 tasks here) because as the show has gone on, contestants got wise. A “Taskmaster” classic move is to put hints in the room to help solve the problem faster. Another is to give them only the first part of the task (build an edible statue) before giving them the second part (now eat it).
Or, most importantly, word the task in such a way it is left up to vast interpretation.
And therein lies the crux of the show, the line said most during each episode, and the biggest life lesson I’ve perhaps ever learned: all the information is on the task.
You see, each task begins with a folded piece of paper sealed in red wax. The contestant opens it and reads it aloud. The task is always written very succinctly. Blow out a candle from the farthest distance. Inevitably, this evokes a panicked curiosity from the contestant. “What kind of candle?” “Does a fan count as blowing?” “Does going up high count the same as going somewhere far?”
And Alex will respond the same way every time: “All the information is on the task.”
The rage the contestants feel when Alex says this is one of the joys of the show. They have thrown things at him, cursed him out, stormed off, and sometimes sat down and laughed. To watch people work in panic is fascinating stuff because sometimes it brings out their most creative side, and sometimes it renders them nearly brain dead. Once the task was put the shoes on the spider and the contestant, not looking out the window to see a massive, stuffed spider, looked at the table in front of her and said, “Oh, is this the spider?” Then she absolutely put shoes on the legs of the table.
In this panic—time constraints, weird tasks, and cameras rolling—contestants look to Alex for help to guide them. Or, more often than not, to give them permission to do something. And Alex will calmly repeat: “All the information is on the task.”
This brings me to the task where my brain chemistry altered. Here’s what the task read:
“Propel this pea the furthest distance.
Your pea must land, and remain, on the red carpet.”
In front of the contestant was a long aisle of red carpet. After each contestant tried to get more information and insight from Alex, he just kept repeating, “All the information is on the task.”
One contestant got a tennis racket, hoping to launch the pea to the end of the carpet. Instead, the pea got lodged in the racket’s strings and he was disqualified because the pea never made it onto the carpet. Another simply tried to throw it, but it landed a few feet off the carpet, in the grass.
The third practiced in the grass for a bit before taking her attempt and got the pea to land 18 meters away (I’m American, so who the hell knows how far that is) directly onto the carpet. The crowd in the studio cheered, seeing this as victory. Viewers would note that, at that moment, the name of the game was focus and practice.
That is, until the fourth contestant. He dropped the pea into a wheelbarrow and zoomed around the yard for several minutes before coming up to the edge of the carpet and dropping it directly in front of him. When questioned by the Taskmaster about his attempt, he argued that the task was to “propel” it the farthest, and the ground covered in the wheelbarrow should be counted toward that. The Taskmaster and Alex reviewed the definition of “propel”: drive, push, or cause to move in a particular direction, typically forward, and ultimately decided to count the 414 meters he pushed the pea around in the wheelbarrow, which put him in the lead. Viewers would note that, at that moment, the name of the game was cleverness.
That is, until the fifth contestant. This man took his pea from Alex, walked it over to the carpet, placed it gently in the middle, walked to the edge of the carpet and rolled it up. Once it was rolled up, he called for a taxi, got in, and rode with his pea safely inside the carpet for nearly 20 miles. Viewers would note that, at that moment, the name of the game was harnessing resources.
While watching each other perform the task, the comedians cried foul. “We didn't know we could propel using something other than our hands!” “We didn't know we could move the carpet!” “We didn't know we could use money on a task!” On and on, with Alex merely shrugging and reminding them that, “All the information was on the task.”
And here’s the thing. In life, there are minimal instructions. We are literally given no task. We are born with a nearly blank piece of paper and yet we immediately start putting restrictions on ourselves. We don’t realize that, if the task didn’t say we couldn’t use a wheelbarrow to propel a pea, then we sure as hell can.
At no point did my task read: Spend your precious life responding to emails in a timely manner.
And yet a good portion of my stress is consumed by this very task. No task is written on how to raise my kids, and yet I keep looking for Alex-like figures (articles, other parents, mommy bloggers) to either give me more instructions or grant me permission.
Not signing our kids up for sports made me and Jim feel the same as the contestant who rolled up the pea in the carpet. Other parents looked at us like contestants on “Taskmaster” saying: “We didn’t know you could do that!”
And yet here we are, with our Saturdays free.
To watch Taskmaster, you are reminded that there really is no prize (except the paper mâché golden head statue of Greg Davies, which looks to have no resale value or even be all that well made). The most freeing thing about the show is that the points are as meaningless as they are arbitrary. Even when a contestant does the task the best by a standard measurement (eat a whole egg the fastest) it doesn’t necessarily mean they get the most points. Because Greg, on his mighty throne (literally, he sits on a golden throne), awards the points, seemingly at random, and often just based on his mood. All a contestant can really do is attempt strange things, regardless of whether they beat their peers, or get disqualified, or sound stupid, or look clever. Because in the end, the points and the prize are meaningless.
That’s the whole point.
Which, frankly, is no different than life.
And yet we take it so damn seriously.
But aren’t we all just silly people doing silly tasks all day, attaching more meaning to them than we should? Don't we realize that the points are arbitrary, and they don’t mean a damn thing? Anyone attempting to hand you points for anything has an agenda, and it’s not about you. So shouldn’t we all just be creative in our pursuits, laugh at ourselves, and have fun?
God, I wish.
And if you do too, here’s how:
Those who do the best on the show—and by that, I do not mean earn the most points—are the ones who become the most enthralling to watch. And they become enthralling to watch because they are enjoying themselves. After all, these are grown adults getting to play. Toss stuffed animals over houses, climb through obstacle courses, throw pies at each other, solve riddles, run around, get muddy, stretch their minds, try different things, laugh at themselves, and dear god, isn’t that what life is?
Isn’t that what it should be?
Not a series of tasks we attach so much meaning to that they overwhelm us trying to complete them (emails, laundry, work) for some hollow victory that never comes. But instead, a series of tasks that give us the opportunity for play, humor, creativity, and courage.
Understand that the lack of instructions in this life is not limiting. It’s freeing. Stop looking for Alex to give you more instructions. Stop looking to him for permission. Live your life in a silly, playful way that can only come from understanding that the points are arbitrary and meaningless.
That, I believe, is the task at hand.
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Watch all episodes of Taskmaster here.
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