You Always Hurt The One You Love

I’ve been laughing this week at how television producers are supposedly staring horrified at a big middle finger being waved in their direction by the public. The great cities of Britain may be bankrupt, we may have more pram faces per square metre than an American trailer park, and now there’s posh student demonstrators fighting for skinny cappuccinos at university , but we’re not daft. According to the story, we’ve woken up.

For a few years now we’ve all bought in to voting for the best talent on reality shows so that we can pick a star. But now the TV companies have had our money and smiled at our gullibility, it’s our turn to have a laugh. Or is it?

Anne Widdicombe, a woman with the coordination and dancing technique of a rhinoceros in labour, is hopeless as a dancer and has the grace of a tractor with three wheels, yet she’s never in the bottom two on Strictly Come Dancing. Why? Because we’re told the public now knows it can wave that middle finger at the producers, and by voting in someone who has no right to be there it’s a big “up yours” to the TV bosses.

Then, viewers of I’m A Celebrity decided not to play the role thrust on them and instead voted, night after night, for Gillian McKeith to face spiders, snakes and drowning, forgetting to share the torture around because they just don’t like her. It is, of course, bullying and viewers should be ashamed unless, perhaps, they were trying to save her from spending more time with Lembit Opik. The producers could do nothing about it and had to refund callers after McKeith’s amateur dramatics and hammy fainting spell. She now says she’s pregnant, making every male contestant happy he was asked to the naked jungle rather than the naked conception.

And week after week Wagner was voted through on the X Factor, not because he can sing (he can’t) and not because he’s nice (he’s not) but, according to journalists, because the public wanted to show Simon Cowell who’s boss. As the good singers bite the dust, we were told that Cowell must be tense as he faces the real prospect of jaded viewers voting for Wagner to win and an album being released that no one will buy apart from farmers keen to scare pests and wild animals.

Also, the public at last turned on Cheryl Cole. She publicly upbraided Wagner for remarks he made to a reporter but she’s a professional who knows how the press works, while he doesn’t. She’s had years of dealing with sneaky reporters who lie to get a story, but he hasn’t. She knows about being constantly misquoted, yet he doesn’t. But she still went ahead and tried the character assassination bit on him.

The bully girl tactics were not fair, the viewers didn’t like it and hundreds have complained. Perhaps she’ll soon be Cheryl Dole.

But I’m not buying any of this. The great British unwashed, myself included, simply vote for whoever’s made them laugh. And anyway, no matter what happens, these shows just get more publicity and more viewers every week as these silly stories gain press coverage, so the thought of Cowell, or any other producer, getting worried is just plain daft.

However, sometimes the public CAN BE nasty, can’t they?

I was in W.H. Smith this week and had to wait while staff tried to find something for a woman in front of me. Eventually a young assistant told her, apologetically, that he’d checked with head office and she had actually ordered on line so the item would be delivered to her address as she had requested, not to the store. She flew in to a rage and asked for the manager, then told him the assistant had called her a liar.

Feeling sorry for the young bloke, I told the manager that he had been perfectly polite throughout and had not used that word at all. The customer then shouted to me to mind my own “effin’” business and I have rarely heard language like the invective she hurled at me. But that was OK, after all I’m from Glasgow where we call that “love talk”. But it was her departing remark that really hurt. Looking over her shoulder as she fled she muttered “Bloody Dale Winton lookalike.”

Now that hurt. What do the public know anyway?

Money, Money, Money

Listen up folks because I’m going to give you a sure fire tip this week on how to make money. Guaranteed!

But first, say what you like about the X Factor, and I frequently do, it does turn kids on to great songs they would otherwise know nothing about. I’ve just walked in on my sixteen year old daughter downloading Bonnie Tyler’s Total Eclipse Of The Heart. The last time Bonnie was fashionable Moses was giving swimming lessons in the Red Sea, and I guess modern poseurs would rather own up to downloading naked photos of Alan Tichmarsh than her tunes.

But thanks To the X Factor, according to my kids their dad’s record collection is hip again, apart from my Stars On 45 albums which will have to wait a few years yet – say till hell freezes over or Simon Cowell shops in Primark.

On X Factor in the past two weeks they’ve been singing Bonnie’s songs alongside Bob Dylan’s stuff as done by Adele, and even some tunes by Kim Wilde. I’ve never met Bob Dylan, though I have met Adele, Bonnie Tyler and Kim Wilde, so whenever an oldie becomes fashionable again my kids ask if I have a personal anecdote about the singer they can take in to school. I’m their own Google for embarrassing stories.

I wasn’t sure whether to share with them the true story of meeting Bonnie Tyler in a busy club where she greeted me by lifting up her T shirt up to show the bare chest she was so proud of. I later discovered she did this a lot as her party trick. I wondered whether to tell them about Kim Wilde believing in flying saucers, or that Adele told me the songs she wrote after her last big album were so bad she won’t ever let anyone hear them? In the end I made up some harmless stories and my kids went away happy.

I’m pleased that they seem to have a healthy distrust of celebrity hype and know a PR stunt when they see one. This week I overheard one of them expressing surprise at all the publicity surrounding Prince William and Kate Middleton’s engagement. To them it’s just a balding bloke marrying posh totty, and they genuinely can’t understand why it makes the newspapers. Sure, they were excited when Cheryl Cole said recently that she’d passed her tests at school, but they’re also cynical enough to say it was probably eye tests.

So, when we all get that public holiday for the new royal wedding, my youngsters, and I guess millions more, will be ignoring the marriage of the pretend pilot and the unemployed girl with the long hair and instead spend the day downloading songs.

Which is fine, but I’d rather they were out earning money. And this brings me to where we started. A cast iron way of earning money.

William and Kate are getting married in a hurry because they’ve been told London cannot cope with a third major event in 2012 as we already have the Olympics and also The Queens Diamond Jubilee to contend with. And here’s another thing, there’s going to be a real shortage of something. Is it public transport? Police? Security barriers? No. It’s mobile toilets.

Seriously, London does not have enough toilet facilities to cope with the tourists who will flock to see the Games and the Jubilee in two years’ time.

So, if you want to make money, buy up every single Portaloo you can find, or start making some in your back garden now. Maybe Blue Peter can do a piece on how to make one out of washing up bottles and doilies. In two years time you will be able to charge whatever you want for them and make a fortune.

Mind you I’m not sure what we do with a mountain of portable toilets after the festivities. Perhaps a belated wedding present for the happy couple? That’s a lot of thrones to sit on.

Drop The Pilot

It may be my age but my wife now believes I’m more Slipperman than Superman. However, for those of you sensible souls who believe the latter, you may want to cover your eyes and avoid disappointment as I have something momentous to share. The news is it suddenly struck me this week that I won’t live forever.

I know. A life without Paul Coia wittering on each week would be unthinkable but, dear friends, as sure as night follows day and chavs follow Jeremy Kyle, the time will come.

The revelation hit me at about thirty thousand feet up in the air on a British Airways flight to Switzerland last Monday when a bit of turbulence turned in to a very frightening rollercoaster as my body plummeted quickly to twenty five thousand feet while my stomach stayed miles above. I fly more often than Clark Kent but it was the first time I’d seen the calm, normally reassuring, air crew look as if a blind dentist was approaching them with a power drill from the Argos catalogue.

I first flew when I was seventeen and I guess over the years I have collected more air miles than a flock of migrating swallows, but even I had never been this scared in a plane before, at least not since a bald steward passed me his ‘phone number hidden in a clotted cream tea. I smiled and got extra cream back then but there was no hope of even a tea biscuit this time as everything was locked down – apart from my stomach.

I won’t say my life flashed before me but I did feel tearfully grateful after we landed, but then reflective and pensive, and this sad melancholy and realisation of the transience of life was fed later in the week by a couple of further events.

Firstly I cleared out an untidy box I keep in my office. The box was full of old cheque books and pens but also some fun memorabilia like my cloakroom ticket from 10 Downing Street and a hand rolled cigarette given to me by Peter Cook. The carton was also filled with obsolete currencies from countries I’d visited years ago and photos of a slim me before I swallowed a baby elephant. Also there, however, were about a dozen cards sent by friends and relatives following the deaths of my aunts, uncles and old friends.

I found it incredibly sad reading through them all and remembering those who have gone before, but I am pleased I hung on to them as it’s important to keep these things to remind ourselves that we are the sum of all these people who have influenced us one way or another.

The second history lesson that fed my wistful mood this week was when a friend emailed me some photos from my last day on a TV show called Pebble Mill At One. The friend, who I remember as a cheerful, barking mad, woman has now had a change of career and is a vicar. I bet she’s great at it too.

Looking at the photos and remembering all the old faces (none older than mine) made me initially hanker for those times to come back. I can’t remember then having any worries at all. I was a happy idiot blundering through life and taking no responsibility because I lived life as if it was a comedy show. But what happened to all those bright faces in the photos? Did they accomplish what they dreamed of? Did life treat them well? Did I treat them well?

So, it’s been a week of reflection for me and perhaps a bit depressing, but those who know me know I don’t do depressing. I’m always up. So, what can I take away that’s positive?

Rededicate myself to making the most of every day, look after family and friends, and contact old mates who I’ve lost touch with? Most definitely. But it’s more than that. I think I’ve also learned never to eat a fried breakfast before flying again.

Here Comes The Sun

I’m just back from a week at the small tumbledown shack we own in Portugal.

I had hoped for a few late Autumn rays of sunshine but we actually had seven days of blistering sunshine, with temperatures around 28 degrees in the shade. For any garlic avoiders out there who stick resolutely to buying wine by the pint and weighing themselves in stones because going metric means they’ll be forced to turn French, 28 degrees Celcius is around 82 degrees Fahrenheit. In. The. Shade!

I learned a lot this week in Portugal. For instance I now know that if you want to burgle a house you should grab a flight to Ireland as soon as possible as no one is there; they’re all on holiday in the Algarve.

Looking along the lines of beach residents with their mops of red hair and carcasses framed by milky skin steadily being chickenpoxed by ever more pushy freckles, I found myself whistling Enya hits and hoping for a fiddle player to come out of the water playing Riverdance tunes. I understand all of his countrymen wanting to escape Bono, but all at the same time?

The plane from Gatwick was populated with, how shall I say this tactfully, fat people. Somewhere in Essex there is a doctor who encourages men to grow their beer bellies until they reach a certain massive size, and they are then rewarded on prizegiving night with a Chelsea shirt, one earring, and a Thompson’s holiday voucher. They were all very friendly and I feel I know all their children very well, at least by name, as I enjoyed choruses of “Madison, stop that”, or “Tequila, leave Britney alone”, or “where’s Dwaine and Dakota?” My favourite was “Rihanna leave Shaneesha’s fags alone.” It was like a roll call on the X Factor.

The guy who looks after our little place in the sun is called Herman, a Dutch man of around seventy who has travelled the world in the merchant navy, but despite his love of other countries, and his mastery of several languages, he has never forgiven the Germans for one particular aggressive act during the war. Was it the invasion of Poland? Mocking the Treaty of Versailles? The invention of the doodlebug? No. They stole his bike.

Our gardener, Frank, however, is from Munich and thus you can imagine how they get on together. Frank is a bit of a hippy with a bandana and a ponytail which flutters behind him as he rides the hills on his prized Harley Davidson. I expect to hear any day that Herman has nicked it in revenge.

I knew that Frank had been a successful businessman in Germany and had given the rat race up to live at a more modest pace in the Portuguese sunshine, but I discovered this week for the first time that he very nearly became a world champion at martial arts. He made the final a few years ago and, in front of global TV coverage, lasted all of five seconds. “It was unfortunate. My opponent kicked me in the balls”.

Frank then retired from competition nursing a couple of grudges and taught ladies of the oldest profession how to defend themselves, until their pimps offered him money to stop.

So you see just a week in Portugal is like a year anywhere else. From airport to holiday home and back the people are colourful and interesting, and you get more sunshine than a decade of UK summers.

It’s time to start planning the next visit. Just so long as Shaneesha and her sister are sitting on another plane. You can get too much of a good thing
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The great Glasgow actor Gerard Kelly died this week. Gerard was known for his roles as Jimmy in Eastenders, camp producer Bunny in the Ricky Gervais’ comedy Extras and, following years of his TV comedy hit City Lights, he became the prince of panto every winter in Glasgow.

Two months ago I compered a charity show in a packed Glasgow theatre that saw Gerard bring the house down with his brand of comedy. He was always polite and generous with his public, constantly smiling and genuinely seeming to have a ball. When I asked him that night how things were going he replied that he was “still getting away with it”, which is the mark of a humble man.

He will be missed.

Relax

Today I had a day off from work, which for me is a huge event.

I had been looking forward to this day for months, imagining what I would do with all the spare time and how I would treat it as a mini holiday. Perhaps I’d get a haircut and a quiet read in a coffee shop and finally finish The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet’s Nest – if I had remembered how to read.

Since I left my radio job a couple of weeks ago, within ten hours of coming off air I was on a plane to Dubai working my sweaty socks off for six days. Last time there I spotted a shopping mall with a full size jumbo jet, a five story fish tank in which shoppers can dive to take photos, and a mock up of an operating theatre and law court. This time was even more surprising.

It wasn’t that this mall in the desert had a full size ski slope with a hotel whose balconies opened on to the real snow. No, even more exciting was that this one had a shop for chocolate tasting. Right up my Quality Street!

After the choc fest I then flew back to London and straight in to hosting a conference and then off to Dorset to work till yesterday, so I have not had time to actually change those sweaty socks, never mind relax.

Today was going to be brilliant, full of stuff that I wanted to do for myself, without even a slight whiff of work, or indeed socks. And guess what? I spent the whole day at my desk catching up on paper work.

Working hard is all very well but then invoices have to be written, books balanced, post that’s been lying for months had to be opened, and I discovered from a letter written by my MP that there’s been an election and we have a coalition government. When did that happen? Next they’ll tell me that the Barack Obama guy became president.

If we live in the age of paperless offices and computerised lives, how come my desk is still covered in more paper than a bride with a confetti fetish? Where does it all come from?

Looking at it all I grudgingly might admit I make a rod for my own back by being so anal about keeping accounts and correspondence. I call it professional but you’d call it obsessive. I truly wish I was one of those people who throw stuff in the bin and only worry when the bailiffs knock on the door. A pal of mine is like that and when the debt collectors turned up on his doorstep he greeted them with “Trick Or Treat?” and offered each an orange and a bag of crisps. He never lost his sense of humour though he did lose his car, his house and his wife.

In the pile of paperwork today I found bank statements, grocery bills, receipts, invites to buy plants, discounts on vitamins, a new calendar, the kids’ mobile phone bills, invitations to Christmas parties and a begging letter. I really must remember to send that soon, it took me ages to write.

So that was my day off that never was. I think I’ve forgotten how to relax and just chill, the joy of just slobbing about doing nothing. I need to see a shrink, and I bet next time I’m in Dubai there will be a shopping mall with loads of them open for business.

If they do chocolate tasting as well, I’m making an appointment.

Now I Can

As someone with a very big mouth, I’m rarely stuck for words. I usually have some rubbish joke handy whenever I get embarrassed and then make a quick exit, rarely with grace.

But Simon May, the charming man who wrote the theme tune to Eastenders and produced the world wide hit Knock On Wood for Amii Stewart, said something to me this week that I found myself floundering with.

I had no reply when we met, shook hands, and he said with a big smile, “I read your blog”.

People tell me that writing here each week is pointless unless people actually read the stuff, but I suppose I’ve always thought of my blog as my diary and that I’ll look back on all the instalments in later life and remember, while shuddering. Many people have told me privately that they follow my bad typing here, but this is the first time it’s been said in front of other people and, if I’m honest, I was more than a bit embarrassed. Writing a blog is a bit like passing wind or picking our nose in so far as many of us do it but we don’t tell others. I felt I had a dirty secret that had suddenly been exposed.

So I think I’m going to have to give up this blog lark now that I know for definite that people actually read it. I mean, aren’t I supposed to keep some mystique? Do you guys now know all my secrets? I think you probably do, apart from the big one about......well, let’s leave that for another day.

You certainly know that this is the end of my first week after having my eyes lasered. I had thought about doing this for years and had finally overcome my handicap of fear and taken the plunge, laid down on the surgery table, and watched lights go off in my head like a bad acid trip. I hasten to add that I’ve never actually done acid but I imagine it’s like having a barcode scanner run across your eyes while fireworks go off. It’s brilliant.

I can now see.

I can finally tell that the scary giant my kids told me about who stands at the bottom of our garden is just an oak tree, that the very large mark on my bathroom mirror when I shave is actually my nose, and that those cute chubby cheeks I kiss every night as I say goodnight to my wife is actually...... well..... I’ve just found out she started sleeping with her head at the bottom of the bed six months ago.

Reading is still blurry but I’m told that takes a few weeks to settle. So I am very happy indeed not to have to read any newspapers for a while, and the kids have said they’ll start bringing their report cards home now.

This week I leave Smooth Radio London after two years, and it’s been a blast. They say you should leave when things are no longer fun but I’ve had friendship, support, emails, texts and calls that have made me very proud. I’ve also interviewed innumerable stars who have submitted with good grace, and I've been to many great theatre nights and brilliant gigs. I have been very lucky.

It will leave me with more freedom, much more money from better paid work, and more interesting foreign travel, but I can’t believe it will leave me with more fun. But things move on and I’ll have more time to write.

So I guess I’ll keep the blog going. Just so long as Simon May doesn’t tell anyone.

I Can't See Clearly Now

With TV now going high definition, and with 3D the new big thing, I thought it best to upgrade my eyesight – I mean what use is spending money on the best quality TV picture to see Scotland losing at football, or gasping at the gore in True Blood, with eyes like mine?

I sit there squinting and wondering whether I’m watching Big Brother or a wild life programme, and I can’t tell if Britain’s Next Top Model is a guy or a girl, and that’s only if I happen, by chance, to be facing the right way and I’m looking at the set instead of the door.

Sometimes I’ve found myself wondering why London’s Burning or Towering Inferno is going on a tad long before I’m told I’m actually looking at the fireplace. I’ve never had great eyesight but now it has deteriorated so much even Mister Magoo would be embarrassed.

So, after years of talking about it, I’m actually getting my eyes lasered. I don’t expect too much, just twenty twenty sight and the power of X Ray vision.

I’ve been thinking about this for years and I’ve bored the pants off every optometrist and optician at every party. When they see me coming now they change their job description to jet pilot and, as I can’t see their faces properly, I never know if we’ve met before.

At least they can get away with saying they’re jet pilots. With my sight I wouldn’t be allowed to pilot an elevator, and I’m also colour blind which means I can’t even qualify to fly Easyjet . It also explains my taste in clothes.

Am I scared? Well put it this way. If scared were fat, I’d be Eamonn Holmes in a fat suit listening to the Fatback Band. But you have to suffer for beauty, right?

So, on Friday morning, after I finish doing the Breakfast show, I’m going to the Laser Vision surgery and putting myself in the hands of David Allamby. He seems a nice bloke and his hands don’t shake too much so what have I got to lose?

Next week I’ll report on how I get on. That’s if I can see the computer keyboard. If the blog reads something like “Caf*jd thh%ruu$ 8hgnaplw’’ then you’ll know I might need some further work. And if you see me with my shades on indoors I’m not being cool. Just careful.

Best stay off the roads for a while.