Banjaxed Read online

  Recently, a traffic bulletin brought to my side by the regulation flaxen-haired lovely, carried news of a blockage to Bishopthorpe Road in Hull (or some other jolly spa). This hiatus to traffic continued for some days, and in my winsome yet homely way, I speculated upon the root causes. Whereupon a vicar of the parish explained that it was the drains. At least, initially, it was the drains. Then it was a search for a camera, which had been put down to photograph what had caused the blockage, and had slipped from the asphyxiated cameraman’s fingers into the morass. I mentioned that unless one was after a chuckle or two, Bishopthorpe Road was a thoroughfare to avoid.

  Picture then, if you will, our hero’s perplexity on being taken severely to task by a genuinely distressed listener who asked if I was aware that there was a crematorium on Bishopthorpe Road, and that only this very year he had made several trips to it carrying various relations. It seemed to him the height of insensitivity to speak slightingly of Bishopthorpe Road, and he was writing to Equity and the DG.

  It’s not only my own gaffes for which I take the rap, either. On a recent TV ballroom-dancing spectacular, which I introduced, some young lady flourished a Union Jack upside down, and I received an incensed letter from a Brownie to say that neither she nor the rest of her pack would ever watch or listen to me again!

  I’m also expected to be a watchdog:

  Dear Mr Wogan,

  As the presenter of ‘Blankety Blank’, the programme synonymous with Truth and Justice, can you please confirm our worst suspicions. Is it true that Hugh Scully was sucking a sweet, halfway through ‘Nationwide’ on Wednesday last, 2nd May.

  Mrs Maureen Grage,

  Ware, Hertfordshire.

  Luckily, Scully can stand up for himself:

  Dear Terry, Sir, I must admit

  That Scully has been rumbled

  And I’ll make a clean breast of it,

  To your listener who grumbled.

  But in self defence I must point out

  It wasn’t quite as she described –

  Not a sweetie in my mouth that night,

  But a medicinal pastille, as prescribed.

  The BBC has doctors, and lovely nurses too,

  And when my voice was cracking up,

  They said here’s a lozenge you can chew.

  Hugh Scully,

  ‘Nationwide’.

  A likely story.

  Further contumely

  There’s no pleasing some people of course. While others would as lief have one shut up, here’s one who wants more – and louder:

  The top of the mornin’ to you Wogan

  Hard it is, to find a slogan!

  Now, I’m here to take you to task

  Speak loudly and clearly, is all I ask

  You begin so well, and, I’m all agog!

  To hear pearls of wisdom from the old dog,

  You then mutter and mumble, as if fighting the gins

  And the rest of your words disappear in your chins.

  If you don’t improve, you’ll have to go,

  So, just remember, I told you so.

  ‘The Devonshire Dumpling’.

  While others, more fortunate, receive cheery postcards from foreign parts wishing they were there, I get this, from Tenerife:

  Dear Terry Wogan,

  I’m sat here looking out over a sun kissed sea basking in the peace and tranquillity of not being able to receive your programme (it’s like relief from toothache). Put my Manchester YMCA tee-shirt on every day, thought I might see you here fighting your tremendous fat. Still, back to the grind of your programme next week.

  Ian.

  It all makes a person feel wanted. However, I have to admit that I do get the odd friendly card; mostly, it appears, from listeners passing through Dallas, Texas (for reasons discussed earlier). These show heartening views of the town’s soaring skyline, and speak highly of its vital culture and throbbing commerciality. Fair enough, but I could do without each card’s centre piece – a detailed plan of how and where the late J F Kennedy was shot. A pretty macabre tourist attraction!

  I’ve always believed that there’s much more fun to be derived from critical letters than laudatory ones – particularly when you get this kind of thing:

  Dear Sir,

  THE TERRY WOGAN SHOW I am sorry to say that something has gone wrong with the radio in my car so that I can only receive Radio 2 without undue interference. Even on this programme, it is sad that I get worse interference in the name of Terry Wogan.

  Often when driving to work I like to listen to something a little more light hearted than Radio 4 complete with sensible people. However, like most others I am unfortunate enough to have to tune in to Terry Wogan. It is obvious that Mr Wogan is just about the corniest and lowest quality broadcaster ever to step inside the BBC. It is a pity you have a monopoly otherwise you would not last long, as with TV.

  I don’t suppose Mr Wogan will see this letter; in any event he would be too conceited to look at it for too long or certainly take any notice of it. It is not only me, but many of my friends who simply cannot stand Mr Wogan first thing on a Monday morning.

  It’s noticeable that, in all critical letters, people never speak for just themselves, but also for their many discerning friends. What made it all worthwhile, though, was the handwritten note attached to the above:

  Dear Sir,

  ‘The Terry Wogan Show’

  It was unfortunately part of my secretarial duties today to type a somewhat rude, not to say occasionally ungrammatical letter concerning Mr Wogan from my employer. The latter is usually an even tempered and even considerate man but I must put pen to paper to state that I firmly disagree with the contents of his letter and positively enjoy listening to Mr Wogan!

  Mrs E Vaughan,

  Canon Pyon, Hereford.

  So there.

  The all-round entertainer

  In my never-ending crusade to push the frontiers of radio forward, to boldly go where broadcaster has never been, etc., etc., I have experimented with various forms of ‘visual’ entertainment, which previously had been thought unworkable on radio. Who was the first to the Indian rope-trick on the wireless? And tap-dancing? Who interviewed a magician, who made a pound note disappear before the listeners’ very eyes? Who staged the Battle of the River Plate one afternoon on Radios 1 and 2? And who cares?

  Rarely, however, has a facet of my versatility taken my listeners’ breath away to such an extent as my recent ‘juggling’ display. This was done with three special juggling balls, sent me by some benign juggler, and I think what impressed even the most hardened listener was that I kept them in the air, while balancing on one hand, without ever losing the even tenor of my broadcast.

  Herewith, modestly and fine-featured, a selection of the stunned reaction:

  Dear Mr Wogan – Sir!

  Is there no limit to your talent? Does the DG realize your full potential?

  I was impressed by your incredible juggling feat and am convinced that with the right training you could become the world’s first gymnastics champion of the air. Let’s face it – you have the figure for it!

  My son (who is otherwise an intelligent child) doesn’t believe you really juggled with three balls whilst balancing on one hand – the young have no faith – and wants you to repeat it on ‘Blankety Blank’.

  Margaret George,

  Earith, Cambridgeshire.

  PS. Have you noticed how all the best people are called ‘Margaret’ lately?

  Dear Terry,

  I was thrilled to hear your juggling first thing in the morning. The dexterous way you handled those balls was sweet music to my ears.

  To help you excel your past performances I feel sure a blindfold juggling session would be-dazzle all your thousand and one listeners, so please use the enclosed blindfold and astonish us once again.

  Have you ever thought that with Jimmy Young’s help you could have a three-legged juggling race.

  Mrs Margaret Tote,

  Skegn
ess, Lincolnshire.

  Dear Mr Wogan,

  I enjoyed your Wednesday morning cabaret very much – not often you get a good juggling act on the radio these days. Why don’t you do a few conjuring tricks as well and get the DG to assist you? You could get him to pick a card – then show it to the listeners!

  Better still – do a few illusions, such as disappearing off the radio completely!!!!

  Bryan Rhodes-Smith,

  Addlestone, Surrey.

  Mrs Tote very kindly enclosed a transparent plastic bag for a blindfold. Such thoughtfulness. Of course, you’ll always have the begrudger:

  I was very pleased to hear your

  juggling,’ wrote one gentleman, ‘because you

  were quiet for a few moments, and it shut out

  your outrageously boring cackle . . .’

  Do you think Sammy Davis Jr has to put up with this?

  The Albanians are coming

  Heaven knows, it’s not for me, a lowly disc-jockey, to speculate on the Machiavellian machinations that led to The Great Wavelength Switch of 23 November 1978. Many blamed the EEC, others The Gang of Four, still more President Carter’s brother Billy, but A Man Who Should Know told me that it was all the fault of the Albanians, jumping up and down on everybody else’s wavelengths as if the air were free.

  Suffice it to say that few events in broadcasting have led to such schism and doubt unfortunate listeners. People accustomed to being cossetted by my dulcet tones of an early morning were suddenly assaulted by Redhead, Timpson and Purves, a little-known firm of undertakers. Radio 4 came through clear as a bell in Cracow, and muffled in Middlesex; Nancy Wise turned into Jimmy Young; Tony Blackburn began to worry the sheep in the Outer Hebrides; and they’ve put out a dragnet for Radio 3.

  On the eve of the Great Disappearing Trick, Roger Mitchell, the Bard of Jersey, penned these prophetic tones:

  Ode on the Eve of St Jude th’Obscure (23 November)

  Now is the winter of our discontent

  Made cold Siberia by the Great DG

  And those of us who dallied with the Wog

  And sported with him in the summer days

  Have had him dashed from us for evermore.

  No more shall Wogan’s Winner prance the turf

  Nor loads abnormal pass the motorways.

  And gentlemen in Europe now abed

  Shall think themselves accursed they cannot hear

  And hold their manhood cheap while any speaks

  That knew of Terry Wogan in his prime.

  Tomorrow is the feast of Jude th’Obscure

  The patron Saint of causes failed and lost.

  He that shall live this day and see old age

  Will yearly on the vigil drink his wine

  And say ‘Tomorrow is St Jude th’Obscure’

  For though the British Isles will hear our lad

  He will be barred from those inContinent.

  Roger Mitchell,

  Jersey.

  Others, like Vic Jarvis, saw it as the culmination of plotting in High Places to see me finally off the premises:

  Farewell

  The time is fast approaching,

  For the parting of the waves,

  I hear you’re finally going,

  After several narrow shaves.

  The DG’s been round with his ruler,

  So for you, Sir, this is it,

  Whilst you’re alright for the long wave,

  In the medium you’ll never fit.

  No more shall we hear the chatter,

  That makes all your listeners fidget,

  On the twenty-third of November,

  You’re being replaced by a midget!

  We wish you well on your going,

  A sad dejected soul,

  I hear the money’s not too bad,

  For those upon the dole.

  Your Fan Club will be disbanded,

  That gallant band of three,

  So it’s farewell from we stalwarts,

  Your Mother, the Duck, and me!

  Vic Jarvis,

  Forest Hill.

  Gone, gone — and never called me ‘Mother’.

  Metrication

  So wrapped up were we, selfish broadcasters, in confusing the listeners by leaping from medium to long wave, and back again, that it took a letter from Dr Geoffrey Horton to bring us down to earth and point to Even Bigger Issues:

  Memo to Health Service Employees Metrication (Time)

  As doubtless you will have read in the national press, from midnight on 3 January 1979 the whole of Great Britain (except the Isle of Man) will be converted to metric time.

  From that date there will be 10 seconds to the minute, 10 minutes to the hour, 10 hours to the day and so on, delineated according to the following table.

  Old Time

  New Time

  1 second

  =

  1 milliday

  1 minute

  =

  1 centiday

  1 hour

  =

  1 deciday (or millimonth)

  1 day

  =

  1 day

  1 week

  =

  1 decaday

  1 month

  =

  1 hectaday

  1 year

  =

  1 kiloday

  The fortnight will be withdrawn.

  Due to the fact that 1 new hour represents only 5/12 of an old hour, employees will be expected to work longer hours, viz 3½ decidays or millimonths per day.

  It is not expected at this time that any compensatory uplift will be made to wages except in the case of leap kilodays when an adjustment will be built in at the end of the hectaday every 1.46 decamonths.

  The pension schemes will not be affected but superkilodayvaluation will be adjusted accordingly.

  Holidays will be affected only so far as the change to metric time is concerned and no one shall be worse off than before. Thus if an employee was entitled to 22 days (Old Time) he will now be entitled to 220 decidays or one hectaday plus 20 decidays for every hectaday over and above 20 kilodays’ service since the 10th deciday of the third hectaday of 1979.

  Special holidays will be accordingly reduced to 5 decidays but 10 demi-decadays will be added where relevant to the Christmas break which will be moved to the August Bank Holiday to take advantage of the longer shopping decidays.

  Metric Time Conversion Tables are available from the British Standards Institute, the Department of Health and Social Security and at all British Rail Booking Offices.

  Dr Geoffrey Horton,

  Edwinstowe, Nottinghamshire.

  And you think it can’t happen?

  Belabour the blubber

  He who labours under the delusion that jogging is mainly an American disease ought to take an early-morning stroll along Portland Place, London. He’ll want to keep his wits about him, though, to avoid being trampled underfoot by the entire staff of the Embassy of the Chinese People’s Republic, as they hurtle up to Regents Park to terrify the ducks.

  From 6 to 8 every morning, the very pavements tremble to the heavy trot of rising executives, wobbly matrons, and middle management bashing the blood-pressure, also silver-haired members of the medical profession who ought to know better. The gutters are choked with sweat-stained bodies in track-suits fighting for breath, the air is full of rasping coughs, wheezes and, all too often, death-rattles.

  Suddenly, from the tradesmen’s entrance of the BBC a pathetic figure launches himself into this landscape of blood, sweat and tears. In open-toed sandals, grey anklesocks, khaki shorts that droop below the knee and a disgraceful vest bearing the legend ‘Property of Wormwood Scrubs, Do Not Remove’, the shambling figure makes his way down Regent Street. Who can it be? you cry. Oh, come on! Do you really need to ask?

  The Low-down on the BBC Roof

  I’ll tell you a tale of the ‘Beeb’ lads

  Where they play all the latest hits

  And that harsh rendin
g sound

  You can hear from the ground

  Is the DG performing the splits.

  Yes, he’s up on the roof keeping fit lads

  While most are just taking a rest

  He’s cavorting about

  Disregarding his gout

  In a filthy old ankle-length vest.

  Ah! But what is that terrible smell lads?

  From that shed almost hidden from view.

  Hang your heads in disgrace

  For this is the place

  Where they melt Wogan’s Winners for glue!

  Anon.

  Wogan’s Winner

  That slighting reference on the previous page to ‘Wogan’s Winner’ is, of course, just another in a long line of despicable slurs. This time on my abilities as a tipster, a Man of The Turf, a Son of The Ould Sod.

  It sometimes seems to me that I can scarce stick my head out through the portcullis of a morning without some ribald wit shouting, ‘Tip winners? You couldn’t tip rubbish!’ Or some other polished shaft, such as, ‘Ere! ’ow much are the bookies payin’ you, then?’ Naturally, I treat these crude jibes with the haughty scorn they deserve, but beneath the patrician mask the words wound. Of course, I would like to think that Joe Coral will not want for anything, and that Mrs William Hill is being kept in the comfort to which she has become accustomed, but, friends, I am out to banjax the bookies, terrorize the turf accountants, and bring home the bacon for the punter in the street.

  I’ve obviously got them on the run if this sign, sent me by a loyal listener from his local bookie’s office, is anything to go by:

  Whistling into the wind, I call it.

  The Racing Information Bulletin was being broadcast every morning on Radio 2 at 8.27 am long before I was even a glimmer in the granny’s eye. When I took over, to the groans of the discerning listener, some bright spark had the idea that I should end each bulletin with a tip for the day, to be called ‘Wogan’s Winner’. And so, through dungeon, fire and sword, it has remained. I’ve never pretended to know the first thing about horses, or racing, so the tip is provided every day by my good friends from the Racing Information Bureau. And notwithstanding the stick I take from taxi-drivers, waitresses and refuse disposal operatives, our record over seven years has been no worse, and in some cases a great deal better, than that of any other tipster. Indeed, I have been known to top the money-winning tipster’s table! Not for long, mind you.