Seize the Day (7 page)

A few years later Julian Lennon and his girlfriend came down to my home in Holmbury St Mary, near Dorking. He talked quite extensively about his childhood at Kenwood, even expressing an interest in buying it if it ever came onto the market. Acting upon Jesus’ suggestion to ‘render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s’ I gave the door to Julian. His mother, Cynthia, later told me that he’d hung it by four chains over his bed. As a footnote, Billy Atkins sold Kenwood to songwriter Bill Martin, the man responsible for such songs as ‘Puppet on a String’ and ‘Congratulations’ and Billy told this story against himself. Just about to complete on the deal, Billy turned up
at Bill’s office, pointed a sawn-off shotgun at him and demanded £25,000 in cash before he’d sign the contract. Billy played the tough guy, but he met his match with Bill, who took the gun from him, threw it out of the window and told him to leave … Glaswegian style! (i.e. forcibly and just possibly, although who am I to say, with some persuasive use of the forehead.) He left. Well, you would.

At the end of 1980 Radio One did a week out in Birmingham, with John Peel and me holding the fort at Broadcasting House. I was just handing over to John, when a call came through asking me to race up to Birmingham as Dave Lee Travis, who’d been doing the breakfast show for a couple of years by that time, was under the weather. It was already ten o’clock and I had nothing except the clothes I was wearing – no doubt some iconic fashion items that became dated three weeks later. Nevertheless I headed off, but only got as far as St John’s Wood before my car plunged into a large unlit hole in the road where it wheezed like a newly discovered Mesolithic creature and gave up the ghost. I ran back to Broadcasting House, phoned the AA and tried to call for a car.

‘Don’t do that, it’s ridiculously expensive,’ said John. ‘I’ll take you up there.’

What a decent fellow. By the time we left it was past midnight and we didn’t pull into Birmingham until sometime after two o’clock. That colourful wiz(z)ard Roy Wood was at the hotel when we arrived, so there were late-night drinks all round and just two hours’ sleep until being prised out of bed to present the breakfast show. It was a pattern I’d get used to.

I took over the breakfast show during the first week of 1981, but it wasn’t all accolades and bouquets. I was and always have been a music lover and as such have always been passionate about it, so what was more natural in my new slot than to keep playing the artists that I’d played in the evening? If music’s good it’s good, at any time of day. Obviously I used a modicum of common sense in tandem with what was perceived as my maverick attitude, but was pulled up about it
week after week. DLT had been relatively disco orientated, but I was the guy who’d cobbled together the first punk top twenty, four years earlier, at least if I could find enough records to fill twenty places, and I was keen to incorporate new musical genres. I was strongly advised to knuckle down and play the more conventional music that people were used to at breakfast or possibly lose the gig, but I soldiered on with the groups and artists that I liked, and gradually they became more acceptable as ‘daytime’ music for the station.

It was a bumpy few months. By playing what was deemed to be ‘night-time music’ I was made to feel as though I was practising the dark arts.

I
LOVED EVERY MINUTE
of my stint on the breakfast show. Those five shows a week are enough for some, but as well as two weekly TV shows, (
Pop Quiz
and
Saturday Superstore
) and
Top of the Pops
every few weeks, I hosted the review programme
Round Table
(aka
Singled Out
) and for periods
Chart Quiz
and
Pop of the Form. Singled Out
threw up so many giants of music on a weekly basis there is simply no room for all the stories. One rather odd show, though, was with Pamela Stephenson and Brian Setzer from the Stray Cats. While Brian and I were deep in conversation dissecting some new release, Pamela slipped under the table and undid our trousers. How we struggled. ‘Stop,’ I drawled slowly, without much conviction. The ratings did an about-turn as people tuned in to the audio romp. After another edition of the show, Phil Everly told me that he was staying in Walton-on-Thames that night, a mile down the road from my house. I was having a few people round for supper and invited him to join us for a drink later. We were still eating and had a good atmosphere going when the doorbell rang. A collective sigh went up. Was this the twentieth-century equivalent of Coleridge’s ‘person from Porlock’, come to ruin the moment? No it wasn’t, it was Phil.

To say the company was awestruck would be a slight understatement. But soon everyone re-gained their composure. My Radio One colleague Paul Burnett talked Americana with him, and with Shakin’ Stevens and producer Stuart Colman there as well, a few songs were sung. When the Everly Brothers played Hammersmith, Phil invited me backstage after the gig. Getting there proved trickier than I had expected. People were being turned away, denied access, and the place was crawling with security guys. Now it goes without saying that the Everlys are unique, inspirational and much revered and I could have understood such behaviour had it been 1960, but it was 1984 and Duran Duran were the outfit that needed protecting. I was eventually ushered to a small dressing room that I assumed was Phil’s. I knocked, and sure enough he came to the door. ‘Hey, Mike, come on in. This is my brother Don.’

Wow! One hundred per cent of the Everlys … in the same room. But there were two more guys there. One of them approached me and extended his hand. ‘Hello, Mike, I’m George.’ Phenomenally unassuming, but I
do
know a Beatle when I see one, or in this case two, for Ringo was also there. I re-did the maths: 100 per cent of the Everlys and 50 per cent of the Beatles. No wonder security was tight. I seem to remember Don giving George his black Gibson (possibly a J200) as a present that evening. I spent an amazing half-hour in that room and felt incredibly privileged to be invited. Apart from being musical legends, George Harrison and Phil Everly were real gentlemen who had so much more to give.

As well as the opportunity of working with the musical greats, the breakfast show brought with it a fantastic, and possibly unwarranted, clutch of national trophies down the years, with such accolades as a brace of Sonys and several Sun Awards and Smash Hits Awards being thrust into my grateful hands at various times. If I ever felt too comfortable, Doreen Davies, our head of music, was always at hand with a delightful early-morning outside broadcast at a time of year when the weather wasn’t particularly clement. Oh, and the town or
city almost always, for some reason way beyond my comprehension, began with the letter B.

Bromley for example. I was a milkman in Bromley. In fact I was a milkman wherever I ended up. In Barnsley the sleet drove sideways through the float as I was given my instructions by the roundsman, who I rather gathered would have preferred to have done it alone and in half the time. A tough, gnarled finger pointed and shouted a number over the prevailing wind as I, gloveless and hopelessly underdressed, trotted with yet another two pints of gold top to yet another unwelcoming doorstep. By golly, this lactic sergeant major, with a voice like a rough-hewn Michael Parkinson, wasn’t making it easy. I was also expected to make my frozen lips move at the end of every song and say something moderately intelligent. I’m not sure that I did. Was there any heart in this fourth-generation roundsman I was assisting? Any shred of humanity? Did he never stop for refreshment?

‘We stop over there for tea.’ He nodded towards a terraced house.

I was stunned. I almost offered him my goods and chattels and prostrated myself before him.

‘I always get a cup of tea there.’

I was so overwhelmed by the moment I almost forgot my job. He hadn’t. ‘Well, go on then.’

I took the milk, rang the bell and was invited in. The lady of the house ushered me down the passage to the kitchen, where her husband had the kettle on. The back of an old pair of pyjamas greeted me without their occupant even bothering to turn round. ‘Put them on the table’, I was instructed by this strange northern voice, ‘and sit down.’

I sat. He continued some odd conversation in an even odder dialect. I couldn’t even be sure it was Yorkshire. It seemed to be a rather weird mixture, but he didn’t appear to be in the mood for me to question his accent. I hoped his blend of tea would be easier to swallow. I explained that we were broadcasting and that I was about to do a link to the rest of the country from his kitchen. That’ll get his attention, I thought. I was right. As I began to speak, he turned round. It was Noel Edmonds.

Another milk round, another place beginning with B. Bristol was too close for comfort to Smiley Miley country for me. Smiley Miley, for the uninitiated, was the guy who ran the Radio One Roadshow and my sometime nemesis, but let’s not squander words on this rascal yet, there’ll be time for that. So, as you can imagine, I had to be on my guard. My round this time took in some of the more unusual buildings and sights of the city, including Bristol Zoo. As an experienced assistant I was now allowed to deliver to some of the more important customers. The milk float could only get within a certain distance from the delivery point at the zoo, meaning that I had to carry a crate of bottles some 100 yards or so. No problem, I’m a big, strong chap. No Tarzan, but more than capable of holding my own on the crate-carrying scene. I was just contemplating imitating the old ‘milko’ cry that these cheerful chaps apparently executed in the days of yore, when someone beat me to it. Actually it was more a cry of desperation, as two characters hurtled out of the shrubbery and vanished at a rate of knots. It was only after they’d gone that the actual words registered. If they hadn’t actually shouted ‘The gorilla’s escaped’, it was something extremely similar. There was a thrashing sound a few yards ahead in a thicket. More cries went up from another location. My eyes, though, were fixed on the area of the thrashing. Putting two and two together I should have bolted, but I had no idea how fast a gorilla could run. I knew that a polar bear could do 40 mph if there was a raw takeaway seal at the end of the course, but gorillas, either in the mist or in the shrubbery, were an unknown in the Olympic stakes. In case the situation ever occurs again, I have since checked up on how a gorilla compares to say, Usain Bolt, and the answer is, at 20–25 mph, you can hardly get a cigarette paper between them. Mind you, you’d have to crack on a bit yourself to have even half a chance of achieving such an improbable and pointless feat. To be honest, in 1986, I stood more of a chance against Usain then a large runaway primate, as Mr and Mrs Bolt’s new arrival was having his umbilical cord cut at the time and I was, if I may use a little poetical licence,
loose-limbed and lithe. The milkman’s guild, if there is such a thing, would have been proud of me. I stood my ground and gripped my crate as the creature came thundering through the undergrowth. OK, herbivores they may be, but if they take a shine to you, they can give a chap one hell of a ‘man-hug’. This was my ‘Ernie’ moment, with the ape, in all likelihood from the Rwandan Virunga Mountains, cast as ‘Two-Ton Ted from Teddington’. Maybe they’d write a heroic song about me as my mangled body was dragged unceremoniously away from the battlefield, still courageously clutching my crate. We’ve seen extraordinary images of the human-like behaviour of these great apes on YouTube, but I’d never seen one unzip itself before. Until now. This was surely taking anthropomorphism too far. Before you can say ‘Excuse me but are we related?’ they’ll be working as librarians or as customs officials at Heathrow. This one, though, contained a human being. Noel Edmonds. He certainly got about a bit.

While we’re deep in zoo territory, I was never more than a few hundred feet away from wild animals while presenting the breakfast show. My neighbour in Weybridge was Gordon Mills, manager of Tom Jones, Engelbert Humperdinck and Gilbert O’Sullivan, also locals but not the wild animals to which I refer. Gordon had a private zoo with gorillas, a puma, Siberian and Sumatran tigers and other such cuddly creatures not a stone’s throw from my bedroom window at his house, Little Rhondda. If the alarm clock didn’t wake me at 4.30 one of the apes did, beating out a tattoo on his chest which resembled a drum battle between Carl Palmer and Keith Moon. My prayers included his safekeeping along with my nearest and dearest, for if he were to take it upon himself to embark upon an early morning stroll and present his calling card to his nearest neighbour, Radio One would be one breakfast show presenter short. I was never certain which ape was my wake-up call, but of the tribe of primates that were my former neighbours, Memba, Winston and Janey, now all well into their forties, appear to be alive and well in various parts of the USA. Presumably still beating their chests to terrify some poor American breakfast show jock.

Continuing to deliver milk to the calcium-deficient in places beginning with B, we sailed to the Bailiwick of Jersey. Talk about coals to Newcastle. They practically invented the stuff. I also presented several non-lactic and orangutan-free breakfast shows from the Channel Islands in 1985 for the fortieth anniversary of their liberation. The islands had been occupied by Nazi Germany for much of World War Two, the only part of the British Isles to be invaded and occupied. Despite a resistance movement, the period from July 1940 to May 1945 was a dark period for this beautiful archipelago, with some 4,000 inhabitants being sentenced for breaking draconian Nazi laws. Four concentration camps were built on Alderney, and 6,000 souls were imprisoned there. It’s reputed that those areas still have a strange feel about them. We captured the atmosphere in St Peter Port and St Helier as tanks, bands and hundreds of veterans of the three armed services took to the streets of Jersey and Guernsey. Old comrades hugged, reminisced or just fell silent. It was impossible to imagine their thoughts and emotions, impossible not to be respectful, humble and grateful. While in Jersey we stayed at the Pomme d’Or, where the owner relived his boyhood; he was a young lad when the German soldiers marched into his parents’ hotel, informing them that their home would henceforth become the Nazi HQ. In Sark and Herm, the reflection and memories were of a more intimate nature. When I first visited the Channel Islands in 1980, there were still families and friends split due to the ongoing conflict between those that had collaborated with the enemy and those that had resisted.

I’ve returned regularly to the islands, even being their Mr Battle in 1987. The Battle of Flowers festival had been inaugurated back in 1902 to celebrate the coronation of Edward VII and Queen Alexandra, hence them choosing an annual king and queen, a Mr Battle and a Miss Battle. I was proud to be a part of the family, with previous Mr Battles including Stirling Moss, Sacha Distel, Roy Castle and more recently Gareth Gates, following a revival of the role after a period in abeyance. This Mr Battle gig was not a slow canter by any means.
Interviews, float inspections and a host of other duties kept me busy for several days. The inspections of the floats necessitated some dozen questions a minute. I felt like Prince Charles, and certainly borrowed a few of his time-honoured phrases. ‘So how many flowers did you use?’ ‘Really, and how do you keep them fresh?’ ‘Extraordinary, and what happens to them afterwards?’ ‘Marvellous, and how many of you worked on it?’ ‘Amazing, so who’s the boss?’ The last question always guaranteed a degree of guffawing, at which point one could respectfully move on amid the mirth.

The Governor of Jersey came down to join me on one such excursion. What a delightful chap Bill Pillar was, or Admiral Sir William Pillar GBE KBE FIMechE to give him his full title. He was also a Knight of St John, an ancient order whose ranks I would join in 2011, and a veteran of World War Two and the Korean War. He and Ursula, Lady Pillar, rather decently invited me to Government House for tennis, supper and drinks at various times during my stay on Jersey, treating me like one of the family. I stayed in touch with one or two members of their tribe for some while with Bill and Ursula continuing to send Christmas cards. I was soon back on Jersey again, promoting and performing on Channel TV with their presenter Liam Mayclem to promote my first Betjeman album. Guitar in hand I wove my poetic way through a handful of songs and a good time was had by all. Well, I can’t be certain about the viewers, but Liam and I enjoyed ourselves. This was clearly the boost he needed. He moved to the USA to host the coast-to-coast show
Tomorrow’s World America
, and continues to be a major player in US TV.

Doreen Davies was always open to programme ideas. When I suggested
Three Men in a Boat
to her (see
Chapter 5
) she was onto it at once. She got it. She always did. Astute, inspirational, wise and never seeking the limelight. Peter Powell and I did
Ticket to Ryde
with 100 or so Radio One listeners on a round trip to the Isle of Wight. I did shows from Shire horse centres, stately homes and even a submarine. The submarine would have seriously troubled the claustrophobic. You
squashed down a small tube into a longer but not much bigger one packed with sailors. If there was one thing I learned that day, it was what it feels like to be a Smartie.