from greng to brong (I was becoming moderately fluent) I had a phone call from my agent, Michael Cohen. On the strength of a programme that I’d done for 7-UP that someone had heard, Radio One wanted me to come over for a chat. I knew it could be something or nothing. My initial meeting was with the station’s head of music, Doreen Davies, who thankfully made me feel welcome and comfortable. I’d chipped a tooth playing cricket and was making an effort not to show the offending ivory, so I smiled very little. But Radio One was all about smiling, not guys with chipped dental displays. I must have looked, and sounded, a bit weird. Still, thirty minutes later, having appeared to have passed the first test, whatever it was, I was ushered in to see Derek Chinnery. Although I’d met him at the
Evita
launch, Derek wasn’t an easy man to read. With his distinguished bearing and horn-rimmed glasses – or should that be horn-rimmed bearing and distinguished glasses? – he was the epitome of BBC hierarchy.
‘We do have a vacancy.’ He made it sound as though I was applyingfor a job at the mill. I wasn’t sure what I was meant to say. He hadn’t offered it to me so I couldn’t presume. ‘You’re doing, what, five nights a week at Luxembourg?’
I nodded.
‘You probably wouldn’t want the programme we need filling, then, it’s only one day a week.’
If you’re confident that you can move up and play in a higher league, you go for it. If you’re unsure and feel that you’ve reached your level, you stick. I knew I could do gigs to make up the money and I also knew that I would almost certainly get a shot at standing in for holiday relief. I told him that I’d like it. I certainly didn’t fall to my knees with gratitude or trot out any old clichés about lifelong dreams. That wasn’t my style.
I left feeling positive, but within an hour I received a call from Michael Cohen. ‘Do you want the Radio One job?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I’ve just had Derek Chinnery on the phone. He thought you were rather matter-of-fact about it and asked whether you really wanted the show.’
‘Of course I do.’
‘He assumed you had independent means as you had a totally different attitude to other broadcasters that he’d interviewed.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. He thought you were a dilettante.’
The programme wasn’t even in London. In a sort of early broadcasting devolution, some forward-thinking executive had deemed it to be a worthy thing to have a couple of national programmes a week coming from Manchester. That wasn’t too bad. They put me up at the Grand and I could invite my grandmother down for the odd afternoon tea in one of the many hotels where she and my grandfather had tripped the light fantastic in the halcyon days of their youth. Actually they didn’t always dance together, as is borne out by a charming photograph of Granddad Mitchell taking to thefloor with a different partner: pre-dating the lyric in Elvis Presley’s ‘Jailhouse Rock’, he was snapped in a ballroom in his black tie and tails, dancing with a wooden chair.
Tony Hale, my producer in Manchester, greeted me as I arrived for my first show. ‘It’s not happening.’
I knew it was all too good to be true. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Follow me. I’ll tell you in the office.’
It was bad, I knew it. Something had gone wrong. Or maybe they had mulled it over and decided that I was, after all, a dilettante.
‘Lovely photograph of you in this morning’s paper,’ he smiled.
Did I pick up a trace of irony? ‘Which paper?’
‘Oh, you haven’t seen it? The one with you and the very scantily clad model.’
My mind whizzed back to a recent photo session I’d done on joining the station. Most of the shots were pretty normal until a semi-naked woman appeared. ‘It’s OK,’ said the Fleet Street photographer (we’ll call him George, because that was his name), ‘all the guys do shots with the girls.’ I wanted to refuse, but
Evita
launch, Derek wasn’t an easy man to read. With his distinguished bearing and horn-rimmed glasses – or should that be horn-rimmed bearing and distinguished glasses? – he was the epitome of BBC hierarchy.
‘We do have a vacancy.’ He made it sound as though I was applyingfor a job at the mill. I wasn’t sure what I was meant to say. He hadn’t offered it to me so I couldn’t presume. ‘You’re doing, what, five nights a week at Luxembourg?’
I nodded.
‘You probably wouldn’t want the programme we need filling, then, it’s only one day a week.’
If you’re confident that you can move up and play in a higher league, you go for it. If you’re unsure and feel that you’ve reached your level, you stick. I knew I could do gigs to make up the money and I also knew that I would almost certainly get a shot at standing in for holiday relief. I told him that I’d like it. I certainly didn’t fall to my knees with gratitude or trot out any old clichés about lifelong dreams. That wasn’t my style.
I left feeling positive, but within an hour I received a call from Michael Cohen. ‘Do you want the Radio One job?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I’ve just had Derek Chinnery on the phone. He thought you were rather matter-of-fact about it and asked whether you really wanted the show.’
‘Of course I do.’
‘He assumed you had independent means as you had a totally different attitude to other broadcasters that he’d interviewed.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. He thought you were a dilettante.’
The programme wasn’t even in London. In a sort of early broadcasting devolution, some forward-thinking executive had deemed it to be a worthy thing to have a couple of national programmes a week coming from Manchester. That wasn’t too bad. They put me up at the Grand and I could invite my grandmother down for the odd afternoon tea in one of the many hotels where she and my grandfather had tripped the light fantastic in the halcyon days of their youth. Actually they didn’t always dance together, as is borne out by a charming photograph of Granddad Mitchell taking to thefloor with a different partner: pre-dating the lyric in Elvis Presley’s ‘Jailhouse Rock’, he was snapped in a ballroom in his black tie and tails, dancing with a wooden chair.
Tony Hale, my producer in Manchester, greeted me as I arrived for my first show. ‘It’s not happening.’
I knew it was all too good to be true. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Follow me. I’ll tell you in the office.’
It was bad, I knew it. Something had gone wrong. Or maybe they had mulled it over and decided that I was, after all, a dilettante.
‘Lovely photograph of you in this morning’s paper,’ he smiled.
Did I pick up a trace of irony? ‘Which paper?’
‘Oh, you haven’t seen it? The one with you and the very scantily clad model.’
My mind whizzed back to a recent photo session I’d done on joining the station. Most of the shots were pretty normal until a semi-naked woman appeared. ‘It’s OK,’ said the Fleet Street photographer (we’ll call him George, because that was his name), ‘all the guys do shots with the girls.’ I wanted to refuse, but
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