Charles Nove's Blog. Voice-over, Radio, Routemasters and more.

Eggheads and more

2010-08-25T16:46:00.014+01:00

Now, where was I....? Doesn't time fly when you're having fun?!

Since last we met, my travels have taken me to Glasgow, Swindon and Belfast. The key headlines from each: Tricky Questions; Concrete Jungle; Fowl Alert.

So, the Glasgow trip first. I'm always glad of an excuse to return to my home town, so when the makers of the BBC 2 quiz show Eggheads extended an invitation, I was delighted to accept. They're lining up a series of "Celebrity" episodes for transmission sometime near Christmas, and some bright spark had thought of having a team of Voice-over Artists. First challenge, when we arrived for the show? Choose a team name. This was the subject of hot debate, over a cold lunch. I can exclusively reveal that the final choice was Rent-a-Gob. Elegant, don't you think?
That's about all I can reveal, without spoiling the various surprises of the show, but here's a glimpse of our team:

(L to R) Redd Pepper, Me, Jon "Weakest Link" Briggs, Steve Punt, Mitch Johnson.

Eggheads is made at the BBC studios in Glasgow. Always nicely nostalgic for me to work there, as it was BBC Scotland that gave me my first professional broadcasting job, back in 1978. The fine old building in which I worked has now been reduced to rubble, and the site awaits eventual redevelopment (rather more eventual than was envisaged, it turns out!) while the Beeb now occupies a glossy glass box in the heart of town beside the Clyde.
I did most of my growing-up in a house across the road from the old BBC building, so it was always just sitting there when I looked out of the window. On the occasion of this visit, I was staying in a hotel just across the river from the new building, so there was something slightly familiar about the concept of eating breakfast whilst looking out at the day's workplace only yards away. Fortunately, I did manage to remember that it was now a river, not a road, that lay in between home and work, so feet remained dry!
And as for the quiz itself, well, I won't spoil the surprise (transmission is due shortly before Christmas), but I would refer you to that headline I mentioned....

And so to Swindon, the latest venue for our periodical Radio Lags' Night Out, that jolly fixture which brings together a disparate array of wireless practitioners intent on (a) a good time; (b) a drink or two; (c) foul and contemptible gossip; and (d) staying awake til long after bedtime. I am pleased to report that all of the above was achieved, but there was a time when it was looking a little questionable. Swindon must have one of Britain's least navigable town centres. A veritable feast of that greying 1970s concrete, it gives little quarter to the casual visitor. The famous Magic Roundabout (pictured above) is definitely a highlight. A quick Google of the postcode for our budget hotel had brought up a rather vague location. The newly built commercial estate on which it sits is sufficiently newly built to be absent from the map, but it appeared to be within a couple of miles of the railway station. No worries, I thought, I'll get a cab from the station. This was a good idea. And I should have stuck to it. So, what went wrong? Well, I fell for the yarn spun by a Swindon taxi driver at the station. He assured me that the hotel I wanted was just round the corner, so close that it made no sense to go by cab and I'd be there in a trice if I just wandered up the road and turned right. I set off, trying to ignore the drizzling rain, and followed the directions. Moments later, I found myself facing an array of featureless buildings and a hotel or two. But not my hotel. I continued to wander, but the mystery just deepened. Then I saw a row of Bus Stops, with maps. Phew! I even found a service that listed a destination with a similar name to my hotel's location. Simples! Now, which way should I be going? This side of the road or t'other? I tried wandering into the local Bus Station, but the uniformed figure lounging against the wall had no idea and just gestured vaguely in the direction of the street from which I'd just come. Muttering darkly, I returned to the Bus Stop Maze to review my options. At that, a gaggle of local Pensioners fluttered in and roosted on the seats in the shelter. "Might any of you ladies know the way to Kembury Street?" I ventured. None of them, it transpired, had any clue where Kembury Street was. Sadly this proved no impediment to a lengthy group discussion about where it might be. I swear I was stuck there for 10 minutes listening to the theories. I left none the wiser, and with the heady aroma of Algipan assaulting my sinuses!

And so, dear friends, we draw a veil on Swindon and move on to matters Fowl.

This was a trip to Northern Ireland, to visit some friends in farming territory on the outskirts of Belfast. Very enjoyable, with good hospitality and fine fresh air. And some scary wildlife...

This is Cogburn. The rooster. And, yes, he comes complete with a John Wayne swagger and a "don't mess with me matey" attitude. I never expected to be cowed by an aggressive chicken, but encountering Cogburn changed all that! He patrols his territory thoroughly, sizes you up and then runs at you. If he gets close enough, he then leaps into the air, turns his heel spurs your way and digs in with vigour. The approved technique is to push him away with your foot while you prepare to scarper. He reacts to this rather in the manner of one of those town-centre drunks you see on Police Camera ASBO Danger Reality Crime Wars Uncut when you can't find anything worth watching on Sky, staggering backwards, neck puffing, shoulders swinging, before rushing forward for Round Two.
Keeping my eyes fixed on the hostile fowl, I started to reverse slowly towards the safety of the house. It was going fine until I heard a threatening hiss and a loud HONK! Oh Lord, now it's the bl**dy Geese!
This gorgeous family of feathered beauties wander round the farm according to some unpublished schedule all their own. The fact that you're standing there is no reason to change their plan. George, the Boss Goose (the girl is called Mildred!) simply walks up to you and delivers a series of clear messages: stretched neck and hissing, honking, wing flapping and the repeated thwack of webbed feet on tarmac. It doesn't take a genius to translate. Two words, and the second one is "off". I beat a hasty retreat.

You know, I don't think the farming life is for me!

Fab song - and a funny bit of musical history!

2010-07-18T11:20:00.005+01:00

I've been enjoying the new album from Eliza Doolittle, not least for this song, "Pack Up".

As an inveterate reader of sleeve notes, I was surprised to find a full credit in there for the writers and publishers of "Pack Up Your Troubles In Your Old Kit Bag (and smile, smile, smile)". I'd have taken a flying guess that an old World War 1 marching song would be well and truly out of copyright by now, but not so.

It was published in 1915, the work of two brothers, George and Felix Powell (lyric and music respectively). Indeed, it won a competition in that year for Best Morale-boosting Song. UK copyright generally subsists for 70 years after the year in which the composer dies so, since George Powell stayed with us until 1951 (sadly, Felix committed suicide in 1942), the work is well and truly still in copyright.

It's an object lesson in never assuming you know the copyright position of an elderly work!

Happy Birthday to you, as frequently sung at family celebrations, is another problematic copyright case, as a few media outlets have discovered to their cost over the years. But let's not go there now!

****************************
Meantime, in another part of the forest....

.....regular visitors will know that I always enjoy oddities from the world of "Signage". Here's a recent sighting:

So many questions! Does this establishment have a particular problem with people fondling the signs? Are they only touching it because they are blind and that's how you read Braille? If they are, then how is an added sign in plain English going to resolve the problem?

All at sea .... the conclusion!

2010-06-11T14:32:00.017+01:00

Now then .... where was I ..... ? Ah yes! At sea.
In our last, thrilling instalment, you found me contemplating a rush back to the UK, from Barcelona, to cover important broadcasting commitments.
Two things then conspired to obstruct that carefully honed plan: The British Airways cabin crew strike and the Icelandic Volcano. With Alan Dedicoat unable to leave London, there was only one thing for it: I would have to stay on the ship for the duration.
This was, clearly, terrible news.
I retreated immediately to the nearest bar to consider the situation. Whilst considering, I was momentarily distracted by Pudsey, the Children-in-Need bear, who had commandeered the piano, in a shameless attempt to serenade Radio 2 Pause for Thought favourite, the Reverend Ruth Scott.
Mind you, I'm sure she welcomed the light relief after her tough session moderating "A Natter With Nove" in the ship's theatre....
Having come to terms with the shocking fact that I was to be imprisoned on the ship, risking life and limb to thoroughly test Cunard's legendary hospitality, I felt a little light exercise was called for. Here we see a brief venture into Line Dancing, with me and my colleague John "Boggy" Marsh being given expert coaching by Lucy Quipment of the TOGS party.

John is not accustomed to vigorous exercise (or any exercise, come to that) and had prompt recourse to the poolside bar for emergency refreshment. This is a man who has two garden sheds so, naturally, the Pina Coladas had to double up too.

And so, to Cannes, at the height of the world-famous Film Festival. The mighty Queen Victoria anchored in the bay, next to some smaller, but pretty impressive neighbours, like this motor yacht Octopus. Note the two helicopters! There's also a submarine tucked away somewhere in there. The owner is one of the founders of Microsoft. He didn't invite us for cocktails. Miserable sod!

But all was not lost! Ashore, our PR supremo, Dan Kirkby (of the legendary Kirkby Monahan Publicity) somehow secured us a place in a comfortable beachfront venue (something about an international porn star, but I didn't like to ask). A bottle of chilled Rosé, a touch of Calvados, a proper French Tarte Aux Pommes and a chance to admire the way the locals had managed to set up a leather dining suite on the sand and keep it looking stylish...

Meanwhile, on the main drag, a fine array of ladders erected by the eager Press corps, awaited action on the red carpet.

I tried to provide some of the aforementioned action, but they seemed unimpressed!
Back aboard, Sir Terry Wogan joined us in time for a bit of book signing, meet & greet and general bonhomie, culminating in shipboard version of his Weekend Wogan show, with music and laughter in the splendid surroundings of the Queen Victoria's Royal Court Theatre. Here's me getting stuck into a round-up of some of the voyage's many goings-on....

...not least the tale of the party of TOGS on the return leg of a coach trip to Naples who suddenly spotted six ladies of dubious virtue stationed at the roadside, displaying their ...er.... wares to passing travellers. When the working girls saw the TOGS on the bus, they quickly put their wares under cover, to the considerable chagrin of certain of the party! And, after a revelation like that, time to leave the stage!
So, there we have it! There's much more I could drone on about, but I've kept you long enough. The good news is that the efforts of the TOGS on the voyage, combined with the generosity of our friends at Cunard, raised over £81,000 for Children-in-Need. That, plus a good time had by all, is what I call a result!

Just before I go, a quick glimpse of a neat bit of design. One of the lovely things Cunard have done with the look of these ships is to keep a continuing reference to the history and tradition of the line, and ships of the past. The whole interior design is full of elegant curves, sweeping lines and wood panelling, and little touches like this:
Lovely surroundings, and a ship's company who really do exemplify their employer's motto: Legendary, Elegant, Memorable.
It's been great fun to be a little part of!

All ashore!

Ahar, me hearties!

2010-05-16T17:52:00.004+01:00

Well, dear reader, you find me all at sea, on another TOGS’ Voyage. Just a quick explanation for the uninitiated: the TOGS are the hardcore followers of Terry Wogan and his now defunct Radio 2 breakfast show. The show may have gone but, happily, the TOGS and their fun, games and splendid charity work live on. Over 300 of these good folk have booked on Cunard’s Queen Victoria, for a cruise entitled ‘Jewels of the Mediterranean’. (So, where it’s going is anyone’s guess!) And they’ve had the good grace to invite a bunch of us jolly broadcasters along to share the merriment. And as you can see, Children in Need mascot Pudsey Bear is with us too.

We set sail from Southampton at teatime on Friday, the huge ship making her way carefully down Southampton Water, past the Isle of Wight, and out into the English Channel. We celebrated our departure with champagne at the stern of the ship, and then a champagne reception to welcome our TOGS friends. Here’s me, waxing lyrical – or is it whimsical? - at the evening bash.

In the course of Saturday, we traversed the notorious Bay of Biscay. It’s vast! Bigger than it looks on the map. It offered up a bit of a swell, too, but it takes a lot to interfere with the smooth running of a ship this size.

Saturday morning, in the Grand Theatre (and grand it certainly is, a well equipped 850-seater which would not look at all inferior in London’s West End.) the entertainment bill offered A Natter With Nove, in which, with the excellent interviewing assistance of the lovely Reverend Ruth Scott (of Pause for Thought fame) the assembled ladies and gentlemen were treated to the story of my life and haphazard career. We followed that with Uncle Charles’s Newsreading Challenge, in which a number of brave volunteers were dragged to the stage to have a go at some News bulletins, of the style we do on Radio 2. They did very well, and were pretty brave to get up there and give it a try in front of their fellow passengers.

More champagne followed (are you detecting a theme here?) interspersed with a sprinkling of G&T. I’m writing this having come in from sunning myself on deck, with a glass of Pimms and an ice cream. It’s hell, I tell you. One of the party travelling with us is a lovely Spanish lady, Christina. She was a little puzzled by the concept of the TOGS’ names. They tend to have an alias that they use for activities connected with the show, and most of the names are a play on words of some sort or another. Names such as Eileen Dover, Dora Jarr, or the retired military genius Major Sir Gerry Pending, are par for the course. Anyway, one of my on-stage Newsreading participants was the delightful Norma Stitz. Even with the top-class grasp of English possessed by our Spanish friend, this idiomatic usage was a bit baffling. And so it came to pass that Janet, wife of my friend and colleague John Marsh, set to explaining some of these names and how the puns worked. She worked gamely around the idea of Norma’s tag. There was a small pause and then the penny dropped and, grinning broadly, Christina announced, loudly, in her Malaga accent: “AH! ENORMOUS TITS!”. Fortunately, the band was playing cheery melodies for the Black & White Ball at the time, otherwise the ladies walking past at the time might have been taken aback at this observation.

First stop, after 3 days at sea, is Barcelona, where I am due to take my leave, flying back to London so that my colleague Alan Dedicoat can come out to join the ship. Then I’m due to return to rejoin my shipmates in Rome on Friday. If you take out of the equation the British Airways cabin crew strike and the Icelandic volcano, it should all be smooth as silk………

A nearly gaffe - Exclusive

2010-05-01T09:45:00.005+01:00

As the media extracted maximum value, and then some, from Gordon Brown's "Bigotgate" moment, I recalled a moment, long, long ago, when another senior politician came very close to illuminating the airwaves with his innermost thoughts....
(fx: shimmering vision + assorted harp glisses)

It's 1979, and the General Election campaign is in full swing. (This is the election that'll see Jim Callaghan humping his belongings into the removal van and departing Downing Street to make way for Britain's first female Prime Minister.)

BBC Radio Scotland is broadcasting one of a series of election phone-in shows, with various party representatives facing questions from the public. The programme is being presented in Edinburgh, but one of its guests, the renowned Conservative MP Teddy Taylor, is joining the proceedings from Glasgow. For technical reasons, he's sitting with me in the station's main continuity studio.

The calls come thick and fast and, it would be fair to say, Mr Taylor is given a pretty thorough interrogation by a largely hostile electorate.

Being every bit the experienced media veteran, he displays a neat routine for lighting his cigarettes (yes, you could smoke in a workplace back then!) with a match struck underneath the acoustic table, so that the microphone does not pick-up the sound. As the hostile calls come thick and fast, the rate of fag lighting increases, and I'm sure I detect a slight nervous tremor beginning to show in his hands.

Eventually, the programme draws to a close and Taylor emits a sigh of relief, turning to me and opining: "J*sus Chr*st, not a f*cking Conservative among them".

I hastily make the international sign for "Shhh .... not now, matey!" as I open the mic and embark on the live end-of-programme continuity announcement. Just one second earlier on the mic fader and the listening public would have been able to share his observation. Sadly, only Teddy and I had the pleasure. In fact, this blog is undoubtedly the first published record of this event! I probably shouldn't divulge this studio secret, but I'm unofficially invoking the 30 Year Rule.

Although that election swept the Conservatives to power, it also swept Teddy Taylor out of his Glasgow Cathcart seat, as Labour reasserted itself in working-class central Scotland.

Incidentally, 1979's was a May election, and the Labour campaign focused on the damage they predicted the Conservatives would do to the country. James Callaghan cautioned that a Conservative government would "just allow firms to go bankrupt and jobs to be lost in the middle of a world recession". The Tories were, he said "too big a gamble to take. The question ... is whether we risk tearing everything up by the roots".

I don't like to say "I told you so", but ...

2010-03-24T10:37:00.002Z

Back in October 2009, on the subject of the all-seeing airport security scanners, I said:
They insist that the images will only be viewed by one person, and that it is impossible to copy or store them. I'll give it a handful of months before there's an unpleasant incident involving howls of mirth being heard emanating from behind the control room door
So, imagine my smuggery at reading today's BBC News report slugged Heathrow Airport worker warned over Body Scanner misuse.
A Heathrow Airport security guard was given a police warning after he was allegedly caught staring at images of a female colleague in a body scanner.
Read the full story here, but essentially it seems that a female security guard walked through the scanner and one of her male colleagues piped up with some unwanted comments. The precise wording is not disclosed but, I fancy, may well have run roughly along the lines:
"By jove, Missus, you don't get many of them to the pound, and may I say the old puppies' noses are in sparkling form this fine Spring morning!". (Actual wording may vary. Terms & Conditions apply.)

Doesn't this rather blow a hole in the assurances that the people viewing the detailed images would be (a) in a remote location; and (b) not able to see the real person whose naked image they have on screen?

DJ Torture

2010-03-09T09:08:00.004Z

Wandering the streets of Soho last night, I happened upon this sign outside a local venue:
Now, I know some live DJs can be irritating, but surely this is excessive? Perhaps this is a sign of how man's intrinsic capacity for inhumanity to man evolves. It's 24 years since The Smiths cried Hang the DJ, but at least they were proposing a reasonably quick way out for the poor sod. Here we are in 2010 and £1 lets you join the queue to skewer the turn.

I may be desperate for a gig, but I don't think I'll be applying there just yet!

I'm back!

2010-02-21T18:36:00.003Z

Followers of this blog may have noted a fallow period of late. May I be the last to wish you a Happy New Year!?!

I've been off the blog for a variety of reasons, linked by a common theme: Communications and IT. The headlines:

Wandering Packets
Keyboard Kapers
Mobile Watersports

Let's begin with the hell that is Broadband when it goes wrong. A month ago, our normally robust broadband service began to behave in a manner best described as "Flaky". Connection dropping off every few minutes, download speeds reduced and, most noticeably, the sound on my all-singing, all-dancing VOIP telephone became "serrated", in the manner so memorably illustrated by Norman Collier. A quick online test revealed that, in addition to a lower-than-normal connection speed, I was suffering a high degree of Packet Loss. I won't go into a long and tedious explanation of this. Suffice it to say that data is split into conveniently sized packets before being lobbed across the internet to you and, if not all the packets that were sent arrive at their destination, that's called Packet Loss. Depending on the sort of data that's being sent, this may not be too much of a problem, as error-correction may be able to fill-in the gaps, or the missing packets may be able to be resent. But if the data is the sound of someone speaking, and some bits are missing, it's pretty certain you're going to hear some gaps. In my case there are more gaps than sound. Not good! (Or "..t .oo." as that phrase might sound on my phone!)

So, I've spent a fair proportion of the last month on the phone to the Helpdesk. This is manned by people who are constantly helpful, polite and eager. All good so far....BUT they are also woefully unequipped to deal with a fault that's not in the script. They do ever so well with telling you to reboot your Router, disconnect everything else, try putting it nearer the window, whatever, but after that they are baffled. So, is there someone else I can speak to? Well, er, No! You see, the Helpdesk exists (a) to read out scripts giving a few basic things to try; (b) to prevent a customer who knows a thing or two from talking to an engineering person who also knows a thing or two.

There's a word for this. Actually there are quite a few words for this. Most of which might land me in trouble under the Obscene Publications Act, so I'll just say: Harumph!

For now, BT provide a variety of responses including, but not limited to:

There's no fault that we can see
Ah, there was a fault but it's been fixed now
The faults team are working on it
It should be better in 48 hours
Have you tried rebooting your Router? (YES!!!)
It might just be your PC (NO it bloody isn't!!!)
Ah yes, there's a lot of it about

Ok, so I made that last one up, but it would be at least as useful (and - I suspect - as honest) as any of their other offerings to date.

Now on to point 2 on my list of recent aggravations: my keyboard. Actually, I suspect my laptop may be in league with the broadband, as part of some evil plot to crank my blood pressure upwards. Remember the Packet Loss that's reducing my VOIP to Norman Collier speak? Well my laptop keyboard has started to act in the same way. f it wredoin itcnsistntly, I would knw thattheacual keb. Sorry, let me start that sentence again on a proper keyboard! If it were doing it consistently, I would know that the actual keyboard was defective, but the blasted thing seems to have become delinquent. It behaves perfectly for great swathes of time but then, usually as soon as I stop watching the screen, it turns my typing into tripe. It's very annoying. I don't need unscheduled assistance from the laptop to type tripe. I'm perfectly capable of tryping my own tripe! I did try the manufacturer's online Technical Support, but it only seemed to know how to ask if I'd rebooted the computer recently, so I lost heart.

And finally, Watersports.

Take a tip from me: Don't drop your mobile phone down the loo! It won't survive, you'll wish you'd backed up the data from it more recently than you actually did, your friends will take the proverbial, and it'll generally screw up your life!

In answer to a question I've been asked by a number of people, No, I was not talking on the phone while using the toilet. I never talk on the phone in there. To me, the two activities are definitely mutually incompatible. But, where I go, my phone goes. It travels with me in a little pouch on my belt. It's not that we can't bear to be parted, it's just that I have to put it somewhere, I don't normally wear a jacket and I know that if I carried the phone in my hand, I would leave it on the nearest flat surface and the thing would be lost within minutes.

So, what went wrong? Well, it was one of those "you couldn't do it if you tried" sequences. The velcro on the phone pouch attached itself to a wooly jumper I was wearing. I reached up for the light switch, the pouch spun round and the phone bounced out. In my mind's eye I can see the slo-mo replay...the falling phone performs a neat pirouette on the rim of the toilet seat, I dive towards it in the manner of a Premiership goalie, but no, it's all too late and the unfortunate Nokia takes the ultimate dive.

Without going into too much detail, I can confirm that the phone fell in before any lavatorial business had been carried out, so a prompt fishing-out was not too grim a task, but it was to no avail. Despite speedy depowering, and a 36-hour drying phase, the phone did not live to call another day.

The nice people from Orange replaced it, under the insurance. I had to give a detailed description of the incident. The chap told me that phones going down the loo featured at Number One (no jokes!) in their top 10 of reasons for insurance claims, with the Number Two (I've told you: Leave it!) spot being claimed by "I left it in my trouser pocket when I put them in the washing machine".

The insurers agreed to cover it, but gave me earnest words of advice: "I've been told to tell you", said the nice Orange man, "that if you're ever in that situation again, don't take your phone with you.". "What, do you mean if I ever go to the loo again?" I asked. "Er, yes. That's what I've been told to tell you.".

Thanks to the way the Insurance industry works, I've no doubt that at some point in the future, one will be required to declare the frequency of one's lavatory visits on the Proposal Form and failure to accurately declare this will be deemed yet another reason to invalidate one's insurance.

So, there we have it. A trying time of late, but hey, things can only get better. As D:Ream * sang when New Labour swept to power all those years ago. And how right were they.....?

* The original incarnation of this post credited M People with that song. This was, of course, a test to see if anyone was paying attention. I'm delighted to congratulate Paul F on his perspicacity. If there was any justice in the world, a large prize would now be his. Sadly.....

To Plymouth, and beyond!

2009-12-23T09:55:00.004Z

I've written recently about the challenge of reminding radio management that I can do things other than reading the news. Well, I'm delighted to report a glimmer of opportunity. On Christmas Day, I'll be live across BBC Local Radio's South-West cluster of stations, broadcasting a mix of music and whatever-else-comes-our-way between 7 and 10pm.

If your Christmas Day has started to sag by 7pm, and you're in search of something that isn't festive tv, you can listen online .

This show necessitates a trip to Plymouth, which could be "interesting" given the current weather conditions! I'll be packing blankets, a shovel and a prized 1968 edition of The Blue Peter Guide to Building Your Own Igloo Using 3 Old Coat Hangers and a Blue Peter Badge. Oh yes, and some Kendal Mint Cake. And some mince pies. And soup in a flask. At least if I come face to face with the Abysmal Snowman, I'll have something to offer him by way of refreshment.

small note for Equipment anoraks: it also affords an opportunity to use one of the last survivors of the "old BBC" way of working: a desk on which the faders go up to close, down to open. Marvellous! I never thought I'd get to use one again. All I need now is to find one with quadrant faders and I'll be delirious!!

And just before we leave talk of the old Radio 2 breakfast ways behind, here's a souvenir pic of the Wake Up to Wogan team, in the studio at the end of the final show:

(LtoR) CN, Alan Boyd, Lynn Bowles, Sir Tel, Alan Dedicoat, John Marsh.

Happy Days! I don't know about you, but I'm very much focused on January 2010 as a fresh new canvas, perfectly poised to have exciting new opportunities slapped onto it.

End of Term

2009-12-18T07:39:00.002Z

Well, the last day of Wake Up To Wogan is upon us. It would be fair to say that the atmosphere here in Western House is.....charged!

There aren't many truly dry eyes in the house, and I wouldn't bank on any of them staying dry all the way to 9.30

I'm about to go and join Sir Terry in the studio for our final burst of in-show badinage. And, in recognition of the many happy splutterings and utterings inspired by my Bus capers, (and Sir Terry's bemused incredulity at how how I spend my spare time) I shall be giving him a parting gift. Here's an exclusive preview....

Radio 2 - Scoffing for Britain

2009-12-16T09:55:00.004Z

There are many things I'll miss when my era of participating in Radio 2's unique breakfast show comes to an end this Friday. Not least, the wide variety of edible offerings sent in to the programme by wellwishers.

Here's a sample of today's delights: Pork Pie, Curry and Christmas Pudding. Sadly, the sausage rolls, doughnuts and mince pies moved too quickly to be photographed. But not quickly enough to escape my attention, naturally.

Changed - and leaner - times ahead, I fear!

A Big Day Ahead

2009-12-16T07:10:00.003Z

I'm writing this from Radio 2 HQ, where the excitement is palpable.

The great day has arrived.

Sir Terry Wogan's last breakfast show? No, that's not til Friday.

No, this is a more pressing matter....

What you need to know is this: On Wednesday 25th November, none other than Chris Evans became trapped in the loo, when the door lock jammed. He was eventually released. (whether this is a good thing you may speculate but I couldn't possibly comment) Something of a fuss ensued and, with a turn of speed not normally associated with the contractors who look after the premises, a sign was posted on the door. Not the sign seen above, no, the first one promised a repair date of 1st December. A chap duly turned up, spent several hours dismantling the lock and muttering darkly. Then he disappeared and, some time later, the sign was changed.

Once upon a time, someone would have popped out to the ironmongery shop down the road and purchased a new lock. We live in a different world now, of course, and I reckon the Executive Action Plan looks something like this:

1) Form committee to examine history of Toilet Door Lock Incidents in the workplace.
2) Working Party to study similar incidents in other large organisations.
3) Health & Safety to conduct full risk assessment before concluding that lockable doors are inherently dangerous.
4) Various manufacturers invited to tender for the provision of new doors.
5) Cheapest tender chosen.
6) Door supplied. Wrong size.
7) Door adapted. 300% budget overshoot.
8) Original door lock refitted.
9) Chris Evans gets locked in again.
10) Repeat as required.

It's a bit like the Procurement debacles of the Ministry of Defence. Only with us, nobody dies. They just get locked in the loo.

Another day another bus

2009-12-11T23:41:00.003Z

I'm heading for Cheshire this weekend, to Oulton Park racing circuit near Winsford, where I shall have the pleasure of declaring an old bus open for business.

Not just any old bus! This is one London's fine Routemasters entering a whole new phase of life as a mobile fundraising HQ for St Luke's Cheshire Hospice.

It's a great story. The Bentley Motor Company, based in Crewe, have been finding things a little quiet in these recessionary times. Rather than lose their skilled technicians, Bentley have encouraged and enabled them to put their talents to work for the benefit of the wider community. Something like 2000 man hours have been poured into restoring, refurbishing and adapting this bus.

I'm greatly looking forward to seeing what they've done with the interior. I know Bentley's famous Leatherwork is on display. I'll report further when I've seen it for myself.

Oulton Park, this Sunday morning at around 1030. Official launch of the bus AND I get to start the charity Santa Dash. Marvellous! If you're in the area, come and find us.

How The Papers Work

2009-12-11T22:45:00.002Z

Thursday was enlivened by a trip to the Millennium Hotel in London's Grosvenor Square (more on this auspicious location in a moment) for a grand event, the induction into the Radio Academy Hall of Fame of Sir Terry Wogan. Quite an occasion, with a packed room listening to tributes from fellow broadcasters and a barnstorming speech from Sir Tel himself before rising in a heartfelt ovation.

Amongst those saying a few words was Radio 1's breakfast star Chris Moyles. He was funny. Very good. Room in stitches. There was just one edgy moment when he made a slightly disparaging remark about Sarah Kennedy's early breakfast show. Nothing too drastic. Nothing Sarah couldn't - and didn't - take in her stride. Moyles moved on, no big fuss.

Later, over drinks in the foyer, I was talking nostalgic radio talk with Sarah, and I also mentioned how proud I think Radio 2 should be to be offering - in an era of considerable radio blandness in some other quarters on the dial - something as individual and distinctive as Sarah's show. It all got quite emotional (feel the love in the room, end of an era etc) and Sarah shed a small tear before we consoled each other with a hug.

It was at that moment that the Daily Mail reporter swooped and asked for Sarah's reaction to Chris Moyles' speech. Sarah gave a perfectly charming and poised response and all continued to be well with the world.

At least that's how I saw it... Meanwhile, in the Mail:

Chris Moyles' jibes reduce Sarah Kennedy to tears at event to celebrate Sir Terry Wogan's career ... Chris Moyles was at the centre of a bad taste row last night after he mocked Radio 2 DJ Sarah Kennedy in a foul-mouthed speech.

Ho hum. Maybe we were at a different event!

Now, where was I? Ah yes. The Millennium Hotel. An excellent establishment and purveyors of a very good lunch. Can't fault 'em. Only trouble is, I can't completely shake the memory that that was where the former Russian secret service man Alexander Litvinenko had his fatal encounter with the Polonium 210 in November 2006. In a cup of afternoon tea, the inquiry said. Clearly, it would have been insensitive of me to mention this to any of my fellow guests as the post-lunch tea and coffee pots came round. More tea, vicar?

A new role for Sir Jimmy?

2009-11-19T10:43:00.004Z

This year's Oxford Street Christmas illuminations come courtesy of Disney's promotions budget, puffing their new cinematic extravaganza: A Christmas Carol, starring Jim Carrey.

Now, nobody else seems to see it, but every time I pass by, the image on show strikes me not as Jim Carrey, but as the one, the only, goodness-gracious, as it 'appens boys & girls....Sir Jimmy Savile.

Guys, help me out here. Is it just me, imagining things again?

Or has Sir Jim taken to the rainy London skies?
And if it is him ...... what has he done with Jim Carrey?

Blackpool!

2009-11-07T10:56:00.006Z

Arrived in Blackpool yesterday evening, for another of our periodic Radio Lads' Night Out enterprises.

Ah, Blackpool. I haven't been here since my Come Dancing days. Back then we used to spend a week or two at a time here, in February or March, because those were the times when the BBC could get the cheapest off-peak deal on the Tower Ballroom. It was always pelting with rain and blowing a gale. But that's Feb/March for you.

And November...!

The heavens well and truly opened as I pulled up outside the hotel. By 'eck it was wet.

Having put my stuff into the hotel room, I went to move the car to a suitable parking place. The local council has kindly provided a multi-storey just a couple of blocks away. With that great joined-up thinking for which UK Local Authorities are famed, they've set the tariff for overnight parking at £13 and provided ticket machines capable of ingesting only coins. No cards, no notes. Not even £2 coins, either. Do you go around with £13 in pound coins in your pocket? Just as I was pondering my options, I encountered a pair of local parking attendants. Was there, perhaps, a staffed payment desk, or a card-capable machine? "No, I'm sorry, there isn't" said the man. "But...", his face brightening considerably, "we are planning to get one in the new year.". I pointed out that, while this was undoubtedly good news, it didn't really help me tonight, now did it? He looked terribly crestfallen, but was forced to agree. Ho hum. Off to the newsagent to buy a Kit Kat and get some change.

On my way out of the car park, on one of those horrible grey dirty concrete stairwells, smelling of ...er... car park stairwell, I spotted this:

The Welcome Point door was grey, scuffed and not only locked but apparently nailed shut.

Yes, welcome indeed, to this great English tourist hotspot!

A great night had, though, with good company, fine food and scandalous gossip. It's what Friday nights should be!

The Times They Are a Changing...

2009-11-05T13:18:00.004Z

A month ago, in this very boutique, I wrote:

Big changes to come at Radio 2 at the turn of the year, as Sir Terry Wogan retires from his breakfast show. People keep asking me what effect this will have on my work. I wish I knew!

Well now I do know. The new incumbent will come, as new incumbents so often do, with something new and different.

So, time to fold the tent and move along. Not just yet, mind, but in mid-December. Until then, it's sausage-scoffing business as usual.

Now to work on the Small Ad:

Voice-of-Experience, with the power to surprise, seeks Radio Station with GSOH for meaningful relationship. Own hair and teeth. No embarrassing vices. Will travel (as fast as bus will allow). Likes: Playing tasty music and communing with the nice ladies and gentlemen via the miracle of wireless. Dislikes: Coconuts. Apply within. Or indeed without.

What do you think? Is it a winner?

More local colour from Soho

2009-10-29T14:35:00.003Z

Another of my favourite Soho sights.

Just around the corner from my studio, there's (allegedly) a local "House of Ill Repute". There's a senior member of staff on duty there...

...but it seems he has to make his excuses and go for a breath of air at certain busy moments. So he's often to be seen sitting in his doorway in Greek Street, surveying the scene, closely observing the passers-by.

Like Skimbleshanks the Railway Cat, he establishes control by a regular patrol.

Whenever I pass, I say "Hello, brothel cat!". "Prrt?" he replies, in a determinedly unimpressed tone of voice.

Local history in Soho

2009-10-29T09:38:00.004Z

Wandering the streets of London, your eyes darting between the hazard-strewn pavement and the jostling hordes of oncoming populace, it's easy to miss some of the city's fine features. That's partly why I like to arrive in Soho bright and early of a morning, when things are quiet and it's easy to stop and stare.

Within 90 seconds' walk of my office, these two wall plaques serve as a reminder of what a historically interesting and diverse area this is:
I wonder if, one day, there'll be a blue plaque with my name on...? Hmmm. I think I can guess the answer. Anyway, what would it say?

Barefaced cheek?

2009-10-13T06:50:00.003+01:00

The all-seeing Body Scanner is upon us, it seems.

BBC News reports today:

'A human X-ray machine that produces "naked" images of passengers has started a trial at Manchester Airport. The authorities say it will speed up security checks by quickly revealing any concealed weapons or explosives. But the full body scans will also show up breast enlargements, body piercings and a clear black-and-white outline of passengers' private parts.
The airport has stressed that the images are not pornographic and will be destroyed straight away.'

Hmmm. Yes. They insist that the images will only be viewed by one person, and that it is impossible to copy or store them. I'll give it a handful of months before there's an unpleasant incident involving howls of mirth being heard emanating from behind the control room door, and even less time than that before the first "impossible" images are obtained by a newspaper. If the image appears on a computer, then it is possible to store it. If it's possible to store it, then it is possible to move it elsewhere. You just have to work out how to do it, and somebody will!

Sarah Barrett, Manchester Airport's "Head of Customer Experience" says: "This scanner completely takes away the hassle of needing to undress."

Well, I've found another way to avoid this hassle. Go By Train! I've made my three most recent trips to and from Glasgow by rail, and it really compares very well. The fastest trains get you to the centre of Glasgow in four-and-a-half hours. The plane does it inside 90 minutes, BUT factor in the other 90 mins you have to allow for check-in and the parade of holey socks and beltless trousers at security, plus the waiting time for baggage retrieval and the trip from airport to city centre and there's precious little in it.

I used to love flying. I still love the actual flight bit, but the rest of the experience is a great advert for the railways. Back in 1981 Jimmy Savile was claiming that "This is the age of the train". No, Jim, this is the age of the train!

Back to the depot

2009-10-07T11:29:00.007+01:00

Well, the bus and I made it safely home after our Brides on a Bus adventure. All told, I drove 1647 miles in the two weeks. Undoubtedly the best shakedown our 30 year-old Leyland Titan has had in years! It blew the cobwebs away. A few other things came away too, but I was able to fix them with ingenious roadside repairs. I thought I was in trouble when a crucial nut-and-bolt assembly absented themselves from the front doors. The nut vanished, presumably onto the verge somewhere in the middle of the Cotswolds. How was I going to find a suitable spare? As luck would have it, I needed to look no further than the coach parked next to me. The friendly driver (and coach drivers in the UK are, in my experience, generally delightful chaps) grinned broadly as he opened one of the luggage lockers to reveal an enormous Spares box, brimming with nuts, bolts, washers etc. Within minutes, we were back in business.

Talking of coach matters, my eye was caught by this sign on the back of a vehicle on the M6

In my previous post, I referred to the extraordinary Nove & van Day singing double act. Now that I'm back at base I can offer photographic evidence...

A number of people have said we should go far. Very far.

So, there we are. Bus adventures over for the moment. Now it's back to the rest of my world, the studio, voice-overs and the radio broadcasting biz. Big changes to come at Radio 2 at the turn of the year, as Sir Terry Wogan retires from his breakfast show. People keep asking me what effect this will have on my work. I wish I knew! Right now, the search is on for a radio manager who remembers that I can do more than read the news. And when I find one, I hope we'll make sweet music together.

Who were you with in the Bus Lane?

2009-09-26T17:37:00.003+01:00

As previously observed, doesn't life throw some amusing twists sometimes?

The Brides on a Bus show is being presented by David van Day, he of Dollar fame in the 70s and 80s and, more recently, ITV's I'm A Celebrity.

Passing some time on a long drive yesterday, David and I launched into an impromptu singalong at the front of the bus. The old Tommy Steele hit Flash Bang Wallop What A Picture was surprisingly fresh in both our minds, and we sang it with great gusto.

It did make me smile. When I was a young DJ, playing Dollar songs on the radio, many moons ago, little could I have suspected that the next time I'd encounter David van Day would be at the front of a bus, with him dressed as my Clippie, me driving and the pair of us singing.

Happy daze!

On the road again, again

2009-09-24T21:47:00.004+01:00

Just a quick update to say that we've made our way across the Severn to Cardiff (where the Brides on the Bus played a Touch Rugby tournament), and then onwards in a slow, steady, uphill haul, to the high ground of the Brecon Beacons. We're in the village of Bwlch (yes, that's how you spell it. Pron: Bull (as in the male cow) Ch (as in "loch"), with a stunning view of the leafy valleys below.

Tomorrow, we aim for the Cotswolds town of Burford, Oxfordshire. More news to come, as the mystery tour continues...

Road Trip continues

2009-09-23T15:42:00.003+01:00

Here we are in Cheddar Gorge. And just to prove the old theory that you wait ages for a London bus and then two turn up at once .... no sooner had I arrived here than another Leyland Titan appeared. It's a local resident nowadays, doing tours around the hills. So my T23 and Cheddar's T860 have renewed their acquaintance, heaven knows how many years after they left London service.

Monday went very well, until we had an unfortunate breakdown on the way to our overnight hotel. Total loss of gears, right in the middle of a major roundabout in Devon. Not good! The Brides and the crew had to be offloaded onto a coach, and I stayed with the bus, the Highways Agency and Devon & Cornwall Police until recovery could be arranged. Both the HA and the Police were very good humoured and supportive, which was a great help in a stressful situation.

Bizarre coincidence: Talking to one of the Highways Agency team, the subject of our hotel for the night arose. I told him it was the historic Boringdon Hall in Plympton. He laughed and said (think broad Devonian accent) "Ahhh, don't let them put you in room 11 .... ahaaaarr!". "Er why?" said I. "They say it's haaauunted!". Turned out that, before going on the Highways, this man had been a night shift manager there and had seen many a scared guest. Great hotel (and no I wasn't in Room 11!). Apparently Henry VIII stayed there. I'm not surprised. I couldn't find the exit either.

Bizarre apparition: Picture the scene. Bus stranded mid roundabout. It's a huge roundabout, in the middle of nowhere, no buildings, no nothing, with a central island about the size of a football field. The scene is lit up by Highways Agency floodlamps, flashing amber beacons, there are cones, blue and red strobes on the police car, it's like a film set. I'm standing in the middle of it all, discussing tactics with the police, when a man appears. Nobody sees him approaching - he's just, suddenly, there. It's a chilly night, but he's wearing an oily string vest and comedy baggy trousers. He looks exactly like the binman that Geoffrey Hughes used to play in Coronation Street. He walks up to the cops and says "Excuse me. Could I have a word with you?" They look slightly apprehensive. Turns out he has a fairly technical enquiry about the legality of transporting a particular type of hazardous waste in his vehicle. One of the policemen spent half an hour or so obtaining the info he needed by radio. Then, as quickly as he arrived, he'd gone. There were 5 of us standing there, and not one of us had seen him arrive. Nobody was quite sure which way he went when he left, either. Weird!

The broken down bus was recovered to Launceston, where I rejoined it in the morning to do some fault finding. With my trusty test meter, and some invaluable advice on the phone from one of our chums who used to be a London Transport electrician, working on these buses, I traced the fault. It was a humble broken wire, in the circuit controlling the alternator. Without it, the alternator could not charge the batteries, and without charge the batteries reach a point where they can no longer operate the gearbox....hence loss of gears. Wire fixed, bus back on the road!

My party had carried on without me, using a hired coach. I made it to the hotel in Devon while they were still out filming, so there was a big cheer when they arrived at the hotel to find the Titan already ensconced in the car park, with me lounging against it in a "what kept you?" pose.

Off to Frome in Somerset tonight. Some nice local Cider, perchance....?

Road Trip

2009-09-20T22:25:00.004+01:00

I wear a number of hats, in this confusing lark we call life.

And the hat this week (and next) is my Bus Driving one. Regular readers will know that I am one of the chaps behind a small, but beautifully formed, bus company. We operate a little fleet of Routemasters (the famous London double-decker) doing transport for parties and weddings in and around London.

Around London. So, why is it that I am currently guiding one of our buses round the far South West of England?

It's like this. We were approached by Wedding TV, (Sky channel 266) looking for a bus for their pioneering new game show Brides on a Bus. It sounded like fun, and I fancied an adventure, so ... what better excuse do you need?

Here's the bus, snapped this morning in Penzance. Not a Routemaster, the keen-eyed observer may spot. This is the only non-Routemaster of our fleet. Also the young upstart of the band. The RMs are 40 years old, whereas this fine example of the Leyland Titan range, turned 30 this year. We're using this for the job because it's a little faster and quieter than the Routemasters, and it has doors, making it a little cosier if the weather decides to turn wintry.

There's a long journey ahead, starting at Land's End tomorrow, and winding up in Gretna Green, just over the Scottish border, on 1st October. Will we make it? Watch this space!

Coming over the brow of the last big hill before Penzance was a lovely experience today. The sun was beating down on the bay, and the English coast was looking very good. I swear I felt a little surge of excitement from my red steed, as she glimpsed the seaside. It's a long way for a London bus to come. I hope she packed her bucket and spade.

And me? Well, cruising the highways at a top speed of 45mph affords time for thought, and sightseeing. I was held up in a queue of traffic passing Stonehenge. I thought it was being caused by people slowing down to look at the stones, but then realised that, in fact, they were slowing down to gawp at a field on the other side of the road, a couple of hundred yards along, full of pigs, lounging in big muddy pools. They looked blissfully happy, their top halves warmed by the sun, their nethers cooled by the water and mud. Happy as a pig in ... er...mud.

Managed to confuse a waiter in a roadside dining emporium somewhere near Exeter, by ordering Vegetable Soup, followed by Roast Chicken. "Do you want the soup as a starter?" he asked. I spent much of the following hour or two pondering what else he thought I might have wanted to do with it. A bodyscrub? A footbath?

More reports to follow as this strange saga unfolds. Tomorrow, the Brides board the bus. Wish me luck!

Where I've been going wrong

2009-09-14T11:57:00.002+01:00

The Evening Standard reports:
Lady GaGa shocked the audience at the the MTV Video Music Awards 2009 in New York with a live performance which culminated in her pretending to stab herself while playing the piano

Now I know where I've been going wrong all these years. My broadcasting career has been held back by a lack of this sort of thing. Not enough bloodshed. Insufficient immolation. Failed flagellation. An apparent absence of asphyxia.

NO MORE, I TELL YOU!

Tomorrow's 0800 News bulletin on Radio 2 will, simultaneously, plunge new depths and ascend to new heights of danger. I shall deliver the news in my usual unruffled style, whilst juggling burning batons and throwing knives at my knees. That'll do it. No more safe broadcasting for me!

Signs again

2009-09-11T17:10:00.007+01:00

The world of itillerate signs makes another audacious grab for my attention.

I know, I know: the fact that you can't spell doesn't make you a bad person! Surely, though, if you're commissioning expensive graphics, you'd get someone to check?

Or maybe there was just nobody, er, avaliable?

Perhaps here the only available person was unavoidably detained on the Mezza....what?

That's enough dodgy signs for today, says my Nurse. Time for my medication.

But just time before I close to show you the entrance to an emporium in Hull. After scoffing in a cafe, I headed for the toilet. The signposted route led me past an array of freezers, interrupted only by this portal .....

Tempting, but not quite tempting enough!!

And finally, top marks for honesty to the owners of this place in Glasgow:

You can't say fairer than that!

Newsreading Cake

2009-09-03T09:30:00.011+01:00

The Daily Mail reports Sir Terry Wogan slams 'self-important' newsreaders whose job is a 'piece of cake'

Needless to say, I'm far too cool to give the proverbial stuff about what anyone thinks, so I waited all of two nano-seconds before lunging for a copy of the rag to check if I was on the list.

And .... relax....
'Get your good suit and tie on, and a quick dab in make-up. Make yourself comfy and here comes the Six O'Clock News, all written nicely and clearly before your eyes.' continues Sir Tel.
'Read it clearly and distinctly, ask the reporter the questions you have written down in front of you and there!'

Phew! He's having a go at the TV newsreaders. That's a relief. On radio, we have a much tougher time of it. No make-up, for a start!

Wogan's swipe is, of course, a deftly timed release from his forthcoming book.

Is TV newsreading really that easy? Actually, I don't think it is. Is it watchable? Er....no, not really, most of the time, not in my house. I find I can only tolerate a few moments of TV News before the mechanics of it start to drive me nuts.

The gratuitous hand-waving (some Consultant told them it was a good idea..!)
the fact that Fiona Bruce always does a sweeping movement with her script-holding hand during the second sentence of the opening to the BBC 10 o'clock bulletin
and why do they stand up for the first link and then sit down? Is it supposed to convey the impression that life in the newsroom is so frantic that they haven't managed to make it to the chair in time?
the little shake of the head when we're supposed to emote (leave it to me to decide whether I'm upset, will you?)
the gratuitous live tops and tails, where the reporter stands outside a closed and locked building, in which nothing has occurred for hours, in order to deliver a 10 second intro to the VT package he's prepared earlier AND THEN has to be interviewed by the newsreader at the end of the package, to reiterate what was in the package or confirm that there's nothing more to add. "So, John, what more can you tell us?". "Nothing, otherwise I'd have told you in the piece you've just run, wouldn't I? Now sod off and let me go to the pub!"
the ghastly spectacle of journos trying to do ad lib banter
gratuitous insertion of names: "our correspondent Bert Bloggs is there. Bert." "Michael. The incident happened ...."

and that staple of Rolling News channels: "well of course it's too early to speculate as to the cause of this disaster, but joining me now is Sid Snodgrass, a Professor of Speculation at Bridlington University's Centre for Speculative Studies. Professor, just what might have been the cause of this disaster?"

I could go on, but I think you get my drift....

Anyway, thanks to the wonders of YouTube, here's a clip of a TV Newsreader in trying circumstances, complete with the gallery talkback, some or all of which will have been blasting into the newsreader's ear as she ploughed bravely on.

And back in the land of Radio, here's a gratuitous pic
(photo by Barry Norman, (c) The Sunday Post)
of me and Sir Tel discussing the merits of some finely turned prose
Or perhaps (more likely?) we're discussing a piece of cake...!

It's hip to be square. Isn't it ... ?

2009-08-20T13:24:00.003+01:00

When will I learn?

Making conversation in the car the other day, with my "verbally economical" younger son, I sought to display my knowledge of Young People's Music. He's off to the Reading Festival soon.

Me: "So, who'll you be seeing at Reading?"
Him: "(Grunt)....lots of bands.....(mutter)"
Me: "Like who?"
Him: "(sigh)....no-one you'd have heard of...(grunt)"
Me: "Try me! What about You Me At Six?"
Him: "Yeah...(mumble)"
Me (emboldened by early success): "What about that other lot you like, you know, Beat 123?"
Him (incredulous look, shakes head, speaks r e a l l y s l o w l y for the hard-of-thinking) : " I think you mean BLINK 182 ?"
Me: " Ah. Yes....that'll be the one."

Ho hum. Another cruel blow. Second of the day. The morning had already struck me down when, in conversation with my hairdresser (a pretty, 20-something Kiwi who's about to go travelling) we got on to the hazards of hitchhiking. "It's ok if it's someone like you, y'know, an older man.....".

HELP! I'm not ready for the Pipe & Slippers phase. I hate slippers. There must be someone, somewhere, to whom I still appear at least slightly cool. Surely? Please...?

There's been a murrrder....!

2009-08-18T10:58:00.002+01:00

Riffling through some old paperwork the other day, I renewed my acquaintance with a treasured cutting from the Glasgow Herald, published in 1993. It made me guffaw then, and it still works its magic all these years on. Here's the deal:

Central Scotland Police were called in to investigate a campaign of hoax letters, sent to people in Glasgow and Edinburgh and purporting to offer the recipients the opportunity to appear, as a corpse, in the splendid tv crime drama Taggart.

The production company, Scottish Television, was inundated with complaints from outraged people who'd been told that they were considered ideal candidates in the producers' quest for "someone with a natural, sad, haggard expression, deformed torso, misshapen legs and a large bottom". The letter went on to explain that the person would play the part of a murder victim, and be seen for around five seconds, "naked, face-up and in a contorted position on Glasgow Green".

What a job description! Why do I find this so funny? I don't know, but it has brought me tears of joy over the years.

Never mind the outraged complainants, I wonder how many actually applied for the role?

To Hull and back...

2009-08-08T19:04:00.003+01:00

Just back from a trip to Hull, the latest venue for the event often disparagingly termed "Radio Nerd Night". It's always a fun evening, as an assortment of folks from the radio biz get together to scoff and quaff, exchange outrageous gossip and lapse into dark mutterings about the shortcomings of various items of modern broadcasting apparatus.

Hull was curiously quiet, last night. Very strange. It was almost as if there'd been some sort of emergency evacuation of the town, but we'd somehow missed the announcement. Surely word of our impending arrival isn't so drastic as to cause the locals to leave in droves?

By the end of the evening, some of the population had returned. I know this because we encountered two fine representatives in the street shortly after midnight. As we meandered in the general direction of our hotel, along a pleasant cobbled street, two girls clad in the attire of "lasses out on the lash on a summer's eve" (ie not much!) came wobbling towards us.

One tripped on the cobbles and tumbled both sideways and headlong - a good trick if you can do it - into the arms of her friend (sideways) and the lead members of our party (headlong). There was much squealing and guffawing. I decided to contribute some of my most calming words to the incident: "It's alright, we're doctors." From the shadows, into which the tumbling girlie had now stumbled, burst the squawked reply, in broad Yorkshire tones, delicately matured in fags and booze: "Doctors, my f*cking arse!".
"Well, that's not actually my specialism..." I ventured, before deciding on a tactical withdrawal, lest my medical qualifications be put to the test.

Too hot, man!

2009-07-03T10:53:00.003+01:00

London has been, collectively, sweltering in a stifling heatwave. It's hell out there. Thank the Lord for office and studio air-con!

Key points noted in the last couple of days include:

The man who walked past me in Soho, clad in a black leather jacket and black leather trousers. Temperature in the street? 31 degrees How he was not melting, I cannot conceive.
The large hole in the ground in Greenford, West London, where gas and/or water works are taking place. Or rather not taking place. There's a big sign on the fencing, reading:

WORKS SUSPENDED TO REDUCE DISRUPTION DURING COLD WEATHER

How thoughtful of them....

Moron Bad Science

2009-06-03T09:26:00.002+01:00

Further to my blast about low-energy bulbs and the dodgy science that seems to trot alongside them....

Last week I found myself in a modern office building, all glass and stainless steel. Boarding the lift for a quick whizz to Floor 10, I spotted the following notice:

This lift has been fitted with an experimental LED lighting system. As these lights are more energy efficient, they will help us to reduce our carbon emissions within the building.

NO. THEY WON'T! Whatever benefits they may have (less heat in the lift, for one!) the one thing they won't affect in the slightest is the amount of carbon released in the building.

Poor science teaching? Lazy journalism? Sinister indoctrination? Whatever is to blame, I'm willing to bet it won't be long before there are people going round B&Q gingerly picking up light bulbs and sniffing them to see if they can detect all that deadly carbon seeping out.

Nurse!

Life

2009-05-28T00:08:00.002+01:00

My wife and I have spent the last couple of days at the bedside of a friend, as she trod the pathway toward the exit from this life.

Tonight, the door opened and, at the pitifully young age of 48, she stepped through.

Not much to say, except:

(a) Hug those you hold dear
(b) Melignant Melanoma is a complete and evil bastard
(c) Please support Cancer Research
(d) Wear sunscreen

Bad science, crap copy

2009-05-12T10:13:00.004+01:00

What is it about the Green / Climate Change / We're all Doomed issue that makes it ok to tout silly claims that don't stand up?

My gander was goosed today by an advert on the side of a bus. It's pushing the benefits of low-energy light bulbs
and seeks to make its point with the statement:

If every UK household installed just one extra energy saving light bulb in their house, the CO2 saved would be equivalent to taking 93,000 cars off the UK's roads.

OK. Where to begin. What's worse, the rubbish copywriting, or the dodgy science? Well, how about we start with the copy.

If every UK household really did install one extra energy saving light bulb, that would have the effect of putting around 24.5 million additional bulbs into use. I guess they really mean that it would be a good thing if every UK household replaced an existing bulb with an energy saving one, but that's not what they've written!

And the claim itself?

Well, it all depends, doesn't it..... Those 93,000 cars. Would they be ones with little engines or the Gas Guzzlers they keep encouraging us to hate? What if they are small-engined cars that spend all day, every day, doing stop/start journeys, not fully warmed up? Or perhaps they are the modern Gas Guzzlers with some of the cleanest engines around, running efficiently in the motorway cruise for 200 miles at a time? Maybe they are the old cars that the Government wants us to scrap. You know, the ones made before manufacturers focused on the recylclability of materials used in construction? The ones that'll be really dirty to dispose of?

And talking of dirty disposal, what about this:

If every household in the UK threw out one dead low-energy light bulb, there'd be 980kg of mercury in various landfills.

I don't make any great claims for accuracy in this statement, but I suggest that it holds up at least as well as the one on the side of the bus! There is, after all, about 4mg of Mercury in your average low-energy (compact fluorescent) light bulb.

Bad science and Environmental concern. They don't have to go hand-in-hand....do they?

The Court of Public Opinion

2009-05-11T10:46:00.002+01:00

Don't things move rapidly in today's world of lightweight politics?

Can it really be just over 2 months since Harriet Harman made her stunningly vacuous remarks about "The Court of Public Opinion", as she sought to hitch an easy ride to popularity aboard the runaway train of Sir Fred Goodwin's grandiose pension pot?

That particular court seems to have gone a bit quiet of late. A shame, as I'm sure its jurors would have something to say on the matter of MPs' expenses.

"Members of the jury, I put it to you that .... oh no, I beg your pardon, I was forgetting that you only convene when someone thinks there's a cheap headline in it. Please retire and don't consider your verdict."

Are Friends Electric?

2009-04-13T18:31:00.006+01:00

Encouraging news recently, of fresh efforts to breathe life into the Electric Car industry. Gordon Brown has made mention of incentives to be included in the forthcoming Budget (though, unsurprisingly, there was only sketchy detail available behind the headline...) and London Mayor Boris Johnson has said he's keen to see London continue to blaze the electric-vehicle trail. Both men want to see wider networks of charging points (though, personally, I suspect Brown's enthusiasm will wane when he realises that a charging point is not a place at which the motorist queues to be relieved of cash!) and grants to boost British manufacturing.

I'm delighted that the concept is being given fresh impetus. I've been driving an electric vehicle for my daily commute for the last 6 years and I love it. I've probably got one of the UK's higher electric mileages under my belt and I'm a firm convert.

BUT. (You could sense there was a "but" coming, couldn't you?)

Government has serious Form when it comes to transport initiatives and the wise will view the latest plans with caution. There've been previous attempts to encourage "greener" road travel, such as the "Convert to LPG" scheme in 2003. This was a great idea: switch your vehicle to LPG, with the help of a generous grant, and enjoy the delights of this clean fuel at roughly half the price of petrol. Lovely! Only lots of people went for it and (a) the grant fund ran out; and (b) the government had second thoughts about the preferential tax status afforded to LPG, and up went the price.

The same idea of a system of grants was put in place to encourage purchase of the first wave of electric vehicles. Same thing happened: people took up the offer, the Treasury took fright and the grants largely dried up.

I hope it'll be different this time, but I fear more of the same. Short-term thinking gets them all excited about the headline-grabbing possibilities of grants and schemes, but the long-term funding is another matter.

Then there's the ideology problem. Plenty of UK Local Authorities are fundamentally opposed to the Car. Will they embrace the call for a multitude of easy-to-use on-street recharging points, or will they see them as encouraging private car use and hindering the march toward the holy grail of Modal Shift towards public transport? The City of London was one of the first to encourage electric vehicles, back in 2003, granting free use of their car parks and meter bays. But last year, guess what? They decided that this was encouraging people to bring electric vehicles into the City, which wasn't really what they had in mind. So the parking benefits have been withdrawn.

Hats off to Westminster Council, who have stuck to their guns on this issue, and continue to offer free and discounted parking, together with an extensive (and extending) network of charging points.

Enough of the politics for now. What about the experience and technology of Driving Electric? More on that in our next, thrilling instalment!

Biscuits! And not a crumb to eat.

2009-03-27T14:57:00.003Z

Here's a picture of another of my favourite workplacesThis structure was never going to win any awards for architectural endeavour, but there are loads of bright, artistic types, beavering away inside. This is where I go to record words of wisdom about Art, for audio guides to museums and art galleries. It's a job I love doing, produced by some of the nicest people you could ever hope to work with.

But there's one injustice, niggling away at me.

This crumbling edifice has a glorious past. Once upon a time, it was the mighty Peak Freans Biscuit Factory. For decades, the (custard) cream of British biscuit-making talent slaved away here, making and despatching the company's vast repertoire of biccies to Britain, the Empire and the World. Now, anyone who knows me knows I cannot resist a biscuit. So, what a cruel twist of fate it is that I, of all people, should end up working in a biscuit factory when all traces of the blithering biscuits have gone!

Ain't life cruel, sometimes?

Writer's Blockade

2009-03-13T10:17:00.005Z

A bit quiet on the blogging front lately. Well, y'see, there's been a little local difficulty...

Every time I vacate The Seat of Power, even for a few seconds, an occupying force moves in. Fellow "cat people" will understand that one of the methods employed by our feline associates to keep their human assistants on the hop is the random changing of the favourite resting spot. That hairy cushion, from which the cat has been inseparable for weeks, suddenly becomes So Yesterday and there's a new roost to rule. And right now, The Chair, is where it's at, baby!

I've had to resort to low cunning: wait 'til he's downstairs, eating, or nipping out to answer a call of nature, then bag my place on the chair. It works, of course, but within moments, he's back. He can't physically dislodge me from the seat, but there are other ways: a quick walk on the asdkfldfn/// keyboard, a long, langurous stretch in front of the monitor, head buffing the mouse-hand and, if all else fails, parking up on the desktop, delivering a long, baleful stare. He may not have the power of speech as we understand it, but the message couldn't be clearer.

Sign(s) of the times

2009-02-27T10:46:00.004Z

I have, if I say so myself, a fairly keen eye for detail. I think it probably comes from doing a lot of work, over the years, in Presentation departments, where you're just in the habit of double and triple-checking details like Tape Numbers, Spool Numbers and the spelling and punctuation of captions.

This has served me well, but it can also be a bit of a curse. It's the signs, you see. The shop and office signs with glaring errors. Spot one somewhere on one of your regular routes and it starts to haunt you. Needling away at you every time you pass by.

What I don't understand is this: professionally made signs are fairly expensive. Wouldn't you, if you were commissioning something like a sign, ask someone to cast a second pair of eyes over the artwork?

Here in Soho, a couple of years back, a little coffee shop opened, under the sign (beautifully made in custom-moulded plastic) La Petit Cafe. The business quickly attracted a stream of visitors. Unfortunately, rather than purchasing coffee, most of them seemed to be coming in to inform the increasingly harassed proprietor that (a) La Petit would have an E on the end, but (b) Cafe is masculine in French so it should be Le anyway. I don't think he could stand anymore of this, so the business folded soon after.

This sign in West London always calls out to me...

and a recent stay in a Premier Inn revealed this delight...

I know, I know, it's not earth-shattering stuff but, mark my words, it represents yet another nail in the coffin of this once glorious Empire. The lid must be quite firmly fixed by now!

Dying on your Ar*e

2009-02-20T07:09:00.004Z

I love the splendidly descriptive phrase Dying On Your Arse, when used to describe the agonies of a performer whose finest efforts at comedy/drama are being greeted in sullen and resentful silence by an unappreciative audience.

Seldom have I seen two arses more effectively died upon than those of James Corden and Matt Horne, as they attempted to co-host the 2009 Brit Awards with Kylie Minogue. These two came across as a pair of unfunny yobs, and such finely honed comedic gems as: "Cheer until you prolapse" or "scream til your nipples bleed" were accorded a tumbleweed reception in the hall.

It's not entirely the fault of Corden and Horne. Acquaintances with better tuned funny bones than me assure me that these are two of our foremost, cutting-edge, talents. For some reason, the producers of the Brits never seem to learn that anyone who tries to do comedy there always dies on their backside. There's a long history of it. The audience at that event consists of a small cluster of youthful pop fans, strategically placed within easy screaming distance of the stage, and tables filled with music industry execs and their guests, swapping gossip and necking industrial quantities of Vino Collapso. The youngsters just want the next band. The drinkers want the next bottle, a good chat and the next band. The bloke on stage doing knob jokes is always an irritating obstruction to the fulfillment of those desires.

Get the comedians off and get a decent presenter on! Or just let that nice Kylie get on with it on her own. She's well up to the task.

Priorities

2009-02-18T10:26:00.005Z

Meandering homewards the other day, I noted the presence of four uniformed members of our local Constabulary, lurking in a side turning, with a Speed Gun aimed at the traffic on the main road. It set me thinking. They'd chosen what seemed a strange location for a speed trap, just short of a busy, traffic-light-controlled, junction where the traffic stream splits between straight-on and a right-turn lane. Not much opportunity to exceed the 30mph limit there in daytime traffic conditions.

But this isn't really about catching, or deterring, speeding drivers, is it? It's about being seen to do something. We live in a box-ticking age, my friends, and this little exercise works roughly as follows:

Late at night, especially at weekends, this bit of road is sometimes used as a bit of a racetrack by the local Boy Racers, with their silly exhausts and thumping stereos.
Local residents get understandably narked about this and raise the issue with Councillors and the Residents' Association.
In due course, the concerns are relayed to the local Police Commander. "The residents of Bloggs Street are bothered by anti-social speeding drivers."
So, when the local cop-shop has a few spare officers on the day shift, they send them out with the speed gun to haunt a local road.
Result? They stop a few drivers and lecture them earnestly about the deadly danger of doing 32mph. Job done!

But hang on a minute....wasn't the original problem Boy Racers going Vroom Vroom late at night?

Maybe so, but the point is that (a) "we're doing what the community wants"; (b) a number of Fixed Penalty Notices have been issued; (c) it's much safer to send the officers onto the road in broad daylight; (d) the night shift are busy dealing with fights outside pubs & clubs; (e) by doing it in the daytime, we can invite the occasional local busybody to join us, parade about in a yellow jacket and play with the speed gun; (f) the people caught will mostly be local residents, so we'll be able to feed the local paper with patronising claptrap about how every motorist is a deadly sinner.

Many boxes duly ticked!

Meanwhile, on Friday night, the boy racers with their silly exhausts and thumping stereos will still practice their handbrake turns around that junction, and the local residents will still wonder why nothing's being done about their concerns.

Ho hum!
(lest you wonder ... No, they haven't got me. No sour grapes here. Just irritation at the waste of resources!)

Anticipatory "News"

2009-02-11T09:54:00.002Z

A great example, this morning, of how far the crafts of News and Spin seem to have wandered, arm in arm, down a silly path.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/7882708.stm

The story hitting the headlines this morning boils down to this:

The government's Advisory Council on the Misuse of Drugs "is expected" to recommend that Ecstasy should be downgraded from Class A to Class B. The Home Office has announced that it will reject any such recommendation.

In other words, one body has let it be known - either by leak or by Press Release - what its findings are, and the other has speculatively released word of what its reaction would be, if the first body were, indeed to say what it says it might. What a ridiculous game this is!

Of course, none of this bogus posturing will have any effect whatsoever on the propensity of British youth to get "off their face" on their chosen substance of a weekend.

I don't know which is more of a waste of time, this sort of cobblers or Police Officers handing out Fixed Penalty Notices and "Street Cautions" to lads with fragments of cannabis in their pockets.

Apparently, the anti-drugs strategy is working. Stand on the streets of Soho of an evening and see how apparent that seems!

Snow joke!

2009-02-02T11:06:00.006Z

After my recent blast about doom-mongers cautioning against making journeys unless they are "really necessary", I am pleased to report that they have had ample opportunity to exercise their doom-mongering skills today, as parts of the UK have been hit by quite a substantial fall of snow. Unusually, the snow is even lying in the heart of town. This is very rare, as the heat of the densely built city centre normally ensures that any snow melts away very quickly.

Here's the view from my office window this morning

I made slow, but steady progress into town in my electric van. Here's how it looked when I arrived...

It's a standing joke, how badly London copes with snow. It always takes the transport systems by surprise, no matter how accurately forecast (and in this case the forecasters have got it just right) and the trains, tubes and buses just cannot cope. Today, Transport for London has suspended all bus services in London, because of the icy conditions, so hundreds of people have been standing, freezing, at bus stops, waiting for the bus that'll never come.

I must say one positive thing about my fellow road users. On my journey in this morning, not once was I overtaken by someone driving like an idiot. This is almost unheard of, and it goes a long way to restoring my faith in driving standards in the UK! Everyone was taking it slowly, leaving extra space between the cars, and the result was a slow but steady procession, rather than the usual rush-hour Stop-Start. So, for all the talk of chaos, my journey took precisely 10 minutes longer than usual! I am very lucky, though, to be able to drive in. For those reliant on public transport, today is really a write-off. All for a few inches of snow. Daft!

Meanwhile, at home, our cat took one look at the state of the ground outside and retreated to one of the warmest places in the house, atop the kitchen cupboard where the central heating boiler lives.... 8ft up in the air, warm and with a commanding view of the room below.

Not Daft!!

Salute to the Rabbi

2009-01-28T07:17:00.007Z

Much excitement during this past week, as anyone with even a remote Scottish connection marked the 250th anniversary of the birth of Scotland's bard, the great Robert "Rabbie" Burns.

Born 25th January 1759, the eldest of seven children in an Ayrshire farming family, Burns enjoyed no financial privilege, but did benefit from an extensive - though sporadic and unconventional - education.

They took their education and their language seriously in the Ayrshire of old. I remember, as a boy, going to the county to visit my Great Uncle Eddie, who had been the schoolteacher in the little village of Auchentiber and had been allowed to carry on living in the tumbledown old schoolhouse when he retired and the local authority closed all the village schools. My family didn't own a car, so the journey to visit Uncle Eddie was a long one, involving several changes of bus and a long walk to the village. This would be around 1970, when Eddie was in his 90s. At the end of our visit, he would insist on accompanying my mother and me on the trek back to the bus stop. The elegant formality of his language has always remained in my memory: "I shall walk with you to the village, where you may obtain a conveyance.". It was a lovely echo of a bygone world.

But I digress. (And old Uncle Eddie would have scolded me for starting a sentence with "But") (And "and", come to that!)

Back to Burns. What a writer. We celebrated Burns Night with a haggis, introduced with the traditional address: "Fair fa' yer honest, sonsie face, great Chieftain o' the puddin' race..." and musical accompaniment. By tradition, a piper should escort the haggis into the room. We couldn't rise to an actual piper, but we did have a Practice Chanter (that's the bit of the bagpipes on which you play the tune) played by Ken, my ex-Brother-in-Law. He did very well, considering he never fully learned to play, and whatever tuition he had was at least 20 years ago! I spent some time trying to learn the bagpipes back in the 70s, but my efforts were outlawed under the Geneva Convention. Undeterred, I would have accompanied Ken on my own Chanter, had it not been for the mysterious disappearance of the mouthpiece (I think the cat's pinched it. Or possibly a local music-lover.), so I was forced to contribute an unforgettable rendition of Scotland the Brave on the best substitute I could find: the Swannee Whistle.

Aside from the splendid Address to the Haggis, Burns penned many fine songs and poems, before departing this world at the age of just 37. In my view, there's none finer than his thoughts on having accidentally destroyed a mouse's nest, while ploughing a field. The emotion and kindness of To a Mouse always brings a tear to my eye.
The verse "I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, And justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion and fellow mortal!" is just a beauty of construction.
The same poem gave us a phrase that's still in common usage today. When something's gone wrong, people shake their heads and mutter about "the best laid plans of mice and men", but do they remember the source, or the complete line? It's from the penultimate verse of To a Mouse. "The best-laid schemes o mice an' men Gang aft agley", Burns writes (gang aft agley = often go awry). I suppose the modern equivalent might well be "Shit happens" but I'd vote for Burns' choice of vocabulary any time.
Rounding off this remarkable poem, he addresses the mouse thus: "Still thou art blest, compar'd wi me! The present only toucheth thee: But och! I backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! And forward, tho I canna see, I guess an fear!". Burns wrote of his fears for uncertain, but probably bleak, future prospects more than 200 years ago. Here in 2009, I find he's still bang on the money.

The Curse of the F in Fog Lamps

2009-01-14T09:30:00.007Z

As I hit the road into London this morning, my heart sank.

Not the traffic, not the prospect of the workday ahead, but the sight of a few measly wisps of fog.

This means we're in for weeks of "delight" thanks to the muppets who seem to pride themselves on grabbing for the Rear Foglamps switch at the first hint of mist, yet seem mysteriously incapable of finding the self-same switch a few minutes later when the time comes to turn the blasted things off!The thing is, here in the UK, we hardly ever get the conditions that really warrant the use of rear foglamps, save for the occasional nasty bank of fog out on the motorway. These lamps are always inappropriate for use in town, as they cause serious glare irritation to the drivers behind and - crucially - mask the effect of the brake lights.
I'd really like to see something done about this. The vehicle construction regulations already require a warning lamp to show on the dashboard when the foglamps are on, but this doesn't seem to be enough for some people. Here's my free contribution to the thought-pool on this matter: make it a requirement that the foglamps reset to "Off" mode when the engine is stopped. At least that way drivers won't still be being blinded by the muppet-lights 3 weeks after the last hint of fog was seen in the land.

It's not a new irritation, of course. Thanks to the wonders of YouTube, here's a Public Information Film from the 1980s, reminding us to Beware of Rear Dazzle....

Baubles!

2009-01-06T10:42:00.008Z

So, time to take those Christmas decs down and put them away safely where you won't be able to find them in eleven-and-a-half months' time.

The box is ready, you've got a suitably wobbly chair to stand on, so away you go, packing the tinsel and the baubles away, and having a good look round to make sure you've got everything.

Yep! All done and dusted. Close up the box and pack away. Feel suitably smug at being well organised and ahead-of-the-game.

Now give it a day or two and, out of the corner of your eye, what do you see, taunting you from some shady nook....?

Every time. Every blinking time! They're sneaky little bandits these baubles. I swear they hide, sniggering, just waiting for you to finish up and pack away. Then they slip out while your back's turned, and lurk there in the shadows, whistling innocently ..... Aaaargh! There's another one....

Happy New Year!

2009-01-04T14:34:00.004Z

May I wish you a very Happy New Year!

I've been a bit quiet on the seasonal blogging front. I'd like to say that this was because of the wild social whirl in which I've been swept up for the festive fortnight. However much I might like to say that, however, the truth is more mundane, and involves tissues, decongestants, inhalations, paracetamol, ibuprofen etc. I don't recommend a combination flu-like symptoms and sciatica. Short on laughs and big on feeling sorry for yourself.

By the 1st of January, things had improved enough for me to be able to get out behind the wheel of our big red Routemaster bus. This important morale booster came in the form of an appointment to be part of the big London New Year Parade. A huge procession of costumed people, American Marching Bands and vehicles of all types, shapes, sizes and ages made their way along the parade route, kicking off as Big Ben chimed 12 noon. A sizeable crowd braved the winter cold and lined the route to enjoy the spectacle and cheer the parade on its way.

Yep....things were looking up!

But then we came down to earth with a bump.

Behind us in the parade was this old beast, a 1916 Dennis Fire Engine.

If it had stayed a safe distance behind us, all would have been fine. Unfortunately, for reasons known only to old Dennis and his driver, when our bus came to a halt, the fire engine didn't. There was an almighty bang, with simultaneous gasps of horror from the crowd. Up front in the driver's cab, I was a bit shaken, but I couldn't quite bear to get out and go round for a look. I stayed put and awaited a damage report from my Conductor. The picture isn't great. The back of the bus looks every bit as if it's been rammed by a heftily built, 93 year-old fire engine! Suffice it to say that our 1966 aluminium panels were no match for their 1916 steel and tubular brass!

When I'm feeling stronger, I'll publish a picture of our "modified" rear end, but right now I can't face looking at the evidence. No injuries to humans, though, on the bus or the fire engine, which is the most important thing.

A Press agency report on the parade included the line: "At one point an antique fire engine crashed into an iconic London Routemaster bus, but organisers said that nobody was injured.". Thanks to the wonders of agency reporting and newspapers' hunger for content on quiet days, this line made it into UK papers including the Daily Telegraph and the Mail, and further afield in publications in South Africa, Australia, France and the US. It felt strange to see this line pop up in web searches and know that that wasn't just any iconic Routemaster bus ... it was ours!

Lockerbie

2008-12-21T16:47:00.004Z

It's 20 years today since the dreadful loss of PanAm 103, blown up by a bomb over the town of Lockerbie. I guess we all have our own personal "you know exactly where you were, when..." lists. For me, the night of Lockerbie is definitely on the list.

I was the late-shift television continuity announcer on BBC1 that evening, and we were into the network's main evening entertainment schedule when word came through from the newsroom that there had been a plane crash in the Borders. Probably a military jet on a low flying exercise, I thought, knowing the Borders as a prime area for RAF training sorties. Some more time went by, and then a clearer picture began to emerge. By the time it became clear this was a large passenger jet, we were broadcasting a lavish and hugely expensive drama production, which had been the subject of major-league promotion and and media buzz. Interrupting such a programme for a Newsflash was not something the BBC did lightly, but this was clearly a major story and - in the days before internet and tv rolling news channels - we ought to get it on air as soon as possible. As soon as Newsroom were ready, the Presentation Director faded the drama to black, I selected the "News Report" caption to my vision output, opened the microphone and explained to the viewers that we were interrupting the programme to cross to Nicholas Witchell in the Newsroom.

As Witchell broke the shocking news to the audience, up in the Pres suite, we faced a little concern of our own: how are we going to get neatly back into the play we interrupted? (This is typical of life in a Presentation department. World changing events may be going on outside, and we worry about the minutiae of making the channel look smooth! But, hey, that's what Pres is there for!) In this instance, luck was on my side. I'd actually been watching the play and enjoying it, rather than - as usual - reading the paper with my feet up. "Don't worry" I said to the Director "Rewind the tape by 30 seconds or so, I'll do a recap of the story so far, then you run the tape when I start waving." (no instant start video servers in those days. Programme tapes needed a 5-second run-up) At that, the newsflash ended, we put up an appropriate caption and I embarked on my impromptu recap, waved manically at the Director at an appropriate point, and we got back into the play. If you ever fancy testing your knowledge and observation of a drama you've just been watching, I heartily recommend doing it live and scriptless on BBC1 as a way of concentrating the mind!!

There was a further moment of mad juggling at the end of the play. News were all set to appear at the programme junction, with a fuller report on the incident. As the credits rolled on the drama, our preview monitors showed a shot of an empty chair on the news set. "You ok, News? With you in 1 minute." Yes, they'd be fine, they assured us. "30 seconds, News. You ready?" Still nobody in the presenter's chair, but still they sounded confident. The producer credit and BBC copyright notice froze, centre frame, and the theme music ended. As the vision began to fade to black, the talkback from News erupted: "Don't come to us, Pres, we can't go ahead!". It's at a time like this that human hands on buttons and faders score big time over a computerised transmission system. With a splendid display of fast fingerwork, we got the BBC1 network symbol up on screen, and I began to chat away on air about the delights to come, while the Director hastily shuffled her options in the main gallery next door. An adrenaline-filled few moments, but we got away with it!

So, that was my Lockerbie night, exactly 20 years ago.

The enormity of the incident itself was brought home to me soon after, as I made the drive from London to Glasgow, for a seasonal break. With me in the car, my wife and my newly born son, Jamie, just a few days old. The route to Glasgow took us up the A74, slowing to a crawl as we passed Lockerbie, since the road was down to half its normal width, on account of the damage the plane crash had caused to the southbound carriageway. Our slow passage past the site afforded us a clear view of the devastation wrought on Lockerbie. Houses, roofless and scorched, starkly illuminated by temporary floodlights, and the enormous crater gouged out at the roadside, where a wing laden with fuel had crashed to earth, unleashing the fireball that vapourised not only bricks and mortar but also the residents within. By now, the crash investigators knew it had been a bomb. On the back seat of the car, Jamie slumbered on. He'd entered the world on the 12th of December and, two weeks on, I couldn't help but wonder just what sort of a world it was that he'd entered.

Farewell, Mr Bagpuss

2008-12-09T13:38:00.006Z

Today's News reports the death, at 83, of Oliver Postgate, the creator of some of the best loved shows from what people of a certain age like to recall as the Golden Age of children's television.

( http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2008/dec/09/oliver-postgate-bagpuss )

This was the man who brought us the Clangers, in all their knitted glory, complete with dialogue played on the Swannee Whistle. The driving force of Ivor the Engine, too, and Bagpuss.

These were simple creations, but utterly charming. No computer wizardry, just humane warmth. As the narration said, of Bagpuss: "Just an old, saggy, cloth cat. Baggy and a bit loose at the seams." For those of us who are also beginning to feel a bit baggy and loose at the seams, these characters evoke some very special memories. So, cheers, Mr Postgate and, as the Clangers' Soup Dragon would surely have said: "Whoo-woo-woop? Woo wu wooooooh."

Necessary journeys

2008-12-04T14:23:00.003Z

Now then. Winter in the UK and we're having a bit of a cold spell. This means we'll soon be in for a forest of well-intentioned advice, from local authorities, police, the Highways Agency and others of their ilk, all rushing to warn Motorists not to travel unless their journey is really necessary.

This hardy perennial can be guaranteed to pop up every winter, and I swear it only does so to irritate me.

"Motorists" for a start. I'd like to see this term banished to the history books. It's redolent of a bygone age, of the illicit pleasures of Mr Toad, a new and daring pursuit for the well-to-do. It belongs in that era when a smart young cad-about-town would take a young filly for a spin through country lanes, or a family might pack the perfect picnic hamper and set-off with their perfectly scrubbed children for a charabanc outing to a summer meadow, there to meander without care, or bask in the afternoon sun, blowing dandelion clocks and taking in the heady aroma of wildflowers, as the ....... well, you get the picture. The point is, life on four wheels just isn't like that anymore! It may sound like a minor thing, but I actually think that the continued use of this term is damaging, as it allows governments and regulatory bodies to continue to paint the car user as somehow removed from the rest of responsible society. Once you've positioned them thus, it becomes a bit easier to clobber them with draconian regulations, of the sort that require the suspension of normal rules of evidence and legal procedure. After all, they're Motorists, they're not like you and me. Wrong! They ARE you and me, and it's time, I say, for those in authority to acknowledge that driving a car is something that people do, and will continue to do.

Oops...heading off on a rant. Calm down dear!

When is a journey necessary? Well, again, it's all anchored in the past, isn't it? Those jolly country jaunts weren't necessary, but who makes that sort of trip in miserable winter weather conditions? In fact, given the state of Britain's roads and the level of traffic congestion we have today, does anyone really head out there for pleasure? A dark night, blizzard conditions, floods, plage and pestilence? I know: let's go for a drive! I'm not convinced.

As I write this, darkness has fallen in London and it's started to rain again. You wait. Any minute now, some herbert will be on the radio with another of these infernal warnings. Well, I just don't care. Home is where I want to be and that makes my journey necessary.

Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye. I may be some time.

Anniversary

2008-11-27T09:52:00.004Z

An anniversary for me this week. 30 years since my first paid employment as a broadcaster. It was this week in November 1978 that BBC Scotland were bold enough to take me on, as the youngest staff presenter the BBC had ever booked. In fact, they were so dubious about the whole thing that they had to send off to London for permission to give the job to such a callow youth. While they waited for the BBC equivalent of the Vatican's white smoke, they fiddled the issue and put me on a temporary Engineering grade. All was soon sorted, though.

So, 30 years of professional rabbiting, muttering, shouting and rambling on British radio and television. What fun, and what a privilege! And what changing times, not least in the technology of it all. From playing vinyl records, tapes and cartridges in radio, 2-inch and 1-inch video and even telecine in TV, to the era in which a hard-disk playout server seems to be the source of everything. It mostly whirrs along quite nicely, but there's not so much to get excited about when the equipment you're battling with is an inscrutable black box in a chilled server room at the other end of the building!

Anyway, enough Luddite rumbling from me for now. I hereby wish myself a happy Pearl anniversary. Send gifts of suitable jewellery to the usual address.

Istanbul this morning, homeward bound.

2008-11-20T10:31:00.004Z

Last call on this mini-adventure is the exciting city of Istanbul. It's a big place, population upwards of 10 million, and an intriguing mix of the ancient and the modern. On crowded streets, trams glide past market stalls selling all manner of colourful goods, while moustached, leather-jacket-clad salesmen sweep towards you with an armful of rugs.

The famous Grand Bazaar is something to behold, though the most accurate marketing statement is probably the one offered, with a large grin, by one of the vendors near the entrance: "We won't cheat you as much as the others!".

I'm leaving the ship now, as duy calls back in London. Many thanks to the good folks of Cunard for such a memorable time and, of course, to the TOGS, without whom.....

See you back in Blighty!

Last Night at Sea

2008-11-20T00:00:00.002Z

Well, I've made it to my last night on this glorious, windswept, TOGS' Voyage.

All going swimmingly, apart from one poorly TOG who they think might have appendicitis. Either that or she's getting her excuse in early for dodging Alan Dedicoat's karaoke efforts.

Today we anchored off the Turkish port of Dikili. Many of us braved the rain and went ashore to explore its delights. To describe it as a one-horse-town might be to do a disservice to the horse, who may simply have been on annual leave at the time of our visit. Actually, Dikili did have a very nice sweetie shop, a tremendously well stocked bucket emporium and a number of outlets selling shiny fresh fish. Outside each fish shop was a scraggy, but hopeful looking cat. There was also a cat seeking refuge from the rain in the engine bay of the local police car. We returned to the ship, pausing only to neck a Turkish coffee in a Turkish cafe.

I promised myself an early night tonight, yet it seems to have become unexpectedly late. I blame the two TOGS who detained me in the bar. And one of them stole the slice of lime out of my gin. Trying to ward off the scurvy, I suppose.

Must close now. I've just seen the members of the string quartet heading, instruments under arm, for the exit. If they put on warm clothing and strike up with Nearer My God To Thee, I'm heading for the lifeboats, or perhaps just back to the bar.

Still at Sea

2008-11-18T23:54:00.002Z

To paraphrase Brian Hanrahan, I'm not allowed to tell you how many TOGS went ashore to visit the monastery at Volos, but I counted them all out and I counted them all back again. My last-minute decision to wimp out of the trip, on the grounds of inclement weather and inadequate personal cladding, was thoroughly vindicated. The TOGS returned chilled and windswept. A good time was had by all though. The ancient monastery comes highly recommended by today's visitors, though their initial excitement at discovering a 16,000 litre barrel of wine up at the mountain top turned to despair when they realised that it had been drained before their arrival. Coincidence....?

Dickie bows and posh frocks were required for this evening's Black & White Ball. A bit of a shock for me, as this was a late change to the schedule and I hadn't packed for a Formal Night. As luck would have it, Alan Dedicoat had left his DJ hanging in my wardrobe for safe keeping, ready for his return to the ship next week. Only one problem: he and I are about a foot different in height. Nothing the on-board tailor can't sort though. Which is good news for me but may be tricky for Deadly in a few days' time. Mind you, the extra braid round the cuffs may suit him. Don't tell him, will you? By the time he rumbles it I'll be safely back in Blighty.

We're sailing through the night as I write this missive. I was sitting in the comfortably appointed Commodore Club, listening to an entertainer who sounds uncannily like the late Hubert Gregg singing George Formby songs, while I made a thorough assessment of the accommodation for next week's live radio broadcasts, but then I heard the mournful sound of a foghorn off the starboard bow, which appeared to be gradually getting closer. Natural caution made me abandon my position near the front on the foggy side and take refuge with two TOGS from Holmfirth in the ship's Casino. I can't hear the foghorn anymore, which probably means the danger has passed. Or could it mean that those manning the foghorn have simply nodded off? Time will tell. Whatever, I have confidence in the crew of this mighty ship. I'm sure they have someone up at the bow with a decent torch.

Here's a pic of me in action at last night's TOGS' Champagne Reception, with Pudsey keeping a weather eye on proceedings.

All at Sea 2

2008-11-18T13:50:00.004Z

Greetings from the port of Volos, where the good ship Queen Victoria docked at 0900 local time today. It's cloudy and cold, and we're berthed here in one of Greece's biggest container ports. As I survey the scene from the poop deck, I can see cranes, containers, an oil tanker and a bulk-carrier loading shredded scrap metal.......Oh yes, and a fleet of coaches being boarded by a fleet of TOGS, heading off for today's excursion. These are the hardy ones. The trip includes a 150-step climb up a rocky hillside to reach a historic monastery at The Meteora (means "suspended rocks" or "in the heavens above" depending on who you believe) and there's a strict dress code for those who wish to venture in. Skirts below the knee are de rigeur, and woe betide the female TOG who sports a pair of trousers. Not for her the warm welcome and the monastic embrace. A sound thrashing from the brotherhood, more like. Come to think of it, I'm sure that's a positive incentive for some TOGS!
Here are a few of the grop, preparing for departure, complete with Pudsey the Children-in-Need bear. I hope the monks don't take exception to his lack of formal attire.

I waved the TOGS off on their adventure and then returned to my cabin for a ship's biscuit and some restorative cocoa. It was just too windy and cold for me to contemplate the hill climb to the famous monastery and, besides, I didn't have room for warm clothing when I packed my case for this trip. I've made good use of my time in the Queen Victoria's excellent Gym, and I'll be poised with the hypothermia treatment when the TOGS return at teatime.

All at Sea

2008-11-17T22:26:00.005Z

Off on a bit of an adventure now. It's time for the TOGS' Voyage. (If you're new to the concept of TOGS, see my earlier posting on the subject, or listen to Terry Wogan on Radio 2!) In a new and daring venture, some 300 of our loyal listeners have booked themselves on Cunard's latest cruise giant, the Queen Victoria. Their voyage takes them around Ancient Wonders of the Mediterranean and it's my pleasure to be able to join them for the first few days of this exciting outing. We sailed tonight from the port of Piraeus, near Athens. This giant of a ship slipped her moorings and edged out of the harbour so smoothly and quietly that it took a moment or two to be really sure she was actually moving. In a trice, the memory of a drizzly London was erased, to be replaced by.....a torrential downpour in Piraeus! But at least you get a better class of thunderstorm in Greece.
As soon as we were under way, a champagne reception kicked off the TOGS' Voyage in style. We saluted the TOGS and their great achievements in fund raising for the Children in Need charity. And now, at the end of a long and arduous (Don't you mean "drink laden"? Ed.) day, I've now retired to my Stateroom to write these words and, perchance, to dream. Tomorrow is another day, this time in the port of Volos. Assuming, that is, that the ship safely navigates what looks to me like quite a tight path through the various small islands that punctuate the Aegean Sea. It is very dark out there. But I'm sure these guys know what they're doing... Don't they?

Volos has a Monastery, and tomorrow we're going to visit it. Very strict dress code, apparently. Women must wear skirts. Not above the knee. Trousers are right out, it seems. Questions come to mind: What's wrong with trousers? Will the monks be inspecting the skirts for suitability? If yes, how do they avoid studying too closely and giving the wrong impression? Will one particular monk be in overall command of the skirt regime? If yes, will he be called Brother Skirtchecker? One thing is for sure. My journalistic instinct will come to the fore and I shall doggedly pursue answers to these questions and more. Further reports will follow. Probably from a police cell, or possibly the British Consulate.

Avast Behind!

Pictures below:

Voyage planning with Alan Dedicoat ... and yours truly on the majestic grand staircase

Manning the TOGS Desk, with (L) PR guru Dan Kirkby, and Alan Dedicoat.

Bond, Charles Bond...?

2008-11-15T10:33:00.004Z

My attention was drawn, a couple of weeks ago, to a Facebook group entitled "Charles Nove to be the next James Bond". It turns out to be the creation of a keen Radio 2 listener called Nat. Thanks to the wonders of Facebook, membership of the group has been ticking steadily upwards, and the numbers are now well past 300.

The concept of me as the world famous secret agent is a new one on me, but I must say it seems an enticing concept! Thanks to some egging-on from my chums, I decided to venture a photographic audition...

What do we think? Am I made for the role? Should I set aside some filming dates in my crowded 2009 diary? Do I get the girl?

I guess it's over to EON Productions and Barbara Brocolli. Operators are standing by to take your call.

Piece of Cake!

2008-11-06T15:07:00.004Z

Some newsreading shifts are tougher than others.

At Radio 2, the breakfast duty has its occasional compensations...

Here are this morning's 7.30am headlines, complete with Children-in-Need chocolate cupcake, which makes it all worthwhile...!

Commotion at Radio 2

2008-11-06T07:46:00.004Z

Everyone I meet who knows I'm in some way associated with Radio 2 has something to say, or to ask, about the station's recent ... er ... turbulent times. (for our overseas viewers, or anyone who's somehow managed to miss out on this story, there's piles of stuff in the press about it, and the Media Guardian has a pretty decent summary here. )
I can think of a number of convincing reasons why I shouldn't wax too lyrical about all of this. It does expose a number of interesting problems and questions, though.

Is swearing and cruelty the common currency of young, thrusting, cutting-edge comedy?
If it is, does it have to be, or will there be something new along in due course?
How does cutting-edge comedy find its place on a popular mainstream broadcast channel without sometimes causing offence?
How does an organisation the size of the BBC run an effective system that prevents Really Bad Stuff from going to air, without also strangling creativity in a web of paperwork and rules & regulations?

I don't claim to know the answers!

One thing that really strikes me is the changing role of the Producer in radio. When I started in this game, 30 years ago, the Producer was the one sitting in the control room with the running order and the stopwatch. He or she was also listening to what came out of the loudspeakers. Today, on some shows, the Producer is in the studio with the "turn", joining in the fun and games, laughing at the jokes and playing an on-air role in the programme. I'm not levelling criticism at any individuals, but I do wonder if enough thought has been given to the difficulty of retaining objective oversight when the producer has become one of the acts in the circus.

Whatever, in all this, Radio 2 has lost the services of a Controller who knew the station forwards, backwards and sideways. It's very unsettling and we're all wondering what comes next.

Ho hum ...

The youth of today

2008-10-29T23:04:00.003Z

Driving my younger son to his guitar lesson today, he and I fell into one of our discussions about music. Our tastes, as you might expect, differ a little. One way of dealing with this is for him to put in his earphones and enjoy selections from his own favourite repertoire. But there's a problem. The warnings I've drummed into him since his earliest Walkman years, about the need to protect his hearing by maintaining moderate listening levels, seem to have worked. The trouble is that my "cheesy old rubbish" emanating from the car speakers overwhelms the sound in his earphones so, from the passenger seat comes constant heckling and surreptitious adjustment of speaker volumes throughout the journey.

This isn't how life's supposed to turn out. Surely I'm supposed to be the one telling him: "You call that music? Turn that awful racket down!".
Oh dear. Where did I go wrong?

View from the Bridge

2008-10-17T07:43:00.007+01:00

The wonderful world of Voice-over takes you to all sorts of places. Here are a couple of my favourite views, starting with the outlook from Voice-of-God corner:

Glamorously located behind a makeshift fence in a darkened corner of the function suite of a top London hotel, poised to announce the names of the nominees, losers and winners at a business awards ceremony. I love doing this sort of work. There's always a great buzz about it. You're a small cog in an extensive machine, working with a highly skilled team who descend on one of these rather anonymous function rooms and, in just a few hours, transform it with set, lights and theatrical magic, into a vibrant venue fit to host an exciting show.

"Voice of God" has become the industry term for my role. It's not my preferred expression, since I don't suffer from delusions of deity (well, only sometimes...). So, what to call it? Announcer seems a bit stiff and formal. Gob on a Stick, some say, but that sounds somewhat unsavoury. Actually, I've yet to find a description better than that coined by my former Radio 2 colleague, the late, and much missed, Ray Moore. "Coughing and barking in the undergrowth" he used to call it. The undergrowth being the decorative potted palms behind which the voice artiste is normally concealed as he barks out his sporadic bursts of unbridled vocal enthusiasm.

And here's another nice place to be. The voice-over booth at National Lottery HQ. The regular occupant is my esteemed colleague Alan Dedicoat, the Lottery's Voice of the Balls. When Alan is on holiday, or otherwise indisposed, it's time to draft in his stunt double ... yours truly! It's a trifle daunting, because Alan is very good and never gets it wrong. But it's live broadcasting, which is my great delight. The trickiest bit is being sure whether the ball tumbling out of the machine is a 6 or a 9. When they are sitting still, it's perfectly obvious, but add a bit of a spin and some sheen from the studio lighting and it can become confusing. There's always that slight nagging fear that I'll become the Voice of the Balls-Up but, so far, we've always got away with it!

Royal Mail

2008-09-17T12:46:00.003+01:00

I came home today to find a card from the Royal Mail.

"We've been unable to deliver your post as there is a fee due"

A fee of £1.06 to be precise, because someone has underpaid the postage on an item they've sent me. What a lot of postage to underpay, I thought. Closer examination reveals that the actual amount underpaid is 6p and there's a £1 handling charge.

This is happening a lot, I understand, since the introduction of Royal Mail's ludicrous Pricing in Proportion scheme, which replaced a simple array of weight-related pricing with a system requiring not only weighing but measuring too. It's easy to end up 6p adrift if your measuring and theirs don't precisely agree.

Now, I don't claim to have all the answers to the numerous problems of Royal Mail, but I can't help thinking that a system that costs £1 to collect 6 pence isn't at the cutting edge of business efficiency.

Life's Irritations #591

2008-09-05T09:38:00.003+01:00

Call Centre Artificial Niceness

Someone, somewhere, is training Call Centre and Tele Sales operatives in the infuriating art of asking spurious, pseudo-caring questions. I'm sure it's meant to "humanise" the experience but, for me, it usually winds up making me hate the company responsible.

Cold callers, for example. They're not bad people. We've all got to make a living, after all. But if you've interrupted my busy day, at least have the courtesy to cut-to-the-chase.

Caller: Hello, is that Mr Nove?
CN: Yes
Caller: Hello Mr Nove, how are you today?
CN: (manfully fighting the desire to rant on about how my state of health and wellbeing is none of their concern) What can I do for you?

It's not just me, is it? Does anyone actually respond positively to this sort of thing?

Yesterday, I received a new mobile phone. A forced upgrade, after my battered old phone finally gave up the ghost and sputtered to a halt. Once you've got the phone, you charge it up and then ring the Activation line to get changed over from old phone to new. I rang the number and was warmly greeted by a call centre operative in warm Mumbai. I gave my details and awaited instructions. "And how is your life going, Mr Nove?" was what I got. That did it. One short diatribe from me later, he rather sheepishly agreed to get on with the business in hand. Then came a fulsome apology for having asked an inappropriate question. So now I feel bad for having barked at this poor man who's just trying to sound friendly. But what is it that makes his management believe that, when I call a number specifically designated for the activation of new phones, I want to be engaged in discussion about my life?

And ........ breathe .......

All Togged Up!

2008-09-01T11:16:00.009+01:00

A cracking start to the weekend, with a grand adventure in Leicester, where I had the pleasure of joining The Togs at their annual Convention. For the uninitiated, I should explain that The Togs are the hardest of hardcore followers of Sir Terry Wogan's Radio 2 breakfast show. They have a whole community of their own, full of colourful characters with improbable names such as Luke Warm, Payne N Diaz and Edina Cloud. Hearts of gold, these folks - their charitable efforts raise huge amounts of money every year for the BBC Children in Need charity. The Convention provides a great excuse for a bit of a knees-up, and The Togs are kind enough to invite us Radio 2 folks to come along and share the fun.

Here we are, launching the 2009 Togs Celebrity Calendar

with, from left to right, "Pause for Thought" regulars Canon Roger Royle, Cpt Charles King of the Sally Army, Rabbi Pete Tobias and Rev Rob Gillion. Then Alan Dedicoat, me, Radio 2 Producer Alan Boyd, Sir Terry Wogan and John "Boggy" Marsh.

Onward into the evening, and the eagerly awaited Fancy Dress Competition with, of course, an expert panel of judges. Ours was a gruelling task, so I'm sure you'll understand that the glasses on the table are there for purely medicinal purposes....

The eventual winners? The Crinklies with their remarkable portrayal of Intrepid Explorer and Colourful Bug. This is the sort of thing that keeps Britain Great!

Togs, I salute you! And thanks to Hellen Bach for the pictures.

The Togs Celebrity Calendar, in aid of a very worthy cause, can be purchased from:
www.togscalendar.org and there's more Children in Need stuff on offer at: www.charitygoods.com

Diagnosis

2008-08-28T08:07:00.004+01:00

I've not been feeling 100% for the last few days. A bit of a stomach bug, I think, probably encouraged by an overly swift transition from American holiday time to a week of British BBC Radio 2 early shifts.
Mrs N has been doing what all good wives should do, and hectoring me about going to the doctor. I've been doing what blokes do and saying "No, no, I'm sure it's getting better."
Anyway, last night, in a moment of weakness, I thought I'd check out my symptoms on the web. I found a very promising site with a sophisticated Symptoms Checker which allows you to add in all your symptoms so that it can carefully consider your condition. I filled in my list of symtpoms. I shan't trouble you with the gory details. Suffice it to say that they are most of the symptoms you'd expect with a stomach bug! The computer went away to think for a while and then offered a long list of possible ailments. Prominent therein was:

DEAFNESS (an inability to hear sounds)

Er .... am I missing something? I think I might know if I was deaf. And it wouldn't be my stomach that was giving me the clue !

Plenty of room on top!

2008-08-27T12:20:00.010+01:00

I'm a Voice-over. And a radio broadcaster. And the boss of a London sound studio. What do these activities have in common? You spend a lot of your time sitting in a small room, staring at pieces of paper. So, it's good for the soul to get away and do something completely different. In my case, that often means driving this, the 1966 Routemaster double-decker bus, owned by me and four fine friends and colleagues.

Here's the view from the cab, as we navigate the country lanes of England, on the August Bank Holiday weekend. We were providing a shuttle service for the attendees of the brilliant Towersey Folk Festival. Every summer the tiny village of Towersey, in Oxfordshire, plays host to a fine array of folk musicians and a huge throng of visitors, most of whom set up camp in the fields on-site. Our job is to take them to and from the local town centre, where they can drain the cashpoint and stock up with supplies. Most of which come aboard in bags that go "clink clink"!

After a night under canvas in summer rain, our trips to the local Leisure Centre afford a very welcome chance for a hot shower too.

Festival-goers boarding our bus. If you think locusts harvest effectively, you should see this lot clear the shelves of the Co-Op in Thame town centre!

Here's me in action with the ticket machine, on a Conductor shift

And at the wheel of the mighty beast.

Happy days!

We're ThisBus.com by the way, if you fancy hiring a bus for your special occasion.

California Dreamin' pt2

2008-08-21T09:24:00.006+01:00

After the fun and frolics of the conference in LA, we headed for San Francisco, pausing for an overnight stop at the picturesque town of Carmel. That's where Clint Eastwood was Mayor for a while back in the 80s. I kept hoping to bump into him, to see if I dared to mutter "Go ahead, punk, make my day!" I bet he loves that. He'll never have heard it before. Sadly, no sign of Clint, but there was a very fine Classic Car display in town. Interesting vehicles from all over the US, a few from further afield, and of course examples of those HUGE American cars in bubblegum pink that belong in nostalgic films about Drive-In movies and High School Proms.

One thing that struck me during this visit is how the US, long criticised for its status as a major world polluter, is now trying all sorts of ways to clean up its act. There are ads on TV and Radio encouraging fuel efficient driving and promoting ways to cut electricity and water usage. Many of the cities are now pushing cycling in big way. In LA, a local high school had done a sponsorship deal with local business to enable it to offer a free bike to any pupil who was prepared to sign an undertaking not to bring a car to school. What a great, positive idea!

Another very smart concept is the placing of bicycle racks on the fronts of all the service buses. An easy-to-use clamp holds the bike in place. The rider stands right in front of the bus driver when he is fitting his bike to the rack, so there's no chance of the driver not seeing him.

It seems like a great way to promote bicycle usage in town. If your working day is such that a bike would be useful for getting around, but your home-to-town commute is too long to make cycling all the way a practical solution, this could be just the ticket. Here in the UK, of course, the only time you're likely to see a bike on the front of a bus like this is when it's been impaled there and the rescue services are still looking for the unfortunate rider!
I'm really taken by these ideas, because they are about positive encouragement and enablement. Quite a contrast, I think, with the British approach which seems, sadly, to be anchored around punishment and taxation.

Life's Irritations. # 642

2008-08-19T06:21:00.002+01:00

Hot Air Hand-driers. What is it with these devices? Great in theory, but so often infurating in practice.

Too much heat, not enough fan. So your hands are scorched, but still wet.

Too much fan, not enough heat. Hands cold, and still wet.

Unit activated by a sensor which requires your hands to be very close to the bottom of the machine, and a few inches to the side of the hole where the air comes out. As soon as you move your hands around, the blasted thing switches off.

Trust me. These devices are sent by hostile foreign powers intent on disrupting our equilibrium. They must be defeated.

California Dreamin'

2008-08-18T07:46:00.001+01:00

Hello and welcome to Charles’ Blog, Episode One. Always good to be in at the beginning of something, I feel.

This opening gambit is being written 38,000 feet up, on a flight back to London from California. I've been there for a couple of weeks and it’s all come to an end a touch too soon for my liking.

I started my American sojourn on a work footing, with a trip to Los Angeles for an international Voice-over convention. Yes, it did just what it says on the tin: a convention of voice-over artists, from all over the world (though mostly from all over the US), gathered together in a hotel in the aspirationally named Avenue of the Stars, in LA’s Century City. For four fun-packed days, the voice community spoke, and listened, learned and discussed. It was great to put faces to names, kick around ideas on business strategy and discover how many of the challenges are common to all our markets. Such a relief to discover that voice artists everywhere occasionally struggle to find the desired interpretation from such gems of direction as: “Could you do that faster, but slower?” and “that’s a good read, but I’d like it less peach and maybe a touch more raspberry…”.

Curious place, Los Angeles. It is, famously, a city wedded to the car. On the way in from the airport, you can drive for many blocks without seeing a single pedestrian. It’s also, at least in the movies & showbiz districts, a place of some physical extremes. All around you are the skeletally thin, the bleached, the lipo’d, the nipped and tucked and the botoxed. Every so often you see someone who’s dodged the net of manufactured perfection and flies the flag for obesity. But where are the “ordinary” body shapes? They sure as heck aren’t in the Century Plaza Shopping Mall. I know. I lurked there for hours, in the name of scientific research! Security are probably still sweeping the area for the dodgy-looking Limey in the sun hat…

I love California. The sunshine, the breeze, the accents, the attitude, the welcome. I’ve always liked the experience of hiring a car in the US, too. Somehow, car hire in Britain seems rather difficult. It’s expensive, and you come away smothered in extra insurances you weren’t expecting and with the definite impression that the rental company is doing you a big favour by allowing you to borrow one of their precious offspring. I’ve always had better, cheaper, smoother experiences in America, and the pickup in LA was no exception. Things got off to a good start when, slightly overdressed for a Californian summer day, in my I’ve-been-to-a-business-convention jacket, I was greeted by the young lady at the counter with “Hello Sir, you look hot!”. I thanked her warmly for bolstering my faith in my often under-appreciated beefcake rating. She blushed to her roots.

I’d booked a convertible, for the full sunshine experience. I was grateful for the wise words of my friend and colleague Alex Lester, who’d told me to expect a Chrysler Sebring. A fine vehicle, but with a boot (trunk, for US readers!) big enough to accommodate the grand total of a paperback book and a pocket handkerchief once the amazing folding roof gizmo has done its thing. Behold, ladies and gentlemen, the stylish convertible with two cool cats cutting quite a dash on the Californian highway…. And three layers of luggage stacked up on the back seats!

After work in LA, onward to San Francisco for a proper break. More on this in our next, thrilling episode.