Banjaxed Read online

  Nothing appears to infuriate the viewing public more than the amount of good food that goes to waste in the average American pot-boiler. Jim Rockford is for ever putting down his tacos untasted; but the worst offenders in this respect are the denizens of ‘Dallas’. Nearly all the action in this simple tale of prairie folk takes place over breakfast, lunch and dinner. But not a drop of orange juice nor a sliver of prime Texas beef ever passes the lips of old Jock, Miss Ellie, Bobby, Pammy, JR, Sue-Ellen, or little Lucy.

  Plenty more passes their lips though, most of it of stunning banality, in this hairy tale of sin, sex and skullduggery ’neath Western skies. All this in the very locale where heretofore never was heard a discouragin’ word. Certainly no television series has ever provoked more reaction from my listeners – particularly the dyed-in-the-wool villain of the piece, the heinous JR.

  Dear Terry,

  Re that swine JR Ewing. I’m amazed that someone hasn’t stuffed him down one of his own oil wells. You say you feel sorry for Bobby – well you must be daft. Pammy’s right, those Ewings are all the same. After all, Bobby knows what JR’s been up to and yet he expects Pammy to return to South Fork. Could you bear to sit at the same dinner table as that creep under Pammy’s circumstances. Of course you couldn’t – you hate the man and you haven’t even met him. His sickly smile and Texan drawl is enough to put anybody off their food.

  About Lucy. She’s not a dwarf at all. The other women are as big as their men, so I would guess that they’re probably six-footers. Lucy is average height. She’s supposed to be seventeen by the way, NOT fifteen as you seem to think.

  June Thompson,

  Lincoln.

  The aforementioned Lucy, 17 going on 47, became known to me and mine as ‘The Poison Dwarf’ or ‘Bridget the Midget’, but she was not without her followers:

  Dear Mr Wogan,

  Re ‘DALLAS’ Let us cease all this endless chatter about JR and aim for fair play for ‘The Midget.’ One can hardly fail to notice her lack of opportunity to display her talent as an actress. Her anatomy we all know about but this week her ever-diminishing lines of dialogue were reduced to one word, ‘Pam,’ which she uttered when things looked bad during the trial scene. Now Charlene (as is her real name) gave the line all she’s got, which is quite considerable, but surely she deserves better than this.

  By the way, is it my imagination but does JR don his safari jacket when he is about to stoop to even more evil depths.

  John Leigh,

  Gwernaffield, Clwyd.

  Not everybody watched ‘Dallas’, of course:

  Dear Terry,

  What’s all this rubbish I hear every morn

  About ‘Dallas’ and ‘JR’ (some American corn).

  Not a programme I watch ’cause each Tuesday at eight

  I go to the pub for a drink with my mate.

  But then for two weeks I watched ‘Call My Bluff’

  (Cause Roy Marsden was on – and he’s lovely stuff)

  And between ‘Call My Bluff’ and ‘Blake’s Seven’ I saw

  This programme ‘Dallas’ which causes such a furore.

  Now I readily admit that JR is not nice

  And the programme is riddled with intrigue and vice

  But surely a man of your standing and brain

  Can find better causes for a campaign.

  How about a petition demanding that we

  Have more manly programmes to watch on TV.

  Bring back ‘Z Cars’ and ‘Warship’ and series like that

  Not American soap opera with a JR-type rat.

  Jim Rockford, he’s manly and you liked him before

  The nasty in ‘Dallas’ became such a bore.

  There’s that nice Mr Telford who’s hit a bad patch

  Compared to hrs troubles the Dwarf is no match.

  How about it TW, wish ‘Dallas’ afar,

  And let’s hear no more of that rotter JR.

  Denise Hulme,

  Stoke-on-Trent.

  But those that did, took it seriously:

  Dear Terry,

  Surely there must be some deep psychological reason for this devil JR’s behavior. Perhaps he was left with only six servants in that huge house with gale-force winds blowing around it when he was three months old, or was deprived of his gold-handled dummy when he was ten. That beautiful Bobby, how does he manage to keep his hands off JR, he’s even too good to realize what’s in it for him. It’s not surprising they are all ga-ga living in such confined quarters with Big Daddy’s eye upon them. He doesn’t see much, does he!

  Why do we keep watching? Well, it’s a bit like listening to you Terry, one day it will all make sense and it’s always good for a laugh or a gnashing of teeth in the meantime.

  Cheers for now, I’m off to the dentist for a bit more punishment.

  Irene Robson,

  Letchworth, Hertfordshire.

  It is important of course, to get the historical background to the whole sorry mess:

  Dear Terry,

  I’m just writing to let you know that you do in fact have five listeners as my wife and I listen to your programme every day, and up to now we’ve remained anonymous, but following your comments on Wednesday about nobody actually eating in the ‘Rockford Files’, I felt I had to write and correct you as this is the first time I’ve heard you misleading your listeners and now wonder whether you do in fact watch these programmes as I definitely saw Jimbo tucking into a Yorkshire pudding and Rocky also had a big mouthful of the sandwiches that he’d made earlier on.

  While I’m on the subject, I thought you’d like to know a few facts about ‘Dallas’ which no one has yet brought to light.

  Miss Elly was in fact Elly May Clampet before she married Jock and when her Pa (Jed) and the family died after eating possum pie which had gone off, she inherited the oil empire. She met Jock after he’d got well and truly cheesed off with being beaten up by John Wayne every time he made a Western film with him. JR’s earlier days were taken up with making the early Donald Duck cartoons and then later he was the Penguin in ‘Batman’, have you noticed how he has still retained the special walk from those experiences.

  And have you noticed how Pamela’s Blankety Blanks have doubled in size since she changed her hairstyle.

  Anyway, why don’t you get JR to guest on ‘Blankety Blank’ then you could stab him in the eye with your microphone on behalf of all your fans.

  Julius Wyszogrodzki,

  Carlisle.

  However, while myself and the rest of the loonies sat transfixed of a Tuesday night by the sight of Jock sprinkling sugar on his eggs (no wonder he never ate them), or the rest of the cast shivering by the swimming pool in a Force 9 gale, more uplifting things were afoot on BBC 1, viz:

  Ode to David Attenborough

  I’m a fan of David Attenborough; he beats ‘Dallas’ on TV,

  The private lives of animals are popular you see.

  Now if you watch his programme it’s the way they reproduce

  That makes animals so popular so let me introduce

  The Viewer’s simple guide to the wildlife mating habits.

  I’ll include as many as I can but I promise not to mention rabbits.

  In the everglades you can observe the sex life of a bullfrog.

  Perhaps you’ll think it noisy but less painful than the hedgehog.

  The mating of an electric eel is something that will shock

  And when two elephants make love the jungle starts to rock.

  To the African hyena it’s not a laughing matter.

  The armadillos do it with a rattle and a clatter.

  Hippos woo in muddy pools and gibbons in tall trees.

  It really makes me want to itch when I think of mating fleas.

  A gander always likes a goose; flies do it on the ceiling.

  The rhinoceros’s hide is thick so there’s very little feeling.

  To the woodworm it’s so boring in their tiny little holes.

  The bat perform
s by radar and so do garden moles.

  Eider drakes are happy when they are feeling down

  And Ginger Toms on dustbins like to do it on the Town.

  An ibex likes it on the side; of a mountain slope I mean.

  The kinkajoo is kinky and the badger’s rarely seen.

  The salmon travels miles to do it; the caribou’s the same.

  Hares will do it anywhere and grouse are always game.

  Guillemots have fun on rocks; it makes a puffin puff.

  If a lady camel takes the hump it means enough’s enough.

  Lions take a pride in it in Zoos or in the Bush.

  Reed warblers in Norfolk find it something of a rush.

  Pigeons in Trafalgar Square all do it on the column

  But to sparrows in the graveyard it’s really rather solemn.

  Pandas won’t be tempted to do it in the Zoo

  But with everybody watching I doubt if you would too.

  Well that’s the list BUT WATCH IT, for you could have a fright.

  That moth up on the lampshade may be taking notes tonight.

  Neville Gurnhill,

  Skegness.

  Mulligan’s tyre

  Some time ago, Wings had a big hit with ‘Mull of Kintyre’, a maudlin ditty full of skirling pipes and keening McCartneys. It stayed at No 1 in the Top 20 for what seemed like years, and struck a nerve among many listeners.

  There was the bucolic reaction:

  Muck in the Byre

  There’s lots of jobs on the farm I’ve to do

  Some make you happy and some make you blue

  Of all of those jobs the one I least desire

  Is to clean out the pigs and the muck in the Byre.

  Muck in the Byre

  Steam rising off the heaps

  I desire

  To smell something else than the

  Muck in the Byre.

  John Levison-Wiggins,

  Letcombe Regis,

  Oxfordshire.

  Muck on Kintyre

  Muck in the byre

  Oh, mist rising up from the greip

  My desire

  Is always to see heaps

  Of muck on Kintyre.

  Long have I worked here, much muck have I seen

  Spread out on stubble to make fields turn green

  Vast middens steaming like they were on fire

  As I carry on mucking the byre in Kintyre.

  Sweep with my besom clean right the way through

  Have the byre spotless and sparkling like new

  The cows all a-mooing like some eerie choir

  As they deposit their muck on the byre in Kintyre.

  Cowpats in sunshine, dung heaps in the rain,

  Still at the mucking I think I’ll remain,

  With the mist from the midden rising higher and higher

  As I empty the muck on the Mull of Kintyre.

  Anon.

  What in heaven’s name is a ‘greip?’ Ray Ellis of Ely, on the other hand, was eager for me to climb on the bandwagon:

  Dear Terry,

  Herewith please find the words for your next onslaught on the Hit Parade, with congratulations for your last attempts, and condolences for your bad throat – you did have a bad throat when you recorded ‘De Plorable Dance,’ didn’t you?

  Molly Kintyre

  Molly Kintyre, the miss everyone wants to see.

  My desire’s not only to see her!

  Oh! Molly Kintyre.

  Far has she travelled – who knows where she’s been?

  Men come a-running, their eyes all agleam,

  Hearts full of passion, consumed with desire

  For the lovely, delectable Molly Kintyre.

  Ray Ellis,

  Ely,

  Cambridgeshire.

  So was Eileen Mannion of Glasgow:

  Mulligan’s Tyre (Irish version of McCartney song)

  Chorus

  Mulligan’s tyre

  O it’s blown a puncture

  It’s nearly on fire

  From friction and much wear

  O Mulligan’s tyre.

  Verse 1

  Far has it travelled and much has it seen

  Of pebbles and tarmac and grasses so green

  Bog land and shamrock and colleens so fair

  And it carried them home

  It was Mulligan’s tyre.

  Chorus

  Verse 2

  Much was it worn yet it carried on

  Making the journeys for its leprechaun

  Taking the hills through the bog and the mire,

  And it would not give in

  Not that Mulligan’s tyre.

  Chorus

  Verse 3

  Struggling along tho’ it was such a strain,

  Taking the colleens in sun, wind and rain,

  Sadly it blew up going thro’ the cow byre,

  It had lasted a long time,

  That Mulligan’s tyre.

  Chorus.

  Eileen Mannion,

  Glasgow.

  Many pursued the tyre motif, few more successfully than Steve Knowles of Eastwood, Nottingham:

  A Punctured Back Tyre

  Far have I travelled and much have I seen

  Broken head gaskets and shattered windscreens

  Bashed up front fenders and engines on fire

  But all that I get is a punctured back tyre.

  Chorus

  Punctured back tyre, O why does it happen to me,

  My desire is to always be free from a punctured back tyre.

  Drive down the M1 and back up again,

  Hoping that nothing will happen, but then

  A crack from the rear like a pistol shot fire

  And it’s done it again, I’ve a punctured back tyre.

  Chorus

  At last I decided only one thing to do,

  I’ve changed my rotten old four wheels for two

  Me and my push-bike go all round the shire,

  O my God its just happened, a punctured back tyre.

  Chorus.

  Steve Knowles,

  Eastwood, Nottingham.

  And yet, as one bi-cyclist enthused to me recently: ‘It’s a great life a-wheel!’

  The Great Game

  Two years ago, I was inveigled to play in the BBC 2 TV series ‘Pro-Celebrity Golf’. Came the day, I introduced my morning radio show, caught a plane at 11 o’clock from Heathrow to Glasgow, took a car from Glasgow to glorious Gleneagles, bumped stomachs with Peter Alliss, knocked back a fortifying vodka and tonic, inhaled some of Eric Sykes’s cigar smoke and Henry Cooper’s perfume and found myself standing on a tee in the heather with Johnny Miller, Tony Jacklin and the jockey Geoff Lewis. I would prefer to draw a veiled sporran over the debacle of missed putts and shanked irons, and the camera zeroing in on me as I took three to get out of the rough.

  Suffice it to say that the great Johnny Miller has been in semi- retirement since that fateful day. I marked his card, I am afraid, in more ways than one.

  It didn’t go unremarked by my listeners either. From the barrage of contumely, this fragrant flower:

  Fore

  By jove big Tee, you looked the part

  All woods, and irons, and big heart

  As you strode out with Johnny Miller

  In peaked cap you looked a killer.

  Indeed you seemed so strong and hale

  I composed this poem for your mail

  With fifty years’ practice, and lots of scouse

  You’ll be as good as me,

  Yours Jack Nick Louse.

  Pete Floyd,

  Carlisle.

  Singing in the bath

  Perhaps, in a moment of weakness, I may have recalled how my father, Earl Wogan of Ennisberry, used to wake the dead, not to mind the neighbours, intoning ‘Many Brave Hearts Lie Asleep in the Deep, so Beware, etc.’, as he performed his ablutions. Whatever the excuse, and my listener rarely needs one, it brought this out from behind the bidet:

&
nbsp; THE BATHROOM SINGERS ASSOCIATION

  Terry Wogan Esq.

  Head Office

  BBC,

  21 Lloyd Square,

  Broadcasting House,

  London WC1

  London W1A 1AA

  Dear Mr Wogan,

  The Bathroom Singers Association was founded two years ago to link those who like to bellow at the top of their lungs while wallowing in a hot bath and already has a membership of over 100. Membership is open to all devotees of the art and there is a reduced fee for groups such as rugby clubs. In addition to a monthly newsletter members exchange tapes of their performances as well as passing on details of bathrooms with above average resonance – I myself treasure a recording made in the bathroom of Suite 306 at the Savoy Hotel.

  As you may imagine, it is not easy for members to have get-togethers but this year we are planning to hire the Albert Hall in September for the first ever Bathroom Singers’ wallow. Participants may bring their own baths or may hire one at the Hall for a nominal charge. Dress will be optional, but for those who are somewhat shy a large quantity of bubblebath solution has been kindly donated by a well known manufacturer.

  Yours sincerely

  David Gordon.

  The buck stops here

  It is very difficult for the simple broadcaster to open his capacious maw without offending a sensitive listener somewhere. It is hard indeed, having wished the world a bright good morning, to find the BBC switchboard jammed with howls of protest from people on whom the aforementioned morning is sleeting.

  As soon as I make idle mention of a nagging ache in the old war wound, waves of protest from veterans of the Ypres Salient lap the very bulwarks of BH (or Broadcasting House, everything in the BBC is referred to by its initials, thus: TVC, Television Centre; HSOB, Head of Sound Outside Broadcasts; there’s even someone in darkest Engineering entitled EIEIO! But here! I digress . . .)