Bill Oddie Unplucked: Columns, Blogs and Musings (Bloomsbury Nature Writing)

by Bill Oddie

  Pan’s People

  But here was a dream that could come true. Or would it be a nightmare? It was up to me. The people in the Strictly office were really nice, and it wasn’t long before we were giggling together, as we acknowledged that I would be cast as the little fat one who couldn’t really dance. Vanity forced me to inform them that I had danced on Broadway and won rave reviews, and had frequently been choreographed by the lovely – and sadly now late – Flick Colby, the mentor of Pan’s People no less. On the other hand – or should it be other foot? – my style was strictly not ballroom. This was partially because the mention of quicksteps and foxtrots brought back painful memories of the Sixth Form Dance, where I was an eternal wallflower, sitting forlornly in my ill-fitting dinner suit, wishing that my bow tie would finally asphyxiate me and put me out of my misery.

  Writhing

  That’s another thing. Costumes. Imagine me in a sky blue silk trouser suit, with a neckline plunging to the waist, revealing a belly that could compete with a Christmas pudding. Actually, I wouldn’t imagine that if you want to sleep tonight. As for the combination of fake tan and facial hair! My head would look like a sweet chestnut. The chief interviewer lady attempted to shatter my objections by pointing out that back in the 1970s I had shamelessly cavorted in The Goodies in everything from a miniskirt to a mouse costume, and that silk trousers, hippy waistcoats and bling was my standard dress when I went clubbing. I couldn’t deny that, but I pointed out that the dancing in those days consisted of little more than rhythmic writhing, which took place largely in the dark. ‘The truth is,’ I explained, ‘I have never ever done any ballroom dancing.’

  ‘Well, that is exactly the point!’ the lady countered. I couldn’t deny that either.

  Perfect

  To be perfectly honest, I could see all too well why I was an ideal choice for Strictly. I was totally unsuited. Perfect. What’s more, we’d shared a nice pot of tea, biscuits and some merry banter and I didn’t want to disappoint them. ‘You’ll love it,’ they assured me. ‘Everybody who’s done it has.’ Maybe, but what about those watching? Like – for example – my family. I decided to give them the vote.

  Hate

  My middle daughter, Bonnie, who is a dance teacher and choreographer and therefore knows about these things, was practical in the extreme. ‘It’ll kill you,’ she said. ‘It’s very hard work, and you are not very fit, and let’s face it, you are a bit overweight.’ My wife, Laura, who abhors negativity, immediately spotted a positive slant. ‘You won’t go on a diet, so if you lost weight that’d be good.’ Then she added, almost as an afterthought: ‘But not if it kills you.’ She clearly felt it incumbent on her to come up with some of my more cerebral flaws. ‘You are very bad at learning things.’

  ‘You hate being taught,’ agreed Rosie, daughter number three. ‘When you tried to learn guitar for that BBC Two programme you made your teacher cry!’ Kate – daughter number one – agreed totally. ‘You’ll say what you think and upset someone, and then you’ll say you hate ballroom dancing anyway, and all the viewers will be thinking “so why is he doing it then?”, and they’ll all hate you too.’

  OK, I’d got the message. ‘So I’ll take that as a “no” shall I? Kate, no. Rosie, no. Bonnie, no. And Laura?’

  ‘You must do what you want to do. But … no.’

  ‘So, that’s four nos!’

  Even as I spoke those words, the truth dawned on me.

  ‘You know what? I want to watch The X Factor.’

  Celeb

  Oh dear, half a blog gone and I haven’t mentioned wildlife. I promise I will. Meanwhile, let me tell you why I turned down I’m a Celebrity… Get Me Out of Here, twice. As it happens I reckon this is one of the ‘best’ of the ‘reality shows’, in so far as there has been some genuine interaction between an unarguably diverse bunch of people, and nobody could deny that it is physically and psychologically challenging. The costumes are of course much more my style, and even without my binoculars I would surely spy some interesting Australian rainforest fauna. Indeed, when I was first approached, somebody commented: ‘It should be easy for you, you go to that sort of place all the time. Just carry on watching the wildlife.’

  Cockroaches

  Watching it, yes, but not eating it. Call me a soppy old insect lover if you like, but chewing live grubs and grasshoppers, or crunching through barrels of cockroaches, is not my idea of animal welfare. Maybe all the contestants should be forced to watch Attenborough’s Life in the Undergrowth, before being handed a plateful of beetles to swallow. Insects are not some kind of lesser life. Here’s a thought: the most malevolent and the most beneficial wild creatures in the world are insects. Take malaria-carrying mosquitoes and pollen-carrying bees. Bad or good, I find the idea of any living thing being sacrificed for laughs on a TV show – what’s the word? – distasteful.

  Serious

  Talking of dodgy food, it is this time of the year that weekend newspapers and colour supplements are likely to carry articles on gathering, cooking and eating wild fungi. One word of advice: don’t! The article will no doubt include a warning along the lines of: ‘Make absolutely certain that the mushroom you have picked really is edible.’ Yes, and how do we do that? Look it up in a mushroom identification book, or on the Internet, I presume. The warning further informs us: ‘Many poisonous fungi look very similar to an edible species and vice versa.’ If you want to confirm that: also look in the book. Peruse the pictures – whether photos or illustrations – and you will find pages and pages of apparently identical fungi. Many are the same colour, though in some species the colour may vary. So too may the shape and size. Some can only be safely identified by dissecting them! Others, you’d probably have to eat to be sure what they are. It’s either that one – ‘edible when fresh’ – or that one – ‘causes severe stomach pains and vomiting, and can be occasionally fatal’. If you think I am just scaremongering or have recently joined the Mushroom Liberation Front, get a book or two, find some fungi and try and sort them out for yourself. But before you fry ’em in butter and garlic, remember a mistake could have serious consequences. I repeat my advice: don’t!

  No advertising

  And finally… I am often asked which binoculars I use and which ‘outdoor clothing’ I wear. Such secrets must never be revealed on BBC TV – no advertising knowingly allowed – but I can tell you here.

  I use Swarovski optical equipment, and I am kept snug and dry by Country Innovation. And neither of them is paying me to say that.

  I am now to be found monthly in the sumptuous and vastly informative BBC Wildlife magazine. And they are paying me, but that’s for writing the articles.

  Blog eight

  This Just in

  I thought you were ill

  Who was it said: ‘News of my death has been greatly exaggerated?’ Was it Mark Twain? Whoever it was, it was some time ago, so presumably it isn’t exaggerated any more. However, I am beginning to know what he or she meant… As far as I am aware, I am yet to appear prematurely in an obituary, but I am gathering evidence that people are assuming I am in worse shape than I actually am. For example, my agent has reported that on more than one occasion when he has been peddling his client (i.e. me) to a TV company or a producer, he has met with the response: ‘Bill Oddie? I thought he was ill.’ The operative word in that statement is ‘was’. Past tense. Back in 2009, I was indeed floored by a deep and dangerous depression, however – happily – illness was duly followed by recovery, which has – even more happily – not been followed by relapse, and – more happily still – this state of ‘not being ill’ has been maintained for more than two years, as friends, family, neighbours, acquaintances and various medical authorities will testify.

  Chunky blonde or quirky sweater?

  During this time, I have done a fair amount of travelling, and have spent many enjoyable hours, days and even weeks in the company of those who work for the many terrific NGOs concerned with conservation, animal welfare, alternative e
nergy, child care and mental health. I am proud to be able to help however I can. These people are truly inspirational, and a lot of fun, even though the dilemmas they deal with often aren’t. I have also done quite a bit of writing, and have given interviews to several magazines and newspapers. I’ve done a lot of work in my little garden, listened to a lot of new music, watched a great deal of sport on the telly, become addicted to Nordic thrillers and Homeland, and developed old-age crushes on three heroines, though the quirky blonde in The Bridge does frighten me a bit. The Killing’s Sarah Lund I admire for her undistractable concentration, and her chunky sweater, which is very like the ones worn by fishermen in Shetland, which is one of my favourite places. I used to have one myself. Homeland’s Carrie Mathison (Claire Danes) is of course bipolar – as am I – so naturally I have empathy for her. And vice versa? If only.

  Healing the well

  Anyway, I put it to you that these are the activities of a normal, healthy man. I admit I do take a certain amount of medication, and I have occasional check-ups with my GP, but I no longer attend a shrink, nor belong to any kind of therapy group. I am not knocking them, I am simply pointing out that my health regime is much the same as that of anyone else: get some exercise, lose some weight, cut out the chocolate and cut down on the booze. One might call them remedies for the well people. So, that is my message to anyone out there who might be curious, concerned or indeed totally apathetic: I am not ill.

  I hope you are all OK too.

  Self-interest

  Meanwhile, what’s going on in my garden? A veritable Robin fest, that’s what. In spring I had a pair of Robins trusting enough to take mealworms from my hand. This was not only entertainment for my granddaughters – and for me – it was also my way of hopefully encouraging them to nest in my Ivy, or in one of my nestboxes. Call it bribery and self-interest if you like, but it was also altruistic, as I tried to assure them each morning. Yes, I talk to the Robins. ‘You guys nest in my garden and you’ll have enough mealworms never to have to bother rummaging around looking for caterpillars or tiddly little worms. You’ll be able to feed your chicks, and yourselves, without flying more than a few yards from your nest. Surely that’s an offer you can’t refuse?’

  Not natural

  But it was. As the soggy weeks of spring passed by, I had to choke back the pang of disappointment at seeing the pair gathering moss from my rockery and flitting over the fence with it. I was forced to face the rather hurtful fact that my Robins were nesting next door. This was particularly ungracious, since I would not call my neighbour a natural nature lover. (He nags me nearly every day: ‘When are they going to shoot those bloody parakeets?’)

  Knackering

  However, after a couple of largely Robinless weeks, suddenly things got a bit livelier. I knew instantly what had happened. The egg had hatched. And where did the parents immediately go in search of food? My garden! I do not hold grudges and I was not bitter, but as I tipped extra mealworms into my feeders, I could not resist letting the faithless parents know some of my feelings. ‘Oh hello, so who’s hungry then? You two? I expect it’s because you’re so busy feeding those babies, you don’t have time to feed yourselves. How many have you got? Three? Five? The last Robins that nested here – in my Ivy, as it happens – had four. Course it was no problem. All mum and dad had to do was flit down onto the feeder – well three feeders actually, all with mealworms – so they could keep the kids full up, take a break while they digested their worms, and have a snack whenever they felt like it. Of course, I would’ve done the same for you, but apparently you prefer to live next door, where there are no bird feeders, but there is a cat, and that bloke ranting on about the parakeets, and you have to keep flapping backwards and forwards over the fence. Yes, I am sure it is knackering, but it’s what you wanted. Anyway, perhaps at least you’ll bring the kids to see me when they fledge.’

  They’re leaving home

  But Robins – and most small birds – don’t work that way. Yes, you’ve seen Springwatch, when there has been a family of Blue or Great Tits lined up on a branch, and they shiver their wings and one of the parents feeds them, but it doesn’t last long. It is essential that young birds learn to feed themselves as rapidly as possible. If they are reluctant, mum or dad is likely to give them a push, quite literally. No good protesting: ‘I can’t fly very well yet.’

  ‘Yes you can, I’ve seen you. Now off you go, before I give you a good pecking.’ Almost overnight, maternal affection turns to belligerence. Perhaps we humans should try it when the teenagers won’t leave home.

  Irresistible

  Now, let’s fast forward to just over a week ago. I go out in the garden for my morning routine. Fill up one feeder with sunflower hearts, and another with peanuts (both equally irresistible to finches, tits, squirrels, a Great Spotted Woodpecker and a dozen parakeets). Then, I put handfuls of mealworms in four plastic feeders: two hanging and two stuck on the window. These are meant for little birds, but neither Magpies nor Jays are beyond dangling and contorting themselves and gobbling up greedy beakfuls. I often lie on the couch by the backroom window, listening to records with my eyes closed. Believe me, it is quite disconcerting to be woken by tapping and scuffling and to look up to a Jay apparently trying to peck through the glass inches above my face.

  Little visitor

  The final task of the morning round is to check my moth trap. This is a very basic ‘light and box’ affair. The night had been damp and chilly. I didn’t expect much and there wasn’t. But no sooner had I chivvied a Willow Beauty onto a little plastic jar and put it on the garden table, than I became aware of a little visitor perched on the nearby railing. A newly fledged Robin. A riot of spots. A fluffball with measles! It couldn’t yet fly too strongly, but boy could it hop. It hopped straight towards me. It hopped onto the table and pecked at the moth in the jar, but – just like at the supermarket – the food was sealed in plastic so rigid it was unopenable. Fluffball cocked his or her head towards me, then hopped off the table and onto my foot!

  Good behaviour

  Since then he has perched on my lap and on my shoulder. When I hold out a handful of mealworms, he hovers above it for a moment as if selecting the one he fancies, then grabs it in his bill and retires to a shady spot, swallows it and comes back for more. At the risk of confessing to soppiness I admit this little bird cheers me whenever we meet; his behaviour – as the scientists say – also intrigues me. Why so tame so quickly? Last year, I managed to get an adult Robin to take food from my hand. Could that have been one of Fluffball’s parents? Could tameness be hereditary? He certainly hadn’t had time to learn this behaviour by copying either a parent or me.

  There’s more

  A few days later, not one but two adult Robins appeared in the garden. Mum and dad coming to conscientiously – or guiltily – check on their progeny? Or were they just hungry? I presumed the latter, as one of them swooped in for a mealworm, only to be immediately repelled by a flurry of wings, beak and feet and be literally chased away by its own offspring. There was no fight, no defence, no retaliation, and it happened with both adults. Conclusion: juvenile Robins show zero tolerance to their own parents. Interesting.

  Or to their siblings. A couple of days ago I was wondering if I was seeing double. Or was Fluffball playing hide-and-seek? Or… Oh, the fact is that there is not just one young Robin in my garden – there are two. Plus mum and dad hop in now and then, and – for a couple of days – we had a visit from another adult in such a tatty state of moult it was probably embarrassed to be photographed. So that’s a quota of five Robins. There has been no great violence, but there have been a few skirmishes, and the siblings are yet to show the slightest affection for one another. The nearest I have observed to a truce is when they perched on the same branch only about a metre apart, though it was raining heavily, so presumably they had agreed to share the shelter till it stopped.

  Worry

  Anyway, it was bucketing down again last night, and so far t
oday I haven’t seen any of them, so I’d best go and check that they are OK. That’s the trouble, they may not be my kids, but I do worry about them.

  WHO AM I?

  Epilogue

  Do They Mean Me?

  Angry

  Do you recognise this person? More to the point, do I recognise this person?

  In the mid-1960s, he was quite an angry man and had to leave Rochdale due to violence and drinking. He ended up in a hippie commune in London. His metal (sic) health doctor encouraged him to channel his anger into humour. He still has a bad temper and was reported to have struck John Craven with a tripod over a disagreement about tea!

  Who is it?

  That’s me that is, apparently, according to some website I accidentally visited the other day when I was idly passing a spare five or six hours Googling myself (all celebs do it). Most of it is simply inaccurate or untrue. The mid-1960s were one of the happiest times of my life, when I was appearing on Broadway with John Cleese and Tim Brooke-Taylor, and beginning a relationship with the lady who became my first wife. I had long left Rochdale. I left when I was six! Presumably not due to violence or drinking. Well, not mine anyway. The hippie commune bit has a smidgeon of truth in that during the 1970s a number of friends lived in a big house together. We had a cooking rota, but we weren’t hippies, and I didn’t ‘end up’ there; I owned it! I like the idea of a ‘metal health doctor’! Heavy metal I presume, or was he a robot? Either way, I was never advised to channel anger into humour, though it is not bad advice, and may indeed have been what I subconsciously did do, but no one put it that way until I visited a psychotherapist relatively recently. As for still having a bad temper, that’s not up to me to judge, but I have never ever even thought about striking John Craven, let alone with a tripod, and certainly not over a disagreement about tea!