Banjaxed Read online

  RETRO CLASSICS

  is a collection of facsimile reproductions

  of popular bestsellers from the 1980s and 1990s

  Banjaxed was first published in 1979 by Macdonald General Books

  Re-issued in 2012 as a Retro Classic

  by G2 Rights

  in association with Lennard Publishing

  Windmill Cottage

  Mackerye End

  Harpenden

  Hertfordshire

  AL5 5DR

  Copyright © Terry Wogan 1979

  ISBN 978-1-908461-99-5

  eISBN 978-1-782819-85-1

  Produced by Lennard Books

  a division of

  Lennard Associates Limited

  Editor Michael Leitch

  Art Director David Pocknell

  Designer Michael Cavers

  The author and publishers are grateful to the owners of

  copyright material for kindly granting permission for its use in the book.

  Every effort has been made to trace the authors of contributions included and thanks and apologies are extended to anyone who for any reason may not have been contacted.

  This book is a facsimile reproduction of the first edition of Banjaxed which was a bestseller in 1979. No attempt has been made to alter any of the wording with the benefit of hindsight, or to update the book in any way.

  Contents

  Preface

  Who am I?

  Penge

  Hello Chunky!

  Vitas Gerulaitis

  On the Roof

  Great British Food

  ‘Set a spell, and let your saddle cool’

  A cat called Wogan

  The Floral Dance

  Knickers of World War II

  Spring has sprung

  Songs for Swingers

  Jimmy Young

  Give the boy a goldfish

  ‘Can they smell us from here?’

  The haunted fish tank

  Mulligan’s tyre

  The Great Game

  Singing in the bath

  The buck stops here

  Further contumely

  The all-round entertainer

  The Albanians are coming

  Metrication

  Belabour the blubber

  Wogan’s Winner

  Wagan’s Woger

  Wise quacks

  Make mine ‘Country’ style

  The nude vicar

  Banjaxed: a definition

  Preface

  When asked how he manages to ‘keep so cheerful’ in the early mornings, Terry Wogan restrains the natural urge to strike the questioner a blow to the mazzard, and puts his bonny temperament down to clean living, and eating his crusts as a child.

  Pressed for a more comprehensive answer, and I wouldn’t advise it, the ageing funster will admit to the occasional small cloud blighting his horizon, such as the back of Jimmy Young’s head, but our hero’s normally sunny spirits are immediately restored by a typical letter from one of his army of loyal fans: ‘Dear Big-Head, why don’t you . . .’ There usually follows an interesting suggestion, which, even if it were physically possible, would not make for ‘good radio’.

  This grand bunch of ordinary folk, members all of the Terry Wogan Is Tops Society, or TWITS, are the people he relies upon to keep him supplied with a steady torrent of the abuse and contumely which so characterize his Morning Show.

  ‘But what,’ I hear you cry, ‘is the good of all this? How does it advance man’s aspirations, or the Reithian principles of broadcasting?’ Shut up a minute, and heed this anonymous letter from a Middlesbrough listener:

  ‘. . . keep up the good work. You are fulfilling a much needed role in society, by being on the receiving end of so much aggression. If it wasn’t for you, there would be many more battered grannies . . .’

  So there.

  In this slim volume you’ll find many a ripping yarn of:

  The Unspeakable Goings-On at the BBC (our reporter made his excuses, and left)

  The DG’s Human Sacrifices

  The Dance of the BBC Virgins

  Wogan’s Winners (or how to keep William Hill in the comfort to which he is accustomed)

  The Appalling Saga of the Floral Dance (‘I thought I could hear the curious moan, of Terence Wogan and a Big Trombone’)

  Terrible Happenings at Penge-sur-Mer (alors!)

  Knickers of World War II

  Telling Phrases from the Swahili (‘That man is a witch-doctor. He has a frog in his pocket’)

  plus Hello Chunky, The Nude Vicar, The Beresk

  Broadcaster . . .

  Oh, and many a rattling good verse and finely-honed phrase, I promise you. But you know me, I’d promise you anything to keep you reading.

  Frank Dickens, caring nothing for his reputation, did the illustrations.

  Who am I?

  One hundred listeners, canvassed in the Matlock area, voice their appalling ignorance.

  Penge

  Set in bracing downland country, Penge-sur-Mer is a blithe little spa, nestling at the foothills of Beckenham, Kent. Penge (pron. PONGE) is a hot-bed of utter respectability, and its denizens dislike my good-natured joshing of the place almost as much as the natives of Gerrards Cross resent it being referred to as ‘Gerr-aaards Crorse’.

  Ballroom dancing, with all its attendant forbidden pleasures, is rampant in the environs of Penge, thanks to Frank and Peggy Spencer. The major industries are sewing on sequins, and hair-oil. Pamela Adams, Secretary of the Penge (Correct Pronunciation) Society, expands further on some of the local customs.

  In Southern Penge

  Are chaise-longues

  In each front parlour

  And busts of Mahler.

  In Northern Penge

  A pink blancmange

  Is de rigueur

  For pudding sir.

  In Western Penge

  It’s lemon sponge

  For children’s parties

  Not chips and Smarties.

  And Penge East End

  They often lend

  To camera crews –

  Such gorgeous views.

  But Penge-sur-Mer

  Is still more fair

  Your accent’s wrong

  It’s PENGE, not PONGE.

  It’s funny, but Solihull doesn’t much like being described as a ‘suburb of Birmingham’, either. The following pungent verse, while touching lightly on Penge, and indeed Beckenham, is merely a cover for a slur on my commercial activities . . . God bless them.

  I heard you talk on the wireless,

  About rich sunken pyramids.

  So I sold my villa in Penge-sur-Mer,

  And pawned the wife and kids.

  Berkley Barclay of Beckenham,

  A most delightful chap,

  For a mere 10p plus VAT

  Sold me a treasure map.

  On a dogamaran hired at Barking,

  I assembled a motley crew,

  And sailed away down the River Thames,

  To the Caribbean blue.

  We battled on through wind and storm,

  Through dysentery and malaria,

  Till at last the great day dawned,

  We arrived at the treasure area.

  All hands scanned the calm blue sea,

  Then a shout from the Bosun’s daughter,

  There just off the old port bow,

  Was a cross marked on the water.

  Eagerly we dived down deep,

  Oh! Lord Sir, we did boob,

  No glittering pyramid met our gaze,

  Just a tiny red beef cube!

  Vic Jarvis,

  Forest Hill.

  Hello Chunky!

  In the beginning was the ‘Fight on Flab’, a pathetic attempt to hold the flagging interest o
f the jaded listeners with physical jerks of a violent nature. It has always astonished me that we didn’t get a ton of solicitors’ letters with every post from listeners who had done themselves a mortal mischief while following my bizarre instructions.

  I did get a great many letters telling me of strange happenings. A housewife, embarrassed at the prospect of putting her family off their breakfast by lying on the kitchen floor with her legs in the air, repaired to the hall for her contortions, and was somewhat taken aback in the middle of them to see the watery eyes of the postman gazing at her through the letter-box. Many were the tales of being caught in flagrante delicto in the bathroom by the window-cleaner, which, in turn, brought heated denials from loyal window-cleaners’ wives.

  The ‘Fight on Flab’ became something of a national institution; the BBC even published a book of its esoteric acrobatics. I became the recipient of much hysterical abuse about my own somewhat burly figure, but always stoutly maintained that there was no point at all in Fighting Flab if you didn’t have enough blubber to make the battle worthwhile.

  Son of the ‘Fight on Flab’ was ‘Hello Chunky!’ which was concerned with diets, calories and generally healthful living. It seemed to bring out the poet, the slim-gilt soul that lurks behind every portly exterior:

  Now listen ’ere Wogan, you’ve had your bit of fun,

  You’ve tried to put me off me chips, and lovely sticky bun,

  Apart from playing lousy discs, you’ve set out to depress me,

  So let me tell you blue-eyes, your warnings don’t impress me.

  I’ll go on eating trifle, and jam butties by the score,

  And home-made scones with cream on, AND THEN I’LL HAVE SOME MORE,

  And when they lay me down to rest, and stop me coffin with a cork,

  I hope they’ll send me on me way, with half a leg of pork.

  Audrey Moss,

  Wigan.

  Diana McAdie, a nutritionist who compiled ‘Hello Chunky!’ for me, suggested that the best way of finding out if you needed to lose weight was to jump up and down, naked, in front of a mirror. If there appeared to be a lot of wobbling and flopping going on, apart from the bits that are designed for that purpose, then diet and exercise were needed.

  Mirror, mirror on the wall

  I stand unclothed and shake it all,

  I try an entrechat and splits

  And look at all the wobbly bits.

  I know your racing tips are bunk

  But can you reduce me chunk by chunk?

  If I suspend the hydrates (Carbo)

  Will I end up like Greta Garbo

  With little flesh upon the bone

  Doomed for ever to be alone.

  Or, should I to a hydro go

  And part with all my hard-earned dough,

  With ne’er a whisky or a ciggy

  Emerge a duplicate of Twiggy;

  Or shall I stay with pounds surplus –

  Like a double-decker bus?

  Vic Jarvis,

  Forest Hill.

  One woman wrote to complain that she had been jumping up and down naked to her heart’s content, when her husband had returned home unexpectedly. Getting the wrong end of the stick completely, he immediately tore his clothes off and joined in the homely fun. Now she was pregnant, and what was I going to do about it?

  Ode to Chunky

  Tried my best to diet,

  Even went to gym,

  Ran around the local park,

  Really tried to slim.

  You really are the limit.

  Weight and watch are not for me,

  One look in the mirror,

  Gawd, what do I see.

  All my efforts, wasted,

  Not a thing has changed.

  Only, all the naughty parts,

  Have been re-arranged.

  E George,

  Little Hampden, Bucks.

  Kate’s Lament

  I’m weighing in at ten stone eight,

  My clothes are getting tighter,

  But as I’m only five foot three

  I should be two stones lighter,

  I’ve tried to curb the demon urge

  And stop myself from thinking

  Of cakes and chocs, lemon drops,

  Biscuits, cream, and drinking.

  The model girls in magazines

  Are young, and tall, and slender,

  But me, I’m built just like a tank,

  With lumps, and bumps, and fender.

  But then, you see, I’m fifty-three

  So I’ll just give up hoping,

  I’ll settle in to middle age

  And only give up . . . moping.

  Mrs K Bernicky,

  Beckenham, Kent

  Of Minerals . . .

  I heard your strident warning,

  On the old steam radio,

  Of how we need replacements

  When our minerals run low.

  I knew I was low in copper,

  So I swallowed half a p,

  Now I’m a funny shade of green

  From a touch of verdigris!

  My phosphorous was down a shade,

  So I gulped a red-topped match,

  And now I have a peculiar itch

  In a spot I cannot scratch!

  For my calcium deficiency,

  I took a stick of chalk,

  And now a white line follows me

  Everywhere I walk.

  For iron I swallowed a few nails,

  Now at last I can relax,

  But no, the Inland Revenue calls,

  They want my ‘In Turn Tacks’!

  . . . and Vitamins

  An SOS I send to you,

  I simply know not what to do,

  I’ve lost my lists of Vitamins

  And now I’m paying for my sins.

  I thought I’d work backwards with Vitamin Z

  But all the hair fell off my head.

  I didn’t do better with Vitamin Y,

  Now four-inch lashes cover my eye.

  Vitamin X was not better I fear,

  There’s a dirty great cauli stuck in my ear.

  Of Vitamin W the less said the better,

  I’ve more hair on my legs than an Irish Setter.

  So Terry, I beg you, implore and insist

  Please read out again your Vitamin list

  For this fate that has struck me could happen to you

  Then what would become of Radio 2?

  Vic Jarvis,

  Forest Hill.

  How the listening audience survived it, must remain a mystery.

  Vitas Gerulaitis

  My listener and I have had many hours of innocent amusement pouring scorn and detraction on unfortunate singers whose names or appearances lend themselves to the cheap jibe.

  For instance, Greece’s answer to Vera Lynn, Nana Mouskouri, is now firmly entrenched in our minds as Nana Moussaka; the high-toned Barry Manilow is Manly Barrilow; Shirley Bassey has become Burly Chassis. The man who has come in for most of the calumny is Demis Roussos, a large and lovable Cretan who usually appears before an adoring public in a voluminous kaftan. He could scarcely have avoided being called ‘The Singing Frock’. Some have even claimed that there’s a busy Greek restaurant under the capacious kaftan’s folds, and that in quiet moments they can hear merry shouts such as ‘Throw another plate on the floor, Demosthenes!’ I don’t believe it . . . really.

  No personality is safe. Comes Wimbledon fortnight and the knives are out for that mysterious tennis-playing disease, Vitas Gerulaitis.

  Oh Vitas Gerulaitis

  All in shining whitus

  With your shorts all nice and tightus

  I could really fancy you.

  Oh Vitas Gerulaitis

  All blond and tanned and brightus

  I wish that you’d invite us

  To have a game with you.

  Oh Vitas Gerulaitis

  You’re such a lovely sightus

  You do it just to spite us


  But I could never quite-us

  Be really cross with you.

  Oh Vitas Gerulaitis

  I won’t put up a fightus

  Come round and have a bitus

  And a mug of Aqua Vitas

  And I’ll get nicely tightus

  Andronicus with you.

  Brenda Ray,

  Nottingham.

  On the Roof

  As the first rays of the morning sun bound off All-Souls Church, and strike the bastions of the BBC a resounding blow, a lonely figure, garlanded in thyme and marjoram, and simply but disgustingly clad in string vest, long khaki shorts and scuffed tennis-shoes, lifts his scrawny arms to the sky, and from the BBC’s very roof, calls upon the Great God of Broadcasting, Auris, The Ear In The Sky, to aid his minions in another attempt at broadcasting.

  Then a wretched, struggling figure, unkempt and dishevelled, is dragged forward, whimpering piteously. He is taken to the very edge of the parapet, and there, the string-vest-clad high priest (or DG, as he is known) strikes the unfortunate victim a resounding blow behind the ear with a wet sock that once belonged to Alvar Liddell. The wretch (or Pete Murray, as he is known) screams in a high-pitched, well-modulated tenor as he falls 200 feet to the street below. As always, a lurking pack of traffic wardens takes the force of the almost-human sacrifice’s fall, and Murray limps off to his basement hovel, none the worse for his experience, or as good as he’s ever been.

  His holy task accomplished, the DG moves across the roof, pausing only occasionally to kick a cringing executive producer, to a broken-down corrugated iron shack (The Home for the Bewildered), there to perform his ablutions and hone his malacca cane for the challenges ahead.

  Another day at the BBC has begun.

  Later, the roof will come alive with gay, striped awnings and the popping of champagne corks as merry, chattering secretaries and clerks while away the day by the glittering swimming-pool. There is laughter and high-spirited shouting from the tennis courts, and the air is heavy with the scents of jasmine and bougainvillea. The Managing Director (Radio) whistles tunelessly as he tends the DG’s vegetable patch, and the Head of Outside Broadcasts polishes the windows with a will.

  There are, of course, some Doubting Thomases among my listeners who think that all this is but a figment of my overwrought imagination, who claim that the BBC roof holds nothing more than a flock of down-at-heel pigeons and a producer or two who has been kicked too far upstairs. Tush! if you doubt me, come and see – as these good yeoman listeners have: