didn’t want to look like a puritanical wimp. So that was why I wasn’t doing the show. Derek Chinnery had seen it, called Tony Hale and it was all over before it started. I waited for the axe to fall.
‘There’s a strike. Until it’s resolved we can’t do any shows from here.’
I smiled wanly. Well, I think it was wanly. I’d certainly expended too much energy being way off beam to have smiled more than wanly.
Bizarrely I ended up hosting
Top of the Pops
before presenting a Radio One show, but it was only a short while before I was standing in on various daytime shows, eventually landing the Monday-to-Friday mid-evening slot before John Peel at 10. I loved that programme: bringing artists in for sessions, championing new singles and new groups as well as getting heavily involved with the music. I soon discovered that Radio One wasn’t simply about playing music and that some of us were cast in an ambassadorial role. One of myfirst forays to represent the station saw me heading off on a train to the north-east. It was a little like school. I was told to wear my BBC jacket, which rather embarrassingly had my name on it, so wear it I did along with trainers, jeans and a T-shirt. They told me it was casual and all I’d be doing was handing over the keys to a new Variety Club coach, the money having been raised by a recent Radio One football match at Roker Park. Easy. I’d joined a month or two after the charity match, so I wasn’t conversant with how it all worked, but nevertheless the trip didn’t appear to present much of a challenge.
Within minutes of arriving it was clear that this was more than a cursory shake-of-the-hand, nod-of-the-head, back-on-the-train operation. It was a formal luncheon. The number of local mayors almost reached double figures and between them carried more chains than Jacob Marley. The ladies were dressed as if they were to be presented at court. I half-expected to see a fashionable Chihuahua or two pop out of the odd handbag. It was patently obvious that they’d expected a Noel Edmonds or a Tony Blackburn, and I was clearly an enormous disappointment. I was the new boy that nobody knew – I hadn’t actually done any Radio One shows yet. I hid my jeans under the gleaming white tablecloth as I took my place on the top table in the middle of a row of sharply creased trousers, but there was nowhere to hide my lack of celebrity. Initial embarrassment over, I’d tuck in, shut up, keep my head down and within an hour or two I’d be set free. My positivity was short lived. The speeches began. Even worse, one of them was mine. I had no idea until I heard my name. Well, that’s not strictly true, the mayor in question had totally forgotten my name, if indeed he was ever informed of it.
‘I’d like to call upon, er … er … the, er … Radio One representative … to, er, say a few words.’
I wasn’t even a broadcaster, I was a ‘representative’ and had no name. I heard the introduction but initially failed to comprehend the fact that the entire room had fallen silent and were waiting for someone to say something. Cripes! It was me and they expected beguilingwords of wit and wisdom. I was vaguely aware of getting to my feet and hearing myself speak. I hadn’t been at the fund-raising match, didn’t really know any of the other guys, hadn’t done any programme, had no funny Radio One stories and had only been announced as a ‘representative’. Hardly the stuff of which epoch-shattering speeches are made. I cannot recount a single word I said. I faintly recall an etymological whirligig spinning like a John Emburey off-break in my head, but whether the words came out in order I have no idea. Of the 400 or so overdressed and disappointed souls, at least one or two clapped as I fell back into my chair. For that, at least, I was grateful.
As Eddie Floyd once sang, ‘Things Get Better’, and he was right. Thank goodness for Eddie. Actually, come I think of it, I sang backing
‘There’s a strike. Until it’s resolved we can’t do any shows from here.’
I smiled wanly. Well, I think it was wanly. I’d certainly expended too much energy being way off beam to have smiled more than wanly.
Bizarrely I ended up hosting
Top of the Pops
before presenting a Radio One show, but it was only a short while before I was standing in on various daytime shows, eventually landing the Monday-to-Friday mid-evening slot before John Peel at 10. I loved that programme: bringing artists in for sessions, championing new singles and new groups as well as getting heavily involved with the music. I soon discovered that Radio One wasn’t simply about playing music and that some of us were cast in an ambassadorial role. One of myfirst forays to represent the station saw me heading off on a train to the north-east. It was a little like school. I was told to wear my BBC jacket, which rather embarrassingly had my name on it, so wear it I did along with trainers, jeans and a T-shirt. They told me it was casual and all I’d be doing was handing over the keys to a new Variety Club coach, the money having been raised by a recent Radio One football match at Roker Park. Easy. I’d joined a month or two after the charity match, so I wasn’t conversant with how it all worked, but nevertheless the trip didn’t appear to present much of a challenge.
Within minutes of arriving it was clear that this was more than a cursory shake-of-the-hand, nod-of-the-head, back-on-the-train operation. It was a formal luncheon. The number of local mayors almost reached double figures and between them carried more chains than Jacob Marley. The ladies were dressed as if they were to be presented at court. I half-expected to see a fashionable Chihuahua or two pop out of the odd handbag. It was patently obvious that they’d expected a Noel Edmonds or a Tony Blackburn, and I was clearly an enormous disappointment. I was the new boy that nobody knew – I hadn’t actually done any Radio One shows yet. I hid my jeans under the gleaming white tablecloth as I took my place on the top table in the middle of a row of sharply creased trousers, but there was nowhere to hide my lack of celebrity. Initial embarrassment over, I’d tuck in, shut up, keep my head down and within an hour or two I’d be set free. My positivity was short lived. The speeches began. Even worse, one of them was mine. I had no idea until I heard my name. Well, that’s not strictly true, the mayor in question had totally forgotten my name, if indeed he was ever informed of it.
‘I’d like to call upon, er … er … the, er … Radio One representative … to, er, say a few words.’
I wasn’t even a broadcaster, I was a ‘representative’ and had no name. I heard the introduction but initially failed to comprehend the fact that the entire room had fallen silent and were waiting for someone to say something. Cripes! It was me and they expected beguilingwords of wit and wisdom. I was vaguely aware of getting to my feet and hearing myself speak. I hadn’t been at the fund-raising match, didn’t really know any of the other guys, hadn’t done any programme, had no funny Radio One stories and had only been announced as a ‘representative’. Hardly the stuff of which epoch-shattering speeches are made. I cannot recount a single word I said. I faintly recall an etymological whirligig spinning like a John Emburey off-break in my head, but whether the words came out in order I have no idea. Of the 400 or so overdressed and disappointed souls, at least one or two clapped as I fell back into my chair. For that, at least, I was grateful.
As Eddie Floyd once sang, ‘Things Get Better’, and he was right. Thank goodness for Eddie. Actually, come I think of it, I sang backing
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