If Paradise Is Half as Nice

Someone I know has been complaining recently about “empty nest syndrome”, the day you apparently waken up and realise your kids have gone for good leaving just you and the other half rattling round the house like a pair of ill fitting false teeth.

I’m a long way away from this happening but several things struck me about this. Firstly, how can it have come as a surprise? Presumably parents get clues to their kids flying off? All night parties and elaborate lies about staying over at a friend’s house are God’s way of preparing mums and dads for the future. Passing exams and getting accepted for University several hundred miles away is a bit of a clue too, as are the ever longer spells in Youth Courts or chats with the social worker who has become so close they send a Christmas card and get named in your will.

Then there’s the other giveaway, the conversation that starts with “Can I borrow some money dad? Say a hundred grand for a deposit on a flat?”.

So it can't come as a surprise, but I do understand how it would take a bit of adjusting when your offspring leave and are replaced by two old friends you haven’t seen for a while - Peace and Quiet.

If I can’t hear blaring music, remixed with a bit of shouting and arguing over whose turn it is to wash up, I assume I’ve either come home from work still wearing my headphones or I’ve got the time wrong and it’s actually four in the morning. Perhaps God’s not daft and he decided at the planning stage to make hair grow in our ears as a way of blocking out the noise of teenagers.

Having an empty nest would not just mean peace, it would also mean getting access whenever I want to my own clothes instead of tracking down my black socks in my twelve year old’s ballet bag, or my hooded sweatshirt in her sister’s dirty washing stored on the bedroom floor.

There would be no more switching on the Sky TV box to find it so clogged up with America’s Top Model that it hasn’t had room to record the football, no more paying orthodontists slightly more than New Zealand’s national health budget every time a tooth goes crooked, and no getting hairdressing bills that look like Simon Cowell’s tax bill.

Above all, this empty nest thing means no more being treated like a taxi. I set this Saturday aside to catch up on some stuff for myself but ended up having to make several trips to drop off and pick up from dancing lessons. Then there’s ferrying them around for what used to be called “playing at my friend’s house” but is now to be maturely called “hanging out with my pals”, more trips for netball practice, and so on. I’m thinking of putting a yellow light on my sunroof and painting my ‘phone number on the doors of my car. At least mini cab drivers get paid.

So, complain about empty nest syndrome? Bring it on. Let me and the wife get our lives back. We’ll travel the world, spend all our money and then come home old, and infirm, and ask our kids to drive us around to tea dances and Bingo nights or pick us up from church socials.

Empty nests may be distressing for some, but think of it this way. It’s one step closer to the magical days of payback.

I Get By With A Little Help From My Friends

I was reading a newspaper article this week and something caught my eye.

That surprised you, didn’t it? Not the fact something caught my eye, I mean the fact I can read. Well, it did have nice coloured pictures and the stories tend to be fairytales. It’s called the Daily Mirror, a paper where the only commentator you can trust is a bloke called Andy Capp.

Anyway, this piece revealed that an American actor, who starred in the movie Grease with John Travolta, is ill after a very bad fall at his home.

Now, I wish nothing but good things for this actor, and I certainly hope and pray for a speedy recovery for him. However it reminded me that when I last met him he cemented his reputation in my mind as one of the rudest people I have ever encountered or tried to interview.

I had flown to New York for BBC’s Pebble Mill show and, although the televised chat had been fixed up with his agent, the actor refused to do the interview and told us, rudely and repeatedly, that he was going to a club instead. We followed him, cameras in tow, and he kept us hanging around till three in the morning saying he might change his mind. He eventually sneaked off home leaving us all embarrassed.

I thought I’d tell you this week who the rudest celebrities are, the self obsessed nasties behind the public smile. Normally interviewers will rush to tell you about the nicest and most cooperative guests they’ve had, and I’ve certainly had loads of those.

My first ever interview, while I was a student, was with the songwriter Lionel Bart shortly before his death, and if I spent a whole day I couldn’t do full justice to the time he lavished on me, a spotty stuttering oik who couldn’t string two words together. He was kindness and patience itself and he asked as much about my hopes as I did about his career. Class is eternal and I like to think he leads a Pearly Kings and Queens choir upstairs singing songs he wrote for Oliver and making people feel special.

Anyway, back to my theme of spilling the beans on just who the horrible stars are.
Of course it’s the nice ones who make you realise that the self opinionated ones aren’t worth it. Nice ones like Peter Cushing who was a gentleman and whose kindness makes me cry every time I read the dedication he wrote to me in his book, Jackie Collins who always sends a thank you letter after every interview, Connie Francis who asked if I could give her my sweater and sent a lovely thank you note plus chocolate, and Michael Bentine who even turned up on the last show of a series I did just to protest that it was being taken off.

Then there’s Anita Roddick of The Body Shop, Roy Hudd who deserves every bit of success he’s ever had, Thin Lizzy’s Phil Lynott who gave me a book of his poetry, Kenneth Williams who was strange but very kind, the actor Stanley Unwin who couldn’t understand his own fame, Peter Cook who was a fan of a quiz show I hosted and introduced me to Dudley Moore with compliments I would blush to repeat.... the list goes on and on but, sadly, most of the names above are now dead.

I have been very privileged to meet these extraordinary people, and perhaps that’s why I’m always tempted to walk out of interviews when the “star” is acting up. They’re just not worth it.

So, back to the purpose of this week’s blog - telling you about the horrible people I’ve met and naming names.

Actually, on remembering the above, kind people, I think I’’ll take a leaf out of their book instead and just say this. You get back what you give out. Because you can sing or you can dress up and repeat someone else’s words in a movie, it doesn’t make you special. It’s how you treat others that does that. This week’s Telethons for Haiti, featuring famous singers and actors, gives me hope.

I only hope that the American actor from Grease recovers fully, and then that he remembers what’s really important. And it's not his career.


http://www.smoothradiolondon.co.uk/presenters-shows/shows-xmw1/paul-coia-drivetime-show-y43p/pauls-picks-cui1/paul-chats-to-nell-bryden/dr3s159d/

Girl Talk

I think I’ve been discovering my feminine side lately, and I fear it’s now too late to go back.

This movement from the dark side to the pink doesn’t mean that I’ve suddenly lost my sense of direction, or started turning up on time for appointments, or that I now ask my mates to accompany me to the loo when we’re out at a restaurant. Nor does it mean I’m genetically untidy or only buy at Marks & Spencers because their returns policy means I can get another day out shopping.

So what feminine traits am I talking about? Well, this week I went to see a new musical called Legally Blonde, a pleasure that I would normally rank alongside eating cold kippers or licking fluff from a sweaty wrestler’s belly button. In truth I was dragged there and only went because I knew my girls would love it. It is very pink and fluffy and is more of a panto than a musical - think Paris Hilton as the ogre or Victoria Beckham as the beanstalk. There’s even a little cuddly dog carried in a pink handbag, and the whole experience is camper than Liberace in hot pants.

But, guess what? I loved it. I smiled, clapped or laughed from the beginning to the end in a way I hope my mates will never get to know about. The audience was made up mainly of young girls and gay men who screamed recognition of bits from the original book and movie, and there was a standing ovation at the end with me up on my feet yelling louder than anyone else.

My friends in Glasgow would be ashamed of me as a night out at the theatre there used to mean a visit to the front row of Robert Halpern’s hypnotism show or, depending on your persuasion, the annual Celtic or Rangers singalong. Now, thanks to the influence of a house full of girlies, I must also ask for the following offences to be taken in to consideration – I like the musical Wicked, I’m going to see the new Oliver musical for the third time this week, I’ve started trying to colour coordinate my clothes, and I’ve even got a Facebook page.

I’m fully aware that if my pals are reading this they’ll be making plans to get my rugby boots back out of mothballs with a lock in organised at a working men’s club afterwards followed by a curry and a beer drinking game. So, what has happened to me?

Well, I think it’s to do with having a house full of girls. They are supposed to civilise you but I find they just mould you in to copies of themselves and you end up watching what they watch and talking about what interests them. I can now tell you everything you don’t need to know about Robert Pattinson and Twilight, I know when Alexia Khadime is leaving Wicked and that her replacement was spotted in a reality show. I can tell you when The Jonas Brothers are returning to Britain and when Kerry Ellis takes over as Nancy in Oliver .

But even I have to set limits. I refuse to eat Haribos, I still think salad is for lining pet cages, amd I don't watch So You Think You Can Dance.

It’s time I toughened myself up again, so this week I’m going to pretend I’m seeing Oliver for the third time purely to decide whether Griff Rhys Jones is as good as Rowan Atkinson and Omid Djalili were. I’m going along solely with my critical hat on, and it’s blue not pink.

But first I must rush. There are only a few days to get ready and my legs need shaving.

Food, Glorious Food

With weather that would have had Shackelton quaking in his Ugg boots and asking for more lip balm, we’ve all been slip sliding our way about the UK this week like students after Happy Hour in Freshers’ week. Over the past few days I have fallen more often than Heidi Fleiss, the notorious Hollywood madame now putting her feet up in Channel Four’s Celebrity Big Brother house.

I confess that I haven’t been watching the show, but I feel I know what’s happening as I’ve heard Davina’s pieces to camera echo across London as she shouts louder than Concorde with bronchitis. Any more excitement from her and we’ll be having avalanches.

But there have been more important things to do than sit in front of TV ogling a collection of would be celebrities whose face is their plastic surgeon’s fortune. My priority this week has been given over to comfort eating.

Whenever it’s icy or there’s snow I get this uncontrollable craving for stodge, real school dinner type food piled up on my plate like a Desperate Dan cow pie with steam coming off it and heaps of seconds waiting in the wings. For all the advancements and finesse of modern cuisine, Jamie’s hand rolled cannelloni with truffle oil can’t beat a homemade shepherd’s pie can it? And to Gordon with his Fettucine with Fava, Figs and Fennel, I have just two words to say, the first one also beginning with F. It’s “Fry Up!”.

This weather takes me back to my school days, coming home through snow and sometimes fog, ignoring the girls giggling on the other side of the bus because I had a dreamy date in mind with mum’s mince pie and flaky pastry when I got home. As dates go, flaky pastry beats flaky girls.

Don’t get me wrong. Girls are great, in fact most of my ex girlfriends have been girls (I exclude the one who was so addicted to her sport she carried rugby boots in her string bag on the off chance she may get a game while we were out walking. We’ve lost touch but I like to think she’s happy in her dungarees, running a shipyard somewhere and proving her love for her husband by beating him at arm wrestling.)

My fantasy winter menu would include mince pie, shepherd’s pie, gravy, creamy mashed potatoes, cauliflower with white sauce, and hot rice pudding with raisins in for afters. If the Queen served this at State banquets there would be fewer wars.

Of course Debbie, my wife, thinks I’m immature beyond words and that I should be grateful for Tesco diet range quorn. She cannot understand my obsession at this time of year with custard and, I promise you this is true, has been telling me that supermarkets no longer stock the powder and I have to make do with the ready made. For me this is like having Piers Morgan over to dinner rather than Michael Parkinson. One’s the real deal, the other just thinks it is. So I bought a packet myself and, after two days, it has disappeared. I know you think I’m making this up but Debbie has taken it and hidden it where I can’t find it.

I’ve just seen the new George Clooney movie Up In The Air where he plays a single man who thinks relationships suck the soul out of people and that the only way to be happy is to stay footloose and fiancée free. I’m not saying I agree with him but at least no one can steal your custard when you’re solo.

It’s why Desperate Dan never married.

January

First of all a very Happy New Year to you all. Second of all how are you getting on with your New Year Resolutions? And third of all.... I’ve broken mine already.

I could take some comfort from the fact that ten per cent of resolutions are broken within forty eight hours of December 31st, but that just makes me like everybody else. Where’s the comfort in that?

One of my resolutions was not to laugh at the mistakes my mum and dad make due to their refusal to bow to old age and wear their hearing aids, but that was broken early when my dad asked my twelve year old daughter what she had got for Christmas. Since she’s very proud of her celebrity perfume, she mentioned that amongst the many presents she received had been a pack of “Paris Hilton”. My dad took me aside later and asked why we were giving his grandaughter Paracetamol in her Christmas stocking.

Regarding my other resolutions I guess I’m a bit common. Like everyone, I’ve resolved to get fit again, maybe even getting hold of one of those fitness DVDs that flood the shops at this time of year. Producers draw up a Presenters wish list for these videos with, in third place, any actress who was once in Eastenders, in second place any actress who was once in Eastenders and is known to be a bit of a porker and, top of the pile, any actress who was once in Eastenders, is known to be a bit of a porker and once sang with The Nolans.

I know this because a pal of mine produces these DVDs and it’s a nightmare way of earning a living. One newly slim TV personality who used to eat half a buffalo for elevenses was porking up again before the publicity tour had died down so my pal had to employ a "fridge sitter" with a padlock. She kicked another actress off the publicity junket after the constant clinking of vodka bottles in her bag drowned out her interviews, and yet another is now back to being the size of a Japanese town. That's Tokyo.

But I’ll have to do something. As I sat down to write I saw a strange sight. There was something familiar about the two blobs I saw as my legs folded in to the chair and I suddenly realised I hadn’t seen them for some time. They were my knees which have remained hidden by my stomach all year.

I’m told that twenty five per cent of folk give up the good intentions by the end of the first week of January and another twenty five per cent by the end of the month. That still leaves half sticking to their guns, so good for them.

About thirteen years ago I resolved to give up tea and coffee and I’ve almost never touched a drop since then resulting in cleaner teeth and cheaper grocery bills. Problem is that as I now drink just hot water, everyone looks at me as if I’ve asked for Advocaat and blackcurrant. They pity me with looks that say "he's obviously on special medicine". But why? I think you’ll find water was around before PG gave us his Tips and Maxwell bought his House thank you very much.

The resolution that I haven’t yet broken is to cut back on my chocolate intake. I still eat it of course but the intravenous drip has gone and the Thorntons roll ups remain unsmoked. In my world that counts as progress.