Honesty

I’ve been loving the new series of Mad Men, the television drama set in the Sixties at a New York advertising agency where men are men, and women are either pregnant or have typewriters sewn to their fingertips.

Every week I fall for the style and sophistication, the clothes and the power, but it goes hand in hand with smoking and drinking, rampant sexism and lack of morals. It’s like watching a Premier League football team.

In Mad Men they make no bones about how advertising manipulates the great unwashed in to buying stuff they really don’t need, at prices they can’t afford, with slogans they can’t understand. They remind us constantly that success is all a matter of ripping off other people’s ideas and not letting your clients know that you’re making it up as you go along.

There’s a random catchphrase site on the web just now called The Advertising Slogan Generator, and it really shows up how stupid the whole industry is. Go to it and you type in the name of your product then wait while it makes up a slogan for your campaign. I typed in the word Flatulence and got “We Bring Good Flatulence In To Your Life”, and it then gave me alternatives like “You Can Be Sure Of Flatulence”, “Watch Out There’s Flatulence About”, “The Flatulence Of Champions” and, my favourite, “Do You Love Your Flatulence Enough To Share It?”.

This selling nonsense has made me wonder how much better it would be if advertisers just admitted the truth about their dark art and we all got back to telling the plain facts about products. I know that in an ad man’s dictionary the word Description lies next to Deception, Truth next to Twaddle, and Fact next to Fantasy but I can dream, can’t I, of how life changing it would be if they started to tell the whole story?

Wouldn’t you stop to look twice at a billboard with “Global Warming – We Might Just Have Made It Up”? Wouldn’t you be riveted by an ad that said something like “Selfish? Got Nothing To Offer? Make A Career In Banking.”

In these days of celebrities getting accused of textual harassment, there’s an advert running in magazines and papers for a mobile telephone company that asks “What would you do with unlimited texts?”. Why not add the truthful answer to it? Something like “I’d get splashed all over the papers, then chucked out of my home and have to give my wife fifty per cent of my earnings.”

Comedian and writer Ricky Gervais made a movie last year called The Invention Of Lying about a society that always tells the truth to each other. I’d be lying if I said the movie was any good, but it did make me smile at one point with an honest advertising slogan on the side of one bus that said “Pepsi. For When There’s No Coke”.

It’s too late for me to go in to the advertising game now, but if I did then I would ask to be given the difficult accounts and then I’d set about making them more honest. Forget selling Viagra with photos of weedy men turned in to supermen. Why not just a slogan like “Viagra. Something For The Weak End.”

Or I could help Toyota with something along the lines of “In A Hurry? Try Our Cars. We Stop For No One.”

Honesty! That’s what we all need.

Hong Kong Garden

If the blog seems a bit confused this week it’s simply that my body is just back from Hong Kong but my head is still half way over the Middle East, racing to get back and catch up as I try to get some sleep.

Before I flew to the Far East, I took my daughters to the first anniversary party for the Michael Jackson musical Thriller. The noise was deafening as the cast and friends packed a London nightclub and we had to shout over the chatter and music. I was especially impressed with the cast members who played the Jackson Five in their young days and had grown big, bushy hairstyles for the role.

I jokingly shouted to my older daughter “I’m going to get an afro”. She shouted back that this was a great idea and I should do it as soon as possible. Disappointed that she hadn’t laughed at the idea of me looking like an extra from Car Wash, I carried on drinking until my youngest came up very excited. “Who’s going to get your Blackberry phone?”, she asked. I had no clue what she was on about until she shouted “Annalie says you’re going to get an iPhone”.

iPhones were in plentiful supply in Hong Kong, but there were no afro hairstyles that I could see. I had a great, tiring time, and you can still see the video blogs I kept if you wish. The link is below. Check out especially the video where I had my feet nibbled by fish at the Kiss Kiss Fish Spa. It was very unenjoyable for me but our listeners loved it as I was in pain. What a kind lot.

I got to fly a 747 Jumbo plane in a simulator used to test Cathay Pacific’s pilots so I now know how to make the flight go slower and last longer. This is important as I had watched the movie An Education on the way over but fell asleep so had to start it again and we landed about ten minutes from the end. So if you know what happens in that film let me know. It’s up for an Oscar and I’ll be the only person who doesn’t know if it has a happy ending.

While recording in Ladies’ Market on Wednesday a lady came up to me and told me more about myself than is natural. She wasn’t a fortune teller but had recognised me and reads my blog, has watched my shows, and now watches my wife on Shopping TV. She felt we had something in common as her husband stars in the TV show Casualty. On talking to him, though, I found he’s a driver for the cast who was once asked to stand in as an extra in a crowd scene. Showbiz is glam isn’t it?

Now I’m home to cold, frost and sleet, and life is starting to get back to normal. But I’m armed with the knowledge of what the year ahead has in store for me as I had my fortune read twice. The first reader, a Feng Shui expert, said I was soft on the outside but metal on the inside and I have to take fish oil capsules to stop the metal corroding. The second fortune teller said I was like a Princess from centuries ago and that, sadly, like her, I would not get a new husband in the next year. I’m gutted.

If you want to catch up on my adventures, watch the videos at http://www.smoothradiolondon.co.uk/presenters-shows/shows-xmw1/graham-dene-breakfast-show-myfc/win-a-fantastic-trip-to-hong-kong/pvhmwfz7/promo-pauls-blog/

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.