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Authors: Lucian Randall
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of an audience, but Morris worked the crowd, albeit remotely. Callers were props in his humour. They might be encouraged to win a prize by guessing what an object was from clearly unconnected and unhelpful clues, and Morris would be mock-outraged at any attempt at obviously humorous answers. Unlike a stand-up comedian, Morris had the refuge of being able to cut his audience off, yet there was the sense of the show as a club. As at Radio Cambridgeshire, he simply seemed to expect that everyone could keep up.
Unsuspecting members of the public on the street were regularly used for Morris’s Feedback Reports slot. People would give their thoughts on anything from ‘wind obedience’ (commenting on the conclusions of ‘Professor Gus T. Day’) to official moves to limit the time people take to say things. Most interviewees fumbled their way to agreeing with whatever he said, but one managed to produce a stream of consciousness that seemed to come from Morris’s own universe. He was a trolley collector at the local Sainsbury’s called Steve who was soon christened Sergeant Murphy. His rapid-fire responses featured on Morris’s radio programmes for years.
Then there was ‘Ten ideas to change the world’, co-written with Steve Yabsley and delivered by the golden voice of local broadcaster Michael Alexander St John-Gifford over Pachelbel’s stately ‘Canon in D Major’. It was a thought for the day for the deranged – the point was that there was no point. Each idea and meandering digression made less sense than the subjects up for discussion in the Feedback Reports, but the writing was packed with delightfully surreal imagery and given apparent authority through St John’s irresistible solemnity: ‘Coalescing a mild stir in the public gallery by actually frowning your face off’ was one idea, ‘Calling for absolute silence after the sorbet, then dissolving rather beautifully into a rude finger’ another. Michael St John, as he was known by everyone, would be another regular voice on Morris’s shows for years to come.
Morris used his repertoire of impersonations and created Wayne Carr, a smug DJ of the sort that Paul Whitehouse and Harry Enfield later popularized with their Smashie and Nicey characters. Wayne Carr (‘WC on the radio’) would be Morris’s alter ego throughout his DJ career, popping up to misinterpret news headlines, make banal or offensive observations and interview unknowing celebrities.
On making his return to the city of Bristol, Morris at first rented and then bought a place with a doctor friend he’d known from university. Jane Solomons would share the house with him before buying her own place. Morris often took to the streets of Bristol in a rather beautiful Mercedes, cream-coloured and impractically large for the narrow streets between his place and the BBC in Whiteladies Road. It was a distinctive car, if rather old and unreliable, but somehow Morris kept it on the road into the 1990s. He was an enthusiastic cyclist and played tennis and remained a keen if, friends remember, rather wayward bowler in cricket. Morris had his own take on the 1980s look which hadn’t developed greatly in his move from Cambridgeshire. ‘Always with a bow tie! Literally, bow tie, a stripy shirt quite often and a V-neck,’ says Matt Sica. ‘Absolutely loved it – and trainers. Just wonderfully took the piss. It was like power-dressing at local radio. Cravats as well; he also wore cravats.’
Morris attracted a like-minded bunch of friends, sharp, funny and well attuned to the absurdities of life in local radio. Many were around his age, twenty-five, such as Jonathan Maitland, a warm and charmingly ambitious reporter, nicknamed Nath by Morris. Hugh Levinson, who had played guitar in the 1984 Footlights revue show, joined Bristol as a local radio trainee partly at Morris’s suggestion. Having graduated in 1985 with no idea of what he wanted to do, Levinson spent a year in Japan teaching English before
Unsuspecting members of the public on the street were regularly used for Morris’s Feedback Reports slot. People would give their thoughts on anything from ‘wind obedience’ (commenting on the conclusions of ‘Professor Gus T. Day’) to official moves to limit the time people take to say things. Most interviewees fumbled their way to agreeing with whatever he said, but one managed to produce a stream of consciousness that seemed to come from Morris’s own universe. He was a trolley collector at the local Sainsbury’s called Steve who was soon christened Sergeant Murphy. His rapid-fire responses featured on Morris’s radio programmes for years.
Then there was ‘Ten ideas to change the world’, co-written with Steve Yabsley and delivered by the golden voice of local broadcaster Michael Alexander St John-Gifford over Pachelbel’s stately ‘Canon in D Major’. It was a thought for the day for the deranged – the point was that there was no point. Each idea and meandering digression made less sense than the subjects up for discussion in the Feedback Reports, but the writing was packed with delightfully surreal imagery and given apparent authority through St John’s irresistible solemnity: ‘Coalescing a mild stir in the public gallery by actually frowning your face off’ was one idea, ‘Calling for absolute silence after the sorbet, then dissolving rather beautifully into a rude finger’ another. Michael St John, as he was known by everyone, would be another regular voice on Morris’s shows for years to come.
Morris used his repertoire of impersonations and created Wayne Carr, a smug DJ of the sort that Paul Whitehouse and Harry Enfield later popularized with their Smashie and Nicey characters. Wayne Carr (‘WC on the radio’) would be Morris’s alter ego throughout his DJ career, popping up to misinterpret news headlines, make banal or offensive observations and interview unknowing celebrities.
On making his return to the city of Bristol, Morris at first rented and then bought a place with a doctor friend he’d known from university. Jane Solomons would share the house with him before buying her own place. Morris often took to the streets of Bristol in a rather beautiful Mercedes, cream-coloured and impractically large for the narrow streets between his place and the BBC in Whiteladies Road. It was a distinctive car, if rather old and unreliable, but somehow Morris kept it on the road into the 1990s. He was an enthusiastic cyclist and played tennis and remained a keen if, friends remember, rather wayward bowler in cricket. Morris had his own take on the 1980s look which hadn’t developed greatly in his move from Cambridgeshire. ‘Always with a bow tie! Literally, bow tie, a stripy shirt quite often and a V-neck,’ says Matt Sica. ‘Absolutely loved it – and trainers. Just wonderfully took the piss. It was like power-dressing at local radio. Cravats as well; he also wore cravats.’
Morris attracted a like-minded bunch of friends, sharp, funny and well attuned to the absurdities of life in local radio. Many were around his age, twenty-five, such as Jonathan Maitland, a warm and charmingly ambitious reporter, nicknamed Nath by Morris. Hugh Levinson, who had played guitar in the 1984 Footlights revue show, joined Bristol as a local radio trainee partly at Morris’s suggestion. Having graduated in 1985 with no idea of what he wanted to do, Levinson spent a year in Japan teaching English before
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