From then on, twice a week, a runner dropped off pictures, props and miscellaneous bits and pieces that I could use in times of emergency. Other shows saw what was going on and began to provide content for us to use around their shows, too. The only show we ever upset was Play School. In an act of extreme trust, they sent over their legendary character toys from the programme – it was as if royalty had arrived. In a carefully carried box were Big Ted, Little Ted, Humpty, Jemima and Hamble. We used them that afternoon. Unfortunately, the runner arrived earlier than expected to our office to collect them and was met by a very disturbing sight. I had arranged the toys for the amusement of Ian. Big Ted was 69ing Hamble while Little Ted, Humpty and Jemima were involved in a passionate threesome. The runner was not amused, and they were never allowed to visit us again.
One afternoon, the box of letters saved me from almost certain dismissal. There were huge benefits to presenting on TV in the eighties. No mobile phones to screenshot, no ability to live-pause and rewatch, no internet to send whatever you saw viral.
I still occasionally smoked, and though, now, it seems unthinkable on so many levels, it was perfectly acceptable for me to smoke in the Broom Cupboard. Every programme had an accompanying picture that could be put onscreen if it broke down; unsurprisingly, it was called a breakdown slide. When I was on air, they were fairly redundant: if something broke down, I would be there to fill the time and there was no need to use them. Nevertheless, they were still loaded into the system each day and I had access to them via a
button on the desk in front of me. During a long cartoon, perhaps Dogtanian or Phileus Fogg, I would switch the booth output from the camera to a breakdown slide so that if the gallery cut to me, my output would be the slide and not the camera. Essentially, I was temporarily hiding behind a picture that would give me enough time to put my cigarette out so as not to be caught smoking in front of the nation’s children! I could safely watch the cartoon, or phone my friends from the booth phone beside me, kick back and have a smoke. Though the breakdown ruse was never used, I was still very nearly the instrument of my own demise.
In front of me were two cartridge machines. I could use them to play any music I might need on air, and the top made a useful shelf on which to place pictures, toys or props. The shelf was closer to the camera, so anything on it was nicely visible. One afternoon I had gone through the ‘I’m having a smoke’ routine during a cartoon. I finished my smoke, cut the camera back to output and waited for the cartoon to finish. I linked into John Craven’s Newsround, then looked down at the shelf. My heart nearly stopped and I heard the bang of adrenaline in my ears. There on the shelf, in full view of the nation during my entire link to Newsround, was my packet of B&H. I hastily removed them and looked through the glass into the gallery. They hadn’t noticed. The phone didn’t ring, so neither had anyone in the building. But what about the viewers? Had any of them noticed? I sat staring into space for a moment. I had five minutes to think of something before my next link. A light bulb went on in my head. I rummaged through the box of letters and found one written on yellow paper and carefully folded it into a similar size to a fag packet and placed it exactly where the B&H had been. Newsround finished, I did the link into Blue Peter as normal and hoped I’d got away with it. Any eagle-eyed viewer might have thought they’d seen a packet of cigarettes but, five minutes later, on closer inspection, ah no, it was only a folded piece of paper. Nobody wrote in. Nobody said a word. I’ve certainly never told. Until now.
That wasn’t the only time I thought I might be fired. As I’ve mentioned, I sat behind a fully operational and rather complicated television mixing desk. I had become pretty comfortable with the areas of it that I was allowed to use: I could play music, I could mix through slides of the pictures that had been sent in and I could cloak myself if I wanted a smoke. I steered clear of the forbidden areas: the clock, the spinning globe and the 3 OS buttons. ‘OS’ stood for ‘Outside Source’, and the buttons were usually linked to the VT machines downstairs. Though the gallery next door to me was responsible for starting all the programmes, in theory, if needed, it could also be done from the desk in front of me. Perhaps, if for any reason the gallery became incapacitated, the announcer could take over and ‘play out’ the content for the network.
One Friday afternoon, I made a simple error that led to a meltdown. During the final long link of the day I was playing music and mixing through slides. When I cut myself back into vision, an anomaly on one of the faders caught me out. I started to speak and the gallery shouted, ‘We can’t hear you!’ There was instant confusion. Was it a problem with them or with me? It was very much with me. I had never been shown that I could mute my mic or been told how to rectify the problem if it happened. I had opened a fader too far and, though I only spotted it afterwards, a little blue light above it had illuminated. If I’d pressed that button, all would have been well. As it turned out, that was the only button I didn’t press.
I mouthed, ‘Can you hear me?’ to Great Britain. ‘No!’ shouted the gallery. I panicked and, for whatever reason, I played the desk like a piano. I pressed every button. There was the spinning world, there was the clock, then I worked myself down to the OS buttons that were linked to the three VT machines downstairs, all under the supervision of one man. I had no idea that when one of those machines was live and its VT (as Keith Lemon would say, ‘That stands for videotape’) was playing out on the network, an on-air sign lit up above it.
The operator was checking the machines that would play out programmes and trailers after the news. As he checked everything downstairs, my stabbing finger was getting closer to the OS buttons upstairs.
I hit the first button. From his end, the on-air light burst into life: his machine was live on BBC1 for no discernible reason. He yelped and jumped back to the second machine, by which time I had pressed the button for that one. The on-air light leapt from the machine he had jumped away from
to the one he was now standing beside. He screamed and leapt to the third machine and, upstairs, I followed him: that machine was now also briefly live. As he backed over to the second VT unit, I had begun to work my way back up the desk and the process was repeated. He was allegedly heard to cry out, ‘Christ, it’s me! Every time I go near them they go live! It must be my static. I’ve gone fucking electrical.’
Unaware of what I had done to the poor man, and unaware of the investigation that would follow, I waved a silent goodbye to the stunned public. Then I waited. There was silence in the gallery. I just stared at the desk in horror. What had I just done to this proud department? The silence in the gallery was broken by the sound of the door opening and heavy footsteps heading my way. The door to the booth burst open and the Assistant Head of Presentation stood looking at me, seething.
‘Come with me. Malcolm wants to see you.’
Malcolm Walker was the Head of Presentation, an imposing Scottish gentleman who I had only met once before, when he welcomed me to the department. I stood and then walked from the Broom Cupboard behind his second-in-command as she led me through the silent gallery. She didn’t say a word to me as I was led to the sixth floor, but I could tell that she considered this presentation experiment to be over. We had had our fun and now I’d sunk the ship. Pat was going to go nuclear.
This spiky Canadian with a very pinched expression stomped in front of me as we got to the door of Malcolm Walker’s office. My head was down, a condemned prisoner led to the gallows.
‘He’s here,’ she spat.
‘Come in,’ said Malcolm.
I walked into his office and stood before his desk, alongside my Canadian escort. He leapt to his feet.
‘Dear boy!’ he bellowed. ‘That was magnificent! My God, you just made me laugh. That’s the second-worst moment in the department’s history and I loved every moment. It shows we’re live, it gives us an edge. Just don’t do it again.’
I’m not sure who was the most stunned, me or his deputy. Her face was a picture.
; I had achieved the second-worst moment in Presentation’s distinguished broadcasting history? Then what was the first? Apparently, that honour went to one of my favourite announcers, Malcolm Eynon. The Last Night of the Proms had fallen off the air, for a long time! Malcolm was on duty in
the booth as the announcer for the evening. He valiantly tried to fill in by attempting to read out what was to come on BBC1 for the following few days from the Radio Times. However, unknown to him until he opened the magazine, the Radio Times had just changed the format of the way it listed the programmes. Malcolm couldn’t find anything, and all the viewers could hear was the frantic turning of pages and a very lost announcer.
My mishap didn’t go unnoticed within the building. It was a Friday, so I’d hoped to slink off into the weekend. Noel Edmonds had other ideas. At the time, he was presenting The Late Late Breakfast Show on BBC1, which was huge. One of the items in the show was the presenting of the ‘Golden Egg Award’, given to people who had cocked up big-time. His production team had been watching. The phone rang: would I like to go on the show tomorrow evening to relive my humiliation and to collect the award? Absolutely! I was overjoyed, and more than happy to laugh at myself. Plus, I got the chance to watch my TV idol working and be on the biggest show on the box. I still have my Golden Egg Award and I’m still proud of it.
Noel’s Multi-coloured Swap Shop had come to an end and
its successor, Saturday Superstore, hosted by Mike Reid and Sarah Greene, ably assisted by Keith Chegwin, was reigning supreme on BBC1. Chris Bellinger was still the editor and had been keeping an eye on me in the Broom Cupboard. I was asked if I’d like to help out on a couple of the outside broadcasts with Keith and, of course, there was no hesitation. What a dream to be working with that team, and Keith was so kind, a genuine delight to be around. I adored him, and the whole team. After the long, hot summer of 1976, when Cornwall nearly ran out of water and I had the best tan ever, along had come October, when I watched the first-ever Swap Shop broadcast live from Television Centre. I was captivated, and from that moment on, to present on Saturday mornings was the absolute, ultimate goal. Even though I was engrossed in the success of the Broom Cupboard, I’d kept one eye on Saturdays, and it was beginning to look like a possibility. However, I had one massive hurdle to overcome. I was about to be aggressively headhunted for another famous show.
Pat Hubbard knew what my dream was – I had made no secret of the fact that Saturday mornings on BBC1 was my goal – so it was with a grave face that he said, ‘Biddy Baxter wants to take you to lunch. It will be long and difficult. Don’t say yes to anything.’
I had no idea what he meant.
Biddy was (and still is) a legend in children’s TV. She had been a producer on Blue Peter since 1962. She came up with the idea of the highly sought-after Blue Peter badge in 1963 and became editor in 1965. Much of what the show is today was born out of the values that she and her deputy, Edward Barnes, had instilled. As a child, Biddy had written to Enid Blyton on two occasions and was disappointed that she received the same reply to two very different letters. When she took over stewardship of the programme, she introduced a card-index system to ensure that the correspondence of every child was logged and that every letter they received in return was pertinent to their question and personal.
Biddy Baxter was also formidable. The desks in the production office were arranged so that they all faced her desk in a classroom-type formation. Valerie Singleton has said of her time on the show that the presenters were treated like children. It was rumoured that, in the gallery, Biddy Baxter would have her own monitor of the show’s output in front of her, and if a presenter was caught looking at the wrong camera, she would take off her shoe, bang the side of the monitor with it and shout, ‘Over here, you stupid girl!’ So, a forceful woman with very clear ideas of what she wanted and, right now, it turned out she wanted me.
I was enthralled to be in a cab with her on the way to a fancy restaurant in Holland Park. She was a hero of mine, regardless of reputation. Pretty much everything Blue Peter was was down to Biddy.
The conversation was light and easy both in the cab and at the start of lunch. Was I enjoying my job? Did I like the challenges? Was I fulfilling my ambitions? Didn’t I feel that
I could do so much more? She made it clear that she had been watching me very closely and liked what I was doing. I was flattered. Gradually, over lunch, an imperceptible switch occurred. She was clever, and at first I didn’t spot it. I soon recognized, though, that the game had changed.
She told me that I could be whatever I wanted to be, I could embrace my interests, I could be part of a bigger production and that I ‘had to join Blue Peter’. However, much as I admired Biddy, her team and the show, I knew it wasn’t for me. There was no grey area here: it was too controlled, too managed and there weren’t many times when they seemed to have a bloody good laugh. I was polite – extremely polite, in fact. I was well aware in whose company I sat. I was respectful, but I had Pat’s words ringing in my ears: ‘Don’t say yes to anything.’
Wouldn’t I love to be part of a flagship brand?
I said that it was indeed a brand to be proud of.
Wouldn’t it be fulfilling to be part of the most respected children’s programme ever in Britain?
I replied that anyone who worked on the show benefitted from it.
Wouldn’t I thrive from being able to fulfil all my ambitions?
I was happy with the way my career was going.
She switched up a gear.
She could send me anywhere in the world that my heart desired. I could meet the world’s most interesting people. I could handle forbidden and priceless artefacts. I could realize all the hidden sporting dreams I had. That one made me smile inside, because I knew how unsporty I was. Think TVNZ charity football match and you have my sports interest in a nutshell.
The assault continued. It was kind, but also incredibly powerful and compelling. I was being offered the world.
She ‘could tell’ I wanted to be on Blue Peter.
I had literally no idea where that came from, because I didn’t, and for the first time, over that lunch, I told her that I didn’t want it.
She asked why I was resisting.
Because I don’t want to do it.
She said my destiny was to do the show.
I told her it was not. I said I wanted Saturday mornings, and she told me that my ambition was ‘frivolous’.
‘Come to work with me.’
‘Thank you, but no, Biddy.’
‘I know you want to.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘You have to.’
‘I don’t.’
‘You’ll regret it.’
‘I won’t.’
We left the restaurant, and the pressure all the way back in the taxi was relentless.
‘No, Biddy’ … ‘You can’t make me’ … ‘I won’t do it’ … ‘Absolutely not’ … ‘No!’
As we got out of the cab she continued: ‘I will change your mind.’
‘You absolutely will not.’
I walked back to the office flattered but battered. I had never encountered anything like it before. From being desperate for work a few months earlier, I had spent two hours trying to escape Biddy Baxter’s sticky web.
The next day, Roy Thompson, who was the Assistant Head of Children’s Programmes, called me.
‘How was lunch with Biddy? She seems to think you left it quite open …’
It was never mentioned again, by anyone. I had turned down Biddy Baxter, and I’m sure that didn’t happen often, but there was never a moment of regret. I knew what I really wanted. I just had to be patient.
It was approaching the Christmas holidays. I had Christmas itself off, but I had to work the few days between Boxing Day and New Year’s Eve. I drove to Newquay to see my folks, who by now had restored a beautiful cottage on the outskirts of the town in Trerice.
Trerice Mill was their greatest accomplishm
ent to date, peaceful and tucked away. We had many, many happy times there – myself and my parents, with Tim, then later with Steph, and when they came along, the girls. When they were a little older, we used to play Pooh Sticks on the footbridge that spanned the Forde by the cottage. We made sloe gin and one year picked such a huge crop the gin we made lasted for five years.
My mum’s sister, Diane, lived a few minutes away in Newquay with her family, and we were all very close. Diane was more like a sister to me than an auntie; she was hilarious and very loose on the rules. From being a small child, I loved sitting on her shoulders and being carried around. Diane also shared the same sense of humour as me, Dad and Tim. We were all prone to hopeless giggles and all quite irreverent.
One of our family traditions was to go to St Michael’s Church in Newquay for the Christmas Eve service. I should state here that, though I do understand the peace and solace found in all faiths, I am not religious. One Christmas Eve the vicar showed off his new-found love of the trumpet. As he started to play, Diane and I tried to stifle our giggles. He disappeared from the pulpit then reappeared moments later from a door high in the roof and started to play again, then he disappeared once more, only to re-emerge from another door behind us, where he started to play again. He was like a trumpet-playing cuckoo clock. We were in screaming hysterics.
My mum’s sister Diane, my awesome auntie.
That Christmas, we went over to see Diane and her family to give and receive our presents. We opened them all and said our thank-yous. Then Diane remembered that she had one ‘joke’ present that she had forgotten to give me. She left the room and returned with a small parcel. As I opened it, she explained. She had been to a local market and seen them on a stall, and they seemed quite fun. She knew it was
random but thought it would make me laugh. Inside the wrapping was a small, golden-coloured hand puppet. It had long arms that you could wrap around your neck and a fairly annoying squeak. We all had a play with it, and I thanked her and put it to one side, thinking no more about it.
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