As the Millionaire trial ends with the conviction of an Army major, his wife and a college lecturer, Nick Morrison looks at our fascination with the most popular quiz in TV history, and an earlier scam which was turned into a Hollywood movie.

SINCE taking TV audiences by storm on September 4, 1998, Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? has arguably become the most popular quiz game in history. Its carefully structured format, which has seen 13 series in Britain, has been sold or licensed to 106 countries around the world.

For many, the game show has taken the art of trivia and turned it into a realisable route to fortune - altogether, host Chris Tarrant has handed out cheques for some £34m.

In the process, he has given a sense of self-worth to legions of relieved pub quizzers, who have always been secretly convinced that "it's not who you know, it's what you know" that matters.

Almost overnight, the programme spawned a new sub-culture featuring phrases such as 50-50, Phone-a-friend, and Ask the audience. It is a world where the otherwise ridiculous alliteration Fastest Finger First enjoys a wealth of meaning, the hot seat is no longer something to be avoided at all costs, and lifelines have nothing to do with palmistry.

Tarrant's "Let's take a break" announcements at the most pulse-pounding moments have taken mental torture to new heights. His oft-repeated "Final answer?" runs a close second.

It is really the nation's general fascination with those who succeed spectacularly - and those who fail abysmally - that has at times drawn more than 19 million viewers to the ITV game show.

But it took a three-week trial at London's Southwark Crown Court to reveal the obsession that seethes behind the cameras.

Grown men and women are out there sitting in front of telephones equipped with the sort of robust re-dial buttons needed to endlessly repeat the numeric mantra to get on the show - the premium rate telephone number which some addicts are said to mumble in their sleep.

Whatever their night-time ramblings, such people possess nerves of steel - an absolute must considering the four-figure phone-bills many run up.

Charles Ingram, who was tens of thousands of pounds in debt when he took the hot seat, clearly believed his £2,000 investment in the calls was worthwhile.

At least he reached the hot seat. A fellow enthusiast who made a massive 5,500 calls before he got on the show was not so fortunate.

Diana Ingram's brother, Adrian Pollock, one of those questioned by police investigating the reported cheating, was so desperate to get in the hot seat that he made a mock Fastest Finger keypad from an old calculator casing. After winning £32,000, he gave it to Ingram, who practised up to 20 minutes a day to improve his digital dexterity.

Mr Pollock's fascination with the programme was such that he began a book about the best way to become a contestant, although it was left to his sister - another £32,000 winner - to complete it.

One of his theories was to bombard the premium rate lines with as many calls in the shortest possible time. Another advises using a neutral voice when you get through to increase your chances.

Of course, no obsession would be complete without a dose of superstition, and this one is no exception.

For example, there is supposed to be a lucky corner in the Green Room, a hospitality lounge at Elstree Studios, in Borehamwood, Hertfordshire, where the show is made. Believers apparently make a beeline for it.

So-called ''self-myths'' are more plentiful.

One veteran pub quizzer who has yet to make it through, only ever wears his lucky tie when calling the premium line number - even if it means wrapping it around his neck under his pyjamas. He asked to remain anonymous.

A similar request came from another self-confessed Millionaire fanatic. The woman, who is hoping for a second appearance on the show, steadfastly refuses to consume any dairy products before an expensive session on the telephone.

The secretary, who puts her BT bill at £900 and still counting, believes dairy products slow one's mental agility.

"I would have won Fastest Finger if I hadn't eaten a milk chocolate someone offered me beforehand," she said.

For would-be hot seaters, the thirst for knowledge is, of course, as all-important as it is time-consuming. Serious enthusiasts spend months poring over quiz books and memorising the most obscure facts and figures.

Tecwen Whittock, who was on trial with Ingram and his wife, laboriously filled dozens of sides of A4 with anything he felt might help. The dimensions of an ice-hockey puck, the name of an Apache chief, and the new name Tom Cruise gave his plane could all be found in the college lecturer's handwriting.

Unfortunately, his quest for arcane minutiae never embraced the fact that keftedes are Greek meatballs, and not the sweet pastries a phone-a-friend suggested - a mistake which cost him the hot seat at £8,000.

But perhaps the most interesting revelation was a witness box confession from Chris Tarrant. He told the jury: "Unless I happen to know the answer anyway, I am never told which of the four options is right until after a contestant has made their final choice."